A stiff wind blew over the hill carrying unseen dust particles like millions fleeing the vast expanse of grassy hills and meadows. Darkening clouds rolled overhead as if clawing to keep up with the wind which crossed the prairie as if it were in a hurry to escape. Grass the color of golden wheat bowed down like a population whipped into supplication.
This forceful wind was not uncommon and normally Eric rarely noticed it. He could take the wind. He could wipe the dust from his dry lips. He could spend hours in those conditions. But now they were like a constant reminder of where he found himself.
When Eric had finally realized it, he scribbled it into the dry dirt not really know why. Maybe he needed to accept it. Maybe he needed to hear it in his head. He stared at the message he had left. He stared at it in horror. He stared at it in shame.
I AM LOST
How did he get there? Why had he walked away from the path?
A tear filled the corner of his right eye as he tried to remember what his father had told him almost two years ago.
"If you ever get lost," his dad had said. "Don't panic. Take a moment. Take a breath. Ask for help.”
Ask who? He wondered.
Eric missed his dad.
The words he had scribbled inspired him to leave a larger message. He stared at the new word he had created by lining up whitish rocks in the forms of letters. When he was done, the word spanned five feet across the hillside. He stared at it and he began to cry. It read HELP.
Even as he built it, he realized it was a word nobody else would read. He could not explain why he did it. But staring at it now, he understood how helpless he really was. And he wondered, years from now, if anybody came across it, would they even care who made it?
Ever since his dad left, nobody seemed to care--not even mom. At her best, she would sit and ignore him--at her worst, she would scream and curse. It made it hard to blame his father, the way she was now. The boy sometimes wondered if she had always been that way. But a memory of her holding him or gently wiping his tears reminded him that she had endured pain and had suffered because of his father -- the man he could not bring himself to hate. Her memories of that man were tainted in a way Eric's never would be.
Still, his father had left. For Eric, that did not breed anger or depression. For him, it brought mostly questions which often led to feelings of rejection. The boy, to his own discouragement, forgave his father more easily than he forgave his mother. He had left. She had stayed. Yet, he often found himself angry with her and even disliking her. What kind of son did that make him?
And now, here he was, on the side of a grassy hill, in a place his father had introduced him to. He realized then, that his father had never really taught him how to get home. The vastness and sameness of the rolling hills bewildered the boy.
That morning, he had set out walking before first light with the shotgun his father had given him for his twelfth birthday. He walked without purpose and without considering where his feet led him. He just walked.
Shortly after first light, fifteen sand grouse rose ahead of him. Unprepared, he shouldered his 20-gauge far too late. But, the birds had landed on the next hill, so he charged after them giving no more attention to the self-pitying thoughts that often consumed the quiet moments.
The grouse flushed two more times before he could get off a shot, but his father's abandonment had left him with an unrelenting desire to never give up. So he pressed on and when the upland birds flushed a third time, his lead pellets hit one. Unfortunately, he had not hit it well. He had wounded it. Running after the fleet-footed creature, he quickly felt exhaustion gaining ground. He chased the bird over one hill before losing it on the other side. After an hour of searching for any sign of it, he knew he had no choice but to quit.
He had failed. He crumpled to the ground and wanted to weep.
He remained there, with a blade of grass tickling the back of his neck, for a few minutes before looking up and realizing he had no idea where he was. His father had once instructed him to find the old, barely distinguishable wagon tracks he insisted were from the Oregon trail—that trail always led back to the county road. Sometimes, when the light was just right and they were standing on top of a hill, they could see the tracks through the bottom of the shallow but massive valley. Eric had run away from that valley and through at least three smaller ones while chasing the grouse. Now, he was not even sure which way the valley was. His father had never taught him how to get back to the trail if he could not see it.
He hiked over two hills and back three more before collapsing to the ground from a combination of physical and emotional exhaustion. Eric had often prided himself on his endurance and unwillingness to surrender. But at that moment, fear and shame and hopelessness overwhelmed him. If he continued to walk aimlessly, he might only become more lost. These hills could go on for miles and miles without a road or any hint of civilization. It was that seemingly ultimate freedom that drew him toward them. Now, he began to see that untempered freedom could lead to a vast and lonely prison that was impossible to escape.
In that kind of loneliness, with that kind of fear and guilt, there was only one place to turn. He looked up into the still dark clouds, and for the first time since he was a small child, he prayed.
“God, I do not know where I am. I do not know where I am going. I’m not even sure how I got here. But, I am so lost. I am sorry. Please, forgive me.”
Those were the only words he dared to speak to a God he had never truly felt close to until that moment. Then, he lowered his eyes and he wept. Before long, fatigue overcame him and he drifted off to sleep.
Eric had no idea how long he had slept, but when he opened his eyes, the dark shadow of the clouds had given way to sunshine and the sky radiated in an azure blue with only hints of gray at the edge of the horizon.
When he pushed himself up with his hand, he spotted a pronghorn antelope staring at him from across the small valley at the top of a steep hill. Boy and beast stared at each other for nearly a minute. Then, the pronghorn turned and trotted over the crest.
As he sat there considering his options, it struck him that the fear and guilt and shame had subdued. They were still there, but they no longer demanded his focus. There was something else now, something he had not remembered. Peace.
He could sit there, maybe build a fire under one of the bluff edges and wait for someone who would, most likely, never come. Or he could get up and move forward and try to rediscover the path he had first set out on. Within moments, he made up his mind to act, but he just could not decide which way to go.
Standing now, he noticed movement back to the top of the high hill. It was the pronghorn again, its bright coat reflecting the sun as if signaling with a mirror. The hike would be long and dusk was just beginning to threatening the day, but Eric took the antelope’s reappearance as a sign.
Eric climbed to where he had last seen the antelope. From there, he could see for miles even in the dimming light. Then, off in the distance, he spotted a herd of nearly twenty pronghorns streaking toward the horizon, a rising cloud of dust dissipating slowly into the cooling air. Just beyond them, he saw hope. He saw the trail.
It was so far into the distance, he could barely be sure it was not a mirage. It would be a painstaking journey through many hills and valleys to reach it, but he could now see it and when he did step back onto it he would strive to stay the course until safely finding his destination.
