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An opening essay by the Lucille Daniel, editor of APPALACHIA, the conservation and mountaineering journal of the Appalachian Mountain Club, June 15, 2001, about the Estabrook Country, Concord.
High Country Currents [editor's introduction]
Lost and Found: The Pleasure of Finding Your Way
HERE IS A 1,500-ACRE WOODED AREA in our town that is known in these parts as one of the last "great wild tracts." It is located only fifteen miles from Cambridge, Massachusetts, and when compared to, say, the formidable Escalante of southern Utah, its "wild" designation would appear laughable to some, I'm sure. But if you ask local folks about it, they will explain with pride, "You can still get lost in there."
In fact, almost everyone who frequents these woods has a tale of getting lost, of ending up in the next town or on a road far from their point of entry or locked inside a bewildering maze of trails worthy of Daedalus himself. I certainly have a few such tales. What is fascinating is that we relate them to each other with undisguised delight. Somehow, those moments of dislocation in the woods have become something to celebrate, experiences to relish and share, perhaps because they are a welcome sign that vestiges of mystery continue to thrive in our otherwise overcontrolled lives.
If you have ever rounded a bend in a trail and realized with a start that you are not where you thought you were, you can understand why these moments hold such power. Suddenly, no longer daydreaming about your next deal or deadline, you are totally alert. With every one of your senses, you are grasping for signals. For once you stop charging ahead to stop, look, listen. Have you seen that branch bending over the trail before? Does that glacial erratic look familiar? Does the sky look more open in any direction? Can you hear water? As you decide how to proceed, which direction to try first in order to get back on track, you find yourself leaning into the land for clues. You may be lost, but you have never felt more "there." When at last you stumble on a known landmark, you leap ahead, embracing the familiar in a surge of gratitude and relief. You ire strangely exhilarated, and though you can't deny a little sheepishness at getting turned around in your local landscape, you still can't wait to get home and tell the important news: "I got lost today in Estabrook Woods!"
A Native American friend, of mind who lives on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota once told me she could hear the language of deer. Perhaps I looked a little skeptical because she leaned close to me and said, "You just haven't been taught to listen." Today, with our palm pilots, our personal GPS units, and our cell phones, we risk forfeiting the ability, when we lose our way, to find it again the old-fashioned way--by listening to the language of the landscape. If you can't hear it, perhaps you just haven't been taught to listen.
This issue of APPALACHIA is devoted in large part to the art of not getting lost. It is filled with stories of mapping-of charting trails, measuring distances, and recording landmarks. From the early days of the AMC's Pickering, Walling, and Cutter to the modern times of Brad Washburn, Dee Molenaar, and AMC cartographer Larry Garland, mapping has evolved into a much more exact science. Satellite imagery, global positioning system technology, and computer software have made modern maps more accurate and easier to use. Nonetheless, the old and new maps have one important thing in common: people. Even today, without the devoted hikers and their trusty field notebooks tramping the trails and marking earthly points of reference, the most sophisticated technology would fall short. So this issue is dedicated to the unsung fieldworkers whose quiet dedication has contributed as much as any other element to the great history of map-making.
Lucille Daniel
Editor-in-Chief