Zion

In 2009, Cache Owner jaybirdchauffer sent out the marching orders. We join our fellow pilgrims in search of a beautiful place.

Following the geotour north on 23, signs of Goodwill and ReStore-ation spread the jelly of communal sharing over the peanut butter of those who have too much.

From Route 23 we find – no, not that guy – Waldo. Here the sound of marching feet echoes across two centuries, as the Wyandots of 1808 sign their tribal trail over to General Harrison. Parading along this road, his soldiers push back British and tribal troops in the War of 1812. By 1817, more elbowing will reduce tribes to tiny patches of northwestern land.

Only 40 years earlier, the Declaration of 1776 frames a paradox that will haunt tomorrow’s Americans. The Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God, on which revolution rests, will quietly question the relentless and ruthless Pursuit of Personal Income Happiness.

As Mr. Darwin of 1859 reassures that survival of the fittest is perfectly natural, 29 million acres of woodlands and plains fall to the strongest, fastest, and richest. One acre of Ohio forest survives untouched in every 29,000 acres of not-the-fittest. .003%.

Watching over those names who have fallen in the struggle, shaggy bark and winter scarlet also recall fallen forests, and birds returning to nest, splash of spring waterfalls, delicate pink buds, woodsy scent of soil clinging to hands. As future mass casualties on far-away battlefields are resolutely opposed, cherished landscapes are also gathered into preserves. In turn, they gather a fragmented world and weave it into a coherent whole.

Just up the road from Waldo, the story of Bill Anderson begins. Across the fields of Marion County, shadows slip through the night. Of 100,000 shadows crossing the moat between King South and Queen Freedom, 40,000 pass through Ohio. Quakers, college students, Black communities, and others of conscience swirl the wand of courage and compassion, and fleeing Americans teleport north.

Hard-working Bill moves to Marion in 1838, offering his talents as a barber and musician. Hot on his heels, eight pistol-waving Virginians arrive to claim him as a fugitive. Judge Bowen calls a trial in the courthouse. The judge rules that the claim cannot be proven. Dragging Bill to the street, the Virginians demand a retrial with the local Commissioner. Bayonets are drawn. Quakers wrestle Virginians as peacefully as possible under the circumstances. Bill is spirited out the back door, still hotly pursued.

Twilight deepens around a rising moon. Now hunting both a story and a cache, we follow Bill south, leaving Marion for the last time.

Calling on that prehistoric skill of map-reading, we ignore the GPS and patch roads together to find our geo-zero. Safe within the promise of Zion, pilgrims journey through life aboard the great ship of the church. The woven tapestry of names traces bright threads of new lives born, and dark tears of anguished goodbyes.

Previous finders begin to speak through their online logs, “Is it a church with garage doors or a barn with stained glass windows?” The question troubles Cache Nation.

Nature and Nature’s God are entrusted with many small containers in out-of-the-way places, visited infrequently by wandering seekers. Finding this sacred space hijacked in the service of commerce makes the heart ponder.

Over time, as its economic value falls, religion slowly dims in the national deck of cards. The spades of ever-faster acquisition, alongside the clubs of cronyism, completed by the diamonds of wealth at any cost, squeeze out the hearts of individual connection to spiritual health and wholeness. Far above, the light shines through.

Gravestones keep wordless vigil. As the heartbeat of the earth winds down, nourishment of the Two-leggeds slows to a trickle. Lumber harvesters are followed by industrial farmers, coal miners, gas drillers and oil pumpers. Stepping up next in the long line of survivalists are the solar panelers, the frackers, the lodging and rental industry, and all 50 zip-line-canopy operators in the Hocking Hills.

From 230,000 miles away shines a beacon of grace. Gentle breezes calm and quiet. In this small space, ground remains as it has been for two centuries.  Silence slips into our own sea of tranquility.

From the corner of Zion, a post calls. Branches, bare as bones, wave wildly toward the spot. Harvested hay hunkers down.

Now that the upper fence rail has been shoved to one side, and we realize the cache has fallen down into the post, and we’ve figured out which side to pull from, and we’ve gotten around the fence, it’s all so easy.

Madame Puss-in-Boots is okay with having visitors, and the strange games they play. But why isn’t anyone leaving a little canned fish swag?

Bill is not to be forgotten. From the back door of the Marion courthouse, he is spirited by the Quakers on a journey 20 miles south and east.

In 1812, the Benedict family migrated to Morrow County from New York. For the next 50 years, their burgeoning Quaker settlement smuggles escaping Southerners.

When Bill arrives at the Benedicts, the door slams shut behind him. The Virginians are arrested, fined, and sent back across the Ohio River. We pull over on a dark road, where the Benedict house still stands, framed in light. When we ask for stories from this refuge, about fear entering the front door and freedom leaving from the back, the wind whispers. You are free. Share it.

City lights beckon and pull us south, toward our own doors, and the safe shelter of warmth and food. Unexpectedly, colors of freedom cross our path, radiating the courage and compassion of those long-ago Buckeyes.

Watching and witnessing, weaving the waltzing whirl of earth and moon, rise the celestial harmonies.