If your preferred trails are paved with pine needles, then you’ve heard your share of stories about people – usually guides – who possess an enviable “sixth sense” for determining directions in the outdoors. Don’t believe those stories.

First off, I want to say that, if I’m not careful, I can get “turned around” in Cascade Park. But as anyone who doesn’t depend on tote roads to take them in back of beyond will tell you, being careful amounts to using your five senses and paying attention to nature’s signposts.

There’s no doubt that early adventurers depended on their senses to a much greater degree than today’s travelers. For example, the explorers who sailed uncharted seas wrote about smelling “land winds” days before sighting landfalls. Imagine the relief and excitement that winds fresh with the scents of fields and forests carried to despairing seafarers.

You and I, of course, can smell rain on the wind when a cloudburst occurs across town. But, like cattle, Australian aborigines can, by scent alone, run to a downpour taking place miles across the “outback.” Obviously, there are times when being led around by the nose has its advantages. Think about the distances that your nostrils detect fragrances such as fresh-mown hay, plowed ground, new cuttings, wood smoke. Also, if the wind’s right, you can always determine direction by catching a whiff of the mill in Lincoln.

Nowadays, much of what you hear doesn’t rest easy on your ears. But when dusk smothers the woods and you begin to waffle on which way is out, your ears are great assets. At such times, what would sound more beautiful than a mill whistle, church bell, chainsaw, rooster crowing, cow mooing, freight train rumbling, or tires singing on pavement – thank God for the Interstate.

Perley York, who picks up his paycheck in the composing room of this newspaper, will tell you how satisfying the sound of distant traffic can be. On an overcast, years-ago October day, “Perl” and I got turned around while bird hunting in the sprawling Great Works Stream country. We went into the woods in Clifton early that morning and came out near the West Branch of the Union River in Amherst late that afternoon.

Talk about a hike, and talk about a confusion of old grown-over “corduroys” and twitch trails. We were resigned to spending a frosty night under the stars when we heard the far-off airy rush of a vehicle cresting hills. By the time we reached the “Airline,” we were dragging more than our feet. In fact, we were so tired that when my Brittany Spaniel, “Misty,” went on point in a nearby stand of poplars, Perl and I looked at each other and, simultaneously, said, “To hell with it.” When I threw a rock ahead of the dog, a woodcock twittered into the air. Just as well, we had our limit, anyway.

No sooner did we begin hitchhiking when a man driving a station wagon picked us up. “You boys took quite a walk,” he said as we told him our story. When he dropped us off in Clifton, he at first refused our offer of a few birds. He accepted them, though, when I insisted: “Take them, I’m tired of lugging them around.” An hour or so later, we were working the night shift at the BDN while Misty slept soundly on my den couch. Ah, youth.

I’ve been told that the proverbial “ol’ guides” used trees as signposts. The story goes that, in exposed areas, the tops of firs, spruces, hackmatacks, etc. usually tilt away from prevailing winds, northwest in this neck of the woods. I’m not going to discount observation, but considering that a dead-calm day would be required for a true reading, I think I’d make better time following a brook or a ridge line. Also, I’ve heard that spiders set their webs sideways to prevailing winds. Here, however, I’ll take advantage of my namesake and doubt that one. That sounds more like fascinating folklore.

It’s true, though, that in this hemisphere, the sun spends most of its time strolling the southern sky. Therefore, you may have noticed trees growing thickest on the south side. The sun’s influence is even more evident during the winter months, when the naked branches of deciduous trees can be studied. Notice that branches with southern exposures often are more horizontal – the direction of the sun. Again, that condition is most evident in trees growing in open areas. Does moss grow on the north side of a tree? That depends on moisture retention, shade, etc. Therefore, I wouldn’t depend on that sign to send me in the direction of my supper.

There’s no doubt that apples growing on the south side of a tree blush quickest at a smile from the sun. Another of Ol’ Sol’s direction signals, the ruffle-like ridges left by the sun’s higher, warmer, southerly rays boring into snowbanks, are seen clearly at this time of year..

The moon and the North Star are, of course, the best-known beacons in the night sky. But on overcast nights, the reflections of city and town lights on clouds could keep you from being the subject of a search-and-rescue operation by the Maine Warden Service. Rainy nights? Take my advice: be back in camp before dark.

In closing, I’ll say that it must be great knowing you can get from here to there by reading nature’s signposts. But because I’m not blessed with that sixth sense, I’ll stick with a compass or maybe a pocketful of pebbles to drop along the way. Don’t laugh, that got me out of Cascade Park a couple of times.