Rue Takes the Straight Line Through the Thicket
Rue had practiced with a compass for three weeks, so when the whistle blew at her first orienteering meet, she felt completely prepared for whatever the course might demand. The county park map showed a dozen purple circles, each marking a flag that she had to find and punch with a small clipper. The first flag sat about four hundred steps away, beyond a green smudge that the legend identified as dense undergrowth.
Her coach had advised her that morning to go around anything that looked difficult. But Rue dismissed the memory immediately, reasoning that a straight line was the shortest line and that her compass would keep her on it. She plunged into the thicket. Brambles snagged her sleeves. The ground sank into muddy hollows. Ten minutes later she had no idea whether she was still facing north, because the clearing she expected had never appeared.
She stopped, breathing hard, and studied the map again until she noticed a thin blue line running beside the thicket, which represented a creek. Coach Dalton called such features handrails, since a runner could follow them the way a person follows a railing along a staircase. Rue turned around, forced her way back through the brambles, and reached the creek bank within two minutes. She followed the water until a bend matched the map, then turned left at a boulder. There the flag hung from a branch, orange and white and wonderfully ordinary.
She finished the course in last place, forty minutes behind the winner, with scratched arms and a card full of punches. Coach Dalton shook her hand anyway. He remarked that she had found every flag and that next time she would find them faster, because she now understood why the map bothers to draw a creek.