Do The Dumb Things I’ve Gotta Do

I sort of took my own advice yesterday. When I got off work, instead of heading for one of the areas close to work or home, I decided to go a little closer to downtown. I found a simple cache in a nicer neighborhood that I’ve been to before. The cache had been placed by newer cachers who were obviously neighborhood residents. I was immediately reminded why I’m hesitant to do this: I get off well before rush hour, and there was already bumper-to-bumper traffic. But once I pulled off, I was soon cruising streets with nice homes I couldn’t begin to afford, not so much because of the homes themselves (though for some of them, it was definitely the homes themselves) but because of the neighborhood. It was old, close to the city center, mostly walkable, and a short drive away from stores and boutiques and all that kind of crap. But it had a few caches. That’s all that mattered.

My target cache was a small tin hidden in a hole in a root. That was strange because I’ve seen holes in trees and things hidden in root systems but not actual holes in roots. But it was also a little disappointing. The last person to find it didn’t close it completely shut, and it rained early in the morning, so the cache had water in it. The logbook, contained in a ragged plastic baggie, was completely soaked. Had it been a hundred-degree day, I would have set all the contents in the open to dry for a little while, but the one time I’d actually welcome the intervention of the Spear of Apollo, it is nowhere to be seen. No matter. Dumping out water is second nature to me. The log was a little more complicated, but I’ve learned that a dry piece of paper from my clipboard can be incredibly absorbent. I pressed the log as a leaf between pages, and soon it was dry enough to write on without tearing. Inveni, inscripsi, reposui.

Come on, folks. I shouldn’t have to say be considerate of the cache. I know none of you, my thoughtful, enlightened, good-looking readers, need such a castigation, but something as simple as closing it back up should be a no-brainer. Of course, sometimes I’m thrown by what I think should be common sense that doesn’t seem to be. I also struggle to remember that common sense has another name: experience. The person who found it before me had less than ten finds, so I guess I need to give them time to figure it out. But should I really have to, though?