Driving south on Route 315, we are looking for a series of caches placed by Z 748. High over head, bacon slabs of clouds bubble on a sky-blue griddle. Beside us meanders the Olentangy River, nearing the end of its long journey toward the mighty Scioto.
We pass Bethel, and Henderson, and North Broadway. Friday marks the first day of the weekend for students, and traffic is light.
Our GPS directs us to the Ohio State University, to Chadwick Arboretum, in search of Lakeview. Parking is limited. Ethical considerations — and the lack of a phone camera printer — prevent us from forging the permit in the next car, leaving us permitless.
We set off toward the lake. Gravel chomps underfoot, bug bubbles surround, and safari-hatted researchers with clipboards wander by.
If you saw nothing but nonmetallic trees at Ground Zero, where would you look for a magnetic keyholder? Let’s also throw in a whole clump of muggles. Let’s say most of the muggles suddenly disappear into the woods. Would you approach the one remaining, explain you are geocaching, and ask to examine the metal legs on his picnic table?
Let’s say with the first word out of his mouth, you discover he’s a Bri’ish professor. If he suggests that there are metal tags on some of the trees, where a magnet might attach, would you politely explain why there’s not a bloomin’ chance of that, old boy?
Would you distract him by discussing habitat restoration while your teammate brilliantly locates the cache? In the spirit of international cooperation, would you show him the cache container, because he’s heard such boxes have li’le trinkets?
After it’s all over, would you glance back and catch him looking under the table? In other words, would you muggle a muggle?
If you answered yes to all of the above, you may go directly to your car and arrive just before the parking police. Be sure to wave on the way out.
OH Love Of Geocaching 