COLUMN: Search & Rescue

Nature and I have a long and well-documented understanding: It stays outside, I stay inside, and we get along great that way. Nature is fine and pretty and I admire it every day when it comes up as the screensaver on my computer. That's as close as I usually like to get to the great outdoors. Getting lost in nature's beauty can be relaxing and life-affirming, provided I'm in a car with air conditioning, a kicking stereo, and the windows rolled up so none of that pesky nature can accidentally get in.

But last week, I broke my peace accord with nature for a few harrowing minutes.

I had just walked in the door from a long workday when the phone rang. The voice on the other end was 95% static, but I was able to make out a few key words:

"Thunder... LOST!... not kidding... sunset... HELP!" And then the phone went dead.

Everyone needs a best friend. I've known mine since we were randomly assigned adjacent dorm rooms in college. I can't even really remember how we started talking, but talk we did. After a hard day of (skipping) classes, I knew I could return to the dorms for hours of laughs and time-wasting. When you're away from home and experiencing real life for the first time, it can be intimidating. To find a kindred soul to share those experiences is fortunate and irreplacable. For more than two decades, he's been my BFF, closest confidant, and the only human being I know tall enough to change the light in my garage without a stepladder.

That phone call was a sea of static, but we've been friends long enough for me to recognize the chopped-up voice on the other end -- and to know when he was legitimately in trouble.

I'm no nature boy, but my best friend is. My idea of relaxing is bad TV and Cheezits. His is a hiking trail, often in the pitch middle of nowhere. On many weekends, my text messages of "I'm bored, wanna grab lunch?" are frequently replied with, "I would but I'm on a hill somewhere in Wisconsin." In all those years, though, none of his hikes have EVER resulted in a phone call like this.

I was flummoxed. What does one do with this information? You can't exactly call 911 and go, "Help, I think my friend is lost... somewhere. I presume the Midwest. Find him please." 

Still, I thought back to all the times I've relied on him for the most ridiculous of assistance. The time he came over at midnight just to help me change the battery in a chirping smoke detector. The time he stayed up all night talking me off the ledge when I got dumped. He's changed more tires on my car than I have. He's made me laugh harder than anyone else on the planet. He's my best friend, and we're always gonna be there for each other.

But at that precise moment, I had no idea where "there" was. Then it hit me. I definitely heard the word "thunder," but there wasn't a cloud in the sky. I knew exactly where he was: Loud Thunder Forest Preserve. My friend was legitimately lost in the woods. Before I knew what I was doing, I was in my car heading towards parts unknown.

But what exactly was I going to do when I got there? I wasn't even sure what was happening. All I had were six words to piece together, and the best I could reckon was, "(Hi, I'm out at Loud) ..Thunder.. (and I'm) ..LOST!.. (and I'm) ..not kidding.. (that monsters come out after) ..sunset.. (and I'm presently being eaten by a Sasquatch, so) ..HELP!"

If there's one human being who knows a thing or two about nature, it's my dad. I fumbled for the phone and called the parental team from the car. This was probably a mistake. Dad wasn't the loudest voice in the conversation.

"DON'T YOU GO OUT THERE," lectured my mother sternly as if she didn't know me, "YOU HAVE NO BUSINESS IN THE WOODS AT NIGHT! LET THE PROFESSIONALS HANDLE THIS!" But who, pray tell, are the professionals in this matter? I wasn't exactly passing any 24-hour Acme Professional Friend Rescue establishments. The only plan I had was to go out there, find his car, and start honking my horn until he wandered out of the woods or a "professional" came by to arrest me for disturbing the peace.

Thankfully, that was when the phone rang again with slightly better reception. Sure enough, he had headed down a trail, somehow lost it, and had no idea where he was. But at least he was able to tell me a couple of landmarks before the phone went dead again. 

So naturally, I arrived at the forest preserve, immediately spotted a recently snapped twig, and tracked the trail over several ravines until locating the victim. I then banged two rocks together and made a campfire before foraging for mushrooms and carving an arrowhead to procure much-needed protein before using the stars to navigate our way to safety and the arduous reintegration with a society that's long forgotten the simple ways of nature folk like us.

Or maybe not. I DID, however, call 911 and talk to a bemused operator who promised to send a deputy. Meanwhile, I was such an expert tracker that I couldn't even find his CAR in the labyrinthian parking lots of Loud Thunder. I did, however, find a park office, who quickly summoned a ranger. It turns out my friend's landmarks were invaluable to someone who WAS capable of surviving in nature longer than fifteen minutes.

"I know exactly where he is," the ranger said. "I'll have him back here in a few."

But just as he turned for his truck, a sheriff's cruiser pulled in with a familiar and relieved face in the back seat. And how, you ask, was a deputy able to rescue my misplaced associate in no time at all? He sat in a parking lot and honked his horn until my friend wandered out. Perhaps I'm better at this search-and-rescue stuff than I thought.

For what it's worth, everyone couldn't have been nicer. "The last time a fella got lost out there," the ranger said to my friend, "we couldn't find him until 2 a.m., and it was a hot night. He was a dehydrated mess. And he wasn't built like you. He was more like -- your friend here."

Thanks, man. I get it. Captain Fatpants to the rescue. 

As we thanked the night's REAL heroes and turned to walk away, someone turned to me and asked, "Oh man, does this mean I'm gonna be in the paper tomorrow?"

"No, absolutely not," I reassured. We were past deadline. I knew it'd be at least 2-3 days.