On paper, the assignment looked simple enough, yet it still scared me. Who the heck heads off into the remote, high desert of Southeastern Utah at the start of winter with more weight in tech gear than camping equipment?
Yet that’s exactly what T3 wanted
me to do. In fact, they even labeled the assignment “Survivor,” which, despite
the positive spin, made me wonder exactly how close the editors thought I
might come to the opposite scenario, as in “Deceased.”
The basic premise was to set
up a scavenger hunt in the maze of canyons outside Capital Reef National Park
in Southeastern Utah. The checkpoints and rewards—including all the food and
water I’d need to survive—could only be found by using a gaggle of electronics:
GPS units, altimeters, digital compasses, cellular and satellite phones, two-way
radios, and even a pedometer. And while traveling over this course, I also
needed to keep a digital diary using my Palm IIIc and Nikon Coolpix 990. Oh,
did I mention that I also needed to find the starting point using a rented
Ford Explorer equipped with Hertz’s Neverlost navigation system?
My first thought was that I was
going to die due to a lack of lithium. As in lithium batteries. With temperatures
in the area forecast in the twenties, all this electronic gear was likely
to chew through a dozen pounds of batteries. I could be looking for my water
supply with dozens of blank LCDs.
Worse still, my last phone conversation
with Tim, the owner of the Utah-based outfitter setting up the challenge,
reveals another problem I’ll face.
“GPS hasn’t been very reliable here lately,” Tim tells me.
He makes this scary statement the same way some people tell you the time.
A seasoned trip guide, Tim makes everything sound matter-of-fact, even when
it isn’t. I decide that he must be from Maine. I can almost hear the “ah-yup”
at the end of each sentence.
“I’ve been getting readings as much as a 100 yards off,”
Tim says.
Yikes. 100 yards can mean the difference between being in
the right canyon or the wrong one. Suddenly, I have a very unsure feeling
about what I am getting myself into. I wonder who’ll discover my body next
spring.
Okay, I’ll admit that last sentence is a bit over the top.
I’m actually a skilled backcountry veteran who’s taken survival courses, has
all the right gear and apparel (see “These Ain’t Your Dad’s Duds”), and who
is certified to practice Wilderness First Aid should I come across a stray
injured body deep in the wilds. Couple that with 20 years in the high tech
industry, and, yes, I should be able to stay alive for three days while navigating
whatever user interface some city-bound engineer had kludged up.
Nevertheless, I fret about the difficulty in completing the
assignment as I step off the plane in Salt Lake City. I’m “flying on instruments
only” from this point forward. Long ago, I learned that electronic tools can
mislead and sometimes make tasks harder.
Case in point: I need to pick up some fuel for my stove, so my first chore is to enter the local REI store into the Hertz Neverlost as my first destination. Unfortunately, typing on the Neverlost is done using only arrow keys. I spend more time entering the street address than it took me at the rental counter to acquire the vehicle. I wonder how well my mother would do on this task. I decide she’d probably still be sitting in the parking garage pressing buttons.
Programming complete,
a sultry feminine voice suddenly speaks up.
“Please proceed to
the highlighted route,” she says. Okay, I can do that. I decide to call my
newfound companion Neve.
I pull out of the
dim confines of the Hertz parking garage into a blinding sun. Yee-haw. The
weather has finally cleared after a week’s worth of storms. While I don’t
dislike hiking in rain, it does add a complication I could do without on this
trip. Neve informs me to take the on-ramp onto Highway 80. I was a happy about-to-be
camper.
Wait a second. Highway 80?
I look down at the
route Neverlost indicates. Doesn’t it know about the frenzied pre-Olympic
road construction going on in Salt Lake City? These days Highway 80 no longer
crosses town, and both Highway 15 and 215 have numerous ramp closures and
detours. Sure enough, I come to the end of the navigable portion of Highway
80, but Neverlost blissfully shows me continuing on. Okay then; let’s see
what happens when I pull off into the city streets.
“Please proceed to
the highlighted route,” says Neve.
