Sally Breslin: My Life: GETTING LOST ON THE TRAILS AT BEAR BROOK STATE PARK

I was reading the trail reviews for Bear Brook State Park (which is only a stone’s throw from my house) the other day, and one of the main complaints of many of the hikers and mountain-bikers was the trails should be more clearly marked.

I personally can vouch for that. I guess things haven’t changed much in the past 15 years, because I still vividly can remember a hot summer day back then when my dog Molly and I went hiking on those trails...and ended up spending an entire day hopelessly lost.

That particular day, I drove over to the park, parked my car just off Podunk Road, which runs through one section of the 10,000-plus acres of state forest, and Molly and I headed up the trail to Hayes Marsh.

When we arrived at the marsh about 15 minutes later, I noticed a woman I know, Donna, sitting on a small hill near the shore. She was with her two dogs.

Donna and I chatted for a few minutes while our dogs played together. By then, I’d had just about enough sun and heat for one day, so I told Donna I was going to head back to the car. I’d planned for only a short walk, so I had nothing with me – no water, no phone, no bug spray, no snacks.

As I turned to walk back the way Molly and I had come, Donna said, “Why don’t you go this way?” pointing to a trail behind her. “It’s a nice little trail. It follows the edge of the marsh and loops right back to Podunk Road. Just be sure to take a left every time you come to one and you’ll be fine.”

So Molly and I headed off down that trail. The problem was that some of the lefts we came to were “iffy.” I mean, a couple of them were so overgrown, I couldn’t tell if they actually were part of the trail or just looked as if they were. So I skipped a few. I was about to learn that I shouldn’t have.

After walking for what seemed like nearly a mile, I figured I should be catching sight of Podunk Road at any minute. The trail narrowed and the woods got thicker…and darker…and still there was no Podunk Road (or any other road) in sight. I thought about turning around and heading back, but something kept telling me that just over the next hill or through the next clump of bushes, Podunk Road magically would appear.

It didn’t. Molly and I crossed dried-up streams that were nothing but mud and rocks. We climbed up steep hills and over the trunks of a couple fallen trees. The woods only got deeper…and darker. Every horror movie I’d ever seen suddenly sprang to mind: Freddy Krueger with daggers on his fingers; Jason Voorhees with his hockey mask and machete; and the Big Bad Wolf with Grandma in his stomach.

ONE OF THE TRAILS IN BROAD DAYLIGHT

Another problem was that I was thirsty. Extremely thirsty. Tongue- hanging-out-and-lips-cracking thirsty. I was pretty sure I had no saliva left in my mouth, I was so dry. We came to a brook that finally had clear-looking water babbling through it, and Molly eagerly drank. I think if I hadn’t envisioned a family of E. Coli bacteria floating around on little rafts in the water, I might have taken a few sips myself.

We climbed another hill, and when we reached the top, I spotted a trail sign! At last, I thought with relief, I would find out where we were. The sign said we were on Lost Trail.

“How appropriate,” I muttered, taking little comfort in the thought that the guy who’d named the trail probably had been hopelessly lost, too. I half expected to see his skeleton lying somewhere near the sign.

Up ahead was a trail intersection with more signs. My choices were Ledge trail and Ferret Trail. Well, I didn’t like the sound of the word “ledge” because it immediately conjured up images of my fingertips desperately clinging to a cliff as I dangled over the edge; and “ferret” sounded as if it might be a narrow, weasel-made trail. So, fool that I was, I stuck with Lost Trail…and proceeded to get even more lost.

About a half-mile farther, I heard it…a thrashing in the bushes. I froze. Molly barked furiously, tugging at her leash and wanting to chase whatever it was. She tugged so hard, I lost my grip and she darted right into the bushes. I stood there, listening to branches snapping and a chorus of frenzied barking and yelping, and imagined the worst. A vicious, drooling bear or bobcat with Molly’s collar in its mouth was going to emerge at any second, I was certain, and then have me for dessert.

I picked up a good-sized rock for protection, despite the fact that with my aim, I knew that if anything smaller than a Tyrannosauras Rex came charging out of the bushes at me, I probably wouldn’t be able to hit it anyway.

Molly soon returned unscathed, and a fat squirrel angrily chattered at her from its perch up in a tree, as if to mock her for not catching him.

Molly and I had begun our “short” hike at 2:00. I looked at my watch. It was 5:30. A new fear reared its ugly head…darkness. The woods were spooky enough in the daylight, so I sure as heck didn’t want to be stuck in them in the dark. Not only that, the mosquitoes were lining up in V-formation overheard, preparing to attack. I picked up my pace and moved on.

When I finally saw the sign pointing to Podunk Road, I nearly did a victory dance (I say “nearly” because I was too exhausted by then to lift my feet). That was until I saw, in small print, “1.9 miles.” I would have cried, but at that point, all of the fluids in my body had dried up.

The first thing I did when I finally set foot on Podunk Road an hour later was collapse into a heap on the side of it. That’s when I realized that I didn’t have any idea WHERE on Podunk Road I was, or how far away I had parked my car. I just sat there, my face feeling as if it were on fire, my hair limp and littered with leaves, and every bone in my body crying out for mercy. Molly, stretched out next to me.

A car suddenly came crawling up the road. I must have looked even worse than I felt because the driver stopped and asked if we needed help. “I’m lost,” I told him. “I parked near Hayes Field, and I don’t know where I am.”

He gave me a strange look, not realizing I’d just traveled about 110 miles through jungle-like terrain. “It’s right up there on your left,” he said.

If I had been able to feel my arms, I would have hugged him.

Well, Molly and I finally made it home, and I think I drank the equivalent of my body weight in water. A few weeks later, I was talking to one of the park’s employees and mentioned our little adventure to him.

First, he scolded me for venturing out on the trails unprepared

“Even if you intend to go for only a short walk, you should be prepared for emergencies at all times and pack accordingly,” he said.

He then shook his head, chuckled and added, “Well, now you know why it’s called Lost Trail. It wouldn’t surprise me if there are hikers still roaming around up there who started their hikes back in 1960! That trail is appropriately named.”

If all of the other trails up there also are appropriately named, I think, just to be on the safe side, I'll steer clear of Bobcat Trail and Bear Hill Trail.

Just sayin'...

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