Letters from Lisa

Excited to announce that I’ll be heading to England at the end of this week - have uploaded the travel plans into a special Google Map. Zoom out to see all my different stops! (I’ll be adding details as they become available.)

View Lisa’s Earthwatch Expedition and Hadrian’s Wall Excursion in a larger map

Collection of photos from my recent Earthwatch expedition in Iceland. Sad to say, I accidentally erased all of my video footage - but this gives a bit of the idea.

The purpose of the project was to collect data about the glaciers in Southern Iceland. As these glaciers press down, they form large pools of water underneath them. This water drains out as rivers, but can also collect over time underneath the glacier. Eventually, the glacier’s ice starts to float on top of the water, because ice is less dense than water, and when this happens, the water bursts out and causes destructive floods. Scientists want to figure out ways to predict when this might happen, and where the floods are likely to go.

It’s also possible that the glaciers will be affected by global warming and that this will lead to changes in how and when they produce these floods.

This past summer I spent several weeks in Peru on an archaeological dig. Here’s a short article about my expedition. I wasn’t the one who found the trophy skull though. The skulls in my area of the dig were small, fragile, and unadorned.

Today’s valuable lesson: on the Internet, nothing ever dies. Ever.

This afternoon I received an email from good ol’ Earthwatch - they periodically publish updates and promos for their volunteer projects. This month they chose to highlight several projects that I am familiar with, since I have volunteered with them at one time or another. First up, my most recent expedition in Peru, Archaeology of Peru’s Wari Empire. You may remember that one from this summer’s posts. (I never finished writing about that experience, by the way… expect an update on that shortly.)

Next up was Hawksbill Turtles of the Great Barrier Reef, which was the focus of my Australia trip in 2005. My mother was standing nearby as I excitedly shouted, “Hey, that was my project too!” only to then scroll down a bit more, and discover something even better.

“Hey! That’s ME!!”

There it was, glistening white words in a bright orange box - “Solo traveler Lisa Fischler” and a link to my article about the volunteer experience.

There’s nothing like unexpectedly finding yourself online. Good thing it was something I’m actually proud of, like saving endangered species, and not an incriminating video or photo of my hair in 7th grade. Not that such things exist, especially not photos of my nasty strung out perm (cough).

Here’s a collection, almost complete, of photos from the excavation of Ccotocotuyoc, a Wari site about 45 minutes outside of Cusco, in the Huaro Valley.

A few highlights:

View of the site from a nearby mountain.

Here I am, getting our little unit ready to be photographed. The white sign gives all the important details. The white thing around my neck is a dust mask - very much needed by the way.

This is my absolute favorite thing. We dug it up ourselves! It’s a perfect little pot that fits into the palm of your hand.

We had a LOT of bones in our unit - most not as easily identifiable as in this particular photo.

This is Ccoto, the puppy who became pretty much the mascot of the site. (His name cames from the name of the site - a ccoto is a pile of stones.) At least he was, until he jumped right into our unit on top of all the bones.

This is Guapo, an adorable but very skinny dog who adopted the researchers as his people. He technically has owners, but I would have taken him home if I’d been able. So sweet!

Go see the rest - particularly if you like human anatomy.

I’m back a bit early from the site today. This is because we removed two small pots from our burial, one about 3 inches big and the other about 6 inches, and the 6-inch pot was falling apart and needed to be brought back to the lab immediately. The researcher just happened to have a professor friend visiting who had hired a car back to Cusco, so he offered to have me ride back ahead of the bus in a less bumpy vehicle so that we could ensure that the pot got back safely. Another volunteer accompanied me, carrying the bags, and we had a very pleasant (and indeed, less bumpy) ride back to the city. The car could even go up the very narrow streets, which our large bus cannot do. I was the first one in the shower and got the best hot water. All in all, a good deal.

Unfortunately, we ran out of time today and couldn’t take out any of the bones we’d spent the whole day uncovering. We had to cover them back up with dirt to avoid the pit being discovered by looters as a burial - otherwise they’d haul everything out and dig deeper for valuable pots. I don’t know if they would find anything, but we would lose a lot of valuable information. And, I think we treat the bones with a lot more respect. So we try to protect the site as much as we can.

