Still, I persisted. I believe powerfully in succeeding at something the first time, no matter how challenging: the first try sets the tone for all subsequent effort, and a failure now would dampen my future morale. So I forged on. After a time, the ground began to level out, and I had the sensation that I was moving uphill; but a break to get my bearings told me that this was merely an illusion, brought on by the difficulty of the terrain. I opened my water bottle and took a deep sip, disappointed in myself for succumbing so soon to my thirst. With a sigh, I reshouldered my pack and forged on.
I have an excellent sense of direction, and had learned in much more perilous situations than this one that it could be counted upon in challenging circumstances. But as I trudged through the forest, I began to get the uncomfortable feeling that I had lost my way. There was no evidence that this was so, although my house was far from view now and the sun invisible behind thick clouds. Nevertheless, the woods had taken on an unrelenting, almost unnatural sameness, the trees evenly distributed, the ground uniformly impassible; and it was with some considerable embarrassment and frustration that I realized I had not brought a compass with me. I am afraid I swore under my breath, there in the silence — and silent it was, for I had seen no living thing, not a single squirrel or chipmunk, since I crossed over the treeline.
I was relieved, then, to discover that the ground had begun to slope downward again. From my house on the southwest corner of the land I had set off to the northeast, and this decline was likely to represent the approach toward the center of my property. That would put the rock somewhat to my right. Satisfied that this was so, I sat down on a fallen log and began to eat my lunch.
I had been seated for about ten minutes, my back resting against a tree trunk, when I had a peculiar experience. I had closed my eyes for a moment, in an effort to gather myself for the next few hours of walking, when I heard a noise — the sound of a branch brushing against something, then snapping back, followed by the crack of a twig. I slowly turned my head, so as not to startle whatever it was that had made the noise, and opened my eyes. About fifteen feet away, blinking in the gray light, stood a doe.
It wasn’t an ordinary deer, however. Save for its hooves, nose, and eyes, it was entirely white.
Now, I should add here that such animals are not rare in the greater Milan-Gerrysburg area. Indeed, they are one of our region’s only claims to fame, and a small fame at that. The deer are not albino — their eyes lack the pale pink hue common to such animals, and they are not known to suffer from the health problems associated with albinism. These deer are normal, save for the color of their fur. They are thought to have come into being as a result of a genetic mutation in a herd that once lived within the fence of a large, abandoned military depot. Over time, the white color became dominant, and soon the entire herd, isolated by the fence, was white.
Eventually, in places, the fence collapsed, or was knocked down by vandals, and the herd slowly assimilated back into the greater population. And so, though they were uncommon, these deer were often seen in our township, and were evidently much beloved by local residents.
But it wasn’t merely my sighting of the white doe that accounted for the peculiarity of the moment. It was that, somehow, I recognized this particular deer— the one that was now placidly staring at me through the crowded alley of tree trunks. I couldn’t have said what it was about the animal that was familiar — what set it apart from other, similar animals I had seen in my life — nor could I even have identified what parts of any deer tended to differ from individual to individual. I merely understood, instinctively, that this was my deer, and that the animal wanted me to see it.
I want to make it clear that I am not the kind of person who subscribes to half-baked, magical ideas. I do not believe in portents, or omens, or signs. On the subject of an omniscient deity, I am firmly agnostic, confident only that the existence of such an entity is beyond knowing. So it is with some trepidation that I advance the idea that I had some kind of special connection to this doe. Nevertheless, I have been trained to do what I am told, and to report the facts as I find them, and the fact is that, as I sat on a rotting tree trunk in the middle of my leafless wood, something did indeed pass between me and a solitary white deer, and I felt — I am afraid to say — a profound rightness in the encounter, along the edge of which played a very faint hint of fear.
Soon, I became uncomfortable staring at the white doe, so I closed my eyes, leaned my head against the tree behind me, and waited for it to leave. I turned over the incident in my mind, attempting to make sense of it. After a time, I opened my eyes, and the deer was gone.
It was tempting to consider the possibility that what I had just experienced was some kind of hallucination or dream. Indeed, I was very tired after my journey to the center of the forest, and it is certainly possible that I had, at some point during my respite, actually dozed off. But I did not feel refreshed, and had no sense of time having passed, and thus was able to renew my confidence that what had just happened was real.
This episode in the woods, however, was about to come to an end, on the heels of a second peculiar event, one that, furthermore, made me feel quite foolish. As I gathered my things and stood, I thought I heard a sound, a kind of rushing rumble, and I detected, once again, a bit of motion through the trees, opposite the direction the deer had come from. The motion was up on the ridge to the north, and for a split second I felt a deep terror: the motion was incredibly fast, much faster than any animal, and the noise strange, mechanical, out of place in this eerily calm wood.
But then, suddenly, I understood. It can’t be, I thought — but it had to be. I tramped across the incline, then hiked up the little hill that terminated in the ridge, and when I arrived I saw that I was right. What I had seen and heard through the trees was an eighteen-wheeler. I was standing on the shoulder of a paved road.
I stood for some minutes, trying to puzzle out how this was possible. I had begun at the southwest corner: my house. I had walked northeast, then turned due east, and descended into what I believed to be the belly of the lot. The rock, I was certain, was not far away, and slightly to the southeast. But here I was, standing on a road.
My excellent sense of direction had utterly malfunctioned. I didn’t even know what road it was I stood on, nor had I any idea which direction I should walk to reach my house. I chose left, and soon discovered it to be the correct choice, as a road sign revealed itself only a hundred yards beyond a small rise. I had been on Nemesis Road, and now neared its intersection with Phoebus. The northwest corner of the property. This meant that I had never strayed far from any road, and had walked due north once my house was out of sight.
My walk down Phoebus Road was swift and disheartening. A personal and professional skill that had meant a great deal to me now appeared to be gone. Was it my age? Such things, however, could be fought against, and defeated. I resolved that I would not grow complacent, and sacrifice my talents to the onset of middle age. I would retrain myself in the woods, and regain my former strength. By the time I drew near the intersection with Lyssa Road, some of my enthusiasm and self-respect had returned, and I almost relished the period of hard work and recovery that was to ensue. I had faced greater challenges before, had been forced to fall back, reassess, and redouble my efforts: surely I would succeed here, as well. Despite my exhaustion, my step was a bit lighter, my thoughts less dark. The project of my life was back on track.