The Perils of Certainty

Funny Ken. I can't laugh at you because I've don the same thing myself and I've seen other people do it. We got ourselves good and lost in Alaska once and spent a lovely day bushwacking through alders.
Good lesson to use your head and check the map any time things don't make sense.

more than once ive went up the way i "knew" was right on a climb and ended up having to come back down

the human mind is very narrow … once its decided on something, its hard to admit error …

you have to be honest with yourself … the mountain doesnt care how "right" you think you are … itll still kill you all the same

An excellent argument for trying to apply evidence-based reasoning to all actions and beliefs we hold.

"The mountain doesn't care how "right" you think you are"

Great point. Just like everything in the universe, it doesn't matter how strong your beliefs are. They have no bearing on anything at all except inside your own head. If we could only learn from "the mountain's" hard lessons and apply it wherever possible. Absolute certainty is never possible, but we have developed great systems of thinking for observation and verification that we can utilize (when we decide to apply the effort) to determine what is more likely and what is less likely to be true.

Ken,

Thank you for an enjoyable and beneficial article! Though I'm a new BPL life member, I'm really glad you made this article available for all. Yes, it might bring in new members, and even more importantly it has the potential to avert suffering, some mild, some serious. In some circumstances, the perspective you've promoted could save a life. I expect your funny real life example will do more good than any number of stern, alarmist warnings. True stories have power.

By the way, I, too, have found myself unexpectedly "revisiting" a place where the unexpected familiarity turned out to be no coincidence. I don't cut switchbacks, but other "shortcuts" have sometimes cost me buckets of time.

Particularly because I'm currently preparing for an upcoming multi-day solo backpacking trip, I needed to hear what you had to say. I'm grateful for the reminder–a gentle, humorous, clear, and memorable one. Thanks!

Sincerely,
Ken Carter

I think Ken needs to write under the Pen Name of Mr Magoo.

Then put all his "mis-adventures" in a book called "Mr Magoo in the Backwoods" Earn some money and hire a guide when he goes out his front door.

As someone named Bilboo once said "It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, …"

I got good and lost using an old map where the road had been extended since publication. The trailhead I started at was several miles west of my assumed start. I didn't realize it until I came to a big river "going the wrong direction" around noon. That's when I pulled out the map and vowed to learn how to use that compas thing I had buried in my pack.- Scott

Michael, no this is a completely different situation than what you are referring too. I'm not going to get into the details of what happened back then. It's not really relevant to the reasons I wrote this article.

As many have already commented this kind o thing can, and does, happen to lots of people.

> to completely end back at the starting point and missing two huge landmarks (bridge and a cabin) is being totally oblivious to ones surroundings

Hiking in company is a huge factor here, particularly if the hikers are keeping some kind of conversation, as it seems to be the case for Ken as per the description in the article. Attention naturally drifts away from the surroundings and it gets surprisingly easy to get to a place (be it the intended destination or not) without knowing how you got there.

"Hiking in company is a huge factor here, particularly if the hikers are keeping some kind of conversation, as it seems to be the case for Ken as per the description in the article."

Being a photographer has turned out to be a huge asset in this regard. Research "songlines" or "dreaming tracks" for why, if you're curious… it's a technique for building an internal map by using stories about your environment. When I learned about this, I started using it, but I found that because I pay a lot of attention to the composition, angle of light, shapes and textures of objects when I set up a shot, it serves the same purpose for me as a story. I end up remembering routes a lot better than most people I hike with as a result.

This is partly a response to nearly getting lost in Shenandoah National Park once when I was a newbie hiker, though that was due to missing a turn (I saw the marker, but didn't recognize the name of the trail).

And watching a pair of fools I was hiking with once get lost in conversation, start out pretty far ahead of me, and just start walking… I was tempted to let them wander and see how long it took for them to realize that the only person in the group who knew the route wasn't behind them anymore, but instead I gave them a shout.

Many moons ago, at the age of 13, I went on a long day hike with a church group to a local woodland here in New England. The trail network winds around a large pond, generally near its perimeter, while a network of dirt roads threads the territory further beyond. I'd visited the area before, though I'd never before hiked the full loop that was on the day's agenda. Before long, another hiker about my age and I got out ahead of the main group, by our own choosing and without any resistance from the adult members of the party. It shouldn't have mattered, given that the trails were all well marked and we meant no mayhem. However, two factors came into play that proved to be game-changing that autumn day. The first was a category 1 hurricane which had hit the area several weeks prior. The second was my blinding sense of certainty that I knew an area of such size and scope that, in reality, no 13 year old kid could possibly grasp.