I’m going to be in the lab in the city tomorrow, probably washing pot shards and dusting off bones. It will be good to have a day of rest before our huge outing on Saturday-Sunday to the Sacred Valley and Machu Picchu. As far as I know, our entire group of 12 volunteers will be going, plus at least one researcher from the project (for liability purposes, though who would turn down a trip to Machu Picchu?) and we’ll be staying the night in the tourist town that has sprung up near Machu Picchu to handle all the guests, called Aguas Calientes after its hot springs. We won’t have time to investigate those, since we’ll be getting there around 10 pm and then leaving for sunrise by about 6:00 am. Busy busy weekend.

My days here have been quite busy, in general, since starting Earthwatch. The entire tenor of my trip has changed, actually. In Costa Rica I had a lot more downtime - at Pacuare, most of the day - and I struggled to manage my activities so that I felt relaxed, not bored. I also had a lot of time to worry about what was coming up next on my itinerary, if I would make the connections, if the airport would have safety precautions against pickpocketers. You name it, I worried about it. Now, I think it’s fair to say that I don’t have the time to worry. (Except for the one night I spent up worrying that I had neglected to secure accomodations for the 28th of July, which is Peruvian independence day. That’s all settled now, anyway.) I’m busy doing productive work, and if I have a question or concern, there are so many people around who can help.

Plus, I’m almost 3 weeks into my trip. Nearly the halfway point, which I can hardly believe. That has to count for something.

And my Spanish is slowly improving. At least I can understand about 70% of what is said, assuming that I know what the topic is. I can’t say very much, but people are pretty understanding. I went shopping with Renee last night, who was here about a year ago learning Spanish. She really did a great job chatting up the vendors and the cab driver, smoothing everything over with her better language skills. Being fluent in Spanish is definitely helpful here, though there are so many people with good English that I haven’t felt lost at all.

We’re having a presentation tonight about our research project and the history of the site. Hopefully soon I’ll have a lot of good information to share. For now… dinnertime.

An update is in order, I feel.

This is no easy task, drumming up the energy to update. I have been up since about 5:30 this morning. Breakfast at 6 (sweet tamale, coca tea, papaya juice, anti-malarial pill) then piling onto the bus at 7. Each day we drive about 45 minutes through the Peruvian Andes to get to our archaeological site, consonantly named Ccotoccotuyoc (Quechua for “place with many piles of stones” - and in case you were wondering, the name definitely fits). The view is pleasant, with small rural villages and grand sweeping mountains. We eventually leave the Cusco basin and enter the Huaro valley, passing by two tiny villages both named after the Virgin Mary. The bus winds up a narrow dirt road to eventually drop us off at the base of our site.

The site we are working on is a pre-Inca site, one of many in this valley. The researcher believes it to have been occupied by the Wari (sometimes spelled Huari) people, who formed a diffuse empire in this region. There is also evidence of another group, called the Lucre, and sometimes artifacts from the two peoples are intermingled. There may even be some colonial-era burials on site. One possibility was just excavated today, a small grave of five skeletons in fetal position, in which the bones appeared to have been burned.

There is a small makeshift structure made out of eucalyptus leaves and branches. This is where we leave our backpacks. My little section is a few feet from there. It’s part of a group of sections that have burials in them. Skull bones were found in the section by the last people to work there. Yesterday, our first day on site, we uncovered several huge slate slabs, which are like grave markers. One slab had a circular hole deliberately cut into it, which is where the people would pour in liquid offerings. Today we excavated around the slabs, then with great fanfare (everybody watching) removed them. We found a tomb in pretty bad condition, with many of the bones crushed. We spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning up the walls surrounding the burial and removing stones, discovering more bones in the process. Tomorrow we’ll start brushing around the bones to see if we can find a full skeleton.

Unfortunately, we aren’t the only ones digging at the site. Midday, a researcher discovered a huge pit dug by looters. A skeleton was piled, rather undignified, next to the hole, with a few shards of pottery that the looters apparently examined and decided was not worth their time. There was also a pit dug nearby with ash, which seemed to be rather fresh. The researcher was furious, thinking it might be one of the people in the towns below. The police were called, since the site is part of an archaeological park and you need special permits to dig there. We can collect the bones and perform an analysis on them, but a lot of valuable information was lost.

