Paradise Lost

I am continually amazed by my and A’s confounding ability to become completely lost while trail running.  I don’t know that we’ve successfully navigated a trail yet without losing our way in one capacity or another.  It can be scary at best, annoying at worst, and confusing at always because I usually have a decent enough sense of direction when I’m running anywhere else.   Even in foreign cities that don’t have good enough manners to print their street signs with English subtitles, I get around just fine.

I’d like to posit our inability to stay the course is because we are running so lightning fast that we fly right off the trail, but I understand that for a lie to be believable, it needs to be in the realm of what’s possible.

Our last trail run was in the smallest canyon known to man, and when I say “man”, I really just mean me, a person who knows pretty much nothing about canyons other than there’s a grand one somewhere in Arizona.  We quickly found ourselves off of any beaten path, hatching our way through a thicket of what we later learned was (and A still continues to be reminded is) poison oak.  In the distance we spied an interesting-looking structure on a bluff that portended civilization, possibly a trailhead or ranger station.  Instead it turned out to be a gazebo in some wealthy person’s backyard.   Fortunately from our elevated vantage point we could spy the road we drove in on and were able to make our way back down without further trespassing.

Even though I hate being lost, A is a veritable Chet Baker.  And while one would think this dichotomy would create conflict – and make no mistake, there have been a few exchanges best left forgotten – for the most part it’s surprisingly calming to be with someone who is perfectly comfortable, in fact excited by, not knowing where he is.  His enthusiasm tamps down my anxiety, while my apprehension hopefully keeps him from wandering past a point of no return.  Ultimately I’ve found that if one is to get lost, at least it’s better to do it with someone who is contractually obligated to not part until death, even if you end up screaming at him repeatedly, “Where the fuck are we?”