Yeah, right. I’ll
just grab a bulldozer and join the construction crews. Since I know Salt Lake
City’s layout pretty well, I head towards where I think I can get onto 215
South. After a couple of repeats of the “please proceed” message, Neverlost
decides I have abandoned the old route and starts calculating a new one. Cool.
Everything goes swimmingly
until nearly four hours later I arrive at the agreed upon spot near Capital
Reef National Park. Neverlost suddenly shows the satellite acquisition screen
(“1 Satellites located…”), and Neve has gone silent, clear indications that
the GPS system has lost contact with some of the satellites it relies upon
to track position. Curiously, the Magellan handheld unit shows it is locked
onto five satellites.
Fortunately, there
really isn’t any way to get too far off track at this point. There’s only
one road I can take and that’s the one I’m already on. My instructions tell
me that the trailhead is “past the last commercial building in Torrey” and
at UTM 42 41 715N and 46 7 453E. (UTM coordinates are one of several methods
of tracking position. I specified UTM for the challenge since UTM values give
you direct distances in meters. For example, the difference between 42 41
715N and 42 41 725N is 10 meters to the North. The Magellan Map 410 I’m using
handles 12 different coordinate systems, and allows both a primary and secondary
one to display, which is convenient if you’re moving between map-based coordinates
and navigating by distance.)
Since Neverlost couldn’t find the trailhead, I open the sunroof
on the Explorer—despite the subfreezing temperature—and drive the next stretch
of road holding the Magellan upside down above the roof. With no one else
on the road—who else would be foolish enough to go hiking on such a cold November
day--I am able to drive slowly enough to let my eyes bounce back and forth
between the empty road ahead and the GPS coordinates displayed by the Magellan.
250N and 400E. I am close, very close. And look, there on
the right is a turnout. I pull off the road and get out to compare the instructions
against the Magellan’s readings. I am less than a few meters off in one direction,
but perhaps 400 meters off in the other. I look up the road. Is that another
turnout ahead?
Back in the Explorer I resolve to drive a half-mile, then
stop and recalculate. I’m doing my own crude form of triangulation.
In this short stretch of road I find three turnouts on the
right and one on the left, all of which clearly have trails branching off
them. None of the four possibilities match my instructions exactly, but it
seems like the one on the left is closest. I pull in and for the third time
in as many minutes take the time to let the Magellan get a clean reading from
a fixed position. This has to be the place. Has to be. If my equipment
is off by more than a few hundred feet, I’m in big trouble.
My instructions are to phone from the trailhead. I grab my
Nokia 5160 cellular phone and call the outfitter.
“What do you see,” he asks.
“A pullout with what appears
to be a very muddy doubletrack headed north,” I answer.
“Is that all?”
Oh-oh, I don’t like the sound of that question. I pause to
take a closer look at my surroundings.
“Uh, well, there’s a fence about
50 yards in.”
“Walk to it and tell me what
you see.”
After a few moments, I can answer:
“a BLM trailhead sign that prohibits ATVs.”
“Congratulations, you’ve found
the trailhead. Good luck.”
I look at the muddy single-track that heads gently upwards
towards several banks of rocky cliffs. Doesn’t look too difficult. Even once
the course goes off trail, this terrain looks passable, I think.
Of course, I am carrying a 60-pound pack, over half of which
is due to electronic gear, batteries, camera equipment, and extra dry bags
to protect everything. I’ve got a treasure trove of geek gear: Magellan Map
410 GPS, Motorola Talkabout TA280 SLK radio, Suunto Vector altimeter/compass/watch,
Globalstar Qualcomm satellite phone, Sportline Fitness Pedometer 360, and
much, much more (see “How Does it Rate?”). Not to mention three extra sets
of batteries for everything except for my two phones, which use batteries
I won’t be able to recharge or replace on the trip.
As I sit on the Explorer’s tailgate fueling up with a pre-hike
guzzle of Gatorade, I am confident and happy. The rains that had plagued the
area for the past week have lifted, the sun is out, and I am about to do one
of my favorite things—hike into a beautiful and wild area of the country that
few ever see. Of course, normally I’d leave most of the technology behind
at the trailhead and just let nature wash over me. Today, however, about the
only part of civilization I get to leave at the trailhead is the Ford Explorer.
