This weekend was a great escape. My friends and I drove up to Lake Harmony, Pennsylvania to a lakeside house. We arrived on Friday, driving past forests of changing leaves. On Saturday, we took a walk in Boulder Canyon, a massive field of rocks. Then we followed the trail to an open sprawl. During the day, local residents warmed up to our arrival.

Later that afternoon, I ran around lakes Big Boulder and Harmony. About two miles in, I crossed a dam. Looping around Lake Harmony, I found a passage between a fence and the water. It was a low, branched off enclave, but I ducked through the wooded alcove. On the other side, I finally found a paved road.

The road was just outside a man's private driveway. That man happened to scooter by me on his golf cart, to warn me of his Rottweiler guard dogs. As I ran from his driveway, he drove past in an SUV with his dog barking out the window... so much for a warm welcome.

In the evening, we saw multiple firemen scouting the woods with flashlights. One of them asked if we had seen a missing lady, Elema, age 84. We reported that we had not: apparently she did not want to be found. Fire engines and small teams scattered throughout town, searching for Elema beneath the night's veil. As we roasted marshmallows over a campfire, flashlights poked around the surrounding woodland.

Even now, Sunday morning there are helicopters hovering to find her. Strange to think how people disappear. Even in the fall stillness, things change at a moment's notice. We packed up our belongings and drove home. Escaping the city was essential, and yet it beckons my imminent return. These are natural inclinations, to travel and return. To go without intentions of return, that seems like running away.

We are on the cusp of escape, only to be pulled back in. Breaking away from time to time is to be lost and found. This is the essence of travel and one of the finest points to set sail upon. As Antoine de Saint Exupéry once said:

" If you want to build a ship, don't drum up people to collect wood and don't assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea."