Dressed to Cache... Not!

             Day 2 of my Road Trip, written in Breezewood, PA with 424 miles on the odometer.

            Unexpectedly I had fun at the wedding. The expected family friction did not develop; in part because there was not a drop of alcohol served. Well, the reception was held in the social hall of the Lutheran church where the service was held. There was coffee, good plain food (delicious) on the buffet, and assorted soft drinks and sparkling cider for the toast. I was also anxious that I’d be reminded of my own disastrous marriage, but there is a great deal of difference between a full-ceremony Lutheran wedding and reception, and a hippie ceremony performed by a Buddhist priest with an eat-and-go low budget reception. In my case, we just should have stayed best friends; Mike and Kate seem to have built their friendship into something solid, with bricks of respect and a mortar of shared fun. They each also have a healthy self-respect and could each get along well on their own… if they wanted to. The fact that this is true, they both know it, and they both prefer facing the future together may be the single thing most likely to keep them together and happy.

            I dressed for the wedding, checked out of my motel as late as I could delay the maids with good conscience, and still had almost two hours until the wedding. What to do? Well, I’d pre-loaded a park-and-grab cache into my Garmin and made notes on another one while online last night, this one strategically located at an air-conditioned mall so that I would not suffer from the heat if I found both caches and had further time to kill. As it is, I did find both, but once again the local roads go here, there, and wherever with no apparent logic, one-ways posted at whim, and often an oops-there-went-my-turn lack of signage. That ate up a lot of time. The caches were worth it, if only for the cheery flower-power ‘camo’ of the first and an equally glaring zebra stripe on the second. Not the same Cache Owner. It must be a local phenomenon. Both were even the same sort of container, some sort of medical/candy bottle repurposed. The first had an interesting inside-out construction, with the container placed inside a large Ziploc bag. The second, it could have been magneted to either a guardrail or a fence, and was neither; it was suspended from the fence by monofilament and hidden in the shrubbery behind. I like the Pottstown way of urban caching, if these are typical. Ground Zero is in a non-busy corner, so muggles have little reason to be there, but the container is fairly easily spotted by anyone who is there just casually lounging and using their eyes. I could get to like this kind of urban caching. Especially when I don’t want to mess up my glad rags just before a wedding.

Road Trip 2015

August 7, 2015  258.5 miles, most of it trying to negotiate Pottstown, PA’s one-way streets.

            Road Trip 2015. To Geocaching.com, it’s a competition. To me, an actual road trip. This, the first day, is sort of like a prologue. I’d have started my road trip five days earlier, heading north to Niagara Falls and through Ontario to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, thence to the mysterious ancient mounds of Wisconsin, the notorious Minnesota Twine Ball, and on to Medicine Wheel, one of my main destinations. I’ve been feeling an increasing urgency to trace the roots of my father’s family, and that means paying homage to the Cheyenne ancestors at a sacred site. This is the one that’s called to me, louder and louder, over the years. I understand that there is now a paved road instead of the switchbacked, say-goodbye-to-your-muffler old dirt one; yet still some hiking, as is only right for a spiritual journey.

            But, that was fantasy. Reality is an ill-timed wedding at which I MUST make an appearance. Katelynne and Michael are one of those rare young couples I believe may stay the course, grow old together and never lose the love. Besides, I’m not just a number to fill out their guest list, they WANT me there. ‘Nuff said.

            So here I am. 144-odd miles southeast of home instead of 250 miles northwest of it in Canada. Rather than re-trace those miles to stick to my original plan, I’m hoping to head west right after the reception (after cake, before dancing or drinking). I wanted more time for the southern leg… there are so many things on my bucket list. However, I can still make it to the Thursday Meet-and-Greet at the brewpub in Seattle if I keep the pedal to the metal and only stop for the necessary geocache finds to get State Souvenirs I don’t have.