Since the first three waypoints are to be found via GPS,
I take a few moments at the trailhead to enter them as a “route” in the Magellan’s
memory. By entering a route, I enable
the unit to give me bearing and distance instructions relative to my ultimate
destination. It takes me longer than usual to program the unit, as I had committed
myself to that male habit of not reading the instructions that came with my
equipment. It takes me a few minutes to realize that “Landmark” is the term
Magellan uses for “Waypoint,” for example. (Curiously, when I accidentally
set the unit to navigate on water, it starts using the term Waypoint!).
A glance at my multifunction Suunto Vector watch tells me
it is already past 11 am and I am at 6700 feet. Time to get moving, otherwise
any glitch in finding checkpoints might make me have to look for camp in the
dark, something even the hardiest of hikers try to avoid. And since I hadn’t
had a chance to acclimate to the altitude, I’ll probably be moving more slowly
than usual.
Not quite knowing what to expect, I set out on what looks
to be an established trail. Other than the ubiquitous mud, the walking is
easy. I am a bit surprised to learn from the Sportline Fitness 360 pedometer
mounted on my hipbelt that I am walking at 2.8 miles per hour. That’s faster
than I would have expected, given how loaded down I feel.
Within minutes, forks start to appear in the trail. I let
the Magellan pick a fork each time I encounter one, happy that, at least so
far, every decision seems to be clear-cut. Sometimes the Magellan points a
few degrees off the trail fork, but it always clearly favors one over another,
so I am confident that I’m on the right track.
Some of the points on the Course have been given names by
Tim. This first is labeled “Big Tree.” I wonder why he has taken the time
to label this checkpoint. I can see quite a few large trees along the
route. Is Big Tree something truly bigger than these, or is it simply one
tree a bit bigger than the others? Given what little I knew about Tim, it
could be either. Heck, I can even imagine him trying to fool me by drawing
a Big Tree on the ground. I decide to trust the GPS instead of trying to second-guess
Tim, but it still nags at me. Is that the Big Tree? Or is that Big
Tree?
I feel a hot spot developing on my left heel, the precursor
of a blister, but I decide it doesn’t warrant stopping. I’ll do something
about it when I get to the checkpoint. I keep up my 2.8 mph pace, now with
my eyes glued to the Magellan. Every once in awhile I look up to glare at
a nearby tree and wonder if it is Big. Fifteen minutes of that, and I stop
looking at the trees and just ponder the never-ending steam of information
coming from the GPS.
The hike is getting a little tedious when I suddenly realize
that the coordinates on the Magellan are close to those in my instructions.
I look up only to be startled by a massive Ponderosa Pine standing directly
in front of me. This tree is far and above the size of anything else nearby.
I walk over to it, scanning for a marker cairn. And, there, at the foot of
the pine, is a small stack of rocks holding down a note telling me how to
find the next point.
Big Tree meant Big Tree. Doh!
According to the pedometer, I’ve come over a mile so far
(the Magellan agrees). And though mid-forties may seem cold to those of you
reading this, when you’re trudging
through mud with a 60-pound pack on your back in mostly shadeless terrain,
you get hot. Time for a hydration
break and the removal of some layers of clothing. Heck, and while I’m at it,
let’s whip out the satellite phone and let Tim’s assistant, Steve, know I’m
well on my way. Perhaps I am being a little cocky, too, needing to show off
that my slight hesitancy in finding the trailhead was just a fluke.
The Globalstar phone makes an instant, clear connection.
“Hello from Big Tree,” I say to Steve, who answers the phone
as if expecting someone else.
“Hey Thom, good going. That was
the longest leg of the course, but also the easiest.”
Oh. So much for cocky.
Reluctantly, I put my heavy pack
back on and slog through some more mud.
