Heading for a car trip out of town five weeks ago, I scrambled around in the back seat of my car. Unlike many other people today, I still use an atlas, and I wanted to make sure it was handy.
Like most atlases, ours (mine) is beat up and creased, with pages torn out even though it is only a few years old. For some reason, atlases take a pounding.
People scoff when I tell them I still use an atlas. Obviously, GPS is the way to go, and using Google Maps on your mobile device is the technologically astute way to navigate unknown terrain or highly complex urban environments with significant traffic and construction. I fully understand the benefits of tracking the most up-to-date information, but still reject it in favor of pondering over a large piece of paper.
The atlas just feels good. It is comfortable, like a good pair of shoes and a hot cup of your favorite coffee. You savor it, feel it, and absorb the terrain visually and mentally. The atlas is a journey onto itself.
You lose that as you begin to choose electronic directions as your modus operandi. The first restriction is a simple one: Your field of vision is restricted.
Rather than having some big pages to look at and let your eyes wander over, you are scrunch your field of vision into a one-inch by two-inch (or slightly bigger) area. That’s no fun.
The second restriction is on your imagination. One of the joys of opening up the atlas is the broad sense of travel it gives you. The possibilities are almost endless.
You can roam across northwest Nebraska, trying to find a town. The Cascade Mountain Range in Oregon beckons. That leads you to towns on the eastern side of the mountains and wondering what it would be like to visit.
This wandering fantasy leads you from state to state, across rivers, through national forests and past national borders. Highways, parks, golf courses and monuments pop up for your consideration.
You can stop anywhere and explore the atlas more deeply. Go from the state map to the city map. You’ll find more details. The local museum is at your fingertips. If you need a hospital, there it is. If it’s the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia you seek, it’s right in front of you.
The atlas gives you an expansive perspective. It’s a much larger better projection of the U.S., Canada, Mexico or other countries compared to the small screen of your phone or GPS. You see the big picture, not the little one, literally and figuratively.
Finally, maps teach you about directions. You learn to navigate on your own. I’ve taught all our kids to use it, and when the electric grid goes down and the lights go out, they’ll still be able to figure out which roads to take. They won’t be blind.
It’s great to believe in the power of our modern electric infrastructure, but who knows what storm, war or other cataclysmic event might someday send all that information down the tubes. If that happens, it’s best to be ready so you can get to Point B from Point A and not end up in Chattanooga when you wanted to arrive at Tallahassee.
With an atlas, you dig in and learn. When the GPS or Google is talking to you, you’re being told. You’re captive. I’d rather be active, figuring it out on my own, or having my kids analyze routes. Give me an atlas any day.
Like most atlases, ours (mine) is beat up and creased, with pages torn out even though it is only a few years old. For some reason, atlases take a pounding.
People scoff when I tell them I still use an atlas. Obviously, GPS is the way to go, and using Google Maps on your mobile device is the technologically astute way to navigate unknown terrain or highly complex urban environments with significant traffic and construction. I fully understand the benefits of tracking the most up-to-date information, but still reject it in favor of pondering over a large piece of paper.
The atlas just feels good. It is comfortable, like a good pair of shoes and a hot cup of your favorite coffee. You savor it, feel it, and absorb the terrain visually and mentally. The atlas is a journey onto itself.
You lose that as you begin to choose electronic directions as your modus operandi. The first restriction is a simple one: Your field of vision is restricted.
Rather than having some big pages to look at and let your eyes wander over, you are scrunch your field of vision into a one-inch by two-inch (or slightly bigger) area. That’s no fun.
The second restriction is on your imagination. One of the joys of opening up the atlas is the broad sense of travel it gives you. The possibilities are almost endless.
You can roam across northwest Nebraska, trying to find a town. The Cascade Mountain Range in Oregon beckons. That leads you to towns on the eastern side of the mountains and wondering what it would be like to visit.
This wandering fantasy leads you from state to state, across rivers, through national forests and past national borders. Highways, parks, golf courses and monuments pop up for your consideration.
You can stop anywhere and explore the atlas more deeply. Go from the state map to the city map. You’ll find more details. The local museum is at your fingertips. If you need a hospital, there it is. If it’s the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia you seek, it’s right in front of you.
The atlas gives you an expansive perspective. It’s a much larger better projection of the U.S., Canada, Mexico or other countries compared to the small screen of your phone or GPS. You see the big picture, not the little one, literally and figuratively.
Finally, maps teach you about directions. You learn to navigate on your own. I’ve taught all our kids to use it, and when the electric grid goes down and the lights go out, they’ll still be able to figure out which roads to take. They won’t be blind.
It’s great to believe in the power of our modern electric infrastructure, but who knows what storm, war or other cataclysmic event might someday send all that information down the tubes. If that happens, it’s best to be ready so you can get to Point B from Point A and not end up in Chattanooga when you wanted to arrive at Tallahassee.
With an atlas, you dig in and learn. When the GPS or Google is talking to you, you’re being told. You’re captive. I’d rather be active, figuring it out on my own, or having my kids analyze routes. Give me an atlas any day.