Lost in the woods; at home in the ‘hood

I’ve twice gotten lost in deep woods, both times in Canada. There’s that old saying: ‘Fooled me once, shame on you; fooled me twice, shame on me.’ Well, shame on me. The first time was decades ago, perhaps 1990, on an island in British Columbia. My friend John and I lived in Berkeley, California at the time, and were on an ill-planned holiday through the province, a place which neither of us had visited (yes, relationship story there). After finding a clean hostel in Tofino, a charming town perfectly situated at the tip of a peninsula on the west coast of Vancouver Island, we decided to do an organized rainforest tour the next morning. As neither of us had brought an alarm clock, however, we overslept the departure hour. No matter, we told ourselves, surely we could manage on our own.

Ah, youth. If only we had that as our excuse.

A friendly First Nations man in a small motorboat, whose command of English was adequate but not abundant, came to understand our request, and agreed to drop us at a rickety wooden wharf on the western edge of Meares Island, an enormous body of land, home to a primary-growth temperate rainforest and a First Nations village called Opitsat. Opitsat may have been on the island, but it was certainly nowhere near the splintered landing where we disembarked. We agreed, or believed we agreed, with our taxi-boat driver that he would return for us in three hours, clambered onto the dock, and waved farewell.

There was no one else around.

A wooden walkway led from the marshy water’s edge toward the forest, and then we were on a sort of trail, slippery with mud and moss. I can’t remember our footwear but it might well have been sandals. At most we wore tennis shoes with our shorts and tee-shirts. No hats, no food, no water. No one we knew had any idea where we were, or had any expectation of seeing us in the next few days. We had left our rental car parked at the hostel, from which we had already checked out. That was the extent of our planning.

After a quarter hour of walking along the trail, we had lost it. It wasn’t hard to lose; large trunks of fallen trees forced us either to clamber over them or walk around, then picking up a path that might or might not have been our original route.  “I think we’ve been here before,” I said to John, looking at one weirdly twisted hanging vine.   

He shook his head. “No, we’re fine,” he assured me. He was Canadian, although from Ontario, and had taken on the role of host during this journey.  I rapidly lost faith in his knowledge, however, and began to panic.

“Please, can we go back to the dock?” I asked, almost in tears. Well, okay, in tears.

He eventually agreed, and we set off to retrace our steps. Again, I was sure we were walking in circles, so John pulled out his handkerchief, perhaps the only useful object we had brought along, and began to shred it to make blazes. Our fifteen minutes of inward progress took us thirty to undo, but finally we saw the ocean, the unstable wharf, and in the distance, Vancouver Island. I had never experienced such relief.

Not for long though; as we sat on the wooden planks dangling our legs, looking idly for dolphins or whales, and for our taxi driver. What if he didn’t come? What if he hadn’t understood, and was waiting for us on the far side of the island? What if we rotted away and became mere slime on the trunks of the fallen trees? What if bears ate us? Actually, we hadn’t thought of bears yet; that came later.

After an hour, a man and woman emerged from the forest, singing. They carried stout, knobby sticks, and had thick rubber boots up to their knees. They both wore hiking vests with an average of a pocket every square inch. Wide-brimmed hats shaded their eyes, whistles hung from their necks, and heavy packs on their backs. In contrast, John and I looked naked, and the couple eyed us almost in pity. They lived in Vancouver, they explained, offering us a granola bar to share, and liked to get away for a couple of days of hiking and backpacking. The whistles? Oh, they were to scare away the bears.  John and I looked at each other. We were idiots.

A boat came to collect the Vancouver couple. I could hardly stand to watch them float away. “Could we come with you?” I asked, knowing the answer. Kind, but reasonable, they pointed out that our taxi was sure to return, and if the driver did not find us, he would be in a muddle. It was true. I told them we would call their hotel when we got back; if they didn’t hear from us, please could they send rescue? Of course, they agreed, but again, my trust was insecure. I did not believe. Sadness and fear overtook me as their wake faded.

Fortunately, our taxi turned up only minutes later. O frabjous day! That was it for me and forests, I vowed. Two days later we dropped off the rental car and boarded a ferry from Victoria to Port Angeles, Washington. A fleet of dolphins leaped and cavorted alongside us as we returned to the U.S. of A.  I haven't been to British Columbia since.

Fast forward to 2014, again in Canada, this time in middle Ontario, quite a bit north of Toronto, but far south of Hudson’s Bay, where the massive province actually ends. We are visiting friends at their gorgeous and lovely cottage on a lake, but today, our last of the visit, is rainy and chill. Perfect, we think, for a walk in the woods! The two mothers, three children, and two dogs set out for a bit of a ramble. I shoved my cellphone in my backpack because I wanted to be able to take photographs, and my elder son had his because he would as soon leave it behind as a limb. I did think to bring a bottle of water, because I do that to go anywhere, even the subway in Toronto (what if it gets stuck)?

Still. Fooled me twice.

