Cache Owner sunflowersu, in 2017, places a cache, which, in a star-studded galaxy of caches, through no fault of its own, becomes truly unique.
We are driving out of Mohican country for the last time, hearts still held by healing trees, where fields and floods, rocks, hills and plains repeat the sounding joy, repeat the sounding joy, repeat, repeat, repeat the sounding joy.
As night falls, the geomap points toward Loudonville, where the Black Fork, Clear Fork, and Lake Fork merge into the mighty Mohican. Campgrounds and canoe liveries abound, offering the outdoor life of ancestors on land and water.
The Mohican Country Market rides the wave of vacationers each summer. Like Hocking Hills, with its 267,000 waterfall postings on Instagram, the Mohican Valley is on the map of investors in hot pursuit of tourism dollars.
Our pursuit lands us in the parking lot. For five years, a logged conversation has followed could it be blue . . . around this parking lot. As the market owner rearranges furniture, the cache moves along. Loggers demand fixed coordinates. The long-suffering CO consoles and comforts, reassuring them that they will find . . . ol’ Blue, wherever Blue may be today.
Hello, Blue. We found you.
Whose car just started? It sounds like ours. Is someone stealing our car? Where’s your remote? You just remotely started the car. How bout getting off that chair?
Westward bound on Route 39, small towns slide by the windows, doing what small towns do.
Darkness deepens over the hillsides, houses shelter the homes inside, our number points the way home.
City spins into focus, with thought of familiar rooms, beloved faces, and soup warming on the stove.
Against the press of lights blaze, tires rumble, rush of exhaust, in silence, trees and grass still rise.
OH Love Of Geocaching 