The trail now deviates from the bearing the Magellan wants
me to take. Of course, I can’t quite go the direct route it wants me to, as
there is a hundred-foot, unclimbable bluff in the way. I have to make a decision
on how I am going to get to where I think the next checkpoint might be.
In front of me are three distinct passages carved from the
rock, sometimes referred to as “slots” or “canyons,” but in this case probably
more correctly identified as a “wash.” These labyrinthine channels are carved
out of the desert’s softer ground by the occasional flash flood. In some areas,
the waterways narrow down into deep tunnels barely wide enough to pass (a
slot). In others, they are large and have multiple paths along the bottom
(canyons). From time to time, you encounter hard rock “pourovers” (dry waterfalls)
that have to be climbed, or small banks that you have to scramble up. When
the weather cooperates and a wash is “dry,” generally you just hike in the
path of least resistance.
Since the Magellan points to the right, I decide to take
the rightmost wash. This isn’t an automatic choice, though, as I have no idea
where the top of this narrow passage lies. It could eventually curve far to
the right, in which case the central passage might be the correct one. Or
all three passages might eventually veer off to the left, meaning there was
another path I should use. It’s now well past noon, so I don’t have time to
reconnoiter, as I’ve only got a few hours of daylight left and many more checkpoints
to find. With a gulp of doubt, I enter the wash on the right.
As the proverbial crow flies, I’m not making much progress.
I make dozens of left turns and a like number to the right. In the softer
passages the mud slows me to a crawl. I have no idea which way I’m headed.
Every time I check the Magellan, it seems to be pointing in a new direction,
and almost always at an unclimbable wall. Given Tim’s warning about his GPS
giving inaccurate readings, I wonder again if I have picked the correct path.
After a half hour of bouncing off walls, I top out of the
wash, not very far from Big Tree. I find that I’m on the edge of a bluff that
overlooks the last checkpoint. The Magellan shows the next waypoint is up
and to the right, but across terrain that I can walk cross-country. I breathe
a sigh of relief. As it turns out, I chose the right wash.
Now I navigate by digital compass. Holding the Suunto Vector
watch level so that it shows a heading is tiresome and awkward, but for the
first time in an hour, I’m on terrain that is reasonably flat and not filled
with mud. As I move towards a rocky ridge, the heading points just to the
right of it. I note a couple of muddy footprints heading left. Since Tim and
Steve have both told me not to trust footprints, I ignore the footprints and
head northeast, to the right of the ridge edge.
I navigate a few hundred yards of tricky traverse along the
side of the ridge before taking a new reading. I am off course. The waypoint
lies on the other side of the ridge. Drat. Backtrack time. The sun is now
beginning its slow dive for the horizon and I’m famished from carrying my
overweight pack through so much mud. But if I stop to eat, I’ll lose precious
daylight. I seriously consider using the Globalstar satellite phone to ask
Tim or Steve for a clue, but my pride won’t let me. Instead, I down a handful
of the “emergency gorp” (trail mix) I keep in my pocket, greedily suck down
the last of my Gatorade from my water bottle, and continue on.
Once back in the correct “canyon,” the ubiquitous mud reappears.
Water rapidly disappears off the ground here, but in many places the volcanic
ash turns into a cement-like, boot-sucking mud for several days afterward.
Not only was I in such a section, but it is also a steady uphill grade. Within
minutes I accumulate several pounds of mud on my boots, which simply refuses
to come off. I am hot, tired, winded, and now slip sliding my way up a several
hundred-foot climb.
The next checkpoint lies at the top of this energy-zapping
section. Inside a small plastic sack I find a Reese’s peanut butter cup, my
reward for making it up the most physically challenging part of the course.
Heck with being hungry, I am now panting like a winded dog. I can barely down
one of the tasty chocolates between gasps for breath. I stand at 7250 feet;
less than 36 hours ago I was at sea level. Why the heck hadn’t I insisted
on a day to get adjusted to the altitude?
The next target is camp. Footprints head off in every direction.
