Recently on a dark, rainy evening, GPS led me astray. I set out for a meeting with some friends. The route to their house is not difficult, but in the rain, I missed a turn. There was traffic behind me and no place to pull over, so I drove on for awhile.

When at last I could turn around, my location was a mystery. Being the modern guy that I am, I pulled out my phone, opened a map app, and put in my desired destination, confident that GPS would guide me.

The helpful British voice told me to turn right onto a certain road. I slowed down, saw the desired road sign, and obediently turned right. It was a dirt road, but wide and flat and well-maintained, so I drove on.

The GPS said I was five minutes away from my destination. I had 10 minutes to get there. Life was good. The road narrowed a little, sloped upward, and became a bit rough, but I drove on, certain all was well.

Then the road became muddy. It would have been smart to stop, turn around, and go back the way I’d come, but there was now a steep drop off to the left and the road was not really wide enough to turn around.

I crested the hill. The green line on the GPS said continue straight.

“Keep going,” I told myself. “You’ll be back on a paved road soon.”

In the gloom, there was something ahead.  I stopped, got out, and walked forward to see. Wow. It was a sharp dip that was impassible.

Long story short, I abandoned the car, walked out, and called my daughter to come get me.

The next day, I returned, walked in, and tried to turn around. What I did was get the car mired up to the frame in thick, unforgiving mud. Grrrr.

The following day, I hired a tow truck to pull me out. The truck, however, couldn’t make it up the muddy hill. The driver said, “How did you manage to drive up this?”

“GPS,” I said, which didn’t really answer his question.

Filled with despair, I imagined this winter, snowshoeing in once a week to say hello to my car and let it know we’re thinking of it.

The grandson of a friend volunteered to drive his tractor up and get the car out. And he did. With a small tribe of friends and family walking behind, he slipped and slid his way up the long hill, pulled my car out of the mud, got it turned around, and towed it down to terra firma.

Though he is only in his twenties, his skill with a tractor is beyond admirable. I was willing to pay any amount he named, but he refused payment. His kindness – and the fact I won’t have to make weekly visits to a frozen car – has lightened my mood considerably.