It all began with a brief post in my feed a photograph of a man with the caption, Missing in the woods, need help. I stared at the screen, as if waiting for some hidden signal. Im fortyeight, have a steady job at a firm in Manchester, a grownup son living in Bristol, and a habit of staying out of other peoples troubles. Yet that evening something tugged at me; the anxiety felt personal, as though a relative were missing. I clicked the link and messaged the searchteam coordinator, PoppyAlert.
Her reply was swift, polite, and full of clear instructions. In the newcomers chat they outlined the plan meet at the edge of the village by seven, bring a torch, a supply of water and food, and warm clothes. Safety brief first, they said. I packed my rucksack with the essentials: an old thermos of tea, a firstaid kit, spare socks. A slight tremor ran through my fingers odd to feel part of something larger.
The house fell quiet: the television was off, the kitchen filled with the scent of freshly baked bread. I checked my phone the coordinator had reminded me of the muster time. I wondered why I was going. Was it to test myself, prove something to my son, or simply because I couldnt stand by? No answer came.
Darkness was already settling outside. Cars on the motorway whisked away other worries. A chill slipped into the collar of my jacket. The volunteers gathered at the village green, a mixed lot lads half my age, a few older folk. Poppy, a woman with a cropped haircut, ran through the safety briefing: stay with the group, keep the radio on, stick together. I nodded along with the others.
We set off toward the woods along a low fence. In the dusk the trees grew taller and denser; the edge of the village was alive with birdsong and the rustle of leaves underfoot. Our torches cut swaths of light through damp grass and the occasional puddle left by an afternoon shower. I kept myself in the middle of the line neither leading nor trailing.
Inside the forest a low anxiety grew with each step into the dark. Branches brushed one another in the wind, a twig snapped somewhere to the right. Someone muttered a joke about training for a marathon. I stayed silent, listening to my own breath; fatigue crept in faster than my eyes adjusted to the gloom.
Every time Poppy halted the group for a radio check my heart hammered. I feared missing a signal or losing direction through a moments carelessness. The routine held: short commands over the air, a quick rollcall. We debated the route one volunteer suggested skirting the boggy patches on the right.
After about an hour we were deep enough that the village lights vanished behind the trunks. The torches threw only a thin halo around our boots; beyond that lay an uninterrupted wall of shadow. My back sweated beneath the pack and my shoes grew damp in the wet undergrowth.
Suddenly Poppy raised her hand we froze. In the darkness a soft voice called:
Anyone there?
The beams converged on a crouching figure behind some bracken. I stepped forward with two other volunteers.
The light fell on an elderly man: thin, grey at the temples, his hands stained with soil. He looked terrified and bewildered, eyes darting between our faces.
Are you Mr. Henry Walters? Poppy asked quietly.
He shook his head.
No Im Arthur I got lost earlier today My leg hurts I cant walk
A brief silence fell over the group wed been hunting one person, and found another. Poppy immediately radioed in:
Found an elderly male, not our target, requires evacuation with stretcher at current coordinates.
While she spoke to headquarters, I knelt beside Arthur, pulled a blanket from my rucksack and slipped it over his shoulders.
Been out long? I asked softly.
Since morning I was out for mushrooms Lost the track Then this leg he rasped, a mix of fatigue and relief in his voice.
My purpose shifted in an instant: from searching to caring for someone no one expected us to find.
We examined his ankle swollen at the ankle, clearly unable to put weight on it. Poppy ordered us to stay put until the main rescue team arrived with a stretcher.
Time stretched thin. Dusk gave way to night. My phone showed a single bar of signal; the radio crackled more weakly as the battery drained from the cold.
Soon the connection died completely. Poppy tried again to reach base no luck. The protocol said we should remain where we were and flash our torches every five minutes.
For the first time I was alone with fear: the forest seemed to close in, every shadow a potential threat. Yet beside me, Arthur shivered under the blanket, murmuring to himself.
The volunteers formed a loose circle around him, shared the remaining tea from the thermos, offered a sandwich from our rations. Arthurs hands trembled from cold and exhaustion.
Never thought anyone would find thank you, he whispered.
I watched him, feeling something shift inside fear gave way to a steady calm. My role was no longer just to watch my own back; staying with him mattered more than any instruction.
The wind brought the smell of damp earth and decaying leaves; moisture settled on my coat. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted, making the night feel even longer.
We sat until the hours lost meaning. Arthur talked about his childhood during the war, his late wife, and a son who rarely visited. In his stories I found more trust and life than in many of my own recent encounters.
The radios red light flickered weakly. I checked my phone repeatedly nothing. I knew one thing: I couldnt abandon the spot.
When the first torch beam cut through the mist, I barely believed it it seemed part of a prolonged waiting game. Then two figures in yellow vests emerged, followed by more people carrying stretchers. Poppy called out his name, relief evident in her voice.
The volunteers quickly assessed Arthur: logged his details on a paper sheet, splinted his ankle, and lifted him onto a stretcher. I helped hoist him, feeling my muscles strain yet also a strange lightness the responsibility was now shared. A young man gave me a cheeky wink, Hang tight, weve got this. I returned the nod without words.
Poppy briefed us: the radio had come back on half an hour earlier, headquarters had dispatched two teams one to us, another north following fresh tracks of the missing man. She transmitted, Team Twelve, elderly male ready for evacuation, stable condition, returning. A crackle, then a clear voice: Primary target located by another unit. Alive, on foot. All units stand down.
I held my breath. Arthur clutched my hand tightly as the stretcher moved, as if unwilling to let go.
Thank you he breathed, barely audible.
I met his eyes and, for the first time that night, felt I was part of something important, not merely a passerby.
The way back was longer than it had seemed in the dark. We rotated carrying the stretcher first the younger lads, then I took a handle, feeling the grass sway beneath my boots and the cold air bite my face. Birds began to sing, a thrush flickered above. Each step returned the familiar fatigue of my body, yet my mind stayed surprisingly calm.
At the edge of the woods dawn broke in thin ribbons of mist. The volunteers spoke in low tones, swapping jokes about nighttime fitness. Poppy stayed slightly ahead, checking the radio and marking the exit point for headquarters. I walked beside Arthur until the ambulance arrived, making sure the blanket stayed in place.
When the ambulance doors closed behind him, Poppy thanked each of us in turn. She shook my hand a fraction tighter than the others.
Youve done more today than you imagined this morning, she said.
I felt a flush under her gaze but didnt look away. Inside, a shift had occurred the line between my own worries and others seemed much thinner.
On the drive back to the village the road felt different: the gravel was damp with dew, my boots squelched in the grass. Pink streaks of sunrise split the grey sky over the rooftops. The air was heavy with lingering damp and tiredness, but my steps were steadier.
The village greeted us with quiet: windows still dark, a few silhouettes moved at the corner shop. I reached my gate, dropped the rucksack, leaned on the fence for a moment. A faint tremor ran through me from the cold and the nights strain, but it no longer felt like weakness.
My phone buzzed with a new message from Poppy a brief Thanks for the night. Below it, another: Can we count on you if we need help again? I typed back simply, Yes, absolutely.
I thought back to how such decisions once seemed foreign, impossible for me. Now everything looked different. Fatigue no longer clouded my clarity; I knew I could step forward again.
I lifted my head as the sunrise spread wider, painting trees and roofs in a rosy glow. In that moment I realised that being present, right here, had answered my own question of worth. I was no longer a detached observer.
