I proceed with cautious awareness, the dark lifeless house off to my upper right and pine trees on my left. The two eyes shining through the night approach me slowly from the rear of the house and then stop at a safe distance to observe this odd one-shining-eyed-creature crunching through the woods on two organic legs assisted by two steel trekking poles. I am able to recognize that the eyes belong to a domestic cat and not a dog. I am relieved but still approach with caution.
"I see what looks like a gravel driveway," I inform Mike.
"Excellent! You're not far from the road now. Just follow the driveway about 1/4-mile and you should be at the road. We have a ranger on the way to meet you."
"Okay. Will do. My phone is down to 3%," I respond.
Mike and I chat as I follow the gravel driveway. It ascends up a small hill and curves to the right and then back to the left.
The trees part and the sky opens. It's a crystal clear night; stars dot the black abyss above me. The wind has picked up and sings its mysterious call of the wild, though I'm not really in the wild.
"I see the road...and a mailbox!" I exclaim into my Bluetooth voice piece. A few more yards and I'm able to read the number on the mailbox. "Number 400," I let Mike know.
"Bravo! That's right where we want you to be. The ranger is about fifteen minutes out. Just wait at the mailbox. I'll stay with you until he gets there or your phone dies, whichever happens first."
Within seconds of the word "first," my phone goes black.
I stand beside the mailbox at the edge of the country blacktop road staring at the stars, listening to the howl of the cold wind. I pull up my green parka and slide my arms into the sleeves. I recall 31 years ago as Stan and I hitchhiked across the Texas Panhandle; we stood at the side of the highway in the wee morning nighttime hours gazing across the barren plain listening to the wind drone as it pushed tumbleweeds in the cold November air of 1982. There were no cell phones, much less iPhones, then.
After ten minutes, headlights approach. I make sure the driver can see my headlamp. The vehicle is a white SUV with an emblem on the side door. It's the Park Ranger. The vehicle stops and I climb in.
"Hey. Good to see you. I'm Josh," the Ranger cordially introduces himself.
"Hi," I respond. "Gooood to see you too. I'm Carol."
Josh gets on his radio and lets Mike at the Communication Center know that I'm in the vehicle and am fine.
"Can Mike please call my husband and let him know I'm safe?" I inquire.
"Sure thing," Josh responds.
After Josh disconnects from Mike I express my embarrassment and gratitude. "I'm so sorry about this and so embarrassed I got lost. I've hiked Mountain Trail something like fifteen times. Thanks for coming out and getting me."
"No problem at all," Josh responds. "I apologize that the trail isn't marked better. We have about one person every month that gets lost in that area. That's why we are blazing a new trail. The way that trail is now, a hiker can barely distinguish the current trail from the rest of the forest, and the red dots are fading."
I don't mention to Josh that I did hike part of the new trail being blazed and that I don't like it as well as the old trail.
As Josh drives, we chat about hiking and the weather. I don't recognize the blacktop road we are on. It is not the road where the gravel, horse-unloading, parking lot is located.
"I'm glad you were able to make your way out of the woods," he says. "The temperature is dropping quickly and snow is coming in later tonight. Again, I'm sorry for that trail being in rough shape. We are doing our best to get it up to par."
"I appreciate all the work you Rangers do. And again, I'm sorry for getting lost," I respond. Both of us are owning our responsibilities. If only the world at large would do the same, we could have peace on earth.
After a few turns on the country roads and a few minutes we arrive at my 1999 gray Ford Explorer affectionately named Edward, parked on the side of the road near the horse-unloading area, alone in the dark, awaiting my arrival.
"Before you get out, I need to get some information," Josh says.
"Sure," I respond expecting Josh to pull out a computerized tablet or a pad filled with eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch official forms. But instead he pulls out a three-by-five-inch top spiral notepad with its lined paper and a pen from his shirt pocket.
No official forms.
No computerized tablet.
Just good ole pen and paper.
My heart warms and smiles, feeling a certain connection to the past, a type of comfort almost - before cell phones; before computerized tablets; before complex, detailed record keeping. For a moment, time seems to stand still.
Josh writes down my information in his small pocket notepad.
We exchange cordial good-byes, thank yous, and well wishes.
I exit the official State Park SUV.
I unlock Edward with its remote control and open the back hatch.
I place my trekking poles over the blankets and other items strewn about Edward's cargo area.
I close the hatch and walk around the left side of Edward.
I open the door, climb into the driver's seat, and plug my iPhone into its car-phone charger.
****
Click below for Parts I through III:
Hikers Only, I
Hikers Only, II
Hikers Only, III
****
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