Nicholas Carr recently said we’re (yes, the Royal We) too connected to the media these days. This idea glares at me every time I decide to enter what passes for a Drinking Warehouse: a high-ceiling echo-chamber with twenty-four different televised sporting events, juke-box blaring, everyone at the said tables text-messaging one and all, and some server asking if you’ve decided on some kind of buffalo wild wing and ranch sauce. In these situations I often find myself saying, “Steaaady… just go with the flow… eaaaaAAAaaasy…”

There are marked disparities in the City and the non-City, and how one looks at such an idea of media bombardment: this past Friday while out on archaeological fieldwork I realized the difference in being, as they say, linked in the City as opposed to being linked while out on a geological finger-ridge in the McKenzie County badlands. From the top of a butte (where cell phone reception and signature was excellent), I called the office and said, “This is what I see, but my topographic map in front of me doesn’t look the same… I gave up my areal map to the biology crew cause they didn’t have time to print one… Help me figure out where I am…”

It was approximately 5pm, I was about 7 miles from the truck, hadn’t eaten for seven hours, was with a couple ounces of water left, a four inch pocket knife, and all while realizing that Mountain Lions start hunting for snacks at dusk. I kept my psychological cool, and had the Bismarck office tell me how to switch my GPS unit to read degrees-minutes-seconds. I had degrees-minutes-seconds coordinates in front of me, on paper, but needed the GPS to communicate my location in that language as well. I returned to 19th Century German philosophy by way of Nietzsche, and thought “Yes, Language is power.” Or was it Francis Bacon who first said it? Who cares. Among other phrases, I think of this often. GPS language is equally powerful, at least in the sense of knowing it enables an individual to use such a language.

By this point, physical fatigue had set in, and I was wavering on heat exhaustion. I didn’t tell this to the Bismarck office: keep it pro, as always. My legs felt wobbly at times, and my forearms started generating a sort of cold sweat. I had to take breaks while ascending the finger-ridge buttes, throwing off my pack, controlling my breathing (f@ck meditation), but more so that I didn’t sound so much like a soft target for potential Mountain Lions (caps is warranted). I could feel my heart beat pump blood through the side of my head. I nursed my water, and whether walking or resting scanned all around me during the entire ordeal : I’ve seen kittens stalk — they like to come in from behind, and go for the throat. Pace… pace… pace. Don’t hurry it. Yes, I eventually made it back after another nine or so miles. The apples in my pick-up cooler never tasted so good, and it re-emphasized the notion that a great meal is not just about fine food. It’s also about how exhausted an individual may be.

When alone, and only armed with a four inch knife (more like a Mountain Lion Tickler), I also thought about how out of context Nicholas Carr’s article would seem to someone in, say, a provincial area of the North American Badlands. While in the city I agree with Carr. While in the Badlands, I think, “F@cking idiot Carr…” Here’s to the telegraph and GPS.