Random Writings

Geo-Caching – A Modern Twist to an Old Game

by Dorothy Bush

GPS, geo-caching, stash, cache. What do these terms mean? Treasure hunting? Spare me. This is just more of that modern technology hoopla, isn’t it? Yes, it is, and geo-caching enthusiasts thank Dave Ulmer for inventing it.

Prior May 2nd, 2000, Global Positioning Systems (GPS) were primarily for military use and while civilians did have the technology, the satellite signals were purposely degraded for ‘security’ reasons. That changed on May 2nd, and on May 3rd, Dave Ulmer set out to test the new accuracy of his GPS receiver. He hid a container in the woods, recorded the coordinates and posted them in an Internet GPS user group, calling it the “Great American GPS Stash Hunt”. The rules were simple: find the container; if you take something, leave something; record your visit in the log book; and when you are back home record your find on the Internet.

Within three days, two people had found the stash and within a week other people were joining, hiding their own stashes and posting the co-ordinates. The game was on.

The first person to find the original stash, Mike Teague, created a web page, started collecting all the online posts and set up a mailing list to discuss the emerging activity. Since then the game has matured and grown. The name ‘stash’ was changed to ‘cache’ and the term geo (for earth) was added.

Jeremy Irish, a web developer, stumbled on the game in September of 2000 and founded Geocaching.com which is still the primary website devoted to the game. Over 1 million caches are hidden world-wide and it’s estimated that over 4 million people are out looking for them.

Our world is changing, the games we play are changing and geo-caching is a great family activity. There are no winners or losers, just good clean fun, merging modern technology with good old-fashioned treasure hunting… looking for ‘X marks the spot’ in a whole new way.

For more information contact www.geo-caching.com

*****

The Legend of Carpenter’s Tomb

by Dorothy Bush

Spring. The weather is warmer, days already longer and so far the black flies and mosquitoes have not arrived from wherever they spend the winter. I can barely wait to get out of the house, hiking, biking, even raking the yard and stacking next winter’s wood. Anything to be out. In this vein, a couple years back I discovered geo-caching. It’s an outdoor lover’s dream; a techie’s dream. Take a GPS receiver, tell the operator there’s something hidden somewhere in the bush and these are the co-ordinates, turn them loose and let the fun begin. Just so everyone doesn’t ask for a GPS for Christmas this year, the treasure consists of trinkets and baubles and dollar-store items. For adults, the true fun is in the hunt, except maybe NOT in black-fly season.

I’ve lived in Eastern Ontario for over fifty years and geo-caching has taken me places and shown me things I never knew or imagined. One of my favourite cache stories is the ‘Legend of Carpenter’s Tomb’.

Years ago, as the story goes, Mr. Carpenter was a loner of a man living back between Manhard and Algonquin, small communities near Brockville, Ontario. Mr. Carpenter never married, never had children and made his living as a trapper, selling pelts, honey and raccoon fur to traders in both Upper and Lower Canada. (This is a hint as to how long ago this was.)

Now it was said that over his lifetime he became very wealthy as he hoarded his cash and gold and hid it about his property to keep it safe from bandits and pirates. After he died, relatives, friends and just plain carpetbaggers came from all over to look for his buried treasure. According to the story … none was ever found.

What treasure hunters did find was this massive cairn of stacked stone that has come to be referred to as Carpenter’s Tomb. To my experience farmers that clear their fields dump stone in hollow spots, in large and messy piles. I mean, no one is planning on doing anything with them, right? Not so our Mr. Carpenter. He piled his. Neatly, squarely, in outer-wall and divided room formations, on a ridge of sand. For the most part, yard-wide walls still stand, looking much like the beginnings of a stately mansion, without mortar, of course. A fair bit has been excavated or fallen down and rubble lies scattered about. Years have passed and trees and scrub bushes are encroaching, providing an eerie feeling of abandonment. I found the geo-cache treasure but the true mystery remains… What, if anything, lies under all this stone? Is there, was there, buried treasure somewhere in this pile of slab rock and rubble? Or was Mr. Carpenter just preparing for a good joke after his demise and is to this day having a chuckle over people digging through his waste rocks?
I returned to my geo-caching command centre (the car) and continued on to the next waypoint, Carpenter’s Cemetery. Also being an avid genealogy freak, I have visited a lot of cemeteries in my years, and albeit a little sacrilegious, they do lend themselves well to the hiding of geo-caches. Adding to the rather other-worldly experience of Carpenter’s Tomb, this was (and remains) the only cemetery I’ve seen that has an “Enter at Own Risk” sign. I’d really like to know what’s up with that????