When we came to an area of heavy blowdown along the trail, conveniently there was a good dirt road running parallel to it. And so I quickly convinced myself and my hiking partner, out of sight or communication with the rest of the group, that we would leave the trail and instead hike the road. After all, the road would do much as the trail, I was certain, and both would end up back at the trailhead after circumnavigating the pond.

The road eventually reached a fork, and we went left, certain as I was – despite the pond no longer being in view – that a "series of lefts" would equate with a counter-clockwise loop around it. On and on we followed this road, hour upon hour, mile after mile, until the kid at my side no longer trusted my judgment that we were in fact bound for home base. "Not to worry" I assured him, as the road, however weary we were, was surely quicker than following the thicketed trail. Although by now pangs of self-doubt had begun welling up within me as well, dismissible mainly by an understanding that "we had come too far now to turn around." When at last we saw a sign welcoming us… to a different pond!, I realized the gravity of the circumstances. I knew at once just how far off track I'd taken us. My cavalier sense of ease over matters of navigation had now swung 180 degrees to notions of an unbridgeable, unresolvable impasse between our current location and our intended destination. And while reality was squarely in the middle of these two extremes, I panicked. I cried. And I worried the heck out of my hiking partner, who had been going along for the proverbial ride from the start and was now left merely to read my emotional cues and to fear whatever I feared.

Somehow though, from the throes of panic, a moment of extreme clarity emerged, a sense of being on auto-pilot and of knowing exactly what we had to do to ensure our safety. For this would be the day a young boy would learn of his survival instinct, what it felt like to have fear drive fear away in order to find a way out of harm's way. Against all odds, and without a hint of reservation from a naturally shy child, I flagged down a passing vehicle – improbably, a truck hauling a large horse trailer – and asked for a ride. Within an instant I was poised atop the truck bed trying to persuade my partner to join me, but he refused to do it. "My mom told me never to hitchhike," he explained resolutely. Mine most likely had as well, but running on adrenaline I was now blind to anything other than The Plan of Escape, and this, my survival auto-pilot had convinced me, was that plan unfolding. Ultimately the driver agreed to call park headquarters and we managed a more sobering trip back to our proper trailhead. By now I felt guilty and ashamed of the situation I had created, and to his credit the park ranger did his best to ensure those emotions would stick with me for a good while.

To our surprise, we arrived back at the vehicles before the rest of the party, and for a time we made like we'd keep our misadventure to ourselves. But of course with such a great story to share and the endorphins flying, that oath didn't last long and we were duly chastised later that evening. The group leaders were naturally concerned for our safety, and now angry with us, and responded with a toughened policy of staying together on future outings (we two were banned from any other hikes that fall). I learned, much like Ken on the North Country Trail, about the perils of certainty, the consequences of poor decision-making, and of the need to be situationally aware at all times, most especially when you lack a solid skill set as was the case for me back then. I also discovered something pretty incredible lurking inside of me, inside each of us, that rushes to our defense in a time of need, if only we can find a way to use it to our best advantage.

I enjoyed reading this article but can't shake the feeling that this would have made a good "Post-Trip" thread instead of eating up 50% of the quite valuable weekly article space.

With that said, I've found that each time I wander off the trail or miss a turn-off I can trace it back to where the trail was wide enough for us to hike side-by-side for a change instead of the more common single-file. I'm usually on trails in Pennsylvania and they are generally well marked. If we're on a forest road for a stretch and we can walk next to each other we start talking about the weather, the hike, the fauna…All the things you think about while hiking but can't share because you're more or less by yourself.

My most frustrating example of this was on the Allegheny Front Trail – we had just crossed over a road and were on a very steep downhill jeep track chatting away. We had gone almost 1/2 mile before we realized that we didn't see any trail markers anymore. It was a pretty brutal climb back up to where the trail turned off the jeep track and back up the mountain – all unnecessary and caused by simple "social inattention."

Normally while hiking I'm in my own zone…I find that I most often lead our group and it seems second nature to keep track of the trail markers and when I saw the last one. Some PA trails are so well marked that you can usually see multiple markers while standing in one spot (like the AT). On other trails (the Mid State Trail comes to mind) the markers are fewer and further apart.

"Has anyone ever had a compass that was wrong?"

I have one tiny compass that is consistently 120 degrees off from north. It was a cheapie, so that explains a few things. I haven't figured out a good way to use it as a joke on a friend. All of my good compasses are fairly accurate, even when they get an air bubble inside the liquid capsule.

–B.G.–