It’s very tiring, digging in the sun all day. Last night I was in bed by 8:30. Today I was less tired mentally, but my muscles ache more. I spent the whole day cramped in an odd position near the north end of our little burial, because I couldn’t step down where the slabs of slate were. (And good thing I didn’t… they started to crumble in sheets as we touched them.) Now we’ll have to be careful because we don’t want to step on any bones. I wish there were someplace to do yoga around here (though there are plenty of massage parlors… sheesh)

Really enjoying my time here in Cusco. Another entry I’ll try to provide some info about the city and the other things I’ve been doing. We’re going to Machu Picchu on Saturday and Sunday.

Cheers!

But the article’s mine. Here’s a little something about volunteering in Australia, for the Connecting: Solo Travel Network website.

This is a map of the Great Barrier Reef featuring the Howick Group. If you really squint, Ingram Island is in there somewhere!

The next images are courtesy of Heather. Some are just plain scenic — others made me cackle hysterically when I first saw them!

a captured loggerhead turtle

Emily with a very important piece of equipment

Sam with one of our many gourmet meal offerings in the al fresco dining area

More to follow!
(Thanks for the pictures, Heather, hope you don’t mind me posting them)

Finally, something else about Australia that is decently written enough to post. You may have noticed there hasn’t been much travel writing going on here lately. That is actually because I am trying to pull the work together into a single unit, eventually to become a book, and it is difficult to post things while I’m still working on them because then it gives the impression that they’re “done”. Which they aren’t.

This is all basically a very long-winded apology for not posting this sooner. But whatever. Did you all forget I went to Australia already? Sheesh!

And now, Letters from Lisa proudly presents… The Al Fresco Dining Area!

Communal life on Ingram Island centered around an open-air marquee tent, a marvelously engineered mess of ropes and two moldy blue tarps and adjustable metal tent poles that kept sneaking out of their assigned holes, causing various sections of the ceiling to flap in the wind and droop down on our heads. Extra poles, coils of rope, scratchy tarps and heavy tent pegs reminiscent of medieval weaponry lay scattered around on the ground on blankets of dead pine needles and spongy beach rocks. This “storage system” was highly useful, as one never knew when a random piece of camping equipment would be called for — such as when the two Aboriginal boys grabbed some extra poles, headed to the shallow reef flat behind the island and speared a stingray for lunch.

For equipment too delicate or perishable to be left out in the elements — such as the entire month’s supply of food — Queensland Parks and Wildlife supplied perky primary colored “nelly bins” (Australian for “plastic containers”) stenciled with the yellow silhouette of a sea turtle. Bins were stacked along the back edge of the tent in twos and threes, with “canned Asian” next to “long life milk” and “Vegemite and Cheese Spread”, jumbled in with the enigmatically labeled “Heavy — Two People” which turned out to contain packets of jasmine rice and Thai egg noodles. Eventually two of the volunteers, tired of prying open rain-splattered lids marked “Coffee and Tea” from previous projects only to find seventeen cans of canneloni beans, orchestrated a mass reorganization of the food supply. From this point on, the bins were lined up so that one proceeded naturally from breakfast to lunch to dinner, with crackers and spreads (the dreaded tar-like Vegemite and, oddly, several jars of Nutella) inserted at random intervals for our convenience.

One of my first tasks on the island was to clean out the fridge, a heavy faux wood paneled contraption stocked with enough grime and bacterial growth to launch biological warfare on our neighbors, if we had had any. Feeling unqualified to drive tent stakes into the grainy coral sand or rig up the oily-black oven range to the canisters of gas for cooking, I dove into my domestic role with gusto, squealing girlishly and calling for bleach and steel wool from the plastic bins clustered under the folding tables, which were designated for cleaning supplies. Plates and silverware lay piled on the tables in white dish racks, along with the all-important black ceramic mugs that prevented anyone having to work in dangerously undercaffeinated conditions. A gradual parade of garbage bags were tethered to the tent ropes and fluttered in the breeze next to the single heaviest item on the island — the monstrous blue barrel from which we pumped all of our drinking and cooking water. This barrel, and its two replacements, required at least three people to sacrifice their arms, shoulders, hips and backs to the task of budging the precious water one square inch at a time until at least the high water mark, so it wouldn’t be swept back out onto the reef during the next high tide.

