For several years a GPS-generated 911 map misplaced my home and kingdom about seven miles, plopping it in Mrs. VanFookstra's soybean field. No big problem. It might have even thrown off a few pests wanting to cold-call me for 20-pay-life or a surefire way of getting St. Peter to punch my ticket.
It was worse for the Canadian couple who decided to trust their GPS gizmo to get themselves to Jackpot, Nevada.
The cops found Rita about seven weeks later, drinking from a creek and wondering how long the last bag of trail mix would last. They're still looking for Albert.
As a public service TMR renews certain of its motoring suggestions: Consult a good paper map. When in doubt ask ol' Zeke at the Conoco station. Look out the damn window once in a while.
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