It was a crisp autumn day in the UK Midlands, the kind where the air smells of damp earth and the leaves crunch underfoot with every step. I was 16, a stocky teenager with a backpack heavier than my confidence, trudging through a forest as part of the Duke of Edinburgh Silver Award challenge. For those unfamiliar, the Duke of Edinburgh (DofE) program is a rite of passage for many British teens. As they explain it in their marketing material “a structured initiative designed to build character through physical challenges, community service, and a multi-day trek” The Silver tier, which I was tackling, involved a 2-3 day expedition, and my team was deep into the second day, navigating the rolling woodlands of the Midlands. fwiw, I don’t think this program has helped me get the “skills necessary to signal to the employers you’ll be a valuable addition to their team”, but that’s besides the point.
The Midlands are a hiker’s paradise, with sprawling green hills and dense forests like Cannock Chase, a designated Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. But that day, the forest (not Cannock Chase, I don’t remember the forest or public path we took) felt like a labyrinth. Our group had been making steady progress until one of my teammates twisted her ankle badly. We were a long while from the old checkpoint, and with exhaustion setting in, the group decided to hunker down. Three of them stayed with the injured member, while I foolishly, in hindsight, volunteered to go for help. The plan was simple: I’d trek the 3-4 miles to the last checkpoint, alert the teachers, and get assistance. What I didn’t account for was the DofE protocol that forbids going solo on these expeditions. I was a teenager, not a survival expert (I didn’t pay attention in the lessons we had before on the needed skills like map reading/orientation, etc and would rely on my teammates instead), and I didn’t fully grasp the risks of wandering off alone. (Note, you’re supposed to be in a group of 5, but with how many participants there were in our school, we only had two groups of 4 and one group of 5).
I set off with a map, a compass, and a VERY naive sense of direction. Within an hour, it happened; I was lost. The forest trails twisted and turned in ways the map couldn’t explain, and my memory was not as good as I thought it was. My compass spun uselessly as I tried to orient myself, and we had the trademarked British weather: Grey. I was alone, miles from my team, with no idea where I was going. I remember muttering to myself, “Yup, I’m screwed,” as I sat on a fallen log, trying to think of how I’d get out of this mess.
That’s when I saw him. A small, ginger squirrel, scampering toward me with a purpose I can only describe as divine intervention. He stopped a few feet away, his tiny paws clutching a stick, which he dropped at my feet. I don’t know why, but I felt like he was trying to communicate with me. Maybe I was delirious from the stress, but I picked up the stick, and he tilted his head, as if to say, “Follow me.” He started moving deeper into the forest, pausing every few steps to look back at me. I did what any rational person would do in that moment—I followed him. I had no better plans anyway, with my alternative being trying to write a message on the map for my family for when they find my body.
I named him Charlie. For the next hour and a half, maybe two (Time is a blur), Charlie led me through the forest. I talked to him as we went, my voice filling the silence of the woods. I told him about the trek, about how I’d ended up in this mess, about my dreams for the future, such as finishing school, traveling the world, and making something of myself. I even shared my fears, like whether I’d ever find my way out of this forest. Charlie listened quite intently. It was this kind of non-judgmental friend with you who understands that you don’t need to say anything, just let you speak (though I don’t get how a squirrel was going to give me job advice). At one point, we stopped for a lunch break, and I pulled out a granola bar from my pack. I broke off a piece and set it on the ground for him. He nibbled at it eagerly, his (or her, I dunno) tiny paws holding the oats and nuts like a gourmet snack. I smiled, watching Charlie enjoy it, and took a bite of my own. It was a small moment of connection, yet a meaningful connection, two weary travelers sharing a meal in the middle of nowhere.
Eventually, Charlie led me to a clearing. I could hardly believe my eyes. There, in the distance, were the teachers at the checkpoint I’d been trying to reach. I turned to Charlie, and I swear he gave me a look of approval, a quiet understanding passing between us. Then, with a flick of his bushy tail, he disappeared back into the forest, leaving me standing there, stick in hand, granola bar wrapper in my pocket, and a heart full of gratitude.
I ran to the teachers and explained everything. The injured teammate and the group waiting miles back ( No mention of Charlie though, they’d be panicked enough). They quickly organized a rescue, driving to the nearest access point and hiking the short distance to my team. It took them less than 10 minutes to reach the group, a stark contrast to the hours I’d spent wandering. The injured member was taken to the hospital, and the rest of us were instructed to finish the trek, which was less than 10 miles from the finish line. When I told my teammates about Charlie, they laughed, convinced I’d imagined the whole thing. “You were probably just hallucinating from dehydration/stress,” one of the girl members said (I did have a crush on her and didn’t want to correct her. I may even have joined DofE to be near her away while not in school, good ol’ Boffin). But the fact of the matter is, I knew Charlie was real. I’d held his stick, shared my granola bar with him, and followed him to safety. Charlie was as real as can be.
That trek happened over a decade ago, but I still think about Charlie from time to time. Whenever I go hiking, I carry a granola bar in my pack as a symbolic nod to the little squirrel who guided me when I needed it most. I like to imagine he lived a good life, scampering through the Midlands forests, maybe helping other lost souls along the way. Charlie wasn’t just a squirrel to me; Charlie was a reminder of the magic that can happen when you’re at your lowest.
