Lost and Found

COLUMN

In the fall of 1968, I was stationed at Fairchild Air Force Base. I was between deployments to Vietnam, and a few friends invited me to go deer hunting on Bear Paw Ridge, a few miles north of Newport. I was totally unfamiliar with the area, but my friend Bob knew it well. We took Highway 2 to LeClerc and traveled along the river before heading up into the mountains on first gravel then dirt roads. We began hunting just after daybreak. Bob told me to hunt down to the bottom of the valley then up to the other side where I would find a trail that led back to our parking area.

I descended to the bottom when the fog descended on me like a blanket. I followed Bob’s instructions, or at least I thought I did, and found a trail just where I expected it to be. I headed along the trail for about half an hour when I realized the trail had disappeared. I had no idea where I was. I fired three shots and waited another half hour but heard no answering shot. I came to the conclusion that I was lost and alone. If I was to find my way home, I would have to do it myself.

The only thing I knew about the local geography was that the river was below me. So, if I walked downhill, I would eventually come to the river and find my way home. I had grown up hunting and fishing in the woods, so, I didn’t panic. I had never learned, however, that lost hunters, hikers, etc., tend to travel in a circle. A compass wouldn’t have helped as I had no idea which direction I needed to go. All I knew was that I needed to go downhill.

I came to an old logging road and was sure it would be my salvation, but it led me uphill and after an hour or so, the road disappeared into the trees. I turned around, somewhat discouraged, and once again headed down the mountain. It was beginning to get dark, and I was contemplating spending the night in the woods when I saw the fresh car track. Eureka! My spirits were revived. I followed the track for two hours until I finally came to an actual road. An hour or so later I saw the lights of a house. The nice gentleman took me to the police station in Oldtown, where I called my wife. When I told her, “I am found,” I got a confused response. It seems no one told her I was missing. All our neighbors knew, and most of the first responders in Pend Oreille County were searching for me, but they all decided my wife didn’t need to worry. I watched the election results while she came to get me. Nixon won.

The Oldtown police station no longer exists, and I have no idea how to retrace the route that I took during the 12 hours I was disoriented, nor how to find the good Samaritan who drove me into town. But I found where I belong. Fifty-five years later, we would build our retirement home less than 10 miles from Bear Paw Ridge. I was lost but, now I am found. I am home.

FRANK WATSON IS A RETIRED AIR FORCE COLONEL AND LONG-TIME RESIDENT OF EASTERN WASHINGTON. HE HAS BEEN A FREELANCE COLUMNIST FOR OVER 20 YEARS.