orienteering

Our two totally bewildered grandmas take on LET YOUR COMPASS BE YOUR GUIDE

"WHOOPS," I SAID, PEERING OVER THE edge of the Grand Canyon with a $3.95 compass in my hand. "I think maybe we made a slight miscalculation."

According to the course my orienteering class had plotted, we should have gone straight ahead. But, straight ahead also was straight down several thousand feet of straight down.

"Should we take another look at the map?" photographer Bernadette Heath asked.

Because of our uncanny ability to get lost in Arizona's amazing outback, Bernadette and I were in a typical situation: totally bewildered, but with a magnificent view. When we discovered the Grand Canyon Field Institute offered a class titled "Orienteering: Find Your Way With Map and Compass," we knew it was meant for us.

Knowing well our past history, Arizona Highways agreed to send us two grandmas to the class on one condition: If we got lost and needed to be rescued, under no circumstance were we to reveal we were on assignment. They wanted to maintain their reputation.

Bernadette and I showed up the first day of the two-day class with notebooks in hand and confused looks on our faces. Our classroom was the bottom floor of the old Kolb Studio on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. The structure was built into the side of the Canyon, so our classroom was actually below the Rim. If you must go to school, this was the place to do it. The view out the window was nothing but Grand Canyon vistas and soaring birds.

Jon Sudar, our instructor, 60 years old with white hair and a beard plus a no-nonsense attitude, had taught outdoor classes for more than 25 years. He eyed Bernadette and me suspiciously. He had us pegged, we thought, as a pair who could turn a fun expedition into a life-threatening situation.

Our classmates were a varied group of outdoor enthusiasts. Brad Bennett and Claire Mortley both worked at the Grand Canyon, while Marilyn Brand hailed from Chicago. Bernadette's husband, Bill, was there to watch Jon try to teach Bernadette anything, and Michael Amadei, a doctor at the Grand Canyon Clinic, had enrolled "so I won't end up a patient at my own clinic." Jon promised he could teach us map reading, but I had my doubts. We were an unlikely looking bunch, and I just hoped he was a patient man.

Jon soon had us down on the classroom's old oak floor with a topographic map and compass. If you've never seen one, a topographic map is defined as "representing the surface features of a region." It resembles what happens when you turn a class of kindergarten students loose with some colored pencils and a big piece of rolled-up paper.

Jon started spouting a new language. Words like township, range, intricate surface, and declination all floated, unrecognized, over my head. But when he mentioned "contour lines," I found something familiar.

Jon's warning

Contours are supposed to be wavy brown lines on the map that connect equal points of elevation. What they really do is show what shape your knees will be in by the end of your hike. Lines close together and real wavy mean you can bet you will be limping out of there.

Bernadette loves contours because that type of scenery makes for good photos. But as a writer, I haven't much use for the things and prefer to take a nap while Bernadette climbs all the contour lines she wants by herself.

Jon may have guessed Bernadette and I weren't his brightest students. From time to time, he would look directly at us and repeat very slowly as if explaining to small children: "ALWAYS RETURN TO A KNOWN POINT IF YOU ARE NOT SURE OF YOUR PRESENT LOCATION."

"What if you can't see any known point?" I whispered to Bernadette. She just shrugged, as confused as I was. Obviously Jon didn't get into circumstances where he couldn't recognize a darn thing like we did.

By the time I ate lunch while sitting on the edge of the Grand Canyon with my feet dangling, I was beginning to get at least an inkling of what Jon was talking about. The light bulb in my brain flickered slightly when he said the blue colors on a topo map meant water and the green meant vegetation. What really worried me, though, was what I didn't know. How had I wandered around the Arizona boondocks all these years and not ended up the object of the local search and rescue group? Bernadette and I always managed to get back to our vehicle not too long after dark and considered ourselves fairly skilled. Now we knew the truth: We had survived only by divine intervention.

After lunch Jon tested us. We were given a spot on the topo map to describe, then shown a picture of the actual place. I felt pretty confident when I managed to tell a valley from a hill. Of course the blue water line running down the middle was a pretty big hint.

Next it was outside to the wilds of the parking lot. We lined up in a semicircle with coins near our feet. As tourists stared and cars swerved, we followed a precise bearing around the lot and back to our spot. When I located my nickel, I was as ecstatic as if I'd discovered the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Then Jon had us plot a course for the outhouse. Finally we were getting around to learning the important stuff. For years I had lived by the rule: Always know the shortest route to the facilities.

"People who do not find their assigned point

Satisfied he had drummed at least a smidgen of knowledge into our brains, Jon dismissed us until the next morning when we were to meet for the Big Test that had me so worried. We were to drive to a point deep in the dark, forbidding forest, then by carefully using our new-found skills, find our way back.

