“By George!” exclaimed R.C.  “Can you beat that?  They run like streaks.  I couldn’t aim.  These wild turkeys are great.”

I echoed his sentiments.  We prowled around for an hour trying to locate this flock again, but all in vain.  “Well,” said R.C. finally, as he wiped his perspiring face, “it’s good to see some game anyhow....  Where are we?”

It developed that our whereabouts was a mystery to me.  The sun had become completely obliterated, a fine rain was falling, the forest had grown wet and dismal.  We had gotten turned around.  The matter did not look serious, however, until we had wandered around for another hour without finding anything familiar.  Then we realized we were lost.  This sort of experience had happened to R.C. and me often; nevertheless we did not relish it, especially the first day out.  As usual on such occasions R.C. argued with me about direction, and then left the responsibility with me.  I found an open spot, somewhat sheltered on one side from the misty rain, and there I stationed myself to study trees and sky and clouds for some clue to help me decide what was north or west.  After a while I had the good fortune to see a momentary brightening through the clouds.  I located the sun, and was pleased to discover that the instinct of direction I had been subtly prompted to take, would have helped me as much as the sun.

We faced east and walked fast, and I took note of trees ahead so that we should not get off a straight line.  At last we came to a deep canyon.  In the gray misty rain I could not be sure I recognized it.  “Well, R.C.,” I said, “this may be our canyon, and it may not.  But to make sure we’ll follow it up to the rim.  Then we can locate camp.”  R.C. replied with weary disdain.  “All right, my redskin brother, lead me to camp.  As Loren says, I’m starved to death.”  Loren is my three-year-old boy, who bids fair to be like his brother Romer.  He has an enormous appetite and before meal times he complains bitterly:  “I’m starv-ved to death!” How strange to remember him while I was lost in the forest!

When we had descended into the canyon rain was falling more heavily.  We were in for it.  But I determined we would not be kept out all night.  So I struck forward with long stride.

In half an hour we came to where the canyon forked.  I deliberated a moment.  Not one familiar landmark could I descry, from which fact I decided we had better take to the left-hand fork.  Grass and leaves appeared almost as wet as running water.  Soon we were soaked to the skin.  After two miles the canyon narrowed and thickened, so that traveling grew more and more laborsome.  It must have been four miles from its mouth to where it headed up near the rim.  Once out of it we found ourselves on familiar ground, about five miles from camp.  Exhausted and wet and nearly frozen we reached camp just before dark.  If I had taken the right-hand fork of the canyon, which was really Beaver Dam Canyon, we would have gotten back to camp in short order.  R.C. said to the boys:  “Well, Doc dragged me nine miles out of our way.”  Everybody but the Jap enjoyed my discomfiture.  Takahashi said in his imperfect English:  “Go get on more better dry clothes.  Soon hot supper.  Maybe good yes!”