Obviously, there's a geocache hidden nearby, and obviously, we had to find it. The first stage was to look at a plaque commemorating the guy who the park is named for and get some numbers. The problem is, I didn't write down the instructions before leaving the hotel, reasoning I could get them from my phone at the site. I chose...poorly. The cache owner had used omegas and phis and other strange characters to denote the numbers we were supposed to pick up at the plaque. Some of these, but not all, did not render on my phone's web browser.
I used my razor sharp memory to make a guess at the coords, saw where the trail went (through the blackberry briars) and sent Richard off to find the cache. After 10 minutes, when he hadn't come back, I remembered a bit more about the cache page, to be specific, the terrain rating was much easier than the trail I had sent him down. I concluded my razor sharp memory was not as sharp as I had remembered. Luckily, Rich came back from his adventure, I cleverly found another permutation of the numbers which made a whole lot more sense, and off he went again into the briars.
Two minutes later, he came back with a duct-taped ziplock bag. Interesting container. I read the outside, opened it up, and discovered it was a letterbox. The clue was when the contents said, "This is a letterbox. It is not a geocache. It is not trash." I thought that was funny. Rich, bless his heart, went back one more time and in one minute was back with the real cache.
The cache was loaded with goodies and the kids made good trades. Rich's legs are feeling *much* better now, but they look pretty scratched up. The next day, he waded through woods of poison ivy, so everything's relative. More on that later.
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