I’m lost in the woods, somewhere in Franklin County. It is dusk. I promised the dog I’d get us both home by dark, but it seems that circumstances may make a liar out of me. The dog’s name is Teddy, and belongs to my sister’s neighbor, Ellen. Ellen is no doubt concerned at this point, and rightly so. We have been gone for two hours on what was supposed to be a twenty minute walk, and it is getting darker by the minute. I can imagine the headlines in upcoming issues of The Recorder:

"Dog and visiting journalist missing, feared scared."
"Manhunt continues for missing dog and journalist — searchers fear worst"
"Missing journalist found dead — dog unharmed"

Teddy is a longhaired border collie, bred to keep sheep in line. He doesn’t run fast, can’t smell the way home, and has a worse sense of direction than I do. I doubt that he would taste very good, but I’ll probably die of thirst long before I have to make that unhappy choice. How did I get in this predicament, hopelessly lost in the woods, somewhere between Deerfield and Greenfield?

It started out innocently enough, walking up Keets Road from my sister’s century-old farmhouse with the dog, heading toward the Woolman Hill Conference Center at the top. I had taken the same walk two years ago, while visiting my sister before I moved out west.

We took a detour on a dirt road that I thought swung around towards Woolman Hill. I had taken the same detour two years ago, or so I thought. I must have gotten to Woolman Hill last time. I remember the place. There was an old farmhouse or two, a few small cabins, and a tree with a plaque that read "In Memory of Bob." I didn’t get lost last time, didn’t wind up trouncing desperately through patches of poison sumac in the waning daylight, jabbering at a dog.

Woolman Hill. It’s famous for something, if I recall correctly. Maybe Susan B. Anthony facilitated a women's suffrage study group there, I don’t know. Perhaps the Dali Lama is leading a meditation retreat there right now. I could care less. All I care about at the moment is getting home, and Woolman Hill is at the end of Keets Road.

"Find Woolman Hill and we’re good as home," I tell the dog. If he’s reassured, it doesn’t show.

As usual, my own lack of humility is responsible for this predicament. I’ve spent much of the last two years living in Colorado, in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Things are different there. If you get lost in the mountains while hiking close to town, you stop climbing and head down. Eventually, you’ll get back to town. If you’re farther away from town than the first foothill and the sun goes down on you, you’re in for an interestingly rustic night unless you can find east by starlight. Even then, you might be better off spending the night in a tree. Mountain lions and grizzly bears are just some of the locals most active at night.

It was this Rocky Mountain-man arrogance that got me here. I didn’t think I could possibly get lost so close to home. 'Just keep heading in one direction,' I told myself (or the dog, I don’t remember which). 'Eventually I’ll hit a road, or a farm, or Deerfield, or Greenfield…a marker of some sort.' But that was over an hour ago, when the sun was still hovering over the western hills, the dog still had energy, and I was still optimistic that I could find my way home before sundown. It’s nearly dark now, and I’m cresting a hill. If it’s Woolman Hill on the other side, I’ll make it home before ten. If it isn’t, we’re in for a long, cold and uncomfortable evening.

Whatever happens, the wilds of Franklin County have left an imprint on me. The next time I hear some crusty New Englander tell me "can’t get there from here," I’ll nod solemnly, understanding fully the wisdom behind the cliché.

Joshua Samuel Brown is a freelance writer based out of wherever he happens to be at the moment. His column Politics and Other Dirty Words is published monthly in the Rocky Mountain Bullhorn. Josh is currently visiting his sister, Eve Brown-Waite, in Deerfield.

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