SOMEWHERE — I never thought I could feel such peace while lost in a forest at night.

Cleburne Search and Rescue had pinpointed my location way off Section 6 of the Pinhoti Trail. After nearly seven hours of hiking toward my planned takeout and two more hours hiking to get anywhere, I finally could rest my aching lower legs.

All I had to do was sit on a dirt-and-gravel road and stargaze until rescuers arrived.

I listened as what sounded like a squirrel stirred in a tree behind me. The distant baying of coyotes reminded me of a wide-eyed night at Grand Canyon; they sounded much closer then.

Back to the present, I gulped my last bottled water and thought, “At last, the peace hikers seek.”

I just took the circuitous route.

Pinhoti's Section 6 covers 20 miles, including two miles from the Cheaha State Park trailhead to Blue Mountain Shelter, the section's starting point. The route crosses Cleburne Road 24 and U.S. 431 and terminates at Forest Service Road 518.

Once I realize I had committed to a hike more than three times the longest of my life, I gulp hard.

These boots had touched ground at Grand Canyon, Mesa Verde, Telluride, Arches National Park and Colorado Monument. They had touched the top of Pike's Peak and Mount Mitchell, highest point east of the Mississippi River.

These boots always hiked quick loops or turn-backs, however. A 20-mile hike required preparation and precaution.

Would I have enough daylight? By my calculations, I'll have about 12 hours of daylight for a hike that will take 10 if I go nonstop.

I want to hike at least half of the 20-mile stretch, and I need a takeout point easy for my wife to find. I chose Cleburne Road 24. Based on a chart of landmarks and mileage figures, I will cover 12 miles with plenty of daylight.

I drive to Cheaha State Park and scout my put-in and take-out points. I check cell phone reception at both points and driving between them ... full bars throughout.

I drive home and dig out my old Army surplus field pack and the hiking stick I bought at Mount Mitchell. I pack five bottled waters, a handful of Special K bars and a bag of trail mix.

I review information I had printed about Section 6, including a hike report.

I have errands to run the next morning, so I set my goal to be on the trail by 10 a.m. and out by 5 p.m. I tell my wife of my plans and sleep.

It's 9:30 a.m. on a beautiful day, and the drive up Cheaha Scenic Byway lifts my enthusiasm for the hike.

I think to take one more safety precaution, so I pass the trailhead and follow the byway up to the Cheaha State Park store. There, I can inform someone of my plans and get phone numbers, just in case.

“Good luck,” the clerk says as I turn to leave.

The trailhead arch strikes me as inviting and ominous. Thoughts of taking on the longest hike of my life creep in as I check my bag.

I don and tighten down my pack and hang my binocular case on my chest. My new Pinhoti cap becomes the final touch, and, with a deep breath, I pass under the arch. It's 10:04 a.m.

At 10:05 a.m., I make my first mistake, going straight instead of making a right turn up a hill.

I make the easy correction, walk to a signboard and wind up a short connector until I see the first, light-blue Pinhoti trail mark. A sign to my right reads “Blue Mountain Shelter 2,” so I turn right and walk on.

The Pinhoti makes me wonder why it took me 10-plus years of living in the area to try it. I've written about it extensively. I've toured the area of the southern extension for a story.

Two miles of rolling terrain bring me to Blue Mountain Shelter, where I stop for a snack and water and to find something. A friend, Brooke Nelson, who hiked section 5 with her family for The Star's Pinhoti project, had e-mailed me about something she left in the shelter for me.

I look through the lower compartment and then climb the ladder to the upper area. There, tucked under the upper floor and just in front of the final rung lies a protein bar.

Not long up the trail, I come to another sign: “Bald Rock 0.5.”

I love Bald Rock, and seeing the sign reminds me of taking Hayden, my 11-month-old son, there in the fall. Wearing him on my chest in a baby carrier, I walked him to the scenic view and watched his little blue eyes widen.

I'd love to go back for a quick look, but I have limited daylight. I hike on.

I'm 4.2 miles from Cleburne Road 24, and Rhonda will be there at 5 p.m.

The mind wanders on a long hike, especially closer to the end. Maybe it's because of fatigue or the growing sense sameness in all things seen.

Besides, why blow the chance to sort what needs sorting? We need to get our taxes done. I need to make minor fix-its at home, and Rhonda's garage door probably should top the list. Hayden, our 11-month-old, has started to walk.

I startle. Something rustles leaves on an opposite hillside.

A turkey running for cover becomes my first significant wildlife sighting (I don't count lizards), and how appropriate that it's a turkey. The Pinhoti Trail derives its name from a Creek Indian word meaning turkey home. Several trees with blue marks also sport diamond-shaped signs showing a turkey foot.

The turkey sighting makes my experience complete, and I'm ready to complete my experience. My feet, knees and calves ache. I'm well past the point of my lifetime longest hike and feeling it.

I take out my cell phone and check time. It's a few minutes before 4.

Just about two miles to go.

It occurs to me that I've not seen a blue mark in a while, but trail reports warned of this. Besides, I've seen no other trail or obvious turn.

The trail takes me down a long hill toward what appears to be Morgan Lake, visible through trees ahead.

I hear rustling of leaves to my left: more turkeys, five running away on the next hillside over.

As I approach the lake, the trail turns away. This strikes me as odd, but, again, I've seen nothing else that looks like a trail. I still can hear distant cars.

I come to another significant creek crossing, only this one irritates me. “How about some marks through here?” I say aloud in mild disgust.

Clear trail awaits on the other side, and I'm still about 15 minutes from my expected takeout point. I cross the creek.

My boots fill with water, which momentarily soothes my irritation. The cool water feels good on my aching feet, and I find the squishing noise mildly amusing.

