Decades have passed and now iPods and Xboxes saturate our senses, but I try to instill the same sense of wonder in my son, Jeremy, when I can. We go hiking together, and we have traversed many miles of nearby train tracks replete with a long stone tunnel and cascading river.
On a recent late autumn Sunday we decided we might head to the tracks again, but I wanted to try something different. Why not go geocaching? It is a sort of modern day treasure hunt where you use a handheld GPS to seek hidden treasure boxes (caches), trade trinkets, and log your finds on the Internet. We once did this avidly as a family foursome, but our GPS was now gathering dust on a closet shelf. A check of our Internet logs revealed a lapse of three years! Today, we would begin anew.
Jeremy and I scouted the website for nearby caches and found two in Morgan Run, a state park about 10 miles away. Morgan Run has fourteen hundred forested acres with hiking trails and a pristine stream running the length of its center.
In short order we arrived at a small parking area with GPS in hand. The first cache to find was called “The Iron Man,” and a few cryptic log entries mentioned blow torches and WD-40 – kind of odd. The second cache was named Bobalexcows – caches have these funny names. Jeremy and I began by walking a few large circles in the parking lot attempting to get our bearings. Starting on the correct side of the stream was important, as the water was high, and if we guessed wrong crossing the stream would be difficult. Jeremy soon convinced me that we should first pass over the highway bridge and then into the woods, so we did. Before us loomed a steep rise to a ridge top.
As we ascended I caught a reflection of glass from the top of the slope, and I suspected it must be a house – so much for endless wilderness. But there was no house; instead we found the hulks of several 1950’s cars nestled in the forest like slumbering Rip Van Winkles. How cool was this? A breath-taking view opened before them and I mused this must be a long-lost lovers’ lane.
“Hey Daddy,” Jeremy shouted, “Start looking through the cars.”
It seemed reasonable that a geocache named the “Iron Man” might be hidden in one of the cars, but the coordinates were wrong. While Jeremy dug in glove boxes and looked under rusting hoods, I crept steadily to the West and slightly down the slope which dropped precipitously towards the stream below.
“Jeremy. I am standing directly on the coordinates,” I shout up the hill. I was perched atop rock ledge with rock faces above and below me providing numerous crevices to hide a cache. I hear leaves crunch underfoot as Jeremy comes to inspect. I begin to descend the moss covered rock, and in an instant I see my feet against the powder blue sky and I am falling weightless through the air. Humph! I crash against the ground knocking the air out of my lungs.
“Daddy! I found it. I found the Iron Man!” Jeremy exclaims, not seeing my fall.
I slowly rise, gasping for breath. There before us is the cache. The Iron Man. Should you ever go on this quest I do not want to ruin in for you, but as we looked at the vessel the clues about blow torches and WD-40 all made sense. Jeremy and I carefully removed him and found his log book secured neatly in his cranium. We take a moment to marvel at the creativity of the entire cache then gently set him back in his perch. Now it was time to seek out cache number two.
We slowly descended the steep ravine with GPS in hand carefully picking our way over fallen trees and through entangled vines. Soon we found ourselves standing along the bank of the rushing stream. I compare the bearings from my handheld compass with the coordinates of Jeremy’s GPS. Wouldn’t you know it – the Bobalexcow is somewhere on the other side.
Jeremy walks up the stream while I walk down looking for anywhere we might be able to leap from rock to rock but to no avail. It is about 34 degrees out and ice glazes the edge of the stream which looks to be one to three feet deep between us and the far side. We begin to double back in defeat when Jeremy spots a fallen tree not too far into the woods. Hmmm, it measures about 25 feet long and is about eight inches wide at its base.
“Let’s put it across,” Jeremy declares.
I am dubious, but I bend down and attempt to lift it just in front of its broken roots.
“Good Lord, Jeremy! I don’t think so,” I grunt as I set it back down. Jeremy displays a hint of disappointment. I reflect for a moment and realize it is time to “man up.” If we are going to have an adventure, let’s have an adventure. By keeping my back straight and directing Jeremy at the other end we are able to just heave the long trunk and drag it toward the water. The direct route takes us through thick thorns which rip at my legs and forearms, but I am determined we are going to get this done. We pull the tree down the embankment and onto a sand spit, but now I am not sure just how we’re going to heft this thing all the way across Morgan Run. Then it dawns on me…
“Jeremy, take the skinny end that is pointing upstream and push it out into the water. Push it hard,” I tell him.
With that, the narrow end of the trunk gets caught by the current and steadily floats in an arc across the water catching against another fallen tree on the far side. Awesome! I look at our triumph, but now I am not feeling so clever. The tree is a solid eight inches wide on our end, but narrows to less than three on the other. How am I supposed to keep my balance on that? Before I can ponder too long, Jeremy effortlessly skips across as if he has just arrived from Cirque du Soleil.
Jeremy implores, “Come on, Daddy, come on!”
Okay, about that man-up thing. I realize I am past the point of no return whether it means getting soaked in some icy water or not. I begin my traverse with arms outstretched, wavering from side-to-side. I reach the middle with the tree wobbling hardily, and just when I am reconciled to testing the water temperature I spot a rock beneath the surface and to the right. I thrust out my foot and catch my balance straddling tree and rock in the center of the rushing stream. With two more broad strides I now lunge across and make it with just a soaked shoe from the effort.
Before long Jeremy and I find the second cache midway up the facing slope. As if on queue I slip and fall just before he spots it. Let’s hope this doesn’t become some sort of caching ritual. With both caches bagged, we wander the few miles back down stream. We stop occasionally to break ice and watch it float through the rapids, we skip rocks, and Jeremy even cajoles me into another daring water crossing along some narrow rocks. Our day is complete.
Fast forward two months – Jeanne, the boys, and I have traveled for a Christmas dinner to my sister’s house in Virginia, coincidentally not too far from my own childhood stomping grounds. We are gathered in the family room and I mention to my stepmother that Jeremy and I have enjoyed some hiking this fall with some geocaching thrown in. Jeremy’s ears perk up, and he jumps in, “Let me tell her! I want to tell the story!”
I sit back and listen intently as he begins to narrate our most excellent adventure. In that instant I know that we have shared a day that transcends generations. A moment in my childhood has become his. I see his lips moving and his bright eyes twinkling but I have slipped into my own daydream now. I am looking forward perhaps thirty years, and I see Jeremy seated at a Christmas dinner before his own children. He is telling a story, the words something like this, “Around when I was twelve, I would spend countless days exploring the outdoors and sloshing through streams. I built tree houses and forts. I would go treasure hunting and skip rocks. I had my own Hundred Acre Wood.”
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