For our dining comfort, olive-colored plastic backyard tables and chairs were arranged over a crinkly Astroturf-colored tarp, which shielded our feet from the pebbles and burrs and vines that exacted small sacrifices from heels and toes when we went walking around the island (particularly for late night bathroom visits). We attempted to keep the tarp clean with small handheld brushes, which generally succeeded in dispersing millions of grains of sand, tracked in from our wetsuit booties, into less conspicuous piles. Heather, who had recently returned from a Peace Corps stint in Africa, was reminded of the women there who spent hours stooped in the sun, swiping with wiry brooms at their front porches. My technique was to get onto my knees and whisk furiously, chasing the sand until it fell off the edge of the tarp into the patches of leaves peeking out from underneath. Then I would stand up, triumphant, the skin of my knees dented with the imprints of the tarp-lines.

We spent hours upon hours gathered underneath the marquee in various configurations — all ten of us crowded around the two tables, dabbing ourselves with iodine like tribespeople adorning themselves with ceremonial paint; the two Aboriginal boys tugging at my journal while I sketched coral specimens from wildlife books and diving reference cards and eventually taking over the drawing themselves; one very wild game of Charades in which the opening depiction was “Debbie Does Dallas”; and the ten of us sleepily sipping ground coffee and pouring dried fruit into our cereal bowls to liven up our soggy-cardboard Weetbix cereal while trying to block out the shrill squeals of two juvenile seagulls pestering their mother for their own breakfast…

Travis was the first to call our humble tent set-up the “al fresco dining area”, pronouncing the word “doining” with his impenetrably thick Southern Australian drawl. It might behoove the Australian government, in the interest of future tourism, to add a symbol for “al fresco dining” to the official Ingram Island National Park sign on the shoreline — that is, if camping were not prohibited for all except those lucky enough to be conducting research on the Great Barrier Reef.

The cat greets me at the door, plaintively mewing and circling my legs with its silky grey tail. I know what it wants. I proceed to the bottom right hand drawer of the pantry, precisely following the flowery handwritten directions on personalized stationary featuring my best friend’s mother in cheery cartoon form, playing golf. I have not pet-sat this cat before, but I know him well — his name is Tyler, but I have affectionately christened him Klepto after his charming habit of swiping any morsel of food from every conceivable location, including carelessly abandoned lunch bags on the kitchen counter, the microwave, and the dog’s food bowl. He is a soft, furry vacuum cleaner with whiskers, and it has not taken him long to figure out that I am the Food Lady. I scoop out a cup of dry pellets into his bowl, and sit back on the couch as he eagerly pounces on his evening meal.

But as I am pulling out my book, Tyler bounds up to the couch and inserts his head between my eyes and Chapter 14, purring fanatically and rubbing his head against the pages before sticking his nose in my face. I put the book down and pet his head, his back, his pudgy stomach, as he soaks in high pitched compliments about how he is a good cat, and a pretty cat, and a VERY pretty cat, and so on. After several luxurious minutes of star treatment, Tyler leaps off the sofa and attacks his dinner in the corridor. I chuckle and return to my chapter, but not before marveling that even a basically solitary cat who clearly thinks with his stomach chose to seek affection and touch before satiating his hunger.

Touch is powerful, not only for its ability to foster and cement relationships, but also in its transformative abilities in producing physical-emotional states. Touch can be welcoming, rebuffing, exciting (in various ways), and, frequently, calming. The most effective way to calm a crying infant is to cradle it, regardless of why it is crying. For those of us too big for cradling (at least physically) we might appreciate a firm handshake, a pat on the shoulder, a gentle hand on the back, or a hug, depending on our culture and experiences with touch, as well as our ability to handle the sensory input of physical closeness.

Not being able to handle touch can have dramatic consequences. Babies who arch their backs and stiffen when held by their parents miss out on opportunities to feel mutual closeness and love, prerequisites for learning and functioning in society. Kids who react over-dramatically to being bumped into or poked, however innocently, tend to have difficulty interpreting social cues accurately and making friends. I’ve worked with autistic children who screamed when clothing or fingertips lightly brushed their skin, but who offered their arms so that I could forcefully squeeze and compress the flesh around their elbow and wrist joints (a technique I learned from the occupational therapist). Many of them disliked the squirmy, hot hugs they received from their parents and teachers, but happily wore weighted vests that provided the same sense of deep pressure. They enjoyed the feeling, but missed out on the communicative nature of touch, the aliveness of it. I was always searching for ways to connect with these children who were so sequestered in their own private sensory worlds, and if I could just find the touch they would tolerate, it would often become the bridge.

