The following article appeared in the Inverness (Scotland) Daily Record on Aug. 17th:
"FOOL CIRCLE: Huge search called off after rambler is found 300 yds away."
A lost rambler who sparked a major search operation turned up just 300 yards from where he set off.
"Robert Goodman, 22, from Chicago, strode off without a map or compass Tuesday evening in Glenmore, near Aviemore, to walk about 10 miles back to to a small hostel at Nethybridge where he was staying.
"But he couldn't find the way on a relatively easy walk in the Cairngorm foothills and when darkness fell, he decided to bed down for the remainder of the night on open moorland.
"'It was absolutely freezing out there,' said a visibly shaken Robert. 'I had to sleep with my head in my backpack to conserve warmth.'
"He set off again yesterday morning but found himself wandering in circles.
"The alarm had been raised and Cairngorm and RAF Kinloss Mountain Rescue Teams with an RAF Lossiemouth helicopter crew mounted a search.
"Surprisingly, Robert Goodman was spotted just 300 yards from his starting point at Glenmore lodge.
"The leader of the mountain rescue team, John Allen, said he feared the area would see many more such incidents when the Cairngorm National Park opened and attracted an influx of inexperienced ramblers.
"However, he said he would not criticize Goodman.
"Mr Allen said: 'Goodman is not a mountaineer.' He is a tourist who thought Scotland was a small country and he would not get lost.'"
Now I want to be absolutely clear about this. In the past, I've been known to take certain liberties with the truth in this space. But I seriously did not make any of that up. Yes, a few details are incorrect--I'm 19, and from Boston, not Chicago--the British tabloid press was never noted for accuracy. Still, the salient point remains: the word "moron" is far too kind for me. Maybe "infra-sub-moron." Completely, totally, irrevocably.
And the article I cited doesn't even tell the whole story. It doesn't tell how I panicked when I lost the (relatively easy) path about a mile out of town and a good hour before sunset. It doesn't tell how, instead of calmly retracing my path, I started screaming for help like a little girl and running down the hill into the nearest valley.
It neglects to mention how I seriously considered the possibility of chasing down and eating a sheep when my food supply started running low. It omits the next morning, when I thought it would be a good idea to follow a river back into town and ended up with two boots full of ice-cold water. And, finally, it does not see fit to note that to this day I still can't feel my big toe.
I set all of this down today not because I'm one of those narcicissts who likes to write about himself in The Chronicle. I am, but that's not the point. The point is that I want to issue a stern rebuke to the entire Duke Undergraduate Admissions Office:
How the hell did you let me into college? Somebody screwed up big-time.
I think you'll agree that the article I cited goes far beyond your standard case of smart-kid-with-no-common-sense. I mean, did you miss the drool spots on my application or did you just ignore them? The only other explanation I can come up with is that my parents are secretly rich and paid for the construction of the WEL or something.
Either way, my moronity conclusively proves that the Admissions Office is either grossly incompetent or grossly corrupt. And someone needs to be held accountable.
I've never met Christoph Guttentag, director of Duke admissions, and I'm sure he's a very nice man. But he needs to be fired right now. And with that, I hereby expel myself from Duke. If you'll excuse me, I'm off to eat a sheep.
Rob Goodman is a Trinity junior. His column appears every third Thursday.
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