For the information of young hunters, I will just say, in this

In the plainspoken yet deeply insightful words of Davy Crockett, the frontier hero and man of both wilderness and wisdom, there lies a truth that reaches far beyond the forest: “For the information of young hunters, I will just say, in this place, that whenever a fellow gets bad lost, the way home is just the way he don’t think it is. This rule will hit nine times out of ten.” What he gives here is more than advice to those wandering through untamed woods — it is a parable about the nature of human judgment, about the frailty of instinct and the humility required to find one’s way when the path has vanished. Beneath the humor and rugged simplicity of his words lies a timeless teaching: that when we are most lost — in forest, in life, or in spirit — the truth often lies in the direction our pride refuses to turn.

Davy Crockett, the famed frontiersman, soldier, and statesman of early America, knew well the challenges of survival. Born into hardship and tempered by the wilderness, he was a man who had learned to read the language of the land. His life was filled with trails both physical and moral — from hunting the wild hills of Tennessee to standing firm in the halls of Congress, to his final and immortal stand at the Alamo. When he spoke of being “bad lost,” he spoke not as a poet, but as one who had felt the weight of disorientation, who had wandered beneath canopies where every direction looked the same. His wisdom came not from theory but from experience hard-earned, from the mistakes that only the honest admit to.

On its surface, his saying offers a hunter’s practical counsel: when one becomes lost in the wild, trust not the first impulse of direction, for the mind deceived by fear and confusion often points the wrong way. But in its deeper sense, the “way home” becomes a symbol of truth itself — the path back to clarity, to righteousness, to inner peace. In times of uncertainty, we are tempted to trust the voice of instinct unexamined, to follow the road that feels easy or familiar. Yet, as Crockett warns, that road often leads us further into error. The human mind, clouded by fear or pride, mistakes illusion for certainty. Only by pausing, by questioning ourselves, by daring to turn opposite to our assumptions, do we often rediscover the true path.

Consider the story of Christopher Columbus, who set sail not knowing where he was going, believing he could reach the East by sailing west. He was, by the reckoning of his own intention, profoundly “lost.” Yet by following a course that defied common sense, he stumbled upon an entire world unknown to his civilization. While his journey is tangled in conquest and consequence, it illustrates a greater truth: that discovery — and often redemption — lies in the direction we doubt most. What seems wrong, impossible, or foolish may be the very turn that leads us home. Crockett’s rule — that the right way is often the one we least suspect — is as true for explorers of the soul as for travelers of the land.

There is also humility in Crockett’s wisdom. He implies that to survive — whether in wilderness or in life — one must first acknowledge the possibility of being wrong. Pride has been the ruin of many who perished not from the forest’s fangs but from their own stubbornness. In life, as in hunting, those who insist on trusting only their first sense, who refuse to admit they are lost, wander deeper into danger. To turn back, to question, to consider that one’s intuition may be flawed — this requires courage greater than the drawing of a weapon or the blazing of a trail. Humility, not certainty, is the compass of the wise.

Even in the world of spirit, this lesson resounds. The saints and sages of old spoke of being lost — not in the wilderness, but in the wilderness of the heart. St. Augustine, before his conversion, sought truth in every direction but the one he resisted most — inward, toward God. He later confessed, “I was seeking you outside myself, and there I found nothing.” Only when he turned opposite to his own will — when he went the way he “didn’t think it was” — did he find the way home to peace. So it is with all who wander: the path to truth often lies through the door we least wish to open.

Thus, the lesson of Davy Crockett’s saying endures as more than a frontier aphorism; it is a mirror for every generation. When you are lost — whether in confusion, in love, in work, or in faith — pause. Look around you. The mind will tell you it knows the way, but the soul whispers something different. Do not rush toward what feels easiest or most familiar. Consider instead the direction you resist, the choice that humbles you, the turn that requires courage rather than comfort. Nine times out of ten, that is the way home.

So remember this wisdom of the wilderness: trust not the first direction of your fear, but the quiet pull of your awareness. When you find yourself lost — in forest or in life — stop, breathe, and listen. The way back is rarely the one you think it is, yet it waits patiently for those who dare to question themselves. And when you find it — when you step onto that true path once more — you will carry with you not only the joy of return, but the deeper knowing that every journey, even one astray, is part of the great adventure of finding one’s way home.