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"I always thought how stupid it was for people to get lost in the woods. All you have to do is follow the trail back," my wife said.
Yet there we were, lost on a wooded mountaintop in West Virginia. To make it worse, it's our own mountaintop. Worse yet, we got a late start and the sun was going down.
When I say "our" land, I mean Honey and two sisters, who inherited it. What is known in her family as "the mountain land" is the ancestral farm of the Ryan clan.
"Hardscrabble" doesn't begin to describe this as farmland. You have to move a rock to find dirt. Whatever their ancestor left behind in Ireland must have been awful for this to seem like the Promised Land.
I'm not saying it isn't beautiful. Trees. Rocks. Trails. A view of the Appalachian Plateau anywhere you look. We were on the mainly level top of a nameless mountain on the other side of I-68 from Cooper's Rock State Park.
The members of our troop were Honey, our grandson Lamppost Head, age 11, myself, and the Bible Smuggler, Honey's brother-in-law, who did his share of trail hiking in younger days. His wife Ruff, Honey's sister, came on the trip, but had the good sense to stay in the car.
We three adults had hiked this property 30 years ago, when our legs, knees and hips (not to mention brains) were all 30 years younger. This outing was not recreational, however. Honey and her sisters have decided to sell the property, as their late father advised, so that their children and grandchildren will not have to deal with it.
We wanted to take a last look, and to determine if there is any better access to the property than by parachuting in.
You can't drive right up to their mountain land. We parked cars and hiked 20 minutes across another landowner's property just to get to the edge of it.
Chuck was the gracious neighbor who not only let us cross his property, but shared his knowledge of the old land patents and led us in on his ATV. He pointed out the survey markers, including a piece of railroad rail driven in as an iron pin corner. He showed us the foundation ruins from Grandma Bessie Ryan's house from the 1890s.
Chuck went further down the trails with us than he should have, given his state of health. When he turned his ATV toward home, one dog followed him while the other, a fat old Doberman, decided to stay with us.
"Don't worry. We'll bring your dog back!" I hollered after Chuck.
We got a late start, as I said. It was 4:30. The weather was dry, clear, cool, just right for a hike. We rambled along, following horse trails that went generally north and south but often crossed, forked, or looped around obstacles. Lamppost Head ran ahead, finding residual boulders and fallen trees to climb on. The dog stayed right with us.
After an hour we thought we were near the far edge of the mountain, only to see trails wandering on.
"Maybe we should head back," I said. (Me, the voice of reason. Go figure.)
"I wanted to see the lake on the other side," said the Bible Smuggler. "It's just a piece over that way."
Honey wanted to go on, too, so we did.
The lake view was a piece further, then another piece further. We saw it and headed back, but instead of retracing our steps we tried to follow the other side of the mountaintop. Then the land sloped down, and none of us was sure which way to go. Confusion reigned.
"Wait. I don't remember any way back that would be downhill."
"This has to be the right direction."
"Where's the dog? Did we lose the dog?"
"Why am I seeing the lake again?"
"Where's Lamppost Head?"
"I think he went after the dog."
"Can anybody see the cellphone tower?"
"Siri, show me a compass."
"The sun's getting low. How much daylight do we have left?"
There was mild panic when those forging ahead split up and ranged out of sight, or no longer returned a shout. Honey's phone rang. (Thank God for cell reception!) It was her sister, asking where in the world we were and reporting that Chuck was worried about his dog.
Lamppost Head, having finally caught up with the dog, was dragging him back down the trail toward us.
"No, no! Let him go!" I said. "I think he knows the way back!"
And so it was that the fat old Doberman led us out of the woods.
If by some chance you're in the market for some beautiful mountain land, give me a call. I think the girls are ready to deal.