Stephen Mark Rainey's Blog, page 63

What Manner of Witchery Is This?

In an effort to maintain some semblance of normality during the Corona virus pandemic, a little geocaching felt in order today. In this case, rather than hunting caches, I placed one. Boy, did I place one. To claim it, prospective finders must accomplish certain feats of agility and strength (and possibly air a host of grievances).

Just over three years ago, I hung a cache way up in a tree and concocted a bit of faux folklore for its background (see "The Curse of Lillian Gadwick," February 18, 2017). Recently, that tree has succumbed to natural — or perhaps supernatural — forces, which have rendered it increasingly untenable (see photo below) as a host. So, I decided to archive the original cache and come up with a sequel. Thus we now have "The Curse of Lillian Gadwick II."

Here's the story behind the cache....

"One of Guilford County's lesser-known legends involves a woman named Lillian Gadwick (1723–1781), reputedly a practitioner of witchcraft, who resided in the area that is now Lake Townsend in northern Greensboro. The story goes that she lived alone in a cabin in the woods and was suspected of abducting and slaughtering children from the nearby community, then known as Capefair — though numerous investigations could produce no evidence of such deviltry. However, just prior to the Battle of Guilford Courthouse, a company of troops from General Cornwallis's advancing army came upon her cabin and caught her 'rendering the fat' of several young children, which she presumably intended to consume as a means of enhancing her supernatural abilities. Horrified by this unspeakable act, the troops hanged her from a tree, burned her cabin to the ground, and then departed to rejoin Cornwallis. However, the troops failed to report and, in fact, were never heard from again — except for one, who came back stark, raving mad.
The host of the original "Lillian Gadwick" hide, now feeling
a little tired. If you zoom in close, you may be able
to see the cache container hanging on a branch.
"A scout was sent to find the missing men. At the site of Lillian Gadwick's cabin, he discovered only a number of strange stick figures hanging from trees — forty-two to be precise, the same as the number of troops who had vanished. (Such 'witch symbols' have been referenced in literature and movies, such as in Karl Edward Wagner's short story 'Sticks' and in the films The Blair Witch Project and its sequel, Blair Witch .

"Little else is known about Lillian Gadwick, but she reportedly kept as a familiar a strange creature called Oren Grey, which resembled a huge possum with a grotesque human face. (The witch Keziah Mason, as recounted in H.P. Lovecraft's story, 'Dreams in the Witch House,' kept a similar creature, named Brown Jenkin). Though no such creature as Oren Grey can be proven to exist, it was said to keep itself hidden in dark, hard-to-reach wooded areas, traditionally avoiding human contact except when it accompanied the witch on her unholy expeditions to abduct local children. Certain curses cast by witches who practice dark magic can supposedly alter time and space, and there were those who said Lillian Gadwick possessed such power."

Geocachers who spot one of the 'witch symbols' may be assured they are very close to the cache. I hope the container will remain in place at least as long as its predecessor. As you may have guessed, caches that involve a certain change of altitude appeal to me. Hiding this one was damned fun too, as I ended up climbing a series of trees before I found just the right spot.

And a damned fine, scary spot it is.

A Solitary Man

What a week it's been... and the trial is basically just beginning. I must say, I never thought a pandemic such as COVID-19 would—or even could—occur in my lifetime. Such an outbreak has always seemed a thing of the distant past—well nigh impossible, given that infectious diseases, while still serious, had basically been conquered. Most of the country—the world, for that matter—is almost at a screeching halt, with whole states shut down in an effort to contain this monster. Most places are losing, at least in the short term, especially in Europe. China, where it all began, is finally beginning to recover. For us, there's no telling how long this state of affairs will prevail. Without a doubt, it will have long-lasting repercussions, locally, nationally, and globally.

