GPS is the Devil's Tool

After five months of winter we headed out for our annual spring escape. The morning was warm, the sun shining, the travel cups full of coffee…what could possibly go wrong?

The Devil. Demons. Evil spirits. Comedic space aliens. Don’t care what you call it, there was some serious shit going down from the moment we pulled out of the driveway. For us, travel shit is normal so I don’t know why I would expect this trip to be any different, but my optimism is fucking endless.

“Did you plot the scenic side-trips on a map?” I asked George.

“I don’t need maps. I have GPS.” He assured me.

One hour later he pulls into a “Shit and Git,” turns off the truck and starts playing with the GPS. “Problem?” I ask.

“This road isn’t taking me where I want to go. So, I figured I better pull over and turn on the GPS.”

I take off my seat belt, and grab the Whiskey out of the easily accessible bag behind my seat. (I’ve played this game before.)

“A little early for whiskey?” George asks.

“A little early to be lost.” I reply pouring a healthy shot (or two) in my coffee. We probably shouldn’t be allowed out without supervision. But since the kids won’t admit they belong to us, and they don’t have a trust fund to hire a nanny for us, we get to roam the world inflicting havoc as we go.

A few minutes later I dare to ask, “George, I realize I just polished off my coffee but aren’t we going in circles?”

“Yep, Lulabelle keeps routing us in a circle and I was curious how long it was going to take her to figure out she’s lost.”

“Screw her. I’m sick of her being the other woman in your life, take the next right and get on the damn highway.”

“Are you sure it’s a right turn?”

“Unlike dear Lulabelle, I can read signs.”

We reached our destination without further need of whiskey.  And woke the next morning ready to tackle a day of hiking, wildlife watching and rock hounding.  However, the wind had a different agenda…sustained winds blew at 35 mph with 50 mph gusts. Twice I got blown into the Madison River while standing on the bank.  We ended up spending most of the day hanging in the wonderful town of Ennis, Montana…home to 340 people and 11 million trout.

You can’t go wrong in a fishing town with places like the Lure Me Inn, On The Fly Espresso, a bowling alley named the Fish Bowl, and Willie’s Distillery where we sampled Montana Honey Moonshine.  The whiskey was smooth and tasty, but the label made me buy it. (Did you believe that reasoning?) The label is handwritten and included the Bottled on date (11-Feb-2015), Batch number (14), Madison River Flow on that date (1030 CFS), Ennis temperature (48 degrees) and Bottled by name (Terry).  We also tried, and purchased, the Huckleberry Sweet Cream Liqueur (Bottled by Cher) all of which took the bite out of a blustery spring day.

The weather forecast I had so meticulously followed before deciding to stay in the mountains for our spring outing was totally wrong. It was not slightly breezy, with highs in the mid 50s and sunny. In fact Mother Freaking Nature gave us none of those. The second day we woke to 25 degrees, snow, and the dreaded spring ice on the roads.  Pack the bags we’re going home!

George turned the hubs in, 4-wheel drive engaged, and Lulabelle the GPS directing us. We really didn’t need directions home, since we weren’t taking any scenic routes.  But George wanted to see if Lulabelle could find her way home or if we needed to retire her to wherever old GPS’s go, which I hope is a special kind of hell just for them.

Luck shone on us as we followed the plow throwing copious amounts of salt on the road. Safely out of the ice we enjoyed the scenery until:

“In two miles, turn right at Simon.”

“Why does she want us to turn off, and why is a dude named Simon standing at the turn-off?” I asked.

“Not sure, but I promise to ignore her just like I ignore you when you are side-seat driving.”

“In one mile, turn right at Simon.”

“Geez, she is persistent.”

George looked at me. “I am familiar with that tactic.”

“In half a mile, push driver out with Simon.”

“Hey look at the sign sweetie,” George interrupted, “she means Salmon, not Simon.”

“I keep telling you this is what happens when you put some foreign British voice on the GPS. She doesn’t read or speak English.”

“I admit I have no idea how she got Simon from the word Salmon. But her voice sure is sexy.”

“Sexy voice won’t help you when she directs you off a cliff.”

“In .2 miles, turn right at Simon.”

“SALMON!” We both yell.

I look at George as he drives by the exit, Lulabelle squawking at us to turn around, “You realize we were both yelling at an inanimate object?”

“I’m not convinced there isn’t something evil and humanly unexplainable living in that box.” George said.

“Do you think it’s safe to turn her off, or does she have powers transcending the on/off switch?”

“Maybe it would be safer to just turn her volume down.”

“Try all you want smartass, there is no way to turn down the volume on a woman if she doesn’t want to.”

“At least I’ve proved a point, that women get lost just as much as men.”

“Really! Are you sure you want to start that argument Mr. I-took-us through-Nebraska-cuz-I-missed-the-turn-to-Colorado?”

“I didn’t miss the turn to Colorado, I decided to go to Cabela’s in Nebraska.”

“Well, you should’ve bought a new and smarter GPS there.” I said.

“Are you sure you want to start an argument about me getting something newer and smarter?”

Well, craaaaap.  Lulabelle and I were both quiet the rest of the way home.