Finding Your Way

There’s an innate gift that my husband has to always know precisely where he is.  His mind is a map, a GPS unit that always knows which direction is north, how to find the most remote address and recall all the necessary trails to make it back to our destination despite only having been there one other time.  A gift I have only dream of having.

I will never forget a quick trip to visit my uncle for the weekend, a home I had been to since I was little, yet a place I had only vague memories of how to get there.  Thankfully,  my dad was just a quick phone call away to talk my husband through the turns that I couldn’t navigate that dark rainy night.  The unforgettable part was when we made the same trek back a few years later, my husband had absolutely no problem making his way.  There was no questioning which turnoff to take or what winding road to follow.  To some this might not seem like such an achievement, but for a girl that lives by Google maps, it was amazing.

My lack of direction or struggling ability to navigate used to be something I was a little ashamed of.  I would try to hide my weak skills and pray I would never have to be alone to find my way in unknown territory.  But life always has a way of helping you build up such deficiencies.  I married a cowboy that ran hundreds of cows on the open range, most that spent twelve months of the year out there.  The ranch work would happen out on the back, two track roads that would require me to find my lonely way out over and over again.

The number of stories where I fumbled my way through oversimplified, inexact instructions to find the branding trap, sorting corrals, or section of fence is almost too many to count.  Landmarks like “a big sagebrush” or “broken down fence” or “old trough” are hardly specific on the range full of big sagebrush, stretched out fences and old troughs.

And more often than not, I was in a place where I couldn’t call for more detailed instructions to make it from my location to that final
destination.    

The first years, I let the fear of getting lost get the better of me.  I would get frustrated and anxious, almost ready to turn back defeated.  Eventually I learned to see it as an adventure, a quest to not only find my way but to see the country, enjoy a drive, and learn about every inch of the range between here and wherever I was headed.  More than likely I would go down that road again and I was determined that the next time I would know where I
was going.

There came a day that I was able to head out with the crew, letting the experienced navigators take us to the remote corners of the range where we would work for the day.  They would dump me out with another rider or two to start gathering cows.  So long as I knew the general direction I needed to head in, things were fine.  But there were those times stuck in the cedar trees or winding through the mountains that I had to ask myself if I was even heading in the right direction.  I began learning tricks like keeping the sun at my back or riding up to the top of the hills to realign myself.       

More often than not, I learned to just follow the cows.  Making the same pilgrimage year after year, the cattle knew where they were headed and would lead the way.  They would find a well worn trail and plot our way to our endpoint.

A few years ago, I bought a fancy smart watch that not only had a built in compass but maps, prompts back to my previous location, and step by step directions to backtrack my way.  I was sure that this handy feature was going to make my wandering across the range far easier.  I hoped that instead of relying on the skills I had been building, the confidence I had gained from years of experience, that this new gadget would instantly turn me into a wayfinding master.

Needless to say, things did not go as planned.  Keeping my eyes on the maps instead of the cows or the path we were going meant that I missed things and had to backtrack unnecessarily.  Even when the cattle weren’t ducking under trees to cut back, I missed the beauty of the path ahead of me.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that I had to ditch the modern crutch and go back to my old navigation ways, even if it meant that I was constantly questioning where I was going.  Somehow I managed, time and time again, to make it to the corrals with my little herd of cows.  If I would keep going long enough, I found the crew.  I could actually find my way, even when I felt lost on the big open range or stuck in a stand of cedar trees.  

Research says that the more people are depending on GPS and step by step directions, the faster they are losing the mental capacity to store and recall spatial information.  Collectively we are losing our ability to navigate the world around us despite such advancements in maps, GPS and navigation.  Passively following GPS might keep you from getting lost and ensuring your prompt arrival, but at the same time it isn’t demanding the brain to remember routes, landmarks, and build your mental map.  

All too often in life I am hoping for a GPS to just show me the way, to navigate me through the wide open space without me having to recognize when I need to make a change.   I don’t want the anxiety that comes along with the  wayfinding and the potential of getting lost.  But being stuck in one place, aimlessly wandering, or passively roaming is a sort of “lost” of its own kind.  

If there is anything I have learned from anxiously meandering across the range, in the truck or on horseback, it is that you are only lost when you decide to give up or give in.  So long as you keep moving, keep learning, and keep trying, every step is a step in the right direction.  Even when those steps seem contrary to the final destination or make the ride a little bit longer, learning the landmarks, attempting different trails, and pushing through the brush only helps you find your way more assuredly than simply waiting for the prompt to “turn here.”

I may never have that gift to navigate and I am sure grateful for the days when my husband can lead out across the range, but I’m also glad for the days that I get to find my own way because those are the days that are far more fulfilling and likely a little more adventurous.