Saturday Evening Post

OK. I am now satisfactorily convinced that there is no existing trail down the north shoulder of the Magura. I tried it two weeks ago and found myself lost in an ensconcing fog mid-way down. Today, I found the trail through the field and back into the woods, followed blazes down on an ambiguous trail for maybe a quarter-mile, and then the trail and blazes disappeared altogether. So, once again I found myself bushwhacking, racing the rapidly setting sun. It was, in fact, already long out of sight behind the Magura, and the air around me had turned violet and bronze. I forgot about looking for blazes, was thankful I had thrown my compass into my backpack (won't leave home without it again), and headed south-by-southeast...down.
When I made it to what seemed to be a logging road, I was at first relieved, because...well, it was SOMEthing. Then I realized I still didn't know where I was or if I was walking the right way. What if I had travelled too far south...or east...or southeast? In that case, I would wind up most likely, in some Romanian peasant's backyard (I use the word "peasant" here only because that is the word that came to mind at the time. I know there aren't really Romanian peasants anymore). So I began piecing together what I would say in my broken Romanian to the man who would answer my knock at the door, or come out to investigate what his dog was snarling at and/or biting: "I don't speak much Romanian. I am a little lost. Where is Codlea?" The I began imagining that he was, in fact, a very kind Romanian peasant with a strong-armed wife who overheard my plight and insisted that he invite me in for dinner (is it possible that a mooch like me is actually a missionary?).
You can imagine my disappointment when I came upon a familiar looking blaze painted on a tree, then a recognizable landmark, then came out on the trail where I had begun three hours before. I gladly made do with leftover meatloaf, buttered toast, and instant coffee.