807. Sandy Hook, Western COG (CT3)

Yes, that Sandy Hook. The COG headquarters, being a converted house, was a little nicer than expected. But that was not the thing on our minds as we drove through town. What can I say that hasn’t already been said? I still have trouble conceiving how a town manages to survive such a tragedy. I have to resist the urge to call it “unspeakable,” however, because similar events have become part and parcel of the American news cycle. That was not why we were here, but it became integral to it when we noticed an Adventure Lab series on the edge of town. Without even seeing the name, we were sure where it would be located. Much of our travels up to this point had included much conversation and laughter. Not at that moment. Our car took a detour to the Sandy Hook Memorial.

We walked the path, admired the beauty of the surrounding woods, and saw the names etched in stone. We answered the Lab questions as we came to them. I thought of my own daughters and of all the parents living around here who would happily trade the quiet of the pool for even one more day with their child. I’m a pretty blasé dude about many things, but even I can be affected sometimes. Luckily, our visit was relatively brief. We had already accomplished the other facet of our visit earlier in the day.

We were all on the hunt as soon as the fellowship left our hotel. We had spent the night in Stamford for a reason. We came to a road leading into the woods. We parked at the blocked-off end and continued on foot. With the rain and the trees, the smell of the moist earth (something we from drought-possessed Texas had long missed), the word “magical” was bandied about. I walked the paths, umbrella firmly in hand, looking about. This was, without a doubt, what I saw in my head when thinking of the words New England. We continued to the GZ, came to a rock wall, and began looking for the right stones on the ground to turn over. But it turned out that we were actually looking for an unusual stick pile. And beneath it?

Ladies and gentlemen (or however you identify—I don’t mean to be gender assumptive), I give you Another Brick in the Wall, the oldest cache in Connecticut! We popped it open and celebrated quietly, lest we harm the beautiful silence, broken only by droplets hitting the leaves above. We signed our names and then set off for Bridgeport, full of happiness at having found another state’s oldest cache on such a lovely morning. But I needed something more, and the visit to Sandy Hook had fulfilled that final need at the cost of some sadness.

We drove out of town in a slightly somber mood. We oriented ourselves to the map and then took the highway leading to where we would meet the others…