Around a few more bends, my mental clock tells me it's about 5 p.m. I check my cell, and it's five minutes 'til.

A hilltop is ahead. Perhaps the road lies on the other side, but I don't hear cars.

Then comes the call.

“Where are you?” Rhonda asks.

The hilltop leads to more twists, turns and hills. I'm reaching an unpleasant realization.

It's 5:05, and I don't appear to be anywhere near a road. Rhonda calls again.

“I'm beginning to think I've taken a wrong turn,” I tell her.

“Now, I'm starting to worry,” she says.

I ask her to wait while I call the Forest Service office to find someone who can redirect me.

I get an automated operator. It's after hours.

I have a choice. Either double back and try to relocate trail marks, or stay on this wide trail that appears to be designed for ATVs or off-road vehicles.

I'm not sure I have enough daylight to relocate the trail marks, and I don't want to hunt them in the dark. The trail I'm on must lead somewhere, so I press on.

I also decide to call 911, hoping they can put me through to someone who can direct me.

The call lasts several minutes. The operator asks around her office to see if anyone knows the Pinhoti. No go.

I give her the best description I can give of my path to this point. She puts me on hold while she tries to reach someone.

I hike on.

She comes back on the line and says the superintendent of Cheaha State Park could not make out my location from my description.

The low sun ahead tells me I'm heading west, but it also tells me I have dimming prospects of getting out before dark.

The operator comes back on. She gently asks if I'm OK.

I gather myself and tell her I'm fine. I take a deep breath and quietly swear off panic.

The 911 operator stays on the line with me as I hike a few more bends, hoping to reach a road or landmark. No go.

The operator and I have exhausted all other avenues. She asks me if I want them to send the search-and-rescue team. I swallow my pride and say yes.

The plan is to keep hiking, trusting that such a wide trail will lead me to a road or landmark. I tell the operator that I'll keep her informed but that I need to call my wife. I also must save cell battery.

Sunlight fades to an orange glow, visible through trees on the horizon. I make my peace with it; I'll have to carry on in darkness soon.

It's eerily quiet. I hear my boot steps. My hiking stick thumps the hard dirt. Then come loud, heavy wing flaps to my right! A large bird takes flight from a tree just off the road, almost right above my head.

I thank him for my accelerated heart rate and burst of energy.

The road winds on, and I hear what sounds like a vehicle in the distance to my right. I yell three times, but the vehicle sound fades soon after my echoes.

I call the 911 folks again, using the Cleburne County 463-exchange number I had stored in my recent calls. I describe the gate and the new road, and they radio the search-and-rescue team. I hear the conversation in the background.

The operator comes back on, and I ask if they have my cell coordinates. Since I called the 463 number, they can't get coordinates. I have to dial 911.

I hang up, dial and get a surprise. Now, I'm talking to Calhoun County 911, not Cleburne County 911.

I've come a long way, baby.

They connect me for a three-way call with Cleburne County 911, and Cleburne County gets my coordinates. They tell me to stand by, and they'll call back.

A few minutes later, the baby laughs out loud again. This time, a male voice is on the line, someone from the search-and-rescue team.

They've figured out my location from my description of the gate, the new road and my cell coordinates. They tell me to sit tight, and they're on the way.

I take off my pack and binocular case, plop down in the middle of the intersection and pull out my last bottled water.

I feel the weight of my body leave my aching legs as the weight of peaceful day turned tense leaves my body.

I raise my head to take a drink and see stars.

Two pickups pull up hauling ATVs. Two gentlemen get out of the first truck, and one exits the other.

I reach out to shake hands with Matt Corban, Zack Steen and Jonathan Adams. Good guys — good enough to laugh with me and not at me as I tell them of my misadventure.

They tell me I wound up on CC Road, which will take us out to Leon Smith Parkway, west of Friendship Road.

I apologize for adding to their long day. No worries, Adams says: “I'm just glad you made it to a road and we didn't have to go into the woods.”

I limp to Rhonda's car on stiff legs, place my stuff in the trunk and get in. I turn to her, and two grateful arms wrap around me.

I want this hug to last. It's good to see her. It's good to be loved. Besides, a longer hug forestalls the lecture.

She drives me to my Jeep at Cheaha Trailhead and helps me go back over my technical mistakes.

One, I went alone.

Two, take a flashlight next time.

Got it.

To find where I strayed, I go back.

I must have missed a turn. Based on time and landmarks, it had to be close to Cleburne County 24.

I re-enter the trail about 3:30 p.m. and allow myself two hours. I'll hike an hour in and back.

I hike an hour and see nothing that jogs my memory. Begrudgingly content with a mystery, I turn back.

Well on my way back out, I catch myself daydreaming. I stop, pop my head up and see no trail marks on trees lining the widening trail ahead.

I relocate trail marks about 50 yards back and pull out my cell phone. Forty minutes had passed since I turned back.

Walking back to the trail marks, I hear a familiar sound — a car on a nearby road.

Once back to the nearest trail mark, I stop, look around and see the mistake that launched a search-and-rescue mission. I missed a right turn, and it's not an obvious right turn.

The blue mark dots tree about 20 feet downhill from the turning point. The turning point offers no obvious trail, but ground covered in pine needles.

I must have been looking at the ground, probably far off in thought. I followed an obvious and widening trail and went straight, missing a not-so-obvious right turn.

I ended up in the next county.

I was 20 minutes from the end when I went wrong.

Special thanks to Capt. Corey Cochran of Cleburne Search and Rescue, Tammy Robinson at Cleburne County 911 and all who responded. That includes, I'm told, Alabama state troopers.

Oh, and I learned that Brooke left me a have-a-nice-hike message at Blue Mountain Shelter, not a protein bar. Apologies to the intended recipient, and I still have the bar.