This sounded too much like the story of Hansel and Gretel to me, and I planned to stash extra granola bars in my backpack to leave as a trail of crumbs behind me. Also, Jon's warning - "People who do not find their assigned point may have to spend the night in the area" wasn't all that reassuring. I looked to see if he was joking, but I couldn't tell.

The class congregated at 8 A.M., all except Claire and Marilyn who had invented excuses to miss the test. I wondered if they were afraid Jon might make them sleep out, too. We were issued maps with numbered field points and loaded into vehicles. As soon as we left the parking lot, I was turned around.

All was serene and peaceful out in the forest until Jon asked for a volunteer to start the search. I was impressed when Bill Heath offered to find Field Point No. 5, described as being "on one of two oaks clumped with a ponderosa in the south quadrant of a clearing." Bill was the "Prime Reader," and I was assigned as his "Guide On," a fancy title meaning "the one who is told where to go." At least I didn't have to figure out left from right. Bill simply pointed the direction, I walked until he yelled stop, then I waited while he caught up, and we started all over again.

There were dozens of oaks, grass to my knees, flowers blooming

Reader," and I was assigned as his "Guide On," a fancy title meaning "the one who is told where to go." At least I didn't have to figure out left from right. Bill simply pointed the direction, I walked until he yelled stop, then I waited while he caught up, and we started all over again.

The class applauded and cheered like Bill had discovered the Mother Lode when he located a piece of rusty wire around an oak tree. The other students took their turns as leader as we tramped over hills and down gullies, locating elusive metal plates and wires. I trailed along behind the group followed by a screeching jay that was probably eating my granola crumb trail. When Jon pointed out fresh mountain lion "sign," I forgot about leaving a trail and concentrated on keeping up.

So far I had managed not to be Prime Reader. I thought maybe Jon hadn't noticed, but, no, he was too sharp for that. He said, "Janet, why don't you lead us to Field Point 8?"

Field Point 8 was a boundary marker sticking a couple of inches out of the ground next to "an oak on the east lip of a drainage, about 20 feet from the bottom, near the metal pipe marking the found corner in Township 30, Range 4E, Section 21." I got lost just reading the directions.

The one advantage of being the leader was bossing someone around, so I picked Bernadette and sent her climbing arroyos and boulders, not all of which were really necessary. To my amazement, using the map and compass wasn't all that hard, and I actually arrived at Field Point 8, happy, until I realized I couldn't find the boundary marker.

There were dozens of oaks, grass to my knees, flowers blooming everywhere, but no metal marker. This was embarrassing. All of the others had located their points. I frantically searched like a kid on an Easter egg hunt but finally admitted defeat and asked for help. To my delight, even Jon couldn't find that marker.

It was while we were dutifully searching for a wire next to Boundary Marker 7496 at an elevation of 7,490 feet that we stumbled on the Grand Canyon. It wasn't on our plotted course, but it was a majestic sight, and we stopped to rest and enjoy it. Somehow the Grand Canyon seemed even more beautiful when our small group was the only one there.

Reluctantly we remembered Jon's RETURN TO LAST KNOWN LOCATION admonition and backtracked until we recognized a meadow and got headed in the right direction. When we were near the footings for William Randolph Hearst's old summer cabin, a miracle happened. I found the marker we were looking for. Like a thirdgrader who finally knows the answer to a teacher's question, I waved my arms and jumped up and down, trying to get Jon's attention. He signaled for me to keep quiet until the rest of the group caught up. I was vindicated. I had actually found what I was looking for. My pride was restored.

On the last leg, literally and figuratively, of the trek, I stopped to jot down a few notes, and when I looked up, no one was in sight. My first reaction was panic, but then I remembered I was a Trained Orienteer. I looked at my map, took my bearings, and headed more to the east. Before long I heard someone talking just Ahead of me, and I found my group. I must have been gone at least three minutes, but no one had even missed me.

Jon had been right all along. It took patience, and we made a few mistakes, but he taught Bernadette and me to read a map and compass. Now, if we could only find our way back to the motel and a hot meal.

Author's Note: For information on classes offered by the Grand Canyon Field Institute, contact them at P.O. Box 399, Grand Canyon, AZ 86023; (520) 638-2485.

Snowflake-based Janet Farnsworth has seen a good part of Arizona that she never intended to view - just because she was lost. She hopes after this orienteering class, she can purposely find the scenic spots.

Bernadette Heath says her life has taken a new direction since she learned to use a compass. She lives in Chandler Heights.