26 Nature Lovers

Chapter 26 NATURE LOVERS As the RV pulled out of the parking lot, Coke and Pep sat in stunned silence. "Wasn't that fun, kids?" Mrs. McDonald rhapsodized. "I had a fabulous time!" "Yeah," Pep said glumly. "Fun." The World of Coca-Cola hadn't been that much fun for Coke, especially when he was nearly shredded into tiny pieces and recycled into lawn furniture. They got on I-75 heading north out of Atlanta and rode it for fifty-eight long miles, then took the exit for Route 140 West. As they were driving through Chattahoochee National Forest—up in the northwest corner of Georgia—the GPS suddenly stopped working.

NO SIGNAL, it said. Dr. McDonald had a pretty good sense of direction, and he enjoyed reading maps. But like most people, after he got a GPS he became dependent on it. "How are we going to find the campground now?" he asked nobody in particular. "I don't know where I'm going. It's getting dark." "Don't worry, Ben," said Mrs. McDonald. "We'll find the campground. I'll call them on the cell if we have to, and they'll direct us." "This thing is a rip-off," Dr. McDonald said, giving the portable GPS a little slap with his hand. "It's supposed to cover the entire continental United States." Coke and Pep, with problems of their own, hadn't been paying much attention. But when he heard the letters GPS, Coke looked up. "Did you just say the GPS isn't working?" he asked. "It's not getting a signal out here in the boonies," said his father. "It thinks we're in

Siberia or someplace." "Dad is worried that we're lost," said Mrs. McDonald. "We're not lost!" shouted Dr. McDonald, who never considered himself lost. Being lost is a sign of weakness. Being lost isn't "manly." Coke and Pep looked at each other. If the GPS in the car wasn't getting a signal, neither would the GPS chip that had been implanted in their scalps. That would mean Evil Elvis wouldn't be able to find them. So they were safe. For a while, anyway. "This is beautiful country out here," Pep noted, gazing at the trees passing by. "Maybe we should stay here for a few days." "Or the rest of our lives," added Coke. They continued on, with Dr. McDonald getting progressively more apprehensive as each mile went by. Then, just when the forest came to an end, Mrs. McDonald noticed a little street sign on the left: SLOPPY FLOYD LAKE ROAD. "Take a left here, Ben!" she said, just before

they reached the intersection. She knew she was right, because three miles down the road, nestled in a picturesque little valley near Summerville, Georgia, was the campground where she had made a reservation for the night—James H. "Sloppy" Floyd State Park. "This is the place," Mrs. McDonald said as she hopped out of the RV. "Sloppy Floyd State Park?" asked Pep. "What's up with that?" "He was a Georgia politician," Coke inexplicably remembered from an article he had read in Newsweek. "He served in the Georgia House of Representatives from to 1953 to 1974." "You have no right to know that!" Pep shouted. "Nobody should know that kind of stuff!" "I thought everybody knew that," Coke replied. Dr. McDonald found the registration office

and parked the RV. It was getting late and everyone was tired, so the McDonalds just had a quick snack instead of dinner and got ready for bed. Knowing they were out of GPS range, Coke and Pep were able to sleep easy. There would be no middle-of-the-night visitors wearing Elvis masks or bowler hats. No secret messages to decode. No traps or large objects falling on top of them from high places. "They can't find us here," Coke said to his sister just before dropping off to sleep. In the morning, Mrs. McDonald made pancakes for everyone and they ate outside at a picnic table. Camping in a state park is a little different from the usual RV campground. More trees. More nature. Fewer people. "Isn't it beautiful here?" Mrs. McDonald said, taking in a deep breath of clean air. "So quiet and peaceful." "Do we have to leave right away?" asked Pep. "Can't we stay here awhile?"

"Yeah, we should move here permanently," said Coke. "Actually, your mother and I thought it would be fun to do a little birding here before we got back on the road. The state park is known for birding." "Hunting for birds?" said Coke. "Cool. Do we eat what we kill?" "Birding is not hunting," said Mrs. McDonald sternly. "You watch the birds. Through binoculars." I should mention here that Coke knew perfectly well that birding did not mean hunting and killing birds. Sometimes he just liked saying obnoxious things to annoy his parents. I'm sure you can relate. "Watching birds?" he asked. "What's the point of that?" "To appreciate the beauty of our winged friends," his father explained. "I'd rather appreciate the taste of my winged friends," said Coke.