So perhaps it was not surprising when my Ingram Island identity emerged to revolve around touch — in this case, the way I handled the turtles. By the end of Day 3, the other volunteers had begun to call me the Turtle Whisperer.

For several days into our sojourn on the island (people always picture Survivor when I say “on the island”) I was still reeling from the many new and anxiety-provoking aspects of daily life and work with the turtles. To this point, I’d successfully survived a rocky and seasickness-inducing boat ride, several hours of unloading heavy cargo without dropping it into the ocean or on vulnerably exposed extremities, and using the Coral Sea as my own private (I hoped) bathroom without falling into the ocean, which I can safely say is the largest toilet I will ever use. I’d constructed my sarcophagus-with-a-convenient-side-zipper of a tent and planted it, more or less, in a suitable location. I’d even cajoled, massaged, pushed and eventually jammed my body into the confines of a borrowed wetsuit that would protect my legs from errant turtle flippers and beaks, as well as provide a buffer against coldness and salt spray, both of which I managed to enjoy copious amounts anyway.

As we zipped around the reefs on hardy metal catch-boats, I perched rigidly on the bench in the back, gripping the sides as we careened between outcroppings of coral and beach rock, and sideswiped waves. I told myself, rather unconvincingly, that Ian was the more careful of the drivers (or as Sam would put it — Turtle 2 was the slower and wimpier boat!) and therefore I did not need to worry. I was too disoriented to recognize the few stray landmarks surrounding us — lumpy Coombe Island and its outstretched reef flat, skinny, furry-looking Beanley Island (the fur, upon closer examination, turned out to be a dense forest of mangroves) and rocky, stubbly Ingram Island itself, framed by the hazy distant mountains of the Australian coast. The view was better standing up front, feet firmly dug into the seat cushion as I squinted aimlessly through the churning blue-green water for turtles, but I was unpracticed in the art of telling turtles and rocks apart (turtles move, rocks don’t) and my attention was rather absorbed by clinging on for dear life, besides.

My ability to function helpfully was little better on solid ground. During the unpacking process, I lifted and heaved and carried plastic bins and nudged water drums ineffectually with my shoulders, then wandered abashedly on the outskirts of the marquee tent as people who knew what they were doing fiddled with tent poles and ropes and stakes. Then I tackled a far more domestic project — cleaning the refridgerator. I delved into my role with gusto, girlishly exclaiming at the filth and calling for a better scrubber and bleach. (Vicious mutated flesh-eating cold storage microbes: 0, Lisa: Billions!) I washed dishes and cups, too, relieved to be doing something that probably wouldn’t kill anyone if I got it wrong somehow (at least not right away). Still, I was desperate to excel at a task that did not involve cleaning or especially cooking, as I was barely domestic enough to boil water and heat something in the microwave at the same time.

So when our day’s catches lay flopped on their backs on the sand, ready for processing, I was eager to get started. I had volunteered on a turtle project two years prior, and knew my way around a tape measure and clipboard. I even correctly anticipated what occurred as soon as we approached the animals — sheets of delicate coral sand flying into our faces and clothes, churned up by the powerful flippers of turtles trying unsuccessfully to turn themselves over. I had weathered many turtle-generated sandstorms on St. Croix, mostly while trying to cling to the back flippers of 800 pound leatherbacks long enough to read their rusty metal tags by faint red flashlight. These turtles, a mixture of hawksbills and greens, were much smaller, and were more likely to give you a nasty scratch with their flipper than to break your bone with it. Still, scratches were highly unwelcome, considering that the group had already used up its entire injury quota on Ian’s toes, and it was quite difficult for skin to heal with continuous exposure to salt water.

So Travis stepped forward and pressed down firmly on one turtle’s neck, quieting it instantly the way Ian had told us (”Just press down on its neck like this… oh, and it works on me too, when I get agitated.”) Its flippers sank back down toward the sand, and its head drooped. The turtle had gone into a classic yoga rest pose. Travis stepped back, his mission accomplished, and wandered off to assist in setting up the other equipment. Over the course of two weeks working together, we developed a highly efficient turtle processing center on the sand, with several volunteers wielding tape measures and calipers, another two manning clipboards, one or two people strapping turtles into the harness or rope to be lifted and weighed, and finally the open-air laparoscopic unit (more on that later). With ten people fluttering around, kneeling beside turtles and shouting out complicated alphanumeric codes to the clipboard holders — CCW! CCL! Plastron to vent! 18.4! — things could become quite uncomfortable if the turtles suddenly realized that no, they were not quite IN the ocean where they belonged, and began to flap. Plus, without anthropomorphizing the creatures too much, it was certainly possible that their health could be adversely affected if they felt stress, and by getting them to calm down, we were minimizing any damage that being a research subject might cause.

