I've Been Deleted!

Fewer things can do more harm to the psyche of a writer/geocacher than having a log deleted. After putting words to thoughts, going through wondrous detail while maintaining the mystery of the cache itself, spending untold seconds into choosing the exact right words to commemorate the experience, being told the effort is valueless, or in this case, "icky," is the kind of disappointment that elicits self-doubt, bitter resentment or even a righteously indignant expletive shouted out in the middle of a quiet evening to no one in particular.

In the past, I've had cache owners warn me they would delete my log if I didn't rewrite it, usually because they felt it gave away too much information. Normally, it has to do with exactly which smelly, trash filled bush to search, and which ones are better avoided. My usual response is to rewrite my log to say something along the lines of, "Found it," or something less verbose.

The offended teenager in this case didn't like me writing about my experience, since it was a mystery involving the need for police involvement in the park where the cache is placed. I was only a fringe player, as a concerned citizen asked if I could call the cops on a druggee that was hanging around play equipment shared by families and children, but as my phone was out of service, there was nothing I could do except go find the cache and get out of the park. The cache itself was an obvious find, easily visible to anyone who might be in the location. The fact that the cache itself is in jeopardy as a target for the local drug addicts, who might think it fun to stash their own brand of swag inside it, did not seem to concern the owner of the cache as much as the idea that people might know about it. I reposted my found log, edited to three words in total, and emailed the owner that perhaps one cacher's negative experience might be to another cacher's benefit, but I imagine such advice is wasted.

As to the disappointment of losing, forever, a thoughtfully worded and carefully constructed paragraph, well...

...there's more where that came from.

So Many Puzzles, So Few Brain Cells

I love geocaching puzzles. I've always enjoyed solving puzzles, finding answers and having people think I'm clever. In my area, we have the most creative puzzle creators I could never have imagined. This, coming from someone who once imagined what the world would be like if inanimate objects had feelings and could talk:

Left sock - "Oh, please! Haven't you dealt with that that toenail fungus, yet?"

Right sock - "You think that's bad? We don't even match! We're supposed to be seen in public together?"

But I digress.

The recent rains have forced me to stay home more than I like. I'd completed all the available maps in Treasure Madness (fb peeps know about this) and boredom was beginning to cause inertia. Once again, I looked over the puzzles on my Closest Not Found page and then rifled through the stacks of notepaper sitting in heaps around my computer. I picked the one I thought was most difficult to try solving, since I had already worked through about two thirds of it. I got my notes, opened the cache page and got a fresh cup of tea ready.

An hour later, I got a response to the email I'd sent to a previous solver begging for help while sipping my tea. So much for solving it unassisted. Luckily, most of the puzzle cachers around here are a great group of friendly folks who are happy to help and often form teams to brainstorm ideas while solving puzzles. This gives me hope that maybe someday, I won't have to click on the Closest Not Found page and see nothing but blue question marks. Not that I get picked for teams, mind you. Having two of my own puzzles labeled "impossicaches" by one of the better puzzle creators in the 'hood seems to have placed me in the same relative state I was in back in high school - too small, too slow and too obscure in my abilities to get picked. I didn't mind then, and I don't mind now. At sixteen I had it All Figured Out. At fifty I could Not Care Less. I guess that's true for most people.

So, after several hours of trying, once more, to solve a puzzle, hoping for some divine spark or other external torch of brilliant light to illuminate the ever shadowy pathways of my mind, I finally gave up and went to bed. Maybe listening to Radio Classics for an hour in the dark would help ease the frustration. But, as I lay there, listening as Superman saved Lois Lane for the very first time, the puzzle began working its way into my brain. The more relaxed I got the more the puzzle became clear. Suddenly, I sat up in bed, forgot Superman, and stumbled over to my computer. The light from my monitor was all the illumination I needed right then, as I began scribbling stuff down on paper.

Don't you just love it when a puzzle comes together and the numbers you were looking for appear in front of you as if written by some other hand?

The next day, after locating the cache and signing the log, I think I did a little happy dance. When I got home, I looked at the next puzzle on my Closest Not Found page, got out pen and paper, a hot cup of tea and keeping my mind as relaxed as possible, fired off an email to a previous solver.

I just love solving puzzles.