Humbled by Hobomok

Blame it on dense foliage, marijuana, or Hobomok’s reputation. But what began as a short afternoon hike in October 1982 at Sleeping Giant State Park deteriorated into a stumbling surrender between the giant’s knees.

Hobomok is what the Quinnipiak people named the giant whose profile dominates the horizon north of New Haven, Connecticut. He was an ogre, especially when it came to oysters. Not only did he gorge on them—Long Island Sound was a mere giant step away—but he shucked them wantonly, a sacrilege to the Quinnipiaks who used them for adornment and currency.

Most upsetting to them, he gobbled up souls of the dead. Thus it was that Keihtán, the creator-god, cursed the fiend to eternal sleep.

Undaunted by Hobomok, JJ and I set out to hike a portion of the Quinnipiac Trail that starts at his feet. Marked with blue blazes, the trail is rated “Difficult.” But we were prudent and fit, so we planned to be back well before sunset.

 “Doing OK?” we’d ask each other between pants. All it takes is one glimpse of Long Island Sound, however, to make those gasps worth the effort. We found one, about an hour into the hike.

“Here,” we nodded in mutual assent, and settled on a rocky ledge. We unpacked crisp apples, earthy bread, sharp cheese, and…

“A little Jamaican pot?” JJ giggled.

“And a couple of Jamaican ginger beers!” I produced two bottles of spicy soda.

“Damned matches,” JJ muttered as she struggled with a half-used matchbook to light the joint. Too soon, it was time to head back. We saved the second ginger beer for the hike’s finale.

As arms gathered belongings and eyes transitioned from bright sunshine to shadowy forest, our feet hesitated. Where was the trail? The sunny sky mocked us with shadows that soaked up all remnants of natural light. We scrutinized each tree for blue blazes. Perhaps this was Hobomok’s deceit—to draw us deep and then consume our souls.

 “Here.” JJ finally waved. “Let’s go.”

“Be careful,” we advised each other as we stumbled amidst the spaghetti snarl of roots. Each time the trail disappeared, JJ would pull out the bedraggled half-book of matches. She’d light one and hold it aloft so that we could examine the trees for blue rectangles.

“There!” she pointed. Then stopped. The blaze was white, not blue. But at least we were on a trail. As we chased markers in the dusk, I drew deep yoga breaths to ease the tightness clenching my lungs. I then exhaled with a bellow that startled us both.

“H-E-L-L-O,” I called into the darkening abyss.

 “H-E-L-L-O,” she echoed.

“H-E-L-P,” I called after a few minutes. The word itself meant we were officially lost.

The trail led to a bluff marked by what appeared to be a chunky narrow stairway. To the ogre’s den, perhaps, where he would savor our souls. JJ thought she saw a trail-marking at its base, about 20 feet below us.

“We can’t climb down these rocks,” I gulped. “In the dark.”

“We have to,” she insisted. “We can’t stay here.”

I begrudgingly agreed. We pressed arms, bellies, backs, legs, fingers, and every heartbeat into Hobomok, encouraging each other down, down, down. Only to find that the blaze was simply a patch of moss.

We burned every scrap in our pockets, searching for a marker—any marker—to find a trail—any trail. We stumbled upon a dry streambed. Since water runs downhill, we figured it led somewhere. So we followed it. Where in the nether regions of the giant were we?

“H-E-L-P,” we called out every few minutes.

Then suddenly, unmistakably …

“W-O-O-F.”

A dog! People! Hope!

Maintaining a canine powwow of H-E-L-P and W-O-O-F, we flickered our way through the forest.

With two matches left and shivering in our light jackets, we built a fire, kindling the weak flame with the lint in our pockets, teasing the flicker into a small fire with dry leaves. In the midst of the canine call-and-response, a man bellowed from the darkness.

“H-E-L-L-O! You OK? Anybody hurt?”

“H-E-L-L-O!” We cried. “Not hurt. Just lost.”

“Stay where you are.” Like we were going anywhere.  “I’m calling 9-1-1.”

We waited. We hollered. The dog barked. Sirens wailed. Then an official-sounding voice announced through a megaphone that a rescue team would be there shortly.

In celebration, we opened the remaining ginger beer. But before we could sip it, branches snapped and headlamps bobbled as shadowy figures emerged like trusted allies in a post-apocalyptic movie. Instead of drinking the soda, we doused the fire with it. A zesty steam infused our hair, clothes, and memories with a smoky spice—a sacrificial offering, perhaps, to Hobomok.

The rescue team unceremoniously hosed the moment into oblivion with backpacks of water before leading us a mere hundred yards to the road. We were that close. Sheer pluck had almost gotten us out.

 In the midst of emergency lights and curious bystanders was a Rottweiler, still barking—now triumphantly—alongside a guy.  Converging on them, we blubbered appreciation.

 “Thank Max,” the man insisted. The dog’s total body-wag acknowledged his role as hero. “I kept comin’ out and tellin’ him to be quiet. But he wouldn’t. He wanted you found.” He gave Max a burly hug. “Then I heard you.”

Humbled by Hobomok, we were, and saved by a dog. Infused with sacred ginger, we went on to hike many other trails. But never again without a flashlight, a map, and, eventually, a phone.