            What’s that? Did I lose you? Why, it’s just this: I am an enthusiastic geocacher. Geocaching’s World Headquarters is in Seattle. For the past seven years, they have had a Block Party in the middle of August which is THE social event of the year for geocachers. They announced that this year is the last one. This includes a lot of one-of-a-lifetime opportunities, including the possibility of being chosen for a development panel for future improvements in the game; touring HQ; finding the HQ geocache; the local Geotour of nine caches  which earns a super-duper prize; four days of activities with other geocachers; a side trip to find the memorial for the first-ever geocache; and lots and lots of virtual and actual souvenirs. That gives me a timetable of getting from Pottstown August 8^th mid-afternoon to Seattle August 13^th mid-day by car, while finding at least one geocache in each of a half-dozen states including three must-haves: Mingo (world’s oldest continuously active cache) in Kansas; the Arch virtual in St. Louis, MO; and the aforementioned first-ever in Oregon.

            Yesterday things got even more complicated. I made an unexpected trip to Galeton, the closest town to home, and there I was able to find one of two newly-hidden geocaches. I found myself thinking, “Rabbit, you could go for the big streak. You could find a cache every day from now until September 3^rd. Twenty-nine days.” My previous record streak was 5 days, on a previous road trip. How and why? It’s a great excuse to get out of the car and get some mild exercise. It gets you off the four-lane and into the REAL ambiance of an area. You get to feel the soil underfoot, observe the trees and plant life, note down unusual (to you) birds. Sometimes you are led to a cache in a unique natural spot or an interesting historical location, or merely get a chance to chat with the locals in some little convenience store and sample local cuisine. That’s what geocaching on a road trip means to me. The virtual souvenir is just a valued reminder of a good time, a time during which I slowed down and appreciated an area instead of just zipping past it at 65 MPH.

            So, after traffic and construction and arguments with my car GPS (Pottstown is EAST, not WEST) turning a 4-hour drive into one of over 5 ½ hours, one of my first actions after checking in to my motel was to get back into the car to go to the nearest Wal-Mart parking lot, location of one of two local caches I’d pre-downloaded into my Garmin 62st. There was a parking space right against a guardrail, where I suspected the micro-cache was located. Someone had conveniently run into a tree that was part of the corner’s landscaping, and I studied the 45-degree lean of the poor thing with a look of gobsmacked out-of-towner on my face. “Gaw-lee, Andy, wouldja look at that?” Bobbing my head like a chicken (or Don Knotts) I spotted the cache out of my peripheral vision. SNATCH! I inconspicuously took my prize back to my car and signed the log, then returned to the leaning tree, shaking my head. “Did you ever see the like in all yer borned days?” POP! The cache was back in its hiding place and the hick from the sticks was back in her geomobile and gone.

            Once again Pottstown’s one-way streets had me frustrated, but this time I managed to find a landmark: The Ice House, a hoagie/pizza shop I remembered visiting with my friend Monica back a good many years. Just what I wanted, a take-out supper I could eat at the motel at my leisure in air-conditioned quiet. Little did I know they were also a package store. And even less did I imagine they would ask to see my ID (which clearly shows I’m 43 years over legal drinking age) for buying a single pint bottle of Guinness to accompany my meal. Now the meal, the pint, and this report are finished.

Birdsong

When the red, red robin comes bob-bob-bobbin' along... along;
There'll be no more sobbin' when he starts throbbin' that old... sweet song:
'Get up! Get up! Get out of bed...'

BOOM!

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

It Could Only Happen to Me

Winter in northern Pennsylvania is what separates the ‘ridge runners’ from the ‘flatlanders.’ People who were born here say that’s what distinguishes the two, but to most of us, it’s the ability to thrive despite almost-daily snow and temperatures in single digits. Even some of the locally-born folks migrate south in the winter, but those of us who stock up, bundle up, and dig out secretly believe those people can’t hack it here. Privately, we consider them little better than camp-owners.

However, even I admit this has been a harsher than average winter. After the usual several months of almost-daily lake-effect snow, we’ve been hammered lately by Alberta Clippers dropping up to fifteen inches of snow per storm, one after the other, about twice a week, with the days in between often having low temperatures in negative-double-digits, high temperatures that usually but not always get above zero, and wind-chills breaking records in the minus-20’s and -30’s. The last storm was followed by a day so cold I put on an extra layer and used chemical hand-warmers in my gloves while I shoveled, hauled a bucket of feed to the deer feeder, and filled the bird feeders.

