I pick up my pack from the ground, and as I do so, the panic slowly begins to sink in. It’s missing! It was here a moment ago, and now it’s gone. I frantically look around, pushing large blades of grass out of my way as my eyes strain try to catch a glimpse of it’s signature metallic grey band.
It’s got to be here. Where could it have gone!
First denial sets in. “No, it’s not possible, I’m just not looking properly. I’m sure it’s in my pack somewhere.” Then the anger comes. “Why me! I purposefully invested time and energy into this thing and now it’s gone! Next began the bargaining. “Please come back to me. I will pay more attention next time.” The depression, was the worst. “How will we survive? The dogs and I won’t make it.” Eventually came acceptance. “Fine, we will just have to make do. We only have one left, but hopefully that will be enough.
Yes, I had just gone through the five stages of grief.
It included dragging my two small dogs through flea infested, and possibly snake infested grass that was taller than they were, in a futile effort to retrace my steps; hoping against all hope, that I would miraculously stumble across, it.
The next time I decide to go on a hike, I will remember to properly attach my bottle of lemon water.