Buried deep by Cache Owner now-we-are-nine, a lake hide holds out watery hands.

The highway to Mohican hurtles north, where the richness of game roasting over Delaware fires once lingered. As the Erie tribes of this area were scattered and wiped out by Iroquois sweeping down from New York, the Delaware migrated in along the Clear Fork, paying rental tribute to the Six Tribes.

Crossing our path, the Clear Fork River mirrors shadowy, willow bark canoes, slipping across 300 years.

As post-War-of-1812 treaties kicked in, the Delawares moved northwest, in the headwinds of a settler hurricane. Johnny Appleseed came with them, if you happen to find an unexpected apple tree in the woods.

Now 70 years old, Mohican State Park shepherds acres and acres of maple, oak, tulip, hemlock, beech, ash, sycamore, willow, buckeye, hawthorn, and dogwood trees, as they scatter from the ridges, down the slopes, and through the bottomland, quietly doing what trees do.

With a balance as finely tuned as a hummingbird, forest rangers manage human and forest interactions, offering freedom, beauty, refuge, and play, with nothing to plug in except wildness, opportunity, and adventure. Did we just define geocaching?

Past finders sign the log with affectionate stories of anniversaries, birthdays, weddings, reunions, and friend-meets at the Lodge. If someone wants to correlate geocaching with happy people, that’s okay with us.

Our hunt launches, as coordinates compel. Slowly sinking sun sends wordless warning.

Small creatures leave grafitti, or, 4,000 years earlier, hieroglyphics. Blue shelf fungi astonishes with dancing swirl of design. Crystal lake adds to the symphony.

There’s something odd about finding a roaster kettle cover in the woods under a log. Something satisfyingly odd.

We leave a trackable in return, that most sacred trust of Cache Nation. As the travel bug leaves each cache, visits with the finder for awhile, hitches a ride, and finds a new cache to call home, perfect strangers connect, play, laugh, and retell the story.