Lost and Found

I got my first pair of snowshoes when I was in highschool. I appreciated the ability to walk back into the woods, “off the beaten path”, and feel connected to nature, even when most of it was frozen or in hiding. Snow mobiles were too fast to my liking, making me numb with the cold. Skiing was too intimidating for me as well, making me fear broken bones. Cross country skiing was like being on a treadmill--going nowhere fast. Snowshoeing was safe, or so I thought.

            We were vacationing recently in Leadville, Colorado.  The altitude was high, about 10,500’, and the snow this year was deep; if the snow hadn’t been walked on, it went up over my knees, even with snowshoes on. Sometimes it went up to my thigh! I got stuck a few times, so I decided not to try fresh snow again and waited until I found some groomed trails at the Cooper Mountain skiing area. It was perfect. The rest of the family did downhill skiing. I was the only one interested in snowshoeing. I was on my own.

            There was only one problem--sometimes it wasn’t easy to find the snowshoe trail. It usually started at some location off the cross country trail, and was marked with reflective red squares nailed to a tree. The rest of the trail was easy to follow, every 15-20 ft. another red square would appear. Finding the trailhead was what proved difficult.

            The second time that week I walked that particular trail, the Tennessee Pass, was a Sunday. The ski was grey, and small wet flakes were rapidly falling, blowing sideways, right into my eyes. I had agreed upon a short walk and was supposed to meet the family back for lunch at the ski lodge in one hour.

            This particular day I embarked on my trek without paying the trail fee of ten dollars. I excused my law-breaking by saying “I’m just going around the parking area fields near the base camp.” However, once I was out there, the lure of the trail got me. I rationalized that it would be okay to walk to the WWII memorial and back, otherwise known as “Larry’s loop.” I made it there in 25 minutes. “I better start back,” I thought, “but why go back the same way? I’ll take Larry’s loop back around this bend.” Larry’s loop green (easiest course) had morphed into Larry’s loop blue (an intermediate course), but I scarcely noticed.

            After another half hour of hiking I became concerned. I saw a sign that would’ve taken me back to where I needed to be, but didn’t have my map, and was not familiar with it. I  saw another sign that simply stated GRZ. I didn’t know what that stood for. I just hoped it was a shortcut. It was not. I discovered later that it stood for Grizzly, and it was a black course (most difficult). Since I didn’t ski and I had forgotten to grab a trail map in my haste to get started, I failed to take into account that green stood for easy, blue, more difficult, and black, extreme. Grizzly was uphill, the whole way because I had just gone up a hill meant for cross country skiers to go down!! I passed two cross country skiers going the other way, and wanted to ask how far it was back to camp, but I was too proud. I didn’t want to admit I was lost. After another ½ hour of uphill climbing I became increasingly concerned. I was no longer wondering when I would get back, but if I would get back. “As long as I stay on a trail, and see fresh ski marks, I’m okay.” But the small flakes of snow were getting bigger, falling faster, and the ski was becoming more gray. I was plenty warm, sweating in fact, but if I stopped to catch my breath, which I did often, the cold crept in to my extremities.

           

All I could think of was the story called To Build a Fire. It was required reading in High School English. Now I was in a similar nightmare; every time I came to another clearing, there was no end of trail in sight, no basecamp. And I remember how the story ended: the protagonist had died, frozen to death as he tried to build a fire, not realizing that he wasn’t that far from camp. I was determined that wouldn’t be me.

Once at the top of the climb, I had another decision to make. There were 4 trails to choose from. Unfortunately, I chose the wrong path --again. Little did I know the yurt, within eyesight up at the top short hill, was the right choice. I thought, however, that it was too small. “It must be one of the sleeping yurts,” I thought. Instead, I choose a snowshoe trail, thinking it was a shortcut back to the basecamp;  unwittingly I had just added another 1.83k to my hike. When I came out on the other end of the snowshoe trail, appropriately called “Rocky Ridge”, I looked up and saw the same yurt I had seen earlier! “ARE YOU KIDDING ME???” I questioned to nobody. It took the last of my energy to get up there. When I stumbled inside the yurt, after wearily removing my snowshoes, some staff employees, who just happened to be there setting up for a reserved party, asked me, “are you the one who was….”  “LOST??!!” I replied, “Yes, that’s me.”

            I was never so glad to be found!!! The last 2½ hours of my 3½ hour trek had been filled with frustration, worry, regret, and fear.   I found out later that several people were out looking for me, including a cross country skier, and a staff member on a snowmobile. They didn’t find me, however, because they didn’t think I would possibly go on Grizzly, which was exactly where I had been!! The prayers I cried out to God, thoughts of my family, and to Build a Fire, firmly planted in my mind, were what pushed me on beyond my own strength to endure. Hiking 4½ miles for 3½ hours on snowshoes in high altitude had drained my energy.

           

Now I felt joy and relief. It was so good to see people, and even better to have a drink of water; I had lost my water bottle on the trail, and eating snow was a bit too cold, so water from a glass was wonderfully welcome.

 But how would my husband Bruce feel?? I was afraid he would be angry; I had probably ruined his last chance to ski on this trip, as the next day we would head for home.

I had shortened his skiing, but he was not angry with me. He was very concerned! He and his brother, Don, and his wife, Julie, were all very kind to me. The staff at the base camp gave me hot chocolate, and I laid out my sweat soaked jacket in front of the fire. I even paid my $10 trail fee, even though they said I didn’t have to. They could have fined me; I had just hiked on Federal land without a permit. I now see why they charge for the permit. It lets them know who is out there, and pays for its upkeep. The only rebuke I got was from a young child who wanted to know if I had washed my hands after being in the restroom! What grace!

 No one mentioned what a dunce I was to make all the mistakes I made, no one but me. For about 20 minutes in the car I talked about how stupid I had been and all the bad choices I had made. When my sister-in-law said I shouldn’t say that anymore I said, “OK, but I sure was dumb.”

This whole scenario reminded me of the story of the prodigal son in Luke 15. The story emphasized how absolutely overjoyed the father was when his “lost” son came home after a major excursion into reckless living; his son had spent all his inheritance, become impoverished, and was starving. The story was meant to illustrate Jesus’ concern for lost people that the Pharisees, religious rulers of His time on earth, had excluded and rejected, and tell them that He was no different from His Father in heaven; He, too, was concerned for and overjoyed with the “ one sinner who repents.”

 And Bruce, like the father in the story, was overjoyed to see me! I certainly didn’t deserve it, but I welcomed it.

The irony of it all is, I was preparing to teach this story to the women’s Thursday morning Bible study class the Thursday after we got home in two days!! I had just given myself the benefit of having my own personal illustration!  I now understood how it felt to be lost.

I had already prepared my lesson, but one thought was new to me. Because it is not written in the story Jesus told, I can only surmise how the prodigal felt when he got home. He had a prepared speech of what he was going to tell his father. He would tell him he was no longer worthy to be called a son, and he would request to serve his father as one of his servants.

But the father wouldn’t even hear of it, and didn’t even let the son finish his “speech.” The father was exuberant over his son’s return: he ordered special clothes, a ring, a pair of sandals, and a party with the fattened calf! These were not the clothes or the food of a servant, but of a son. Can you imagine how happy the son was to be “found”--to be loved and forgiven??

I can.