Yesterday’s twelve-degree high seemed like a heat wave. Even so, I put on my usual mid-winter working-around-the-house clothes: a long underwear top, and, that particular day, Tree-bark camo thermal-fleece men’s pajama bottoms (comfy whether I’m lounging or working) and a cheerful tie-dye t-shirt sporting Native American pictograms. Yeah, it was a Clash Day contest winner outfit, but I seldom even think of bothering about color-coordinating on days I’m staying home and not expecting visitors.  Indoors, I kick around in lined Crocs, but when I went out (as I did several times that day), I changed to the knee-high hunting-camo Muck boots I keep in the garage, with Yak-trax permanently strapped to them for traction on ice and snow. I had just come in from a prolonged and very physical session moving heavy equipment outdoors, hung up the stained denim jacket I use for dirty work, and was headed for tea-time, when a THUD against the living room window told me a bird from the feeders had flown into it. Maggi went over to see if it was alright, and made a sound of dismay.

I walked over to look, and saw a crumpled junco sprawled in the snow. Was it dead? I thought I saw a twitch of movement, but wasn’t sure. Neither one of us could tolerate the possibility of the poor thing freezing to death if it was still alive, so I sighed and headed for the garage and my boot box. Time was of the essence if the poor critter was stunned, for it could easily go into shock and freeze to death. So I pulled on my boots again, but, at twelve whole degrees, above zero, didn’t bother with coat, gloves, or hat. I grabbed a feed scoop to pick the bird up with and slogged out to the feeder area in front of that big bay window.

The snowbird was still there, position unchanged. I scooped it up, getting a cup or so of snow in the process, and carried it back to the shoveled area in front of the garage door where I examined it. Its eyes were open and it blinked at me. It was alive! Gently I scooped it out of the cup with one bare hand, leaving the snow behind, and it settled into my cupped palm, wings closed, watching me. With the forefinger of my other hand, I gently stroked its head and back, feeling for deformities, watching its reactions. I smoothed each wing, noting a few bent secondary feathers, but nothing obviously broken, and straightened out the tail. Carefully I checked underneath for signs of blood. Nothing. No bird poop, either, and I hoped in passing that would not change. Except for the possibility of internal injuries, it appeared the only thing wrong with this poor wee thing was shock. The treatment? Warmth and security. Holding the bird cupped in one hand, covered except for its head with the other, I held it against my chest for maximum warming action. 

As minutes passed, I pondered my options. There was no place snow-free outdoors to sit the bird down once it began to show signs of recovery, except the concrete apron in front of the garage doors, and I was hesitant to leave it so exposed. In addition to killing cold, there was a sharpshin hawk hanging around the yard almost daily, and other predators would come out at night. Indoors, I have five cats. (Not to mention the pandemonium that would ensue when the bird came out of shock and went into panicked flight.) I stood there, getting gradually colder myself due to my underdressed state, cuddling the bird, absently talking to it in a calm, quiet voice, and thinking.

You all now know the back-story. But the driver of the UPS truck that came up my driveway and pulled onto the concrete apron did not have that advantage. I wasn’t expecting a delivery (with five new inches of snow I wasn’t expecting anyone) and was quite startled, but that was nothing compared to the poor UPS guy who came out of the truck bearing a smallish box and an indescribable expression when he saw an aging hippie in tie-dye and camo, coatless outdoors, cradling a bird against her bosom. Of course, I knew the back-story, having lived it, and wondered what the heck his problem was.

Oh, yes! I smiled and said, “Hi. Please excuse the bird.”

“Uh. Do you have an actual mail box? I mean, is that one down by the intersection yours?”

I removed one hand from sheltering the snowbird to point. “No. Ours is that-a-way, on the main road, in a clump of three mailboxes by some big evergreens. You might find it easier to wrap future deliveries in plastic and leave them there.”

“That’s for sure,” he said fervently. I figured he was talking about the steep slope up the side road to our lengthy, currently snow-covered, driveway.

