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Difficulty:
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Size: 
(small)
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Here is the desperate tale of two wanderers recounted in the Lay of Tamarack in a distant time of yore, before Geocaching, in the time of selective availability, when satellite lock time exceeded seven minutes. It unfolded one night as a lady and her squire peregrinated to the wilds of suburbia in their desire to procure the wares of the many merchants encamped in the area. Long was their road and dark was the night. It was a perilous journey, for the weather masters had foretold of wind, thunder, and doom during the preceding evening forecast. Other travellers had well taken heed, for the road was desolate with nary a carriage in sight.
The husband peered as well as he might through the gloom as the windshield wipers fruitlessly passed through the downpour. The wife implored him to proceed slower and with greater caution. Just then, a great flash hurtled earth-bound by Eru struck the road before them, blinding their eyes. By instinct, the driver swerved to avoid the writhing pillar of white fire. The carriage left the road, passed through a ditch, and halted upon the opposite embankment. The couple emerged from the carriage unscathed, but dazed. They could not revive the carriage and put it out of its misery with heavy hearts.
They decided to seek civilization and shelter as no other carriages passed on the road and came to their aid. They foolishly hoped to trust, for in their possession was the Guide of Earendil, or as it is called in the tongues of men, GPS. After waiting in the inclement environs for the GPS to procure a satellite lock, they were cheered. The GPS said civilization was near and at hand. The device instructed them to leave the road and enter the trees. There, they encountered a chain mail barrier. With much assistance to one another, they climbed over the fence, and therein came upon reeds and tall marsh grass. Double checking the GPS with doubt in their hearts, they pressed on.
The earth beneath their feet became soggier and less firm. They stepped from clump to clump of tangled grasses to avoid puddles of standing water. When the woman took her first plop into the gelid sludge, chilling her foot to the marrow, she paused and pondered, “Are you sure this is the right way?”
As far as their eyes could see, they were surrounded by the misty marsh, with not a sign of civilization, no twinkle of fire or light in the gloaming. Checking the GPS, the man replied, “According to this, there lays a thoroughfare not .3 miles away.”
“That doesn’t seem right,” said the woman.
“I curse selective availability. It helps not also that the GPS freezes up every fifteen feet.”
They traversed deeper into the marsh. Any of remaining dry-soled and clean had long vanished. They began to sink into the murk. Every step unleashed a torrent of poisonous fumes that fouled the very air they breathed. It was as if they had entered the Dead Marshes bordering Dagorlad. They feared to espy dead-lights amongst the water underfoot.
“I thought these lands were developed within an inch of their lives long ago,” cried the woman.
“Nay,” replied her man, “Tis a fell, wretched fen, utterly forsaken by the long stretch of time, preserved by those with malic to spell our undoing.”
Each step grew heavier. The earth dragged them down to its watery clutches, reluctant to release its chill grip. Hope escaped them then, leeched from their spirits by the tendrils of fog and the will-o-the-wisps. They fell into the water and weeds, weary and forlorn, unable to continue. They uttered their love for one another ere they perished beneath the muck. Thus ends this sad tale.
Do you noble traveller prevail where they could not? Do you, of superior skill, courage, and technical prowess, have what it takes to make the journey and discover the last trace of their doomed expedition? Attempt at your own risk. May the grace of the Valar guide you.
Additional Hints
(No hints available.)