Living Alaska — Getting Lost in the Alaskan Wilderness

How Would You React if You Were Lost?

I was out having the time of my life. I was on a new trail, having fun, enjoying the scenery, taking pictures of a Porcupine, a waterfall, and a sign that pointed the way. I kept going until the trail washed out, and the only way around was a rope hanging over a ten-foot cliff. It ended in a shallow creek and went up the other side in a similar fashion.

It was close to my designated turnaround time, so rather than scale a cliff using a rope while carrying a fifty-pound mountain bike on my back, I called it a day and turned around. Somehow the trip back turned into more than an adventure.

I made it back to the third washout and recognized the turnoff. I ventured another quarter mile, and my trail simply disappeared. I was dumbfounded. I backtracked. I saw the trail veer down a ditch to my right and wondered how I missed it. I went down a hundred yards and quickly realized something was wrong. I walked back to the top, leaving my bike a hundred yards down the hill.

I looked left, I looked right, I looked back, and I walked slowly along the trail. It was a dead end. I went back to the washout and saw a US Forest Service marker designating my drainage ditch as a trail. I went back to my bike and tentatively walked down the trail. During the early spring in Alaska, snow melts wipe out trail markers. Runoff buries signs of a trail, and all you see is mud and roots. No footprints, no signs of humanity. Nothing.

I was now committed to my trail. There was no trail; there were signs a trail had existed at some point. I found a faded pink ribbon on a tree. I felt better, at least some sign of human existence. I tripped and fell into the mud. I tripped on a root and slammed the spiked pedal into my shin. I stopped, breathed deeply, drank some water, and thought to myself, “This is not good.”

Things got worse. I did not panic; I did not take my situation lightly. I had no idea how far I was away from the real trail. I did not know if this was an old trail, not used anymore. I knew it was not maintained. I knew it wasn’t used often. I had been walking, dragging my bike up and down ditches, mud holes, over dead trees, rockslides, creeks, puddles, and moss-covered ankle snappers. I was losing my footing; I was covered with mud and sticks.

An hour into my predicament, I estimated I had covered two miles. I was no nearer to safety, and google maps were useless. It did tell me I was in the middle of nowhere. It showed the trail I had been on. It showed another trail below me. It showed me in the middle of nowhere.

I had two bars on my phone and 30% of my phone’s battery. I decided to tell someone that I was lost. I told a coworker, who became concerned. I told a friend who lived locally, and she knew the trail system. She had no idea where I was. I turned on my tracking which did not help much. It just showed everyone I was in the middle of the woods.

My phone battery was getting lower. The local Police department called me, and they asked me if I had food and water; yes, and yes. I told them my predicament, and they inquired about my phone’s battery. I said under 30%. They suggested I call 911 so they could get the latitude and longitude of my exact position. By this time, I had been lost for over an hour. I thought that sounded like a good idea.

911 What’s your emergency? “No emergency; I am an idiot and lost in the woods. The Juneau Police Department thought it would be a good idea to get a fix on my position before my phone dies.” Yes, sir, that sounds like a good idea, please hold, and I will transfer you back to Juneau PD. “Ok, thank you.”

The Juneau Police Department was very nice and explained you are in the middle of the woods, but luckily you are near the Bonnie Brae Trail. After promising to keep in touch, I kept heading down the root-crusted drainage ditch. Twenty minutes later, tired, battered, and bruised, I came upon a real trail. It had crushed stones and wood steps built into the hillside. I felt a tremendous sense of relief. I could ride my bike again.

I traveled another mile and came to a boardwalk trail. It traversed the muskeg forest floor and cruised easily down the hill. A few minutes later, I smelled humanity. It came in the form of two teenagers smoking cannabis on the side of the trail. I stopped and said hello; I told them I was lost. They said there was a paved road another quarter mile away. I was saved.

I got home an hour later, riding my bike along paved roads back to my truck parked at the trailhead. I drank the rest of my water, stretched my aching bones, and texted my coworkers and friends that I was safe and sound. I drove home, and as I opened my door, the Police Department called to ascertain my whereabouts. I thanked them profusely for their assistance.

The question I have for you, the reader, is, “How would you react to being lost for two hours in the Alaskan wilderness?” I was never frightened; I never feared for my safety. I did fear having to spend the night in the wood and having the sheriff’s department come to get me. For a few minutes, I thought that might happen. It is not fun getting lost in the woods. I was more embarrassed than fearful. I chose to err on the side of caution. I would not call 911 unless I thought it necessary. It all ended well. From Juneau, Alaska, with love and 911.