The courthouse was nice, in red brick with an interesting octagonal tower. That’s an odd little feature I’m not used to seeing. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen anything like this before because, as I learned when I sat to write this, I have never before used the word “octagonal” here. Sure, this is perhaps the silliest observation I could possibly make, but the fact that I even note it also betrays another behind-the-scenes point. None of you are burdened by the memory of these entries like I am, but there is one pattern you would notice if you observed my writing as closely as I do: when I come to the end of a trip, my entries start getting shorter. When I arrive someplace new, I have lots of novel thoughts and observations about the trip, the area, or the county itself. I’m filled with the joy of being on the road and the hankering to go to new places. Once I near the end of the trip, though, I get a little more taciturn. I’ve seen the places and I’ve done the things, and I’m having to think about the trip home after the umpteenth courthouse in a row. I have so much less to say because, quite frankly, I’m tired and have little to contribute but worn-out words. Sure, once I get home and put fingers to keyboard, I “fix it in post,” but that doesn’t change the fact that, standing in the shadow of this courthouse, I had little to add. I was low on reflections.
As for the cache, it was behind the public library just under a large lamppost skirt. There was enough room under there to put something quite a bit bigger, but a photo canister would have to do the trick. A cache is a cache is a cache. However, besides my malaise, there yet remained a final spark, some work of noble note yet to be done. It was a quick stop in Waterville and then off again. I raced off to meet my destiny in the final county of Washington. It was warm and a bit windy when I finally made it to…
Geocaching While Black 