Not long after Travis calmed the first turtle did another raise up its head and furiously beat its flippers against the sand. Aside from new hatchlings, who are downright acrobatic, turtles cannot flip themselves over once they are on their backs. Their flippers and tail dangle from their shell and can only flail about ineffectually, a fact taken advantage of by turtle hunters and poachers, who might leave the turtles lying on their backs for days at a time. (We only kept our turtles on the beach for a few hours, at the most.) Noticing the frenetic movements of the turtle, I stepped forward to attempt the turtle Vulcan neck press. I took the palm of my hand and pressed down on the turtle’s wide, wrinkly neck, and watched with delight as the turtle’s head dropped back and its large glassy eyes began to close. It had really worked!
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The night before I departed for Australia, my parents returned from a shopping trip with a perky yellow handheld GPS unit, which they gleefully presented to me to “use on the trip”. When I protested that I wasn’t THAT direction-impaired, they giggled nervously and backpedaled — “Oh, it’s for the whole family, of course. We just figured, since you’re going and we happen to have it…”

a perky yellow handheld photo of the GPS, taken from the product’s website

I am, in fact, not the swiftest, navigationally speaking. I dread field trips to large, complicated places like the Museum of Natural History — despite it being one of my favorite places to visit — because I fear accidentally steering my students into an inappropriate area (two words: GIFT SHOP) or going down the same set of stairs four times while searching for the exit. I’d be giving them extra exercise, of course, but after about the third time they’d likely catch on that I was kind of an idiot. Still, I study the maps, I take along another chaperone who isn’t spatially fuzzy, and I manage. To this day I’ve never gotten a group lost.

My sense of direction does seem to improve (to a point) when I’m abroad, possibly because I’m less ashamed to be seen in public engaging in a prolonged staring contest with a city map. It’s probably clear from the silly hat and sunburn that I’m a tourist anyway (well… everywhere except the Northern Territory) so I choose to be an obvious tourist who at least isn’t wandering around lost, dehydrated, and delusional. Those do abound, which is the only way I can explain the proliferation of furry faux leather koala keychains proudly sold in Australian gift shops under bright orange signs that say “Classy Gifts! 2 for $3!!” In Cairns, there were even ones that had GREAT BARRIER REEF printed on them — because if you’re not careful, you get eaten alive by koalas out there. They’re attracted by the snorkel tubes.

I never used the GPS, of course. Not for navigation, anyway. I poked around inside its electronic innards to test it out, like Consumer Reports, and started tagging silly waypoints like my hotel bathroom. Though that never quite worked, since the pesky thing would have a tantrum if you tried to use it indoors. This eventually led to some difficulty — in Kakadu, I had to stand well outside my little lodge to get a clear satellite signal, so the (very capable) guide spotted me and wanted to know exactly how little confidence I had in his ability to get us through the park without becoming hopelessly lost. I tried to convince him that I was just tooling around, but I don’t think he believed me. So Gary, if you ever get to see this, I never doubted you. Even if you told me it was safe to swim in that one water hole because there were no fish for crocodiles to feed on, and I counted at least THREE fish. We’re all entitled to one mistake, yeah?

After a day or so on Ingram Island, I remembered that the GPS was in my bag. Going into my bags on the island always felt like opening birthday presents, because I had to dig through layers of wrapping to get to the contents and was often pleasantly surprised at what I found. “Oh boy, a pair of pants not marinated in salt water! Just what I wanted!” Some days, especially towards the end, it was like a garage sale — I just browsed, hoping to find something that wasn’t junk. A GPS sort of qualified as “not junk”.

I dutifully tagged my tent’s location (S 14° 25.055′, E 144° 52.770′) for posterity, noting that even when I zoomed out as far as possible (an 800 mile radius, I believe) the nearest waypoint barely grazed the edge of the screen. And, the GPS didn’t know of any path back to my last known position.

For all intents and purposes, according to the GPS, I was lost.

That made sense to me. I felt a little lost.

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