The Pleasure of Being Lost

The tree branches tunnel above me as I run down the path. The sky is growing darker. The rain, when it comes, whispers through the leaves at first, then falls hard enough to mask the sound of my footsteps.

Ahead of me a robin flits along the path, then is joined by another bird and another. Soon there’s a flock of robins flying ahead of me, close to the ground. I never knew robins gathered like this, but here they are, a dozen orange-bellied birds darting swiftly across the path as the rain comes down so hard that I have to take off my glasses to see.

I’m lost, but happy, running along this trail through the rain. I’m in a park near my in-laws’ house in suburban Minneapolis; it would be easy enough to whip out my phone and use a map to get back, but I don’t. Mini adventures like these fuel my days.

Before becoming a wife and mother in my thirties, I had much grander adventures: trekking through Nepal, taking trains alone through India, snorkeling in Bali, horseback riding in Mexico, climbing in the Andes. I was often lost. We had no cell phones then and my paper maps were constantly getting shredded in my backpack. Map folding is not my forte.

These days, my adventures are more curated. My husband Dan and I walk sections of El Camino in northern Spain every year. We’ve hiked in New Zealand and biked through the San Juan Islands. But, even in the most remote areas, even on the original pilgrimage path through the Pyrenees Mountains, Dan has maps downloaded on his phone. He’s an engineer and takes no joy in being lost.

The thing is, when you always know where you are, a part of your brain falls asleep. You pay less attention because you don’t have to remember that tree you passed with the crooked trunk, or that odd white fungus that people call “ghost pipe.” You just happily plod on by.

The same is true in a city. If you always look down at the map on your phone—something I see people doing not only in cities, but even here in our own small town—you aren’t observing your surroundings. You miss admiring the ornate door knockers in Back Bay or the lush wisteria on someone’s backyard trellis because you’re too busy navigating to your destination to notice any of it. And you never, ever have to ask for directions, which of course is a relief for many people who loathe talking to strangers.

I love asking for directions because that often leads to impromptu conversations. These conversations with strangers have led to invitations to tea or even a walking companion. Once, in New York City, I stopped to ask directions and ended up talking about politics in Paris with a French diplomat who not only gave me directions, but carried my suitcase up three flights of stairs because the subway escalator was broken.

But the mini adventures I love best involve getting lost on a trail through the woods, where my senses have to kick into high gear to find my way. These are the times I’m most connected to the planet, to the small ferns quivering bright green beneath the trees, to the robins darting along the path and the sound of a creek tumbling over rocks. When we are lost, we have no choice but to be fully present.

Eventually, the path forks and I recognize the uphill slope by a pair of park trash cans that I noticed on the way into the woods when I arrived. Back at my in-laws’ house, my husband looks relieved. “We were worried about you running through the park in all this rain,” he says.

“It was great,” I say, and toe off my sodden shoes, happy to be in a warm dry place, and happier still for having felt the wet earth beneath my feet.