Other than sailors and windmill owners, I’d be hard pressed to think of anyone who really enjoys the wind once it tops, say, 25mph. A gentle breeze, sure. An occasional blustery Spring storm, okay. But a hard wind --whether it’s sustained or gusting -- well, I, for one, can do without it.

Because I’m a long-time fan of the writings of John Muir, I do my best to keep in mind his passion for all that Nature has to offer -- be it clement or inclement. As such, when I’m caught off-guard by a howling wind, I recall that Muir once climbed a tall tree just to experience the full force of a major storm. He described the fury of the Pacific fronts that would rage through the High Sierras of California in his essay, “A Wind-Storm in the Forest,” published in 1894, a chapter in his collection of true stories entitled “The Mountains of California.”

Recently, I once again had cause to pluck this volume from my bookshelf and pack it, along with my camping gear, as I prepared to embark on a four-day trip into one of our higher elevation forests. I had heard the weather forecast a few days prior to my trip and knew that at least the first couple of days of the excursion would coincide with 35-45mph winds -- remnants of one those aforementioned Pacific fronts.

Had it been just me participating in the trip, I simply would have postponed my departure by a couple of days. But, since the trip had been scheduled weeks in advance by two of my Phoenix friends, both still “working stiffs,” I could hardly expect them to alter their more complicated lives. Besides, the approaching storm was a warm and dry one so how uncomfortable could it be?

Since that question is rhetorical, I suppose I don’t really have to answer it. Moreover, it isn’t precisely the right question to ask, given the fact that “comfort” wasn’t truly the issue since, like I said, it was a warm and dry front. The real question turned out to be: how likely was it that one of the many tons of violently swaying trees would come crashing down into our camp? Keep in mind, we were camped surrounded by older-growth forest, comprised of spruce, fir, pine and aspen. Any one of these behemoth trees was easily capable of obliterating tents, tables, trucks or (yikes) Scott, Jeff, Josey and me. So, the real question was -- to quote Dirty Harry: “Do you feel lucky, punk? Well, do ya?”

My answer? If I kept my wits about me and vigilantly monitored all of the trees for the first signs of splintering limbs or uprooting trunks and, if I stayed awake all night shining a flashlight into the dense woods, well maybe, just maybe, I would be able to miraculously dodge 10,000 pounds of crashing Ponderosa pine just in the nick of time. But I jest….

What I did instead, was to be as mindful of the situation as possible but did not obsess over it. I figured if my number was up, then so be it. I had lived a long and rewarding life and, in some ways, along with a lightening strike or a wild animal attack, somehow it seemed more appealing to go out on one of those outdoorsy routes, rather than one of the many more prosaic possibilities -- such as a car crash, heart-attack or falling off a ladder while cleaning the gutters.

As it turned out, the meteorologists got it right: the front blew through after just two days. Just two, measly, nerve-racking days…. Happily, all four of our wind-beaten crew survived intact.

After the storm, I was anxious to explore. Since a primary objective for any of my nature outings is to look for wildlife, when dawn broke on the first calm day, I set off early to see if I could find a species I was keen to finally observe in Arizona: the Pine Grosbeak. I figured that any and all birds were going to be very active on this first tranquil morn as they were bound to be hungry after having spent two days of relative immobility (bio-energetically speaking, it can be very costly to attempt flight during periods of high winds).

Our camp was at 9,300 feet elevation and was situated within a vast patchwork of mixed conifers and more open spaces so, it should be suitable habitat for a Pine Grosbeak. Additionally, the area our camp was in was known to be occupied geographic range for the species, albeit, at very low population densities and was at the southernmost portion of the bird’s range. So, I put the sun to my back and began hiking uphill, having first marked our camp’s location on my GPS unit.

I hiked for a few hours, stopping frequently to identify an array of species that included, to name but a few: Cooper’s Hawk, Clark’s Nutcracker, Hermit Thrush and Western Tanager. Because I was hiking off-trail and was deeply absorbed in my efforts to spot birds, I didn’t really pay adequate attention to my direction of travel other than I was keeping the sun at my back so as to optimize the lighting for seeing birds.

But, of course, the sun doesn’t remain stationary in our skies, or, to be more specific, the Earth’s rotation gives the sun the appearance of traversing across the firmament from east to west. Eventually, I stopped to rest and took the opportunity to pull my Garmen GPS from my backpack. Inadvertently, I had left the screen illumination setting at “always on” and was annoyed to see how much battery power the device had sucked down while sitting in the darkness of my pack. This was a rookie mistake and the first time I had been so careless with my Garmen.

My error was compounded by the fact that I had idiotically forgotten to throw some fresh spare batteries in my pack (though, for some reason, I did have a pair of nail clippers tucked in a pack pocket; grrrrr!). Not having spare batteries was also a rookie mistake but one I’ve made a few times before and, therefore, should have known better than to make again (double grrrrr!). No matter, I used the “find waypoint” command and noted that camp was only a few miles away and basically downhill and to the southeast. I turned the GPS off (to save juice) and continued on my way.

I hiked another hour before deciding to head back to camp; fully discouraged by not yet finding a grosbeak. As I began the walk back, I noted immediately that my trail-less route stood out in absolutely no way whatsoever from any other portion of the terrain. Furthermore, due to the fact that the ground was mostly covered with conifer needles, rocks and tree roots, it was very rare indeed for me to spot one of my own worn down Vibram sole impressions.

The sun was high now and shone brightly through the trees which also made track impressions more difficult to see. I hiked a ways and, when I stopped for a snack, I decided I had better turn on the Garmen to check my direction. I had to turn the screen illumination back up because of the brightness of the ambient light and noted that I had strayed significantly from what I thought was a direct line back toward camp. Typically, my sense of direction has never been great and my powers of concentration often waver.

I also tend to be a worry-wart and kept thinking how embarrassing it would be if I actually became lost. Me, a lifelong outdoorsman; a member in good standing of the Navajo County Search and Rescue Team; a career biologist (supposedly with keenly trained powers of observation) and a veteran of White Mountain trails near and far. But, I wasn’t on a trail. Nor was I hiking along a stream (another favorite tack of mine to allow me to wander carefree through the wilderness). And, as I am, more-often-than-not, I was alone.

Now, if this was a 1920’s silent movie (perhaps starring Charlie Chaplin, mugging for the camera, eyes popping), an inter-title would proclaim: “Lost, the hapless hero of our story knew he was facing desperate circumstances. What, oh what, would he do?”

Well, to find out what I did (or to hear how I made my way back to this typewriter, now safely ensconced at home), feel free to tune in again next month when I will conclude this land-faring yarn of the misbegotten navigator. I may also have an update or two on the birds I saw during the rest of our camping trip.