*****

Last party (written for a “daily prompt” contest at www.writing.com)

I plodded to my neighbour’s house

Like a jack-hammer my head did pound

My husband wasn’t speaking

And only one shoe I’d found

My nerves were shot, my body shook

The hostess she did frown

There was no friendly banter

As she handed me my gown

It wouldn’t matter what I said

The excuse of drunk was lame

A dozen pictures were strewn about

I hung my head in abject shame

Her husband was sick and shaking

He’d passed-out on the carpet red

He’d woke that morning to an irate wife

No doubt wishing he was dead

I lost a lot of things that night

My marriage was in peril

Friendships, dignity and self respect

Not just my apparel

***

These little 250 word flash-fiction pieces are short works written for our Writer’s Ink ‘monthly prompt’ exercise. The exercise is just meant to be a fun way to keep the mind creating. I post them here,  for your enjoyment.

 

*****

Going Home

 

6:00 a.m. and the line at the check-in counters at the Ottawa airport were long. I was tired, bored, frustrated with stupid rules and line-ups. Beside me in the Air Canada  line was a diminutive, old woman with white hair, porcelain skin; her incessant chatter annoying. Avoiding her, I faced forward, my eyes in the centre of a soldier’s back. He was fresh home, clean-shaven and all but hairless; boots lived-in, combats well-worn, the sleeves rolled up. His forearms rippled with muscle, the skin darkened by the Afghan desert sun. We shuffled forward.

“Good morning,” his voice, a quiet polite rumble.

“Sir, your flight is cancelled,” the attendant said.

“I have a confirmation letter.” A hint of desperation in his hand as he offered a paper.

“Sir,” hushed tones, “Zoom has closed down. All the flights are cancelled.”

I watched instant tension spiral through his back. His muscles clenched, a jaw muscle throbbed.

“I have to get to Vancouver!” The quiet was gone, his voice louder, deeper, insistent. “I get married tomorrow, I have to get home.”

His head swung left and right. I caught sight of his eyes, wild, dangerous; on the edge.

 

I shrunk back, unnerved.

The attendant reared back out of his reach, her hand gliding below the counter.

“No!” The old lady pushed past me, glaring. Her tone brooked no argument. “Don’t you dare call security. He’s done nothing!”

The soldier turned to her, a giant beside a mouse. His eyes were wet.

 

“You’ll go home today, son. My ticket is for Vancouver.”

 

*****

At Last

The day we had waited fourteen years for had finally come around. We had worked hard; not just my husband and I, but our three kids as well. So much work, so much waiting, so much to get ready and here we were. We had all stayed home this fine September day; this was an event not to be missed due to work or school.

Our eldest girl sat in front of the TV. Our second eldest played catch-me-if-you can with our eight-year old son. Their shrieks of laughter could be heard over the drone of the TV.

The phone rang and I snatched it up from its cradle. “Hello? … Yes, this is she… Yes, that is the right address. Do you need directions? … No, okay…. Where are you calling from? … How long before you are here?…. Oh, no! No hurry! … Thank you.”

I stood a moment and thought, then grabbed my car keys and purse. I leaned in the doorway of the living room and jiggled the car keys at Sarah. She snapped off the TV and was by my side in seconds. Jessie and John spotted us emerging from the house and joined us. They chattered excitedly as I drove.

We pulled into the lot of Angelo’s Truck Stop within ten minutes and there it was. Two monstrous halves of our heritage blue front-split bungalow sat on two flatbed trailers, awaiting delivery to its permanent location. Our first view of our own home, at last!

*****

That Noise

“It started as a buzzing in my head, Doc. Now it’s gone way beyond that… until I think I’m going to go mad!”

“You’ve had hearing tests, blood tests and an MRI and everything is normal?” asked the psychiatrist.

“Yes, it definitely is not some physical ailment; it’s something inside my mind, inside my thought processes. Oh, I don’t know! That’s why I’m here!” My frustration was mounting; I truly thought I was going to go mad with this unceasing mind clutter.