Our cheerful hostess and guide asked whether we wanted a quick thirty-minute circuit, or if we could manage a longer walk? Maybe an hour? Oh, an hour is fine, we all said, even the littlest amongst us. Under the thick green canopy, the drizzle hardly mattered. We chattered and laughed, catching glimpses of the lake and then walking deeper into the woods, climbing hills and descending into valleys, passing brambles whose blackberries were nearly ripe. “This way,” my friend pointed. Then a note of puzzlement entered her tone. “I think maybe I missed the turning I wanted. But no matter, if we carry on along this trail, we will reach the road.” “Road” perhaps overstated the nature of the long, dirt-and-gravel lane that covered the 5 or 6 kilometers leading from the paved county road to our friends’ cottage (and “cottage” rather understated the nature of their domicile).

Another ten minutes of walking indeed led us to a road and we turned right to follow a little stream. The walking was easy now, but without shelter from the trees, we were soon sodden. At the bottom of the road, my friend stopped. “H’mmm,” she said.

In a yoga studio, ‘H’mmm“ might be mistaken for a mantra, and bring on a pleasing sense of tranquillity.  In the context of a crossroads in a woods, “h’mmm” is an oddly ominous sound. “We are on the wrong trail,” she said. A map of Algonquin Park on a rusted iron plaque attached to a wooden post let us know that we had definitely drifted off-course.

Shame on me. I surreptitiously checked my bag for food. Where had we seen those berry bushes?

“Never mind,” both of us moms chorused, self-consciously bright and cheery. “We’ll just retrace our steps!” And we did, this time building small cairns and making careful ‘X’es with fallen boughs. “Isn’t this fun?” we carolled.  “Gee, that hot tub will feel nice when we get back!” My son and I spotted a pile of poo, scat, spoor… surely deer? No, more like elk. Not bear. Definitely not. Elk. “Let’s all stay together,” I suggested, brightly. Shortly after, we passed a skeleton. Not human. Not even primate. And not elk.

 “Does this hill look familiar?” My friend mused. It looked familiar to me, but then all the trails looked both familiar and strange.

“Yes,” I tried.

“No,” she shook her head. “This isn't right. Let’s go back up.” We did, up and up, passing our cairns and crosses. At what seemed the highest point, my son pulled out his phone and announced, “This way is north.” Handy, but as we didn’t know which way was home, not helpful. I pulled out my own phone and sent an email, titled ‘little bit lost’. My friend typed in a description of the last point at which she knew for sure where we were, both of us thinking, but not saying, that if the message ever arrived, it would give them a head start looking for our remains. I mean, for us.

We waited a minute or two without getting a reply, though we had left said husbands happily attached to their computers. It transpired later that they had had other fish to fry: our eleven-year-old daughters, who had also stayed behind, decided to try some science experiments. One of these involved putting hand lotion in a frying pan and turning on the burner, which set off the smoke alarms throughout the house. The fathers ran to the kitchen and prevented it from going up in flames. (In retrospect, if it had, those of us lost in the forest would have had a nice column of smoke to aim for. And I must ask the girls sometime about their null hypothesis for the experiment.)

After a little more tramping, mein hostess said, with certainty, “Here it is. I’m sure,” and turned decisively right onto a narrow, wavering trail. We all wanted to believe. We did believe. We clicked our heels together, and lo! The trail led us home. A ray of sunshine pierced the grizzled gray clouds as we reached the welcoming front door, just under two hours after leaving it. And yea, the hot tub felt wonderful indeed, as did a quick swim in the lake with my younger son. My friend, apologetic (needlessly), whipped up a quick batch of chocolate chip cookies. All in all, a successful hike. How we laughed! 

And you know what? It really was one of the highlights of the summer. 

Back to the ‘hood, for the tag end of vacation.  It’s been a full year since we moved in to this house in Harbord Village. Today in fact is the annual Harbord Village Residents’ Association Fall Fair, held in the small park directly across the street from us. 

Last year, we wandered over, wandered through, uncertain but pleased to participate and buy a few raffle tickets, spying a few familiar faces, and trying to put names to them. This year, we were in the front lines. Husband volunteered on the Silent Auction table, and I helped out serving burgers, hot dogs, barbecued corn, and pop (‘Please may I have popcorn and a hot dog?’ a girl asked. ‘We don’t have popcorn,’ I told her. My customer looked puzzled. ‘No. Pop. Like, Coke. And some corn.’ Toronto is in the pop zone. Where I grew up, it would be ‘soda’.) My shift was noon til two pm, but at 2:00 no replacement had arrived.  At 2:30 I roped in my middle child and his friend, gave them a brief training session, and said sayonara. They did a stellar job and, according to reports, enjoyed themselves (not that they admitted it to me). They’ll get credit for volunteer hours too—kids in Ontario schools must do forty hours of volunteer work before they can be graduated from high school. Through my open window right now I can hear the band playing covers of rollicking rock music.

It’s nice, being home.