Thirty-five years ago in northeast Oregon, a 6-year-old boy named Cody Sheehy got lost in the Blue Mountains near his home. To save himself, he walked 14-20 miles, mostly on dirt roads for over 18 hours, according to Emma Marris in her 2018 “Outside” article about Sheehy.

Marris rightfully wondered, “…would a modern six-year-old be physically and psychologically able to do what Cody did?”

Sheehy survived because he was a tough kid and experienced in outdoor exploring, according to Rombert Koester, author of Lost Person Behavior. “There are probably six-year-olds who still spend all their time running around and playing outside,” he says before warning that the child who just “sits in front of a screen isn’t going to do as well.”

For kids to be similarly tough today, they need to learn hands-on skills and have ample time to play outside in the woods. Kids should develop strong sensory capabilities and a sense of direction.

Based on my own “mom research,” here are some lessons and tips for equipping kids to survive outside.

Helping Kids to Not Get Lost

Straying off trail is the most common way hikers get lost; the second most common is falling off a trail and being unable to find their way back. Teach kids to, first of all, not panic—take deep breaths to stay calm and focus on what they’ve been taught.

Next they need to stay put and call for help. Make sure children know to not be afraid of getting “in trouble” for being lost.

Children may try to backtrack. Older kids may do this successfully, but kids tend to walk in circles or, like Sheehy, walk further away from the area a child was last seen.

That’s why the National Association for Search and Rescue established the “Hug a Tree” program to help children remember to stay in one place and wait to be found.

Typically, people get lost closer to sunset or just before severe weather comes, which often results in the lost person having to stay overnight in the woods. This is why the 10 essentials are vital.

The 10 Essentials

Statistics reveal that day hikers are most vulnerable to survival situations. People typically don’t pack all essentials, thinking it’s just a few hours or a few miles, what could go wrong?

Bad weather, injury or illness, and wandering off trail is what could go wrong.

The 10 Essentials are for all ages and meant to prevent emergencies and allow a person to safely stay for a night (or longer) in the wilderness. Equip children with a backpack to carry their supplies. The following list is a kid-version, based on one provided by The Outdoor Society that also includes some of my own ideas.  

1. Navigation: Carry a paper copy of the trail map. While a smart phone has built-in GPS, batteries die and service can be unreliable in remote areas. Knowing basic map and compass orienteering skills are important. A prepared child can use these tools to navigate if they get lost. Every child should also carry an emergency whistle, attached to a zipper, to alert for help.

2. Sun protection: Sunscreen, hat.

3. Insulation: Extra seasonally-appropriate clothing such as socks, jacket, hat, and gloves to keep warm through the night.

4. Illumination: Headlamp or flashlight and extra batteries.

5. First-Aid supplies and insect repellent.

6. Fire/warmth: No matches for kids—simply too risky. Hand warmers and an emergency blanket are safer (see #10).

7. Repair kit and tools: Even young children can use a multi-tool with proper instruction and practice.

8. Nutrition: Extra snacks.

9. Hydration: A water bottle and if in the backcountry a lightweight filter bottle, such as LifeStraw brand, for safe drinking from a stream or lake.

10. Emergency shelter: A silver, heat-trapping emergency blanket is easy for kids to use. Shelter-building skills are even better.

Age-appropriate risk-taking, independence, and problem-solving help kids to develop grit and resilience, which will help today’s kids have greater courage, confidence, and readiness to face unknowns on and off life’s trails.

Kids can begin to learn wilderness and survival skills at home. Here are some nature books to get started.

For more Out There Kids stories, visit the column archives.

Amy McCaffree is Out There Kids columnist and digital editor. She used to work as a youth camp counselor and adventure guide. Now she teaches wilderness and safety skills to her own two kids whenever they’re exploring the great outdoors.

