You've heard of orienteering, right? The sport where you have to navigate unfamiliar woods using only a map and compass? To break in the new season, we drove two blindfolded interns to an undisclosed urban location, armed them with supplies and a limited knowledge of orienteering rules, and wished them well. In a cruel twist, we dropped them in the middle of Pennypack Park, which looks nothing like the "urban location" they were expecting. Would they make it back in one piece? More importantly, would we need to hire two new interns? Read on to find out. --The Agenda

When we pulled off our makeshift blindfolds, we were surrounded by trees, trails, a flowing creek and what looked like a sacrificial altar. It was almost serene—until we realized we had to find our way out of the woods and back to City Paper's offices in Old City.

In true intern fashion, instead of tackling the task that lay ahead, we basked in the sun and contemplated napping. But the perfect dream was interrupted by what felt like a hypodermic needle sticking into Ellen's hand.

"Motherfucker!" she exclaimed. "Nettles!"

Our journey into the unknown had begun.

First, a recap: CP staffers Doron Taussig and Mike Regan kindly drove us to our middle-of-nowhere destination. At one point, our chauffeurs started giggling nervously. When we asked why, they told us we'd just pulled up alongside a police car. Nothing suspicious here officers … just two men driving with blindfolded women in the backseat. Double date?

So where were we? Fairmount Park? Rittenhouse Square? We look to our official orienteering supplies for answers: a (broken) compass and a (useless) map of Center City. (Thanks guys.)

We tried to follow a compass bearing just like real orienteerers do, but there were two hiccups in the plan: We weren't on or even near our map, and the compass was microscopic. We started trailing an old man, but were tempted off-path by shiny objects in the distance. Car doors! This led us to a map hanging on a pillar at the trail's start. We got it: Pennypack Park.

From there, we headed toward what looked like a house and wound up in Duplex Hell on Axe Factory Road. Definitely not on our Center City map. Liz was irritated by the homeowners' hideous choice in lawn decorations (an oversized lighthouse, a fake stone lion), but Ellen was too captivated by adjacent "Blind Child Area" and "Deaf Child Area" road signs to notice.

Suddenly a FedEx truck rounded the bend. "Let's follow him!" suggested Liz. "They're always on time." We considered using a technique called "pace counting," which involves tracking our footsteps, but the truck was moving too fast.

Minutes later, a chubby man in a Philadelphia Parking Authority vehicle pulled up and shouted, "Do you know where the Boulevard is?" As if! We refused to break the rules of orienteering by sharing knowledge. Offended, Cheaty McCheatster sped off.

We deduced from his question that we must be near Roosevelt Boulevard. (That's what good orienteerers do, you know—they deduce.) The desire to continue deducing found Ellen rooting through a trash can in search of zip codes. Liz yelled up to a child in its bedroom, hoping to find answers. Her inquiries were met with garbled words and thrashing arms.

And then, we saw it: An orange-and-pink glow from above. They're not the colored flags real orienteerers try to find but something just as exciting. Dunkin' Donuts!

After Liz gobbled a chocolatey one, we moved toward a strip mall with a doctor's office, nail salon and pizza joint. The name of the doctor's office had "Northeast" in it. More deducing ensued and we hopped the Route 20 bus to the Frankford Transportation Center, the last stop on the El.

We were exhausted when we finally got back to CP. The editorial staff was in a meeting, but we were ushered in anyway to relay our adventure. We couldn't help but notice the look of disappointment on our editors' faces.

Sorry dudes—interns are like cockroaches. You can't kill 'em, no matter how hard you try.