I finally found a turnout, three or so miles north of Banks, and pulled out. At this point I made a most egregious error in judgment. I had directions, and I knew I was north of where I needed to be, but I decided to plug in the GPS and let it lead me. I know that the GPS can’t find our house, and I know that it couldn’t find Rowdi’s daycare place, but I decided that it would be able to get me to the log cabin in the mountains. Of course, had I plugged in the GPS when I left home, it would have told me exactly where the forest road in question was, and I would not have ended up on my little death-defying mountain adventure.
I put in the address of the cabin, and the GPS told me to go north on 55. I knew — KNEW — that it was wrong, because Banks was south, and I had missed a turn at Banks, but I figured, eh. It knows what it’s doing. Never trust a computer over your gut, peeps.
I drove another sixteen or seventeen miles north, almost turning around at several pullouts, and I reached a spot I recognized. I spotted the inn that sits off the highway where we exited the river on our white water rafting trip. It felt good to recognize a place after putting my body into stress overdrive. The GPS directed me across a one-lane bridge, and I thought, “Huh. It seems like I should be farther south of here, but it’s taking me into the mountains, and I know I’m going to a cabin in the mountains… so this must just be an alternate route, and I’ll come at it from the north. That’s fine, as long as I get there.” I could see the route the GPS was plotting — a big, curvy route that went up and around and then back south. By this point, I knew that I most definitely should have turned around at the pullout, because the GPS was taking me so far out of the way. Still, the little piece of crap told me that I had sixteen miles to my destination, and I figured it would be twenty on the highway if I turned around, so this would be faster.
After the one-lane bridge, the GPS had me turn right onto Packer John Road. Let me tell you: If you are ever in Idaho, and your GPS tells you to drive on Packer John Road, throw that little punk out the window (after you smash it with a baseball bat). I happily drove onto the dirt road and decided to call Frank on my cell.
SARAHK: Hey, sweetie.
FRANK: Hey, how’s it going?
SARAHK: Well, the directions were bad, so I’m using the GPS. I’m on a tiny dirt road in the middle of nowhere, and I still have phone service!
Click. I promptly lost phone service. Immediately after that, I noticed that the road was ascending and had become much more narrow. One side mountain, the other side river / ravine. Awesome.
To be continued…