A SLICE OF LIFE

Lori Borgman finds the funny in everyday life, writing from the heartland of the US. Now, if she could just find her car keys…

Our columnist Lori Borgman got caught in a battle involving the GPS and a paper map. Read on to find out who won.

The husband believes a paper map is a necessity for a road trip. You know, the kind with 32 creases that never folds back the way it was. I believe that a fully charged cell phone with GPS is a necessity for a road trip. We are a vehicle divided, at a Y in the road. The husband says only a map gives you a big picture.

Maybe. But only GPS gives you the nearest coffee shop.

I will also grant you that my map guy has a keen sense of direction and a sharp memory for roads and landmarks.

I have a keen sense of direction, too. When the sun rises, I am certain which way is east and when the sun sets, I am confident which way is west.

We are driving through the Smoky Mountains, lush tree-covered mountains and sheltered valleys carpeted in vivid shades of green, when we agree to take a small back road for the fun of it. We don’t have a local map, but we have a good idea of where we are headed and high-tech GPS.

Rounding curve after curve, we near the mountain top and pass a fellow leaning on his motorbike by a pond. We wave. He nods.

We are virtually alone on winding roads switching back and forth. We are enjoying the views when fog creeps in overhead. ‘Beautiful,’ I say. ‘Like driving in the clouds.’ My GPS goes silent. When high-tech GPS meets low-tech fog, the fog wins.

We make out a figure at the side of the road up ahead. It is the same man leaning on his motorbike by the lake.

Once-soothing curves have become nerve-wracking hairpin turns shrouded in a thickening fog.

There is a short break in the fog and the mountainsides no longer look like lovely palettes of green, but like enormous heads of broccoli. We are driving in circles trapped in a giant vegetable crisper drawer in a refrigerator.

The husband announces that he studied the map back at the visitors’ centre and is certain where we need to go. Basically, we need to take every turn that will help us go down the mountain.

Oh, we’re going down all right.

I wonder if we will pass the man leaning on the motorcycle a third time.

I wonder if he has food. I wonder if he will be one of the last humans I ever see.

But a funny thing happens. Sealed in by overhead fog and no GPS, the trip becomes more engaging. The passenger seat co-pilot drowsiness has disappeared. We are both searching for markers, craning our necks, ears popping as we keep descending, speculating on when – and if – we will ever

There is a short break in the fog and the mountainsides no longer look like lovely palettes of green, but like enormous heads of broccoli

again intersect with civilisation.

The fog lifts and the GPS returns to life, but we’re already on the highway.

We get to our hotel that night and find an online map of where we were. The roads look like an erratic EKG. The map guy got us where we needed to go.