For years my family tried to get me into a corn maze. They finally succeeded on the pretense of a Girl Scout outing. My daughter cared less about the maze than the accumulation of badges, and she’d already picked out a spot on her green vest for the gigantic ear of corn that symbolized overcoming the challenge. So, after having suffered the actual corn maze, I would be rewarded with the monumental task of affixing the badge to the sash. When she started Girl Scouts we had to choose between the sash and the vest, which held more badges. I’m an optimist, so I bought the sash hoping she’d lose interest after the first year. However, it didn’t look like I’d get my wish. The girl would do anything for a badge. She was so competitive I wouldn’t have been surprised if she got the Gold Medal for crocheting a scarf out of yarn she made herself from sheep she raised in the back yard.

On this corn maze thing, she was taking hostages.

Every year before this my family asked me to take them to a corn maze, and every year I found an excuse to say no to that particular brand of terrifying “family fun.” No good can come from getting lost amid stalks. It’s not that I don’t like corn. Creamed corn, corn on the cob, corn fritters, corn bread, candy corn, cornstarch, corn chips. Love them all. I just don’t understand what is supposed to be fun about getting lost on purpose.

One might get lost in corn, never to be seen or heard from again. This year, one unfortunate family made national headlines for their panicked 9-1-1 call from the belly of a corn beast. As darkness fell, they were unable to find their way out of a corn maze.

Off we went, venturing deep into the Ozark mountains. Would the corn maze proprietors employ state of the art maze GPS tracking? Not likely. No worries, though. I had a plan, and a phone with GPS.

A couple miles from the corn maze, just when I thought I’d found an app that might keep me safe—or at least my next of kin notified of my whereabouts—I lost my signal. The lightning started just as we turned onto the gravel road, and continued to provide dramatic ambiance as we approached the entrance, which happened to be a cemetery. Not a normal cemetery, with smooth cut rocks and tidy rows, but a creepy country ordeal complete with a gnarly old tree and a barbed wire fence.

“There sure are a lot of cars here,” my husband said as we pulled into the parking lot.

“That’s because all the people are lost in the corn maze,” I told him. “It’s like a roach motel for stupid humans.”

My daughter, the sensitive one, said from the back seat. “We’re all gonna die!”

When we found the rest of the troop, I wondered if the leader had Thin Mints and Samoas in her fanny pack. You know, in case we weren’t murdered right off by a corn creature, but had to survive by our wits.

The fates were with us that day. Shortly after we arrived, the corn maze was closed due to the rain. My fear of corn mazes continued, but I wouldn’t have to face it for at least another year. My daughter took a consolation “rainy day” badge that was nearly as large as the corn badge, and just as difficult to sew onto her sash. A few months later she resigned. Any future attempts to convince me to risk my life in rows of corn would not be assisted by the full backing of the Girl Scouts of America.

Lela Davidson is the author of Blacklisted from the PTA, a collection of irreverent essays about motherhood and the modern family. She will stay close to home this fall, shucking corn and slathering it with butter.