Ten years ago, Cache Owner Djdolle-and-donde lost their little dog. We will join the search.
As shimmering, icy air invigorates sleepy skin, the city weaves its tapestry of builders, fixers, cleaners, inventors, sellers, buyers, recorders, enforcers, and cheerful license plates.
Our geomap detours east, where the Olentangy River, running beside Route 23, takes a wide bend around Mingo Park.
Here the names Delaware, Mingo, and Olentangy hold long shadows of memory. As Pennsylvania farmers pushed tribal nations westward, the rich hunting grounds of Ohio country beckoned. Shale from the Olentangy River proved to be excellent for black paint and sharp enough for tools. Two hundred years later, a thirsty population depends on the river for daily water. A far-flung school system echoes the Olentangy name across 5,000 students.
Today’s gifts from this river are as unexpected as sudden tears.
Caught in a rising rush of icy water, tangled shoreline stubble transforms into jeweled royalty, robed like not even Solomon.
Spiraled and smooth, design and materials echo the precision of planets circling far, far above. In wonder and silence, we witness the mystery.
With miles to go before we sleep, we reluctantly turn away. The memory file moves to the brain’s beauty drive. Coordinates direct us to Marion, our neighbor to the north.
A historical marker speaks. As WWI ended and the prosperity of the 1920s kicked in, country graveyards gave way to burial within city limits. The business of death and final places of rest captures the attention of energetic entrepreneurs for the next century.
When we enter our final parking lot, it spills the tale of the snow cycle in Ohio. Silent flakes blanketing every branch with finest detail have given way to slippery road adventures, ending with piles of plowed and defeated grayness. We’re not unhappy to be in the gray stage.
Previous finders have pondered at length a set of four traffic lights at our geo-zero. Is it a ghost town or future development? Or perhaps a generous effort to make sure we can all get to the cache without any unnecessary accidents? In 2016, lack of attention threatens our little puppy with the dreaded archive. New Cache Owner Jaybirdchauffer generously steps up and takes in a foster pet.
The log is wet, the pen won’t write. Should we say we couldn’t sign? Not this team. We make it work.
The blank fields stare back at us, shadowed by houses peeping and creeping across the way, waiting for the sidewalk to walk on. Road laps hungrily at soil, trees write their wills, but for today, we stand with Mr. Silverstein, where the sidewalk still ends.
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
OH Love Of Geocaching 