Lost and finally found

Lost and Finally Found

Every year for the last ten years, a small, intimate group of us has thrown off the shackles of daily life to spend a week on walking tours in the French Alps. I originally had the idea, so the other five in the group relied on me to organize everything. It has always amazed me that humans are a bit like sheep; once a leader is established, they don’t give a second thought to organizational requirements.

There we were, toasting the success of the upcoming tour in the bar of a mountain hotel. The group consisted of two married couples and two bachelors, myself included. The order of the day was that at nine in the morning, I would gather everyone around a map showing our route. We always stayed close to the trail, never wanting to attempt areas where no path was indicated. I would then check that the group was appropriately dressed with warm clothes and sturdy boots. Everyone carried a rucksack containing a water bottle or flask, lunch, and personal items.

My good friend Frank always led the way while I stayed at the back to ensure no one struggled or got lost. I made sure Frank had a small first aid kit for accidents or blistered feet. In my own rucksack, I carried a map, a compass, a length of rope, energy bars, a small bottle of brandy, matches, and a very sharp hunter’s knife. I consider these the minimum equipment for a day’s hiking in the mountains. We weren't on a climbing expedition; we stayed mostly in the lower reaches. Generally, the routes I chose were 20 to 25 miles in a circular pattern so that we arrived back at the hotel in the early evening—exhausted.

The first two days passed without incident. We arrived back at the hotel in joyous spirits, albeit tired. There were a couple of sore feet and a few blisters, but for town-dwellers, that was to be expected. On the third day, I decided on a winding route that rose gently through fields of sheep toward the peaks. The weather had been in our favor, with plenty of sunlight occasionally hiding behind billowing clouds that chased across the heavens. Once on the trail, we saw not only sheep but a delightful abundance of mountain wildflowers. The colors and patterns looked as if a carpet had been thrown over the grass. We couldn't resist stopping for an early lunch amongst the flowers. I think we all felt that, with a picnic of bread, cheese, and wine in these magical, bucolic surroundings, we had found our reason for coming here.

Once the picnic finished, we continued up the winding trail. As usual, I was at the back. The group had just turned a corner, leaving them about 200 meters ahead and out of my direct sight. The trail bordered a field of sheep on one side and open land on the other. As I was about to turn the corner myself, I heard the anxious bleating of a lamb in distress. A hedgerow, about four feet high, divided the field from the trail. I looked over it and saw the lamb lying there. I scanned the field for a shepherd, but saw no one—just sheep quietly grazing.

I couldn't leave the poor creature in its misery. I forced myself through the hedge and picked it up. My warmth seemed to calm it; it looked at me as though I were its savior. Its right leg was badly damaged. I decided to carry the lamb back to the trail and try to catch the others so we could decide, as a group, what to do.

In order to catch up quickly, I took a shortcut over rocky land to cut the corner. As I rushed forward, I tried to call Frank on my mobile phone. My concentration was split between handling the lamb and the phone, and I didn't look where I was putting my feet.

The next thing I knew, the phone flew from my hand as I fell into a deep pit. My fall was softened by something unexpected: I had landed on what appeared to be a dead body. For a minute, I just lay there, stunned. It was dark, with only a thin shaft of light coming from above. I moved away from the body quickly, but as I did, a sharp, intense pain flared in my right leg. I also noticed a pungent smell. The body lay face down, but the clothes suggested it was a man. In the shock and pain, I had completely forgotten the lamb. It was now bleating loudly, curled in a corner of the pit. I crawled over to take it in my arms, realizing that if I kept my leg straight, the pain was manageable. I hoped I had only strained it rather than broken it.

I sat there, weighing my options. My phone was somewhere above me on the ground. There was no way I could climb out with my leg in this condition. My friends would never hear me shout; I was too far from the trail and the pit was too deep. I had a little food and water left, which might last 48 hours. I remembered the brandy and took a quick swig. There was already one dead man in this pit; I feared soon there would be two, plus a lamb. My future looked bleak. I began to dream of the hotel's comforts and the evening meal I was missing. I leaned back against the wall, reflecting on what an idiot I had been to break my own hiking rules.

As I lay there in a semi-conscious state, the shaft of light above darkened. A sheep's face looked down. When the ewe moved forward and saw the lamb in my arms, she came crashing down into the pit, followed minutes later by a sheepdog. The scene was like a comedy of errors: a dead man, a sheep, a man holding a lamb as if it were a perfectly natural afternoon activity, and a sheepdog that looked like it wanted to complain about the smell.

Then, the light moved again. A man’s face appeared at the opening. He must have been lying on his stomach. What he saw actually made him laugh. He spoke in broken English.

“All comfortable down there?”

“Comfort is for the living,” I replied. “We have one dead man down here and another with a wounded leg.”

“Oh dear! I guessed right. I have just come from the hotel where a group of hikers is trying to put a search party together for a missing member.”

“When I fell, my phone landed on the ground above. See if you can find it and throw it down,” I called up.

While I waited, the sheepdog began to bark excitedly, sensing his master. He tried to clamber up the walls, bringing down clods of earth. The sheep obligingly stood between the dog's frantic activity and me.

The face appeared again. “Here is your telephone. I am throwing it.”

I caught it and dialed. “Frank, it’s George.”

“Oh, thank God! We were so worried. Are you all right?”

“Yes, apart from a damaged leg. I fell into a pit taking a shortcut. I’m down here with a lamb, its mother, a sheepdog, and a dead man. There is a man above me looking for help, but please call an ambulance and the police. You’ll find me about 500 meters from our picnic spot.”

It took several policemen with ropes, ladders, and stretchers to haul us all out. Once the body was above ground, the police recognized him as a man reported missing four months ago. While the ambulance staff attended to my leg, I told my story to my anxious friends. Fifteen minutes later, I was rushed to the hospital, the dead man was taken to the morgue, and a farmer’s tractor arrived for the sheep and lamb. The mountains were finally allowed a quiet evening.

I returned to the hotel on crutches the following evening. At dinner, the hotel gave us a free bottle of champagne, and the other guests toasted to my recovery. I felt grateful, if a bit embarrassed. The next morning, as we were saying our goodbyes, the shepherd, his dog, the sheep, and the lamb turned up to thank me. The little lamb began licking my feet, the dog tried to lick my hand, and the sheep gave me a gentle butt. Everyone laughed; it was a truly joyous scene.