What It’s Like to Misplace Your Son in the Woods—and Beyond

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So, we didn’t exactly lose him in the dramatic sense—he wasn’t missing for days or even hours. It was more like a frantic 40 minutes, tops. Of course, time feels like it stands still when you’re trudging through riverbeds and over fallen logs, all while muttering an endless stream of curse words. There were four of us: me, my wife, our bubbly and daring 11-year-old, and his less coordinated but enthusiastic 3-year-old brother. If you’ve ever ventured out with kids—whether hiking, strolling on the beach, or just wandering through the house—you know how tricky it can be to keep them all together, especially when they’re at different ages.

We reached a spot that required climbing, and the 11-year-old took off first, leaving the rest of us behind. Apparently, there was a bit of a miscommunication: while we said, “Wait for us at the top,” he interpreted it as “Go ahead and explore the forest by yourself, and don’t forget to take the bag with the water bottles!”

He has a knack for getting lost. It’s almost his specialty. He’s a bit of a wanderer, often unsure of his surroundings because his mind is a whirlwind of imagination, characters, and stories that rarely connect to the reality around him.

Me: “Want some Lucky Charms?”
11-Year-Old: [five-second pause] “Which Wings of Fire dragon has the best armor, the MudWing or IceWing?”
Me: [five-second pause] “So, Frosted Flakes then?”

I’ve had to track him down at Target, where he’ll wander off, entranced by a T-shirt display. Or at a ballpark, drawn by the smell of hot dogs, and before you know it, he’s half a football field away. There was even that night when he was about four, and he woke up, snuck downstairs, and strolled out into the Carolina night for a solid 15 or 20 minutes before the police found him. He’s a little adventurer, but as I write this, I can’t help but wonder if this is normal. When the kind folks at the children’s museum return my 3-year-old, it’s less about gratitude and more like, “Thanks, Edna, how’s that sciatica acting up?”

But I don’t want to come off as an irresponsible parent. The truth is, when he did get lost, my son managed to keep his cool. He made his way toward the park’s bridge entrance and ranger station, asking for directions from people he deemed trustworthy—“because they had a 6-year-old with them.” Well, I might have exaggerated that part a little.

Despite his occasional lapses in attention, I felt fairly certain he could find his way back to the bridge entrance, barring any mishaps like stumbling into a gulch or being whisked away by a bear, which seemed unlikely since my son is as skinny as a candy bar. Kids have their quirks, and given the chance, I’m convinced he could navigate the Atlanta airport and find his way back home to Indiana, possibly with a Cinnabon in hand. Ask him to come down dressed properly in his Little League uniform, though, and there’s a solid chance he’ll come downstairs wearing his pants backward. Point him to a New York City subway map, and he’ll figure it out while I’m fumbling with my phone.

I encourage that independence; I value it. I lean into it because it’s not something I grew up with. My parents raised my brother and me with an emphasis on all the ways the world could be dangerous—tornado warnings, crossing busy streets, and the infamous swimming after eating. So I tend to overcompensate, but not to the extreme of saying, “Go ahead and wander off on this treacherous trail.” If I had gotten lost in a state park at 11, I would have frozen in place, waiting for someone—perhaps a ranger or Yogi Bear—to come to my rescue. When I asked my son how he knew which way to go, he replied, “I memorized the map,” while I was busy cursing my phone for lacking signal in the depths of the forest.

Such is parenting, and it’s a tough lesson to grasp. “Relax,” the state park map seemed to say while I frantically scanned the trails, trying to figure out where he might have wandered. “Be calm,” the trees whispered, though I probably imagined that. “Hey, watch where you’re going!” said the family I splashed with mud as I hurried by while crossing a river—sorry about that! The good news is, he was fine. He wasn’t lost for long. When my wife found him first, he asked her, “Can you stay close? I think Dad’s about to lose it.” I didn’t lose it. I gave him a serious talk. Took away his Minecraft privileges for a bit. Shared a little joke about the whole ordeal. And then we went back to normal life, feeling a bit reassured about how he’ll manage when we’re not right beside him.

In conclusion, parenting can be a wild ride full of unexpected moments, especially when you have little wanderers in tow. Keeping a balance of independence and safety is key, and at the end of the day, we all learn from these adventures—even if they leave us a little frazzled.