Trapped in the thorns and brambles, the 12-year-old Boy Scout tried to breathe away his pain and his fear. A bright, warm sun was shining brightly through the swaying canopy of the oaks and beech trees. It was a peaceful scene of twinkling leaves which betrayed the storm of panic he felt thrashing his brain. Rushing water muted his screams for help. He blew his rescue whistle. No reply. He looked down at his legs and said a word that would have horrified his parents (not like they weren’t about to become really horrified). A sticky crimson dampness coated his pants legs. And a trickle of blood ran down into his eyes from a gash on his head. “HELP!!!! HELP!!!!!” he cried in vain. He then blew his whistle again. Nothing.
How had he gotten this lost? What hope did he have?
A lot, actually. In his right front pocket was his compass. And in the his back pocket, was his map. And thanks to his Orienteering Merit Badge he had earned in Boy Scouts, he had a fighting chance of getting out of this fix alive. First thing he had to do was squelch his fear. And then he had to figure out where he was.
A wrong turn in the mountains. He had taken a stupid wrong turn in the mountains. Yes, he had heard the sound of a waterfall and taken a short-cut off the trail to check it out. The rushing water was like an aquatic siren’s song, drawing him to his doom. Before he knew it, he had tripped or a rock and a stumbled down a hill into a ravine. He wound up in a thicket of thorns, bloody and separated from his Troop. Panic began to set in — but he fought to remain calm. He closed his eyes and thought of the Compass Course at Scout Camp. How he had made his way past the mud, snakes and brambles and found his way back to camp just by using a map and a compass. He had found true north. And then he headed to back to to his Scout leader, camp and safety. It was time to allow his training to kick in.
An eagle screeched far above as he took his first aid kit out of his backpack. He carefully cleaned the wounds on his legs. The sting of the antiseptic caused his eyes to water. Thankfully he had not broken any bones. And his head wound wasn’t too bad. His forehead had hit a rock when he was tumbling; the blow had made him lightheaded but he didn’t seem to have a concussion.
He took inventory of what he had. The map. Clean water. A slight bit of food. A poncho. A few matches. A first-aid kit and of course his map and his compass. Fear was replaced by confidence.
Three days later, when he walked out of the woods and to the farmer’s house, the press called it a called a miracle. But it wasn’t. He survived because he kept his head and used his skills. And he had squelched his fear.
Thirty years later, he found himself in another of life’s thickets. He had been cruising along in his career when he took another wrong turn. A pink slip and a stumble left him bruised and bloody. He now found himself wounded and in a heap. Unemployed with a family and mortgage, survival took another meaning. Panic (and anger) set in. Once again, he took deep breaths to chase away the pain and the fear. He had tripped over change and taken a tumble. Now it was time to get his bearings.
He had to find his true north again. And fast.
Like that fateful day in the mountains so many years ago, he took inventory of his skills. He treated his wounds and mapped out his new reality. This time his compass was his faith. The Compass Course’s training came back to him once again — he could hear his old Scoutmaster’s voice telling him to trust the map. He laughed — orienteering had taken on a new meaning! He calmed his fear, checked his compass and allowed his training to takeover. In a few months, he’d walk out of the thorns and the brambles to safety.
All thanks to the Compass Course.