The box was shaking in his wavering hands. It was just a little too large for me to handle with one hand. Luckily my housemate Maggi came out just that moment and took it. She was a bit less Bohemian about her color choices than I, but had wrapped herself in a shawl as her only protection from the cold and was wearing floppy slippers the color and texture of Cookie Monster from Sesame Street. “How’s the bird?”

“See for yourself,” I told her. She cooed at it and stroked its little head. The UPS man was hastily climbing into his truck, backed with a crunch into a plow mound while turning, then gunned his engine furiously and fishtailed down the driveway and away. Meanwhile we’d brought the injured bird into the garage so we could be a little warmer while I continued to treat the bird for shock and discussed the next step. It was moving a little more, actually standing on my hand instead of having its legs tucked beneath its belly, so I knew it was feeling a little better. We decided to put it on the screened-in porch, where it is at least a couple degrees warmer than in the open, and it would be safe from predators even with the door propped open so it could exit once it felt able to fly again. 

Taking a couple of tablespoons of birdseed from the bin and a rag for a warm nest, I carefully carried the bird to the porch, made sure the door would not close, and settled the little thing on a bench with the seeds nearby. When I went to tuck the rag around it, though, the junco fluttered away in alarm, of course heading the opposite direction from the door, bounced off a screen, and ended up perched on the railing. All right! If it could fly, it could survive. As the sun was nearly down, I placed a small cardboard box out there as a tiny shelter, next to the pile of seed, just in case the little fellow did not find its way out of the porch door by sunset.

Periodically as I was making dinner I looked out the kitchen window where I could see the snowbird, first in its spot on the rail, later huddled under a pile of plastic porch chairs. Finally Maggi observed it was gone, and I later confirmed that. Our patient had survived and had gone back to its natural environment, no doubt with a tale to tell its buddies about being abducted by aliens and taken to strange places with no sky.

Most of the evening I just enjoyed the warm glow of having saved a life, but at some point the incident with the UPS man popped into my mind in all its weird glory. I realized what he must have seen and thought, and remembered his reactions. How strange must I have looked to this random stranger who burst upon just that scene at just that time? It seemed a rational chain of events that had led me there, from my point of view, but he walked into this scene of the movie of my life in the middle; and, like the junco, had a bizarre tale to tell that he would remember and relate for some time to come.

“Damn! I’ve done it again!” I thought. (“Again?” you ask.) “I’ve been doing something perfectly rational and had someone come into it at just the wrong moment, the moment guaranteed to give the impression of maximum weirdness!” And I smiled. Yes, there’s a part of me that was upset, thinking “oh, no!” But a larger part of me was amused, and the largest part appreciates being different enough from “normal” to be memorable; to make someone’s day different, special, and give them a story to tell.

What I'm Hunting For

      Another deer season has ended. I still have no venison in the freezer. What I have is what I went after: a mind full of memories that few modern people can duplicate. Today I had the tedious task of following an hour-old trail through six inches of snow. The woods are cluttered with blowdowns and head-sized rocks, pits where trees have fallen, and old stumps, all now treacherously hidden under that white blanket. I picked my way through this tangle, ducking under branches that the deer had found no obstacle, moving six steps, then pausing six minutes to look, listen, focus on what’s around me.

I know these woods, know them as none but a hunter can. The trees are old friends. Anything out of place is glaringly obvious. Any flicker of movement attracts my attention, although it usually turns out to be a squirrel clinging to a trunk, a woodpecker or chickadee gliding from branch to branch, or an aspen leaf shivering in the wind. About once a season it’s a deer. Usually one I can’t see well enough to determine if it’s a legal animal, or in a position where a shot might not be safe, or moving too fast or at the wrong angle. I won’t take a chancy shot. Quick kill, no suffering, or no shot. And safety, always safety first.

