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 shouted up the hill. I was perched atop rock ledge with rock faces above and below me providing numerous crevices to hide a cache. I heard leaves crunch underfoot as Jeremy came to inspect. I began to descend the moss covered rock, and in an instant I saw my feet against the powder blue sky and I was falling weightless through the air. Humph! I crashed against the ground knocking the air out of my lungs.
“Daddy! I found it. I found the Iron Man!” Jeremy exclaimed, not seeing my fall.
I slowly rose, gasping for breath. There before us was 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 tooke 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 compared the bearings from my handheld compass with the coordinates of Jeremy’s GPS. Wouldn’t you know it – the Bobalexcow was somewhere on the other side.
Jeremy walked up the stream while I walked down looking for anywhere we might be able to leap from rock to rock but to no avail. It was about 34 degrees out and ice glazed the edge of the stream which looked to be one to three feet deep between us and the far side. We began to double back in defeat when Jeremy spotted a fallen tree not too far into the woods. Hmmm, it measured about 25 feet long and was about eight inches wide at its base.
“Let’s put it across,” Jeremy declared.
I was dubious, but I bent down and attempted to lift it just in front of its broken roots.
“Good Lord, Jeremy! I don’t think so,” I grunted as I set it back down. Jeremy displayed a hint of disappointment. I reflected for a moment and realized it is time to “man up.” If we were going to have an adventure, let’s have an adventure. By keeping my back straight and directing Jeremy at the other end we were able to just heave the long trunk and drag it toward the water. The direct route took us through thick thorns which ripped at my legs and forearms, but I was determined we are going to get this done. We pulled the tree down the embankment and onto a sand spit, but now I was not sure just how we were going to heft this thing all the way across Morgan Run. Then it dawned on me…
“Jeremy, take the skinny end that is pointing upstream and push it out into the water. Push it hard,” I told him.
With that, the narrow end of the trunk got caught by the current and steadily floated in an arc across the water catching against another fallen tree on the far side. Awesome! I looked at our triumph, but now I was not feeling so clever. The tree was a solid eight inches wide on our end, but narrowed to less than three on the other. How was I supposed to keep my balance on that? Before I could ponder too long, Jeremy effortlessly skipped across as if he has just arrived from Cirque du Soleil.
Jeremy implored, “Come on, Daddy, come on!”
Okay, about that man-up thing. I realized I am past the point of no return whether it means getting soaked in some icy water or not. I began my traverse with arms outstretched, wavering from side-to-side. I reached the middle with the tree wobbling hardily, and just when I was reconciled to testing the water temperature I spotted a rock beneath the surface and to the right. I thrust out my foot and caught my balance straddling tree and rock in the center of the rushing stream. With two more broad strides I now lunged across and made 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 wandered the few miles back down stream. We stopped occasionally to break ice and watch it float through the rapids, we skipped rocks, and Jeremy even cajoled me into another daring water crossing along some narrow rocks. Our day was 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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