In retrospect, I must have been so tired at this point that
I couldn’t see the obvious. Camp shouldn’t have been hard to find, despite
all the contradictory footprints, as one of its coordinates was the same as
my current position. Hey dummy, just go north! But I was tired, perhaps a
bit dehydrated, and clearly not thinking well. I end up reading my instructions
incorrectly. I’ve got less than an hour until it’s dark, so I’m also in a
hurry. Not a good combination.
I know camp has to be either to the left or right of a huge
rock “prow” that stands in front of me. I walk toward it and consult the Magellan.
Later, I understood what happened, but at the time, I see a heading to the
right of the prow, so that’s where I go. And just as I move past the cliff’s
front edge, I am surprised to see the GPS suddenly point straight across the
rock to the left!
With dawning realization, I click through to the satellite
display. Three satellites are locked in, which should be good enough to triangulate
an accurate position. I back up a bit and one of the satellites disappears.
Aha! Since my early looks had consistently shown I was tracking five to seven
satellites, I had stopped checking. I move into a position where the GPS again
locks in on three, check the heading, and scramble up and over the front edge
of the prow, using the last of my waning energy to do so. As I top out, below
me I clearly see two water jugs and a plastic bag containing a T3 Magazine
hanging from a dead tree. Camp!
After an exhausting day of carrying your home (and your office!)
on your back, there’s no finer feeling than discovering that you’ve made camp.
You know the weight will be lifted from your shoulders for a few hours. You
know you can drink and eat to your heart’s desire. They’ll be no TV to distract
you. Nothing in particular you have to do. Instead, you can just sit back,
relax, and take in nature’s great show.
Today, I find those feelings all amplified. I have found
my water supply. I have found my food. I have passed the first day’s tests.
T3 won’t be sending out a search party. I won’t go to bed hungry.
After greedily consuming a hastily prepared dinner, I sit
in front of my tent nursing a warm mug of chai tea, and watch the sun disappear
behind the rock formation across the canyon. Despite having enough technical
toys with me to populate a small office, for the moment I put off making calls
or entering the day’s notes into my Palm IIIc.
I can’t hear a single man-made sound, only the quiet whisper
of the tent fabric in the occasional puff of wind. So many people never get
a chance to enjoy a moment like this, alone in a spectacular setting that
can only be reached by using your legs. I sit and savor it for as long as
I can. When it is fully dark and the temperature drops to the point where
I feel a shiver coming on, I retire to a warm sleeping bag and my dreams.
* * *
I awake to the unmistakable sound
of elk bugling. The eerie half groan, half Star Trek electronic wail is the
only sound on the rim, and completely unexpected. Since it’s hunting season,
the elk usually aren’t down this low. (To hear an elk bugle, go to http://www.skyport.net/mtn-web/moon/
and click on the bugle.)
The sun isn’t up yet, but I poke
my head out the front of the tent anyway. I use the Suunto Vector watch to
check two more of its functions: it’s 22 degrees and the barometer is holding
steady, despite an obvious line of clouds that have appeared over the distant
ridge.
As I prepare my morning ritual
of tea and oatmeal, I notice hoof prints around the tent that weren’t there
before. I must have had a night visitor, but due to my previous day’s efforts
I had slept like the proverbial log, totally oblivious to any nocturnal activity.
As I slowly return to full consciousness, I study the prints, trying to figure
out whether my visitor was a small elk or a large deer.
This morning I need to do some
“catch-up” work. Tim built the course so that I’d have time to take photographs
on Day 2, so I spend most of the morning lugging my tripod, camera, and all
the electronics around taking pictures. I also take the time to enter notes
into my Palm IIIc using the tricked-out folding keyboard I brought with me.
On the satellite phone at my morning check-in Steve tells me he’ll join me
in the afternoon, as he wants to try out a variant on his trail run that should
intersect my position.
Eventually, I run out of housekeeping
chores and hit the trail again.
The next waypoint is labeled “Saddle.” That probably means
that is placed in the lower “pass” between two higher “peaks.” (I’m using
quotes here, as the terms are relative to the terrain, not actual peaks and
passes you’d find identified on a map.) But a few hundred yards off to the
right I see a rock formation that looks just like a real saddle, complete
with a front horn. Could it be that easy? After all, Big Tree was a Big Tree.
