Breath of Life sculpture of Chetwynd British Columbia.

The man is losing it.

I’ve gotten used to Steve firing up our GPS, Faith, to drive to places that he could find in his sleep. I concentrate on my puzzles and block out her prattling every name ever assigned to each highway. When he ignores her pleas to “turn around when possible,” I console myself: better her than me.
But for our trip to Newfoundland, Steve decided that we would listen to Faith and the truck’s built-in GPS’ in tandem.  A month-long duet of “route recalculation” and “turn around when possible?”

Yes, absolutely, a second opinion would double our chances of finding the best route for our 8,000 mile journey.

Great, I buried my derision in a Sudoku book to muffle the electronic bickering and Steve’s angst over discrepancies.

On a few occasions the redundancy actually did come in handy for finding a park, café, or campground that one or the other  GPS couldn’t.  Still it wasn’t until our last stop of the trip that I would have had to eat my words had I said much of the above out loud. The built-in swore that the nearest campground was 72 miles away, but Faith listed a lovely little municipal campsite on a lake in Ellis, 7 miles down the road. I was so ecstatic to get off the highway and into such a pleasant little park that I took all my flak back—not out loud of course.