I am hunkered down on a bed of wet leaves somewhere on Tussey Mountain.
Having bushwhacked through a stand of dripping-wet wild rhododendrons, I am soaked to the skin, and my pants are spattered with mud. Before the rhodies was the marsh, so my boots are soaked through as well.
Dusk is falling, fog descending, bats flitting overhead.
Did I mention the mosquitoes?
I’m all alone. And when I try to text a friend, my cell phone dies.
I think to myself, “Uh oh. Isn’t there a horror movie that starts like this?”
In my case, I’m here because I volunteered to get lost in the woods for a friend who is training her two-year-old smooth-coated collie, Gauge, to be a wilderness search dog.
Getting lost seemed like something I’d be good at.
How you do it is deliberately take a wrong turn then continue till you've made lots more. Since Gauge is only a trainee search dog, you hedge your bets by leaving pink ribbons clothes-pinned to bushes and trees. Then, every dozen ribbons or so, you drop a washcloth liberally scented with your own eau du armpit.
I spent 20 minutes laying a trail that was about a half-mile long. Then, as instructed, I phoned my friend and rang once. That call went through; it was when I tried to text details that my phone died.
I hope Gauge knows what he’s doing. And did I pin those ribbons at the right intervals? If not, I could be out here a long time.
With no company but a damp and rumpled magazine, I wait. Then wait some more. Finally, I hear sticks crack and then the sound of my salvation: “Good dog, Gauge! Find her! Go on, find her!”
I see Gauge before he sees me. Should I make some noise? But he’s supposed to sniff me not hear me and, a moment later, he turns toward me and crashes through the last few rhodies. I make a fuss over him, but the reward he craves is an apple cut in bite-sized pieces.
“That was awesome!” my friend gushes.
From a horror-movie beginning, a happy ending. In fact, it was fun. I volunteer to do it again, but next time I’ll double-check my cell phone battery.