I walk over to the rocks, but they’re nowhere near the position I’m looking
for, and I don’t see a marker. But I do see a trail remnant that heads in
the general direction the Magellan says I should go. For some reason, today
I trust visual input rather than the electronics. I stick the Magellan into
my pocket and follow the trail for a half-mile up an overlook.
When I next consult the GPS, it’s clear that I’m further
from wherever the Saddle may be than I was at the unusual rocks. Huh? I double-check my instructions, check my current
coordinates, and do a quick mental calculation. The Magellan tells me that
the point is somewhere behind me.
Oops. I do a 180, mentally slap myself for being so negligent, and retrace
my route back up the faux trail.
I eventually find the Saddle and continue on with the rest
of the day’s checkpoints, but for some reason I continue to take visual shortcuts
whenever possible. Why aren’t I relying upon the gear? After all, yesterday
it got me where I needed to go, albeit via a slightly circuitous route. I’m
still contemplating that thought late in the afternoon while working on the
last of the day’s instructions: “Sight with compass bearing 290 degrees. Note
spot on Rim.”
I click the watch into compass mode. And soon find that I
can’t locate 290 degrees. The watch will only give me readings between 340
and 60! What? I try again. Same result. In fact, the watch is showing me two
North’s, about 45 degrees apart!
“Yo Thom,” comes Steve’s voice from behind me. I turn around
to greet him, but he isn’t there.
“You there Thom?” Again, Steve’s voice is coming from behind
me, but that can’t be, because there’s a 100-foot drop-off that direction.
Is this some sort of new test I didn’t know about?
Finally, my preoccupied brain feebly figures out that Steve
is talking to me on the Motorola two-way I’ve got mounted on the back of my
pack. Wow! His voice is so startlingly clear, I thought he was standing next
to me. Previous radios I’ve used tend to produce hiss or noise during use,
but this unit is utterly silent except when someone speaks. It’s been set
on scan for several hours, and I haven’t heard a peep of static in that entire
time. No wonder I thought Steve was actually behind me.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“Just starting up a wash. Saw you on the rim. Should be there
in a half-hour.” I hear heavy breathing between sentence fragments. Steve
must be running while talking.
As I wait, I try resetting the watch. I try moving to positions
a few feet in every direction. I take out the battery and put it back in.
Nothing I do gives me the reading I need. At the moment, I can’t even reliably
use the GPS, as I’m in a position along the cliffs where it only sees two
satellites again. I’ve got a mechanical compass buried deep in my pack, but
I resolve not to resort to it.
“How’s it going?” Steve asks as I run through my options
for the fifth time. I move to answer him on the two-way, but this time he’s
standing a few feet away.
“For some reason I can’t get a bearing,” I answer.
We talk about the problem for a few minutes, but it’s clear
he’s reluctant to give me a clue. Its nearly sunset, so I need to finish setting
up camp and make dinner, and Steve really needs to start running again if
he’s going to get out of the rough terrain before darkness hits.
“Call me in the morning if you still can’t get a bearing,”
Steve says as he turns and runs down the slope. An hour later, he checks in
on the two-way one last time from almost two miles away, and we both marvel
at the range and clarity of the Motorola units. It is dark as I crawl into
my sleeping bag wondering how the heck I’m going to find the next checkpoint.
* * *
I never quite make it to sleep.
With a jet-like roar, winds slap against my tent and bend it down so far the
roof hits my face. I’m using a REI Half Dome, one of the best two-person tent
bargains currently available, but in heavy weather it really needs to be fully
“guyed out” to stay stable.
Unfortunately, I’m camped in an
area where the best I can do is to tie guy lines to rocks. In the heaviest
gusts, the tent acts like a sail, pulling on these lines and moving the rocks!
Since I’m at the base of a cliff line, the wind doesn’t come in just one direction.
Instead, it swirls in from alternating directions, knocking the tent one way,
then another. Within minutes, a dozen large rocks have all been pulled up
against the tent.