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Clouds were gathering over Oregon’s high desert as I searched the steep slope below for the trail that would lead us back to our campsite at Campbell Lake. My husband already had begun angling down through scattered brush and lodgepole, hoping a closer look would reveal the path that had led us to the bluff’s edge, then suddenly vanished. Nothing. 

It was 3 p.m., with the lengthening shadows of a mid-fall day. The thought of returning the way we’d come, through miles of dense blow down deep within the Fremont-Winema National Forest, made my legs ache. But moving ahead could mean slogging through confounding forest debris, perhaps past sunset. 

Ron and I have been hiking together for decades. To us, backtracking hints of retreat. It was no surprise, then, when he wanted to push ahead. Let’s descend into the gulley, he urged, then follow the ravine north to the lake. We’ll be sipping beers before you can say, “frothy effervescence.” 

I stared at a shoulder-high cairn at my side, seeking guidance but finding only neglect. Had these crumbling rocks once marked an intersection? Were they a warning? Nearby, a faded sign, “Campbell Lake Loop,” poked from toppled trees. Again, I scanned the hillside. Again, nothing. 

On the ascent, we’d skirted Deadhorse Lake and zig-zagged ridges, all the while scrambling over trees and sleuthing the on-again-off-again trail. We’d made a game of it, often splitting up in hopes of discovering the route first. We became so immersed in our competitive trail hunt that we gave little thought to the time or to turning around. 

Now, as I rummaged through my pack for a remaining fig bar, I questioned the wisdom of plunging ahead. Maybe I should resist my husband’s challenge, end this game of “I will if you will,” and lobby for the known way home. Maybe. 

Ron and I love our adventures. We often egg each other on, whatever we’re doing—hiking, skiing, biking. It pushes us to places we might not otherwise go. Thrilling, satisfying places. 

Yet, there’s a problem the size of a cockroach in this sporty stew of ours. Competitive temperaments and marital harmony aren’t the best of bedfellows. One-on-one challenges thrive on conflict, not the likes of compassion and compromise. How, then, can any healthy relationship support both rivalry and partnership?  

Further complicating matters: Ron’s the better athlete. He’s a stronger hiker, a more aggressive skier, a faster bicyclist. It’s not just that he’s a guy. He’s simply more agile and forceful than I. I might display more finesse, but that’s hardly enough to keep me in the lead. 

Sports lie at the heart of our relationship. I met him at an after-ski party in Bend. 47 years later, we’re still at play. We’re now retired and living on a farm in Central Oregon.  The slopes of Mt. Bachelor lie just 45 minutes away.  

Ron’s an ex-racer, and I’m not, so, I know he’ll beat me down any hill. But I’m a strong and capable skier, and it can be disheartening to always bring up the rear. Just once, I’d like to whip his ass.  

As the years have passed, I’ve done a better job of blending my competitive proclivities with reason and understanding. I’ve tried to nourish the thrill while discarding the hostility. In short, I’ve worked to purée that cockroach right into our spousal concoction, aiming for both consistency and spice.   

I tested my recipe on that bluff above Campbell Lake. “I think we should turn back,” I called. It’s late. Risky route, risky terrain. If we get lost, we’ll be lost for hours. Ron hesitated, then, quietly, agreed. 

Three hours and countless tree-crawls later, we rounded the last switchback. The bright blue of our pop-up camper flashed through the trees.  

We cracked a couple of beers and stood at the lake’s edge. Clouds hazed a setting sun, but the threat of any storm had passed. We watched goshawks circle overhead, searching the rippled water for dinner.  

We gave each other a double hand-slap, our sign for a day well done. I took a sip of beer. Then another. I smiled as a voice inside me instructed: Finish it first.

Gail Kinsey Hill spent more than 20 years as a journalist, meeting deadlines for Oregon’s major daily newspaper in Portland. She replaced those professional rigors with more expansive boundaries east of the Cascades where she’s an adventure and landscape writer and spends her free time skiing, biking, and hiking. 

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