I had followed the cairns down the creek, feeling confident and proud. Here I was, hiking alone in the section of the PCT I’d avoided for years—and I was navigating it with ease.
Then the cairns stopped.
I looked farther down the creek. Was I supposed to go that way? The trail disappeared, and continuing forward would mean hiking directly in the water. To my left was a steep incline. No cairns, but wait— were those footprints? That must be it.
I scrambled up the hill and found a faint trail. Proud of myself again, I followed it for a few minutes until something felt off. I pulled out my FarOut app. I wasn’t on the red line. I stood there spinning in circles, watching for the arrow. It pointed back to the creek bed—twenty feet below.
Dang.
I turned around and retraced my steps, but when I reached the edge of the cliff, there was no obvious way back down. I held back a sting of panic. I only walked for a couple of minutes, right? Or was it longer? What a roller coaster of emotions. One moment I was confident; the next I was scared and… embarrassed? That’s a strange emotion to feel in this situation. I was alone.
Eventually, I spotted where I had scrambled up and made it back down to the creek bed to the last cairn. It was time to regroup. I took off my pack and checked FarOut again. Was it really pointing down the creek? That cannot be right.
Doubt crept in quickly to keep me company. With nothing obvious in front of me, my mind filled the silence with worst-case scenarios.
What if I wasn’t supposed to hike the creek? What if the cairns were false—left by some random hiker who got it wrong? What if it gets dark and I’m still lost out here? What if I never see another hiker again?
For the record, it was 8:30 a.m. and it was the PCT thru-hiker season. People would call where I was “the bubble”.
I reminded myself of my strategy. I’d chosen to hike this section during peak season for a reason. If I really couldn’t figure it out, I could wait. Someone would come. I crossed my arms tightly across my chest and climbed the hill again—this time without my pack—to get a better look. I scanned the area for hikers, hoping someone would appear.
What felt like an eternity later, I saw three hikers approaching. They were following the same cairns I had followed.
I called out, “Hey!”
They yelled back, “Hey!”
“I’m lost and don’t know which way to go!”
“There’s a cairn up the hill that way,” one of them shouted, pointing to the exact opposite side of the creek. It was nearly level with where I stood, and somehow… I’d missed it entirely. I had never even considered the trail might go in that direction. I blushed. There was that embarrassment again.
My adrenaline kicked in again, and I felt a wave of relief and joy. Problem solved. Next time, maybe I should look 360 degrees for cairns.
But that small moment of uncertainty stuck with me long after my hike.
As I reflect back on it now, it was more than just a navigation error—it was a lesson in leadership and life. How often do we limit our perspective to the most obvious paths ahead, overlooking the full landscape of options? In that moment of stress, I boxed myself in: go straight or go left. I never even thought to look right. It wasn’t until I paused, asked for help, and stepped back from my assumptions that the true path became clear.
Leadership is a lot like that. One moment, you feel confident and sure-footed; the next, uncertain and off-course. The real skill lies in recognizing when you need to backtrack, when to ask for guidance, and when to simply pause and widen your perspective. It’s not about never getting lost—it’s about how you respond when you do.
So when you find yourself truly unsure of the way forward, stay calm. Take a breath. And remember: there are always cairns—you just have to look in every direction to find them.
Return to home.
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