My trucked lurched and bounded over the rutted forest service road.  In previous weeks I had studied the boundaries of this tract of land via Google maps and Google Earth.  It looked like it could hold some ruffed grouse . . . an upland game bird.  South Carolina is not known for its grouse population nor should it be.  There are mountains in the northeast corner of the state but the vegetation for this species is very limited.  A few of the birds had been spotted before and I had heard their early spring drumming ritual.  I was hoping to eventually get my bird dog on the trail of a grouse.

To get to this plot you drove out of South Carolina up and over a mountain into North Carolina, and angled back into the wilds of South Carolina again.  It was tucked away and rarely visited.  

I broke several cardinal rules.  My wife was out of town and I didn’t tell her, or anyone else, that I had decided to make this spur-of-the-moment trip into the woods.  It was impulsive.  Even if I told someone the name of the area, it was not easy to find.  Adding to the stupidity of my incommunicado, I had no cell phone coverage.  Zip.  No bars. Not even a chance.  It was cold when I left the foothills of Travelers Rest. Now that I was at a higher elevation, my breath blew white. I didn’t bring any water.  I almost always have a full water bottle with me.  Not this trip.  

I pulled my truck over to the side of the dirt road and started into the rhododendron and laurel thickened woods.  The one smart thing I did, on almost a whim, was hung a compass around my neck when I left the truck.  Unsure I really remembered how to use it, I checked true north and made note where the sun was and where my truck shown red through a break in the underbrush.  240 degrees south, southwest.  I began to explore.  Small creeks ran everywhere in the lush moss-bound undergrowth.  Valleys and hills were like serpents meandering in every direction.  

I soon realized that I was turned around.  I walked a direction I thought I should go but didn’t recognize any landmarks.  Where was that rock slanted like a runaway truck ramp? There was a tree . . . where is it? . . . it had orange lichen clinging to its skin. Reality began to sink into my brain just how unprepared I was to be lost.  

The human body has a strange way of handling fear. The immediate response feels like fever. With the sudden outbreak from sweat glands comes an onslaught of worse case scenarios. Though it was mid day, my mind went to late evening which meant certain cold, lack of fire, and no form of communication. It’s as if someone had put me on a Tilt-a-Whirl in Nebraska and I got off in Nagoya with no money, translator, or knowledge that it was indeed Nagoya.

Eventually, sensibility pushes its way through the crowd and takes center stage. My conscience told me to breath deeply and trust my compass.  I set it to north and looked to find 240 degrees south, southwest.  That surely couldn’t be right.  I started walking a new direction that I thought might present some more familiarity.  Again, nothing.  I said it out loud to myself, “Trust the compass.”  I re-set it to north, found 240 degrees south, southwest and began to walk doubting each step of the way.  Ten minutes later and I was back on the dirt road with my red truck shining like a beacon. My nerves re-attached to my system as I turned the key in the ignition and the motor whirred to life.