My liberal friends (fellow liberals, except in this regard) would think me a barbarian for owning guns and a monster for hunting with them. Yes, there are what I call ‘slob hunters,’ who take sound shots, hunt animals they refuse to eat, and/or pay big money for ‘trophies’ which are often tame animals raised for the purpose, not wild, fair-chase game. On the whole, these are the same people who commit other conservative atrocities, the one-percent. The 99-percent, the hunters I know, are ethical, caring folks who are out there for totally different reasons. The few among my class and acquaintance that swing that gun muzzle in an unsafe direction for a moment, take an iffy shot, drop litter, or break out the liquor before the guns are cleaned and racked, often end up quitting hunting because no one else will go out with them anymore. My rather extensive circle of hunting friends have a zero-tolerance policy against unethical hunters; and are more typical than the ones the liberal media points fingers at.

As a fishing guide, I admit to a certain amount of contempt for well-to-do clients looking for shortcuts, who just want to catch fish instead of learn about them, their habits, and the aquatic ecology that supports them. I learned fly-fishing through experience and practice, and to me it’s all about the process, not the catch. Hunters like my fishing clients give us all a bad reputation. It’s the process, learning the woods, finding the game trails and learning the ways of the creatures themselves, that lures me out there again and again. It’s the focus, becoming a part of the cycle, using my senses in a natural pursuit. It’s facing the fact, however unpleasant a gentle soul like myself finds it, that life feeds on life; and it’s hypocrisy of the first order to value one class of life above any other.

The deer have the advantage. Oh, boy, do they, as my success record clearly shows. Unlike battery chickens, which are hatched, force-fed, drugged, mutilated, crowded wing-stub to wing-stub, and killed at six weeks old; the deer enjoy freedom, living as their wild ancestors did, often to an old age. Unlike supermarket meat animals, deer are free of steroids and antibiotics, the meat untainted by dyes or preservatives, and lean. Healthy meat, from animals that live an unstressed, natural life, eating natural foods, enjoying their freedom. And, incidentally , learning their territories so well they consistently elude me when I pursue them. Unlike domesticated food animals, they have a darn good chance to survive, thrive, breed, and give me those bland, smug looks the day after hunting season ends.

Hunters know the creatures that live in the woods. Most people who don’t hunt know what children’s stories and the mass media have told them about animals, which is more fantasy than fact. And, it’s true, most effective conservation efforts that really benefit animals (of all kinds, not just game) are motivated and funded by those who love and respect the creatures that share our planet for what they truly are; the people who go out and share their habitats with them on a regular basis; almost exclusively hunters and fishermen. Yes, it’s as self-serving as it sounds. We want to preserve those wild places where we can go out and fill our senses with nature as it is, where we can become one with the cycles of the Earth.

Today I slogged up the north side of a hill, an open meadow, following those deer tracks. The footing was better than in the woods, but snow had drifted deeply there, making it hard going. Pausing for one of my frequent looks around, I had one of those moments. I could see the meadow dropping away on three sides, bordered by forested lowlands. In places evergreens brooded, grouchy under their festive seasonal decoration of snow. In other places, the snowy ground was clearly visible under bare deciduous trees, an open landscape one never sees in summer. Beyond the lowlands the spurs of Broadhead Mountain loomed, misty grey, miles away: Boone Ridge to the west, and beyond it the nameless ridge that holds the old railroad grade that is now Junction Road. Clouds curled over its summit, spitting a few flakes reluctantly at the ground, threatening more. Wind reddened my face, blowing snow in streaming flags across the meadow. I was alone. I was the only human being seeing this sight, on this day. It was like the cold air I breathed had been created just for my enjoyment, and the view just to give me a mental image to treasure. That’s why I go out there. That’s what I’m hunting for.

Twitter

I don't see how people can Tweet. As a writer, I could never express my thoughts in so few words!

Flipping the Bird

A friend sent me an e-mail forward about golf today. In the spirit of trying to at least think about seven impossible things before breakfast, croquet as played in Wonderland crossed my mind. This, as most people know, is played with a hedgehog for a ball and a flamingo, turned upside-down so its beak is the mallet-head, for the... well, mallet. Thus the title "Flipping the Bird."

It occurred to me that someone my height could never handle a bird as tall as a flamingo as a croquet mallet. Fretting over other possible avian mallet choices, I finally decided that toucan play at that.