How To Forgive Yourself for Getting Lost In The Mountains

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There you are, standing under the moon on a snow-covered trail in the middle of winter in shorts. You’re getting hypothermic by the hour. You’re lost with no headlamp, peering at this one freak occurrence of a tent in the distance complete with campfire and lanterns. Who is camping in the middle of nowhere in this cold?

You’re between a rock and a rock. Is this a murderer? (Your go-to irrational fear.) Or is this someone who will save your life? Too bad. You have no choice. You start walking towards the tent and hope for the best.

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This was me in 2011 when I ran unprepared in the snow-covered Shenandoah Mountains with my trail running club. The 35-mile run started in the morning and looked to be a typical run in the mountains with my buddies. There’d be a few tables set up along the course — lugged there on service dirt roads in club volunteers’ cars — with water and a few snacks. This is how a trail running club rolls — everyone pitches in to make it work.

At the time, my trail running had been improving and I’d been moving my way up in the women’s field in my races. I developed a new mindset — carry the least possible to lighten the load. I ran a decent enough clip that I never needed more than shorts and a light jacket in the winter. In Virginia, with daytime winter temps in the 20’s and 30’s, you can get away with that — if everything goes as planned.

When you do a long trail run with a group, sometimes you run with others, other times alone. I was mostly solo that day and came into the last aid station happy to see humans. I chatted, joked around, filled my water pack, then headed out. I wanted to finish up and get home to my family.

That didn’t happen.

It started when I came to a split in the trail. Which way to go? I went left. Going right would have led me back to my car in the parking lot. Going left led me to an experience that took a long time to accept.

Once you get muddled and stressed, your decision-making gets shaky. Turn by turn, my denial that I wasn’t in real trouble began to fade. The one trick that kept me hopeful — following the stampede of footprints in the snow — broke down once those footprints disappeared and backtracking became a delirium. I was running in circles as the sun veered to the horizon.

I had to face the truth. I was desperately lost in the cold by myself with no headlamp — because no one needs a headlamp for a daytime run that goes as planned. I was somewhere on a big mountain void of people with no phone, no food, and little water. I started to panic.

I had no idea where I was, but then darkness arrived. Suddenly I could see a distant town lit up far away in the valley. That was my single reference point for where I was. I knew that town was west of me. To get to that town, I’d have to bushwhack down the mountain, cross the frigid, deep, and wide Shenandoah River, and then follow the first road to somewhere. Anywhere.

It seemed impossible--crossing the river certainly was--and I began to consider the possibility that I might be witnessing my last hours of life that night. I mentally whipped myself with every bit of rage I could produce. Your kids are going to grow up without their mother because of your running hobby?? Because you failed to pack a phone?? Damn you, Stephanie!

I have never been this livid with myself in my life.

Then, as I started to bushwack down the mountain, I ran into this crazy vision in the middle of the dark woods — a camper. I was standing on the fulcrum of a seesaw between two oddities. Why was someone camping in the middle of nowhere — no campground, no facilities? And how could I be this lucky? It was perplexity meets relief.

Yet, I was hesitant to approach this person. If they were dangerous, they’d have a field day with me. You couldn’t get easier prey than me at that moment. If they were a blessing, you could barely get luckier than me.

Of course, none of this considered what he might think of me when I emerged from the bramble of the woods.

I walked up to him and introduced myself. He was a firefighter who’d gotten a permit to winter camp to practice survival skills for a career pursuit. I learned later he was the only one with a permit to camp on the mountain that night. It was just the two of us, standing there by pure chance. He let me use his last bit of cell phone charge to call my husband.

“Honey, I’m lost. You need to call the race director.”

The camper and I talked for a bit. He had no vehicle because someone had dropped him off in the woods, so I’d have to get to the parking lot on my own. He gave me water and got me oriented to the trail. I thanked him profusely. As I set off under a nearly full moon, we both knew he’d been my miracle that night.

I began the trek to my car as the race director was getting word from my husband. The director was within minutes of submitting an official request to Search and Rescue to comb the mountain for me. He’d called back the runners who’d long ago checked into their motels to catch some zzz’s before heading home. They dragged themselves out of their cozy beds, into their dirty clothes from the day’s run, and traipsed back up the mountain to try to find me.

As I entered the parking lot shaking with cold, my running friends were there shaking with relief. It would be a long time before I could shake off my regret over that day and begin to forgive myself.

I spun the what-ifs through my head. What if I hadn’t made it out? I was the caregiver for my kids, only working while they were at school. I knew everything about every part of them. I lived my days focused on loving them, teaching them, listening to their minds develop, and believing in their dreams. Not to mention all the laughter.

I hadn’t considered the risk involved in flying solo in the wild and unforgiving natural world. It’s a giant beautiful rock and a ruthless behemoth.

Ah, mistakes. They’re a tough thing to make peace with. The elusive gift is to accept them and learn from them. Sometimes this is so difficult to do. But once we notice that gift, and unwrap it, we become tellers of great fables, evangelizers of truth.

For example, once upon a time, a ho-hum, regular run was something to take seriously.

That’s not the end of the story. It goes on to describe forgiveness and living wiser--sometimes as a role model. Mistakes come in all sizes, as do their lessons, whether they’re on a mountain, the sea, a road, in our homes, at work, or within our minds.

A happy ending is possible, not the one we’d planned, and only if we give ourselves grace.

Today, I never go for a hike without my phone. I wish I didn’t have to get lost to learn that, but it happened, and I accept it. Life goes on.

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Have a nice week, friends.