“I’ve never been lost, but I was mighty turned around for three days once.” –Daniel Boone

No month says “It’s pie season,” like November, the month of Thanksgiving feasting.  So it was fitting that early this November, up at the beloved old deer shack, on the edge of the Superior National Forest in northern Minnesota, that I had a big piece of “humility pie.”

Five of us veteran shack visitors made the trip this year. For perhaps the first time since 1940, there wasn’t a firearms deer hunter in the group. Instead, we were hunting grouse.

Saturday heralded the deer opener and we heard no rifle shots. In recent years deer have become mostly absent in this region. The combination of deep snow winters, predation by wolves, bears and coyotes, and an aging forest that is less diverse in its vegetation account for fewer deer.

Nels and I decided to spend the overcast afternoon looking for ruffed grouse and heading towards my old reliable deer hunting haunt, the Black-backed Knob.

We headed slowly up the drainage to the beaver dams, then arced around them to the Black Forest, below Raven’s Ledge. For roughly 80 years these landmark titles have been part of the shack lexicon. The place names are not found on any maps, but generations of shack dwellers coined names that simply stuck.

Nels and I are comfortable wandering across this chunk of land. Over scores of years we have come to know it quite intimately.

It was somewhere in the Black Forest, in the company of balsam fir, black spruce, and grand old white cedar, that Nels and I wended our way into a state of confusion. Funny thing is that both Nels and I moved wrongly together, without conversation, and with total acceptance.

Superior National Forest was established in 1909 and comprises over three million acres,  making it the largest national forest east of the Mississippi River. Its flavor is mostly boreal, dominated by spruce, fir, pine, aspen and birch with plenty of hazel and dogwood thickets. Lots of rock, miles of streams and countless clear lakes. It’s an easy place to feel small and humble. And it is an easy place to get lost.

Lawrence Gonzales, author of the excellent book Deep Survival: Who lives, Who dies and Why makes the point that decisions are often made by “bending the map.” In our case, both Nels and I felt we knew the area so well we could not become confused, so when we began to get frustrated we edited our perception of the situation so that it fit our assumptions. We started imagining that distant ridge-lines or ridge notches were familiar features when in fact they were not. What is startling is that we both agreed with each other and together we “bent the map.”

Finally, almost reluctantly, we agreed we should stop and check our compasses. In big country I carry a small fanny pack that contains some survival essentials: compass, whistle, lighter, stick matches in a waterproof case, pocket knife, cordage and a small loop of wire. Each of these components would be helpful if I should get lost or hurt and had to stay put until help arrived.

In disbelief, we both showed the other our compasses. The two instruments agreed on the direction of north and we realized that we were 180 degrees off from where we thought we were!

With the afternoon easing into its last hour we hiked uphill to the edge of a high escarpment. Looking far into the valley below us, Nels said, “There’s the river.” And peering over the edge, I added, “And there are the beaver ponds.” Somehow we had made our way to the top of Raven’s Ledge. Finally we knew where we were.

In the waning daylight, Nels and I made our way down a steep draw and through a low area to an old familiar trail that would lead us back to the warm shack.

When we were close enough that the bloom of candlelight drew us like moths towards the small glowing window, Nels asked, “Well, do we tell the guys we were lost?”

“Of course we do,” I immediately responded. “We weren’t really lost only slightly confused. And besides, we’re too old to really care what they might think. Also, this is a great lesson for all of us. Carry a compass. And even if the sun is shining, check the compass often and trust it.”

Soon we were inside the toasty shack sitting around the old homemade table that was built when the shack was erected. The stove had its quiet, soothing noises. The trio of candles put a warm light on our faces that diffused wrinkles and enhanced storytelling. Nels and I confessed our story. The others nodded in understanding. Others shared their own misadventures.

In a moment of silence I sighed and offered, “A slice of tart humility pie never hurt anyone.”