in which a stroll through narnia almost goes sort of horribly wrong

Few things can match the excitement of a snow day for an Alabama girl who doesn't get out much. Since it started snowing at around noon, I've been in a constant state of perhaps disproportionate happiness. Everything in my neighborhood is covered with a 2-inch blanket of pure, snowy grandness. We live on a decently high ridge, with several square miles of unkempt woods all around; every leaf sparkles; every twig bows under its fluffy burden.
After being liberated early from school, I immediately donned warm clothes and took Noah out to play in the snow and sled. His version of making snowmen consisted of throwing wads of snow at the ground. He loved sledding.
At length, the urge to romp alone through the white woods became irresistible. I vaguely said something in Laura's direction about "I'm going to walk in the woods," crossed the plank bridge over the dark little creek, and set out to the east. For maximum solitude, I decided to tramp through the branches and fallen trees to the valley, past the neighborhood, where as far as one can see there's only forest all around. I was in childish awe of the woods; it was all white, shimmering white, with a yellowing sky and dusky gold winter leaves and the brown tributary creek at the bottom of the valley. When I looked up, the layers and layers of snow-laden branches intermingled with the sky and looked like some kind of fancy candy. The snowflakes sifted down through the trees in quiet benediction over the scene. It very much reminded me of Narnia, and I expected at any moment to meet Tumnus the faun or a couple of talking beavers. Every once in a while I stopped just to take in the beauty of it all.
At some point I realized I didn't have my phone, and my parents might get worried if I stayed out of earshot too long. I reluctantly started to turn back.
Then inspiration struck: just for adventure and to confuse any neighbors who might see me come home, I could cross the creek, climb up the steep ridge, and by climbing down the other side be in position to come back to my street through my neighbor's back yard, across the circle from mine. I had never attempted to do any such thing before, or even been over the ridge in that part of the woods. And now it was snowing. Carpe Diem, right? I was confident that I was still close enough to home to have a reliable knowledge of the area.
So I jumped the little stream and half walked, half crawled up the hill, hanging onto trees and bending over to keep a low center of gravity. My Timberlands usually found good footing, though I did have one brief slipping scare. I crested the top of the ridge and looked down and out over the winter wonderland, wishing I had a camera. Then I looked around me. I had reached unfamiliar territory. Awesome. The direction I had planned to go was completely blocked by the crazily spindling top branches of a ponderous tree felled by the tornado. Not so awesome. I considered wading through the obstacle course of branches upon branches; I was scared I would disturb some large overhanging one and it would fall on me. So I walked a moderately long way around it -- it was a really old, tall tree -- and started down the slope toward my street.
It was about then that I realized I wasn't quite sure where I was. I could no longer see what I had thought was my neighborhood at the top of the hill, and now that I had taken a detour I wasn't sure that I would come out onto the street if I kept going that way. I considered my chances of being found if I got lost; no one knew where I was going. Also, for the first time I thought about the fabled coyotes in the neighborhood, and the possibility of a tree exploding from the cold as I walked past it (a stretch, I know).
There was nothing for it but to continue down the hill. I talked out loud to myself, something I rarely do, warning myself that I had better not be lost. I judged I had been gone about an hour. I imagined my mom straining her eyes and ears from the back deck, calling my name and hearing no response; my dad pacing back and forth, feeling vindicated in his misgivings about letting me go outside in the slippery ice, about to go out with his 61-year-old self and find me.
It was a long way down the slope, and as I neared the bottom I heard the comforting sound of the creek, the same one that flows through my back yard. Relieved, I skidded down, intending to follow the stream back to civilization and have a stiff drink (aka hot chocolate). My side of the creek was blocked by troublesome fallen trees as far as I could see, while the opposite side looked relatively clear. I spent a good 10 or 15 minutes trying to find a way to cross, but it was wide at this part and I knew better than to try to jump on the snow-covered rocks midstream. By then I was growing genuinely concerned about getting home; the snowy forest was still beautiful, but I had had enough for today; the sun was setting. The snowfall had stopped, probably stressed out by my floundering. Without further ado I tore through the brush and branches along the creek, soaking through my jeans with chilly snow.
Maybe a fourth of a mile later, I stomped through a last thicket and emerged on my next-door neighbors' property. Their house, which I found myself quite close to, is set exceptionally far back from the road, with a grand driveway under which the creek flows. I do hope they weren't looking out their windows. I was some trespassing kid with wild, untamed hair, appearing at random from the woods, breathing heavily from my rapid bushwhacking, covered in clumps of snow, and probably looking like I had just seen something traumatic (which I had, in my imagination). I slowed my pace, very much relieved to be almost home. I awkwardly waved and mouthed "sorry" just in case they were looking and walked sedately up their driveway.
It was a short stroll to my house. I opened the door and announced to my mother and Laura that I had almost gotten lost in the woods. They had thought I was upstairs in my room.
Good heavens.