“Tell me exactly what you are experiencing.”

I thought a moment, “It started as buzzing; now it reminds me of when I’d go home for a holiday dinner and thirty people were talking at once. That drove me crazy then and it’s driving me crazy now and I can’t get away from it.” I tried a feeble smile.

“Try something when you get home. Take a clock that ticks at every second count. Try to clear your mind and focus on the silence between the ticks. You won’t be able to do it right off, it will take some practice but it will calm your mind.”

I sit in my kitchen in lowered light, my eyes closed. Three evenings now, it’s been. Tick…tock….tick…..tock. They are clearly voices, raised in agitation. I shake my head, rub my temples and try to ignore them by focusing on the clock. Tick…..tock…..tick…….tock……tick…….tock. The space between ticks lengthened.

Suddenly a voice booms clearly, “About time you listened! Get a pencil; write this down.”

 

The end

*****

Escape

Waves thundered against the rocks below the lighthouse; wind howled through the rafters. The dark was rhythmically slashed by the revolving white light as they writhed in unbridled passion, her white gown a tangled heap at their feet.
Sixty feet below, her husband slept. Night after night her lover came to her room and coaxed her from warm slumber to mount the tower steps. Night after night he implored her to join him where they would live in bliss far from the pounding waves and raw winds of Newfoundland.
It had been years since she had left Rose Island, years of hating the biting winds and fierce storms, years of enduring the truculence of her husband, years of meager supplies delivered by boat, years since she had dared to dream of escape.
He first appeared out of the pre-dawn mist, walking toward her as she strode along the cliffs, handsome and virile, his arms full of wild roses, his smile sweet, his words music to her dying soul. Every night since, he returned, unable to quench his thirst of her. She dreamed through the days, waiting for the nights.
She could no longer bear to be apart from him. They rose from the bare wooden floor and she slid her gown over her head, smoothing the creases. He held her eyes with his as he walked backwards to the railing, through the railing, where he stood boldly on the Atlantic winds and beckoned. Unwavering, smiling, she stepped into the storm.
The end.

*****
Cut Loose

Standing at the front of the horse trailer, I listened to the anguished screams of the wild mustang trapped inside. The trailer that enclosed her rocked the truck; the hitch clattering. We were backed into the corral, one built special for our new arrival. We were home.

The drive had been four days of hell. My eyes felt like someone had rubbed sand in them, my husbands looked like mine felt. We had driven straight through from northern Alberta to Ontario, stopping only to eat and answer the call of nature. The truck rocked and lurched the entire way, the mare screaming and kicking, smashing her body side to side.

I dreaded looking inside the trailer, surprised it still stood whole. Dreaded also thinking of what kind of damage the mare may have done to herself.

We had purchased this mustang from a group dedicated to saving the wild mustangs of North America from becoming dog food. Unfortunately, the horse only knew she was locked in a box, her freedom forever gone.

If I could, I would have left her free, but the day of the wild horse is almost over. Catching them, taming and raising young will be the only way to save the breed. My husband and I lowered the back ramp, avoiding flying hooves, then the front hatch and reached in warily for the clasp. She struck, teeth bared and we retreated. My husband drew his knife, snagged the rope that held her and cut her loose.
The end.

*****
Writing Home

June 22, 1912
Dearest Mum,
We have arrived! Very glad I am to be off the ship too, after eight days. There was naught to do but look after the little ones, some of who cried the entire trip. I was one of the eldest girls, having just turned fourteen, and pressed into service day and night. Busy hands do not still my mind though, and I feel the distance very cruelly.
We stood on the ships’ deck as we came into Montreal. What I can see of the city is very different than London. Buildings are a mix of stone and wood, the docks narrow, crowded and dirty. It is hotter than ever England was and dust billows in the air. The people are very difficult to understand speaking a mixture of French and English! I was most concerned but am reassured that where I am going English is spoken.
So many children, Mam, coming here to Canada; I fear there will be none left in the homeland. There were hundreds of us on the Tunisian and another ship full at the pier beside us. We leave tomorrow by train for Peterborough, and from there I go to my placement.
I will write again as time allows. Do not fear for me, dear Mum, I am well and excited to find my way in this new country, this land of opportunity. I will be a good girl and work hard. Be of good cheer for me.

Eliza

The end.

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