The first year we were here, early in winter, I lost my phone. We’d just returned home for the evening that night and I, certain that I’d dropped it on the mile-long trail between camp and the Jeep, took My Native’s phone and a headlight, and traced and retraced my steps while calling and re-calling the phone with an ear to the wind.
I gave it up for lost, bought a new phone, and forgot about it. Then, that spring, while the snow was melting, My Native went outside to empty the ash bucket from the woodstove, where he noticed the unmistakable glint of an iphone screen. I had lost it while squatting to relieve my bladder, where it had fallen from the back pocket of my jeans.
It had — incredibly — worked when we plugged it in. It was a little warped, and the battery didn’t hold up so well, but after a winter covered in snow, urine, and ash, it worked. There are some powerful product testaments, but I don’t know that Apple Computer is ready for “I pissed on my phone all winter and it still worked!”
It should suffice to say that I’ve been assiduous about checking my pockets from there on, and between squatting in the woods and general city dwelling, am generally rigorous about phone and wallet.
Until a few days ago, when I discovered my wallet missing. I’d recalled using it that day and hadn’t left the house other than to walk the trail down the hill to visit a neighbor, so I once again assumed it was lost on the trail, which is now pervaded by leaves and a dusting of snow. The wallet, of course, is a perfect camouflage against the ground, and the snow has been falling, not much, but enough every day, so after a few treks, I’d considered it a lost cause.
Then I looked down when squatting for a pee this afternoon.
Fortunately, if my olfactories are to be trusted, it has been out of the direct stream. Meanwhile, it’s time to wear jeans with zippable pockets. It could be worse, I suppose. It could have landed in the outhouse.