After about twenty minutes of pushing uphill through the woods, Mark stopped to catch his breath. He figured he must be about where he was when he had first heard Mr. Maxwell call his name.
And again, facing uphill into the wind, he cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Mr. Maxwell?” And waited. And then he let out a blast from the whistle. And waited.
But again, no answer.
Mark let the whistle drop from his lips. It swung down on its lanyard, and when Mark heard the clink of metal against hard plastic, he glanced down at his chest.
And that’s when Mark remembered that he ought to be checking his compass. He lifted it up to eye level and opened the cover. Mark could barely make out the white dot on the red end of the swinging needle. Time to get out the flashlight, he thought, and if Mr. Survival had been there, Mark would have given him a hug. Not only did he have a good flashlight, but he had four extra batteries.
The flashlight made it easy to see the compass dial, but Mark didn’t like what he saw. Mark thought that since he had been going uphill, he must have been headed north. That’s not what the compass reported. The compass told him that he’d been going more west than north. Yes, uphill; but uphill in the wrong direction.
Mark sat down heavily on a boulder to try to figure out what that actually meant. Because when he had heard Mr. Maxwell’s first call, he had been headed straight east—back toward the loop trail, the trail he was pretty sure he’d missed. And when he heard that first call, he ran downhill, and he had thought that going downhill meant he was south. But now he saw that he could have run downhill toward the east. Or downhill toward the west. So since he’d just been walking uphill mostly toward the west, was he further west than before? And would the loop trail still be toward the east, or was he too far north now? And which direction would get him close enough so Mr. Maxwell could hear him and answer him?
A gust of cold air found its way down the back of Mark’s neck and made him shiver. He had been expecting the wind to die down after sunset like it usually did. Not tonight. It was still blowing strong out of the north. If anything, it was picking up a little.
Mark turned off the flashlight, and then immediately turned it back on. The bright light had ruined his night vision, and now he needed it on to see anything. And he didn’t mind. He liked having it on. It gave him a little island of light in the gathering darkness.
Staring at the compass face again, he forced himself to think, forced himself to push back the rising fears. So I know the loop trail is to the east. I know it is. I know that. And the loop trail goes all the way up to the high ridge. And I know I’m not that far up on the mountain. I know that. So if I go east, and if I’m careful, then I have to find the trail. I have to.
Mark looked at his compass again and then started walking. It was slow going. He had to keep the flashlight on to keep from banging into branches or tripping over rocks and roots. He held the flashlight in his right hand because his left one still hurt from the fall. Mark kept count, and after every thirty steps he stopped to check the compass again. Working his way due east across the shoulder of the mountain took all his concentration.
The next thirty minutes seemed like six hours to Mark. As he stopped to check his direction again, he noticed that the wind had slowed down a bit and shifted direction as well. According to the compass, the wind was now coming from the east.
Mark shined his flashlight upward. He saw the swaying maple and birch branches overhead, saw the frosty vapor from his breath, visible for only a second before the wind snatched it away. He turned off the light to see if there were any stars. He forced himself to leave the light off long enough for his eyes to adjust to the darkness a little. No stars. No moon. Only the wind and the trees and the mountain and the night.
Pulling in a huge breath, Mark yelled: “Mr. Maxwell!”
Mark hardly recognized the echo from a rock face somewhere above him: “Mr. Maxwell!” The voice of the echo sounded like a very small boy, scared and alone.
Mark turned on his flashlight and kept walking due east.
As Mark pushed ahead, complete darkness and a bone-chilling cold settled over the mountain. Another kind of darkness crept into Mark’s mind. Grimly, Mark thought, It’s not going to happen. I’m not going to find Mr. Maxwell. He’s not even up here anymore. He’s back down at the cabins, sipping coffee and talking with the park rangers about how to rescue the stupid kid who got himself . . . lost.
For a kid alone in the woods, lost is a bad word, especially after dark. So Mark avoided it. He tried to keep the word out of his mind. But finally, after another twenty minutes of walking and calling and hearing nothing but his own voice, Mark couldn’t help himself.
I’m lost, he thought. I mean, I’m not really lost, because I’ve got a map and I’ve got a compass, and I know that sooner or later I can find my way back to the Barker Falls Trail. I’m sure I can do that. Except it won’t be easy, not in the dark. Or when I’m this tired. Right now, tonight, I’m not gonna be going down to the campground, or anywhere near it. So for tonight, I’m lost . . . but not really. I’m just . . . here.