For me personally, the week got off to an upsetting start, with a medical issue (not virus-related), rearing its ugly head. I've been through it before, but this time it came on with a vengeance. I ended up at the doctor on yesterday, and I'll have to go through a couple of tests yet. I think the worst is past now; at least, I hope so because I'd much rather contemplate the potentially lethal onset of the Corona virus in relative peace and comfort. Come Monday, most of us from the office will be working at home (which is a generally desirable prospect but for the fact I will be fending off cats who will be alternately excited/dismayed/annoyed by my uncustomary daytime presence). It doesn't help company morale that, in a masterfully ill-timed move by our new CEO, we're losing 30% of our already minuscule staff. It doesn't exactly fill me with confidence about weathering this national emergency with a long-held and very satisfying career intact.

I do personally know a handful of people who have been deeply impacted by the virus; a few who have actually been infected (and who have, so far, soldiered through it), and a few who have loved ones or friends who aren't necessarily looking at a positive outcome. A couple of my own family members suffer from compromised immune systems and are thus at especially high risk. Hell, I'm in the age bracket that is most likely to be seriously affected. So, yes, I am taking all recommended precautions, and so far they haven't turned life totally topsy-turvy. As I said, though, it's still very early for us here in this region, and at the rate circumstances keep evolving, all this may be obsolete by the time I finish typing it.

For this evening, I'm comfortably ensconced at the old homestead, with adequate supplies, decent food from Shun Xing Chinese restaurant, and some bourbon. Around sunset, I settled myself on the front porch with a good drink to enjoy a smidgen of mellow time while I could. I wandered around the yard a bit, took a few pics of the place where I grew up, and contemplated the Fugue Devil , which has roamed the woods behind the house since I was a little kid. At twilight, I still get a lovely little chill from the memory of that juvenile night horror, which made such a vivid, lasting impression on me. There's a distinctly Lovecraftian atmosphere about this place, even though there are neighbors not particularly far away. I find a certain peace in this isolation, at least in the short term. A peace occasionally broken by odd little noises that seem to come from everywhere and nowhere, just as I recall them from my youth.

It's so much better indulging in those old, otherworldly fears than ruminating on the shitty, depressing horror the Corona virus represents.
The view from the front porch at dusk The Fugue Devil's woods behind the house. Still creepy after all these years.

Forever Alone?

The Corona virus (COVID-19) is the big thing now, and rightfully so, I reckon, as it's brought most of the world to a screeching halt. And here in the States, it hasn't even set in with full force yet. How it'll all play out is a mystery, and I hope we all come through it alive and without going bankrupt. Sadly, there's some doubt on this front. Social separation—virtual isolation—is the order of the day, and while Ms. B. and I are still going into the office every day, there is a good possibility we'll soon be working from home.

In the meantime, there's nothing for it but to live life as one can while maintaining distance from as many other human beings as possible. For the most part, this bothers me not a whit, as I typically long for not being shoved in amongst the teeming population. Today, after work, a couple of geocaches awaited my attention at High Point's Piedmont Environmental Center , which boasts quite a few excellent hiking trails through many acres of woodland. PEC adjoins nearby Gibson Park and connects to it via the Bicentennial Greenway . After work today, I headed yonder to see if I might turn up those new hides. Happily, I did. I also came upon what I took to be a somewhat sad bit of tree graffiti, which you can see in the photo above. "Forever Alone," it reads, and on today of all days, while intentionally isolating myself, it seemed strangely apt.

My quarry today was two puzzle caches, which tend to be my least favorite kind, since they too often require spending considerable computer time to acquire the necessary coordinates. My whole purpose for geocaching is to get out there, not spend yet more time on the computer, which occupies massive portions of my daily life (pounding out these blogs doesn't count, since I generally enjoy writing them). The caches themselves were nice enough. But the highlight of today's hike was revisiting an old nemesis: the tree—or what remains of it—where once upon a time hung " Hung Up " ( GC3D9N6 ) a cache I sought and saw—at achingly close range—but never managed to claim.

"Hung Up" came out in 2012. It