Crossing the Line

The Price We Pay

Roots and rocks clog the trails near my home. Twisted ankles and gashed knees are the price we collectively pay for our love of trail running. But none of us hit the trails expecting to get lost.

Soon after moving to our new house on Vancouver Island, I popped out the door, ran down the street and entered the trailhead, planning an easy out-and-back. Forty-five minutes tops. I carried my phone. Not for music, but because it might ring. I was on call and needed to respond if work beckoned.

I explored an unfamiliar section on a November morning – mild, with a light dusting of snow. I found myself in a tiny valley, alone, about a mile from home. It was beautiful. I stopped and took a picture, capturing this unexpected moment.

I knew where I was, generally speaking. Our house was a mile or so behind me at the highway to the right. I followed pink ribbons f luttering in trees, assuming they’d line this entire section. Surely getting home would be a matter of turning around and retracing my steps.

Until I stopped seeing pink ribbons. I heard traffic in the distance. I turned around and started back. No problem. Until the path diverged into two paths. No ribbons in sight. I hesitated before continuing, reasonably confident I’d chosen the way home.

Two hours into the run I had no idea where I was, although I could smell burgers from the McDonald’s that couldn’t have been more than a few hundred metres away.

I did have my phone but dreaded my boss calling, needing me immediately, and me having to tell him that I didn’t know when I’d be there. Because I was lost on a trail near my house. Instead I used the map app, and there I was, a blue dot. I jogged, head down, looking at my screen, dodging roots and rocks.

I came to a stream. Not a raging river, but not a trickle either. It was wide, deep and powerful enough that I was scared that this might not end well. A fall and a broken limb, or immersion in cold water would turn this still somewhat comical situation into something dangerous.

I was too embarrassed to call my wife and tell her I was lost.

I entered the stream. Freezing, fast and not shallow. But only a few feet wide. I made it across. Wet, cold, a little scared and, according to the blue dot, closer to home.

A few minutes later, I ran by an abandoned couch dumped in the forest that I’d seen on my way into the woods. Recognition. Relief. Elation.

Minutes later, I walked in our front door. “I was starting to worry,” said my wife. She’d probably pictured me lying injured and alone on the trail. I told her what happened. That I’d been frightened and embarrassed.

None of us goes for a run expecting to get lost. It’s very unlikely. But it is possible. Part of the price we pay for running trails.