Since the noise is deafening and
I can’t really sleep, I reach up to the center of the tent’s roof and pull
down on it. Using my weight this way stabilizes the tent, though I’m now in
a funky position. I wonder how long this windstorm will last. After a few
hours of serving as a tent anchor, I somehow fall asleep anyway, so I never
find out.
I awake to another cold morning of clear skies, this time
with a distant coyote howl as my wakeup call. Last night’s windstorm is now
just a constant breeze. Wind usually precedes a storm, so I’d just as soon
make quick work of tagging the last few checkpoints. I decide that I’m going
to see how fast I can manage the day’s last tasks. Tim told me that the checkpoints
would be close together, but tough to find. I want to prove him wrong.
Of course, I still have one small problem: I have no idea
where to head to find the day’s first marker. Once more I walk back to rim-edge
and click through to the Suunto’s compass function. My expectations are low.
I’ve tried this five times already, to no avail. But this morning the Suunto
surprisingly points straight across the canyon to a prominent feature on the
far side!
I nearly jog along the rim in excitement. I’m going to finish
the course! Sure enough, within minutes I’ve found the cairn. I’ve already
memorized the next clue, so I bounce off in a new direction with a smile on
my face. The Suunto’s sudden conversion to accurate readings is an omen: I
decide that I’m going to finish hours ahead of expectations.
Next up is a backtrack segment using part of the “route”
I took the first day, and which the Magellan faithfully recorded. On the LCD,
my trail zigs and zags like the path a drunken ant would take. Nevertheless,
between my memory of the route, the Magellan’s reasonable navigation screens,
and the occasional help of boot prints in the now-frozen mud, I make quick
work of this section.
I’m nearing the end, and it’s not even 9 am yet! The faster
I find checkpoints, the faster I race. I’m back in a flat area, hunting a
creek side for “Dead Tree.” The only problem is that there are dozens of dead
trees in sight. Which one is the correct one? No longer perplexed by the difference
in my GPS readings versus Tim’s, I whip out my Palm IIIc and use its calculator
to subtract my now known error difference from the instructions. The new coordinates
take me right to a dead tree, but I don’t see the checkpoint.
I’m pissed that I’m wasting time at this checkpoint; I desperately
want to finish early to impress Tim and Steve with my path finding skills
and to make up for last night’s failure. I know I must be at the right place,
but I still see no marker. I frantically search the ground. Could last night’s
wind have blown it away?
I consider getting on the phone to ask for a hint. Just then
a large hawk appears, and as I look up to watch him glide past I see the marker
hanging high up on the backside of the tree trunk. I climb up and grab the
bag, only to find a Snickers bar and the terse note “Good Work!!! Tough Find.”
Hah! You can’t fool today’s technology, guys! Not with Thom
the Techie at the controls. I’m going to finish before 10!
I skip down the last portion of the course with my eyes barely
on all the LCDs at my disposal. Despite the fact that Tim has sneakily hid
this portion of the course in streambeds and low-lying areas that keep me
from getting a clear visual picture of my location, I know exactly where I
am. And I’m right. When I finally pop up onto a small rise, the Explorer sits
waiting only a few hundred yards away. Steve had thought I’d probably show
up at his house in time for a victory dinner, but I’m going to be early enough
to help him clean up his breakfast dishes.
The way the challenge was set up, I could only succeed or
fail, nothing in between. Despite all my hiking experience, I had never before
navigated off trail using only electronic guidance. When I agreed to the assignment,
I half suspected that I’d never quite find my supplies, and end the three
days dehydrated, hungry, frustrated, and grumpy. To my surprise, I complete
the course without a map, over challenging terrain, and faster than expected.
Before today, I had frowned on relying upon electronic paraphernalia for something
as critical as finding water caches in the backcountry. Now, I think my mind
has been changed.
I reach for the Globalstar satellite phone to let Steve know I’ll soon be at his place for my post-challenge shower. I get no signal. I look at the phone’s LCD: the batteries are dead. Somehow, that seems like the perfect ending to a perfect trip.