Mario’s Playground

In 2016, Mario took Cache Owner lilguns for a walk, and buried a bone for us to dig up. Bring a shovel.

The journey speeds north, lackadaisical winter traffic as sleepy as the gray-blue skies. Cell towers march along the interstate, trading location pings for seamless internet fellowship.

As we turn east, skies clear. Finally we stand on the 113-foot tall dam, filled with earth, holding the waters of Pleasant Hill Lake. The Great Flood of 1913 left over 400 people dead, with a bottom line loss of $73 million, at a time when a brand new Sears Roebuck sewing machine with stand cost $10.45, and a Winchester rifle cost $12.50.

In a galactic effort, engineer designers constructed 16 reservoirs or dams over 8,000 square miles, changing many backyard views from a town to a lake. As the state came together in the aftermath of 1913, Buckeyes relocated, changed roads and driving habits, paid for the whole plan, and, in the floods of 2005, saw 7 of the 16 dams reach flood level. All seven held the water back.

Our trail continues along water now cool, peaceful, and serene. Shaggy evergreens flaunt avocado shades. Bare-branched neighbors mourn at their own fashion funeral.

Mario is a hiker dog. Moss and matted leaves, mischievously disheveled, mimic Michael Jackson’s moonwalk on a vertical climb.

Pancakes of rock layers greet us at the top. Completely silent, their solid strength calms, intrigues, and at last reveals a tiny mouse in this mythical elephant.

But this geotour is not done with us. The iconic Mohican Covered Bridge beckons to new heights.

Eighty feet tall, the Mohican fire tower will give us a step to climb for each of its 100 years, where it has stood through war, flood, drought, moon walks, 15 Presidents, and its own debut as a social media photo shoot.

On Step 75, the buds of Spring surprise, with soft, tentative baby fingers, still braced for impending blasts of Arctic snow, hunkered down in confident courage.

Another flight of steps, and the hills of Mohican ripple in a dance both moving and still. Sky touches earth in flaming sun strands. Clear, cold air silences all sound.

We will descend, and crawl along the road far below, as beetles on a dusty crack. Beetles who can lift ourselves 80 feet into the air, gaze in awe at majestic magnificence, feel the soul stretch to infinity and eternity, and climb back down without breaking a leg.

Trees find us as we resume beetle status, gently reproving. This winding road is not for beetles, but for those who can build fire towers, design dams, share a tiny mouse hidden in an elephant, and care in all ways for life on this planet.