A lesson in Navigation

Chapter Two

Staying Found

            Just as cold is actually the lack of heat, and as what we know as darkness is no more then the absence of light, so is getting lost an entirely negative state of affairs.  We become lost not because of anything we do, but because of what we leave undone.

            It is when we realize this that all the mysteries imputed to the procedure of finding one’s way through wilderness vanish, and in their place appears a positive  and ever intriguing problem of distance and angles.  For there is just one method to keep from getting lost, and that is to stay found.

            We stay found by knowing approximately where we are every moment, and this is not as complicated as it may seem, for any one of us can keep track of his whereabouts by means of a map, compass, and pencil.  Every ten of fifteen minutes, or whenever direction is changed, we should bring our map up to date.  Suppose we do not have a map?  Then we draw one as we go.

            The sagest old sourdough uses the same system whether he realizes it or not.  His map is just in his mind that is all.  Sun, stars, prevailing winds, vegetation, landmarks, and numerous other natural factors may be the veteran woodsman’s compass under; it should be well noted, favorable conditions.

            By timing ourselves or by otherwise measuring distances, and by making either a written or mental record of all the angles of travel, we get so that we can always tell just about how far away in what direction lies the spot from which we started.

What about following streams?

The more you and I learn about the wilderness, the more poignantly do we realize that no way of thinking or doing, however venerable, can be trusted without proof.  Although innumerable widely accepted opinions sound reasonable enough in theory, too many of these have the often fatal tendency of not working out in practice.

            An example is the counsel that following a stream downhill will eventually lead us back to civilization.  In well settled country it will, usually, if we take the sometimes, unmentioned precaution of keeping to the higher sides of any swamps.  In a reasonably populated area it will, ordinarily, if we keep going long enough through comparatively heavy growth and downfall which characterize watercourses.

            In real wilderness, particularly under the stresses imposed by emergency conditions either real or imagined, following a strange stream with any assurance is something else entirely.

            Suppose we manage to detour impassable gorges?  Suppose we are successful in circumventing morasses and marsh lands?  Suppose we can continue to twist and batter our way perhaps a dozen exhausting miles through pine and willow for every mile gained?  The flow may very well end in an isolated pond even farther back of beyond.

Who should carry a compass?

            Even the most experienced woodsman would do well to carry a compass (along with matches).  For instance, you and I are on Gaspe Peninsula knoll.  The sun has set.  We glimpse smoke curling up a mile away from the tents where all day Vena has had a mulligan simmering.  Heading directly there in the straightest possible line can mean the difference between arriving easily and safely during the remaining daylight and taking the needless chance of getting a dead branch in the eye.

            So we sight over the compass.  The tents lie exactly south by the needle.  Ounce we’ve dropped down to the flat, we’re in small thick spruce so dense that some of the time we have to get down and crawl.  We can not see far enough ahead to line up a straight route without a lot of time consuming care, but checking the compass occasionally assures us that we are heading most directly for camp.

            Or we’re on the side of the continent, atop a Yukon mountain.  Clouds swirl about us, blotting out all landmarks.  Camp, we’ve ascertained during the climb, lies east down what is the only safe slope.  The weather is thick by now.  Which way is east?  If we have a compass, we neither have to wait on this exposed peak for the atmosphere to clear, nor need we risk any undue or unnecessary dangerous scrambling.

How a tenderfoot can be superior to natives.

            What is often regarded as a natural sense of direction is instead almost always the result of either,

(1)   acquired skill that seems so effortless as to appear instinctive, or

(2)   Familiarity with the surroundings.

The man who lives on the edge of a clearing can be expected to become as closely acquainted with the woods surrounding as the hood rat with the streets of his own neighborhood.  The ruralist in a strange countryside and the urbanite in an unfamiliar metropolis will, is depending solely on familiarity, both become lost.

      Knowledge of locality becomes less and less valuable the further we travel, for few of us can make a very long journey without leaving the region we know.  This is a major reason why explorers the world over have repeatedly plagued by the desertions of aborigine guides. Natives, although they may have spent their entire existence in primitive places, and due to the psychological handicaps imposed by these very limitations, have always been in the main characteristically terrified to venture very far beyond the particular area each has come to know.

      The greenest tenderfoot among us learns and uses even the small amount of wilderness lore set forth here will be able to find his way as surely in one forest as another.

The essentials of getting back.

      If camp is against some long and easily followed landmark, such as a river with a smooth hard shore, returning there after a day afield can be practically foolproof.  It is in such a place that an experienced man will whenever possible be careful to locate his camp, for he will still be able to find it although the weather becomes stormy and the night black.  Where I’ve lived for some years becoming lost could be serious in the extreme.  We could walk from our home site for miles and not cross a road or see meager signs of habitation.  It would very likely be weeks, furthermore, before anyone even realized we were missing.

      That would have concerned us a lot more than it actually did, particularly at first, if it were not for the fact that Peace River cuts from west to east through these mountains and foothills.  Our home in the woods is on the sunny north bank.  Any time we keep on traveling south while on this side we’re bound to reach the great waterway.  If we happen to be on the south shore instead, it’s merely a matter of revering the direction and heading north.

      After even the roughest general reckoning therefore, we’d be halted by the Peace River and guided by it to our modest log cabin.  The country alters sufficiently, becoming more precipitous upstream and leveling to eventual plains toward the east, so that at worst we’d then have no excuse for proceeding in the wrong direction for very far.

Why experts bear to one side

      The proceeding is admittedly a broad example, for all of us will generally want to keep sufficient track of our whereabouts to be able to intersect a broadside such as a road or river within a reasonable distance of the spot desired.  The question of which way then to turn should not be left to chance.

      Coming upon an unmarked destination involves such disproportionate percentage of chance that rarely is it wise to attempt it, unless there are guiding factors such as landmarks on which we can rely, the most expert technique by far is to bear definitely to one particular side of the target.

      Then upon reaching the trail, shore, or whatever the lateral may be, we will know at ounce which way to follow it; knowledge that can save time, energy, and perhaps life itself.