What’s a ‘Road Map’?”

On a recent camping trip to Arkansas, a horrific windstorm buffeted our camper the night we arrived.

The next morning, thankful to be alive, we got up and checked to see if we’d received any text messages from family and to send them texts that we were okay. Unfortunately, the campground we stayed in was so isolated there was little to no cell service.

All that day, as we meandered around looking at scenery, there was no cell service outside the park either. I began to wonder if perhaps Verizon didn’t have any towers in the area (a problem we’ve run into before in our travels).

Of course, since there was no cell service, that meant no GPS.

Read that line again. “No GPS.”

When you’re some place you’ve never been to before and don’t have a GPS to help guide you, what do you do?

I know what you’re thinking because that’s the same thing I thought—“use a roadmap.”

The problem, though, is I foolishly gave up use of road maps a couple of years ago, eschewing for the modern GPS.

So, not only did we have no GPS, but we also didn’t have a roadmap.

Remembering a gas station we passed on the way into the park, I thought, “They’ll have road maps.” (I know they’re called convenience stores nowadays, but I still call them gas stations. So shoot me.)

Inside the gas station, a young man who looked like he was twelve years old stood behind the cash registered and flashed me a smile. I was relieved to see he had all his teeth even if his eyes were crossed.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Where are your road maps?” I asked.

He gave me a vacant look. At least, I think he was looking at me. Then he turned his head toward a girl who could have been his twin (I didn’t have a close look at her eyes, so who knows.) She was arranging chicken wings and potato wedges in a display case. Looking at her brother, she shrugged her shoulders.

Confused, I thought I may have been misunderstood, and they thought I was asking for roach caps.

“Road maps,” I said slowly, “I need a road map.”

The young man’s smile turned upside down as he said, “I don’t know what that is. What’s a ‘road map’?”

My guess was the two of them thought I was an escapee from a local nursing home and was speaking a language only I could understand.

Before they decided to call the police, I quickly got back in my truck and headed down the road to another gas station…uh, convenience store.

I had somewhat better luck that time. The person behind the counter knew what a road map was but said they hadn’t carried them in several years.

Cursed GPS! (That’s pronounced “curs-ed” with two syllables.)

Brenda suggested Walmart as a place to purchase the fabled Road Atlas. (Bless her heart, she’s a gem!)

Not trusting either of the proprietors of the gas stations to give accurate directions, we headed back to the park and asked the ranger in charge for directions.

Gripping the HANDWRITTEN directions, we struck out for Walmart in Hot Springs, ten miles away.

Have you noticed how cities are doing away with intersections and four-way stops and replacing them with something called a roundabout? Yeah, well, no one over sixty should be allowed in one of those. I drove in a circle for what I will say was an undisclosed amount of time before I chanced one of the exits. (Remember that “gem” of a gal I was telling you about? She’s good with eyerolls, as well.)

Full of hope, we arrived at Walmart where I asked someone where their road atlases were.

“Oh, we don’t carry those anymore,” was the reply.

I promise I didn’t cry. It was just something in my eye.

Clearing my throat, I asked if there was something wrong with Verizon service and if there was something we needed to do to make our phones work. That’s when I learned there was a massive, state-wide outage of Verizon because of the storm.

Looking at my wife, I said, “How are we going to find our way home without GPS or a road map?”

It was a long, slow walk back to the truck in the parking lot.

Simultaneously, we thought about using Walmart’s free Wi-fi to Google, “road maps for sale.”

You want to guess what popped up?

“Books-a-Million.”

We Googled directions, wrote them on the back of an envelope and drove from one side of Hot Springs to the other.

As luck would have it, my IBS decided to make an appearance, which required a quick stop and dash into a business of sorts, where English was a second language and scars and tattoos were required. My IBS didn’t care, so neither did I.

Inside Books-a-Million, we were led to a tower underneath a spotlight that held multiple road atlases. I couldn’t have been more elated if it had been the ark of the covenant.

The next day, armed with a yellow highlighter, I sat at the picnic table at our campsite and highlighted our path home. Then, I had an in-service with my wife and showed her how to flip from the page of eastern Arkansas, to the page for southern Missouri, and the page of western Tennessee.

I slept well that night.

The next morning, with my co-pilot/navigator beside me, we headed home.

Just outside the park we discovered cell service had been restored and GPS was working.

But we held on to the map.

* Taken from The Wit and Wisdom of David Johnson, Volume I1: The Hairy Catfish Caper.