Reflections on Nature, Memory, and the Stories We Carry
Thinking back to that day in the Midlands, I can see now that Charlie’s story isn’t just some random memory from my teenage years; it’s grown to be so much more than that. It’s a little glimpse into how nature can sneak up on you and change your whole perspective, usually when you’re least expecting it. Out there in that forest, when I was lost and freaking out, I willingly let a tiny squirrel became my guide. This little guy (or gal), whom I named Charlie, was so small, but in that moment, felt like the most important thing in the world. Was Charlie actually leading me to safety, or was I just so desperate that I made it up in my head? Honestly, I’ll never know for sure. But I like to believe there was a bit of magic in it, you know? Sometimes, you just need to believe in something to keep going.
The woodlands in the UK, like the ones I was trekking through in the Midlands, are honestly so alive. You’ve got red squirrels, grey squirrels, these ancient trees that have seen who-knows-what over the years, and trails that feel like they’re hiding a million stories. Now, if Charlie was a red squirrel (I think he might’ve been, with that ginger coat of his) then our little meeting feels even more special. I’ve read that red squirrels are pretty rare in England these days, but if he was a red squirrel, then I feel like I got to share a moment with a little fighter, a species that’s hanging on despite everything. The Midlands are full of places like that; gorgeous, fragile spots where nature and history are all tangled up.
But Charlie’s story isn’t just about squirrels or forests (or my delusions), it’s about something we all crave: connection. Out there in the woods, I was alone, scared out of my mind, and totally out of my depth. Talking to Charlie, even if he probably had no clue what I was saying (though I like to think he got the gist), made me feel less alone. Charlie gave me a way to work through my panic and keep putting one foot in front of the other. It’s funny how we find comfort in the weirdest places sometimes, huh? Whether it’s a squirrel in the middle of nowhere or a random stranger who smiles at you on a rough day, we’re always looking for those little moments of connection. We tell stories, we make meaning out of the mess, and that’s why I still carry a granola bar whenever I go hiking. It’s my little nod to Charlie, a reminder of that metaphorical ear and hope he gave me. He’s part of my story now, and I’m not letting that go.
Memory’s a funny thing too, right? My teammates didn’t buy my story at all and maybe some of you reading this are thinking the same thing, that I got it all wrong and Charlie wasn’t actually guiding me. But here’s the thing: memory isn’t just about the cold, hard facts. It’s about how it felt. That wave of relief when I finally spotted the checkpoint, or the warmth I felt sharing my granola bar with a squirrel. Those feelings stick with you. That moment of me eating my sandwich while Charlie was munching on the garonla bar is now etched into my core. The details might get fuzzy over the years, but the emotions? They stay crystal clear. That’s what I love about personal stories like this, they grow with you, they take on new meaning as you get older and look back.
In a broader sense, Charlie’s story makes me wonder about the countless other moments of magic that go unnoticed in our lives. After I was laid off from the job, a job that was my “Make it” play, I found solace in my walks through the local forest and trails. It reminded me of my time spent with Charlie and inadvertently reinforced the fact that “it’ll get better eventually”. I believe that there’s value in holding onto these moments, in honoring the Charlies of our lives, whatever form they take.
The next time you’re out in nature, whether it’s a forest in the Midlands like the one I got lost in, a coastal trail with the salty sea air in your face, or even just your local park down the road; just slow down for a sec. Really take it all in. Watch the squirrels scampering up the trees, their little claws scratching against the bark as they chase each other like they’ve got some big squirrel drama going on. Listen to the birds chirping away overhead, each one singing its own little tune. Notice the way the sunlight filters through the leaves, casting those golden speckles on the ground, and the soft rustling sound they make when a breeze rolls through them. It’s like the trees are whispering secrets to each other, and you’re lucky enough to overhear.
While you’re at it, make sure you’ve got a granola bar tucked in your bag. Not just for a quick snack (I mean, who doesn’t love a good Kellogg’s Crunchy Nut), but as a little reminder that the world is full of unexpected guides, just waiting to show you something new. You never know when a curious little creature might pop up and lead you somewhere you didn’t even know you needed to go. Maybe it’ll be a squirrel like my Charlie, with his ginger fur and that all-knowing & understanding look in his eyes, or maybe it’ll be a cheeky fox darting through the underbrush, or even a butterfly that flutters just a little too close, like it’s trying to get your attention. Nature’s got a funny way of talking to us if we’re willing to listen.
So, if you ever find yourself lost, whether you’re quite literally lost in the woods like I was, or just feeling a bit adrift in life, don’t be afraid to follow a squirrel named Charlie (or whatever little guide the universe sends your way). Trust me, they know what they’re doing, even if it doesn’t make sense at first. Let yourself be a little silly, a little open to the magic that’s out there. Take the scenic route, even if it’s not on the map. Stop to share a crumb with a curious critter, or just sit on a rock and soak in the quiet for a while. Those moments, the ones that feel small and maybe even a bit ridiculous at the time, are the ones that stick with you. They’re the ones that remind you life’s not just about getting from point A to point B, but the unexpected and wonderful detours along the way.
And who knows? Maybe you’ll find your own Charlie out there, a tiny friend who shows up right when you need them most. Maybe you will also look back in some years and smile, thinking about the day a squirrel, or a bird, or a random gust of wind guided you in the right direction.
P.S., for those who will say that I am a fan of redheads because of Charlie. It’s not. I’ve liked Redheads for years before that, though Charlie makes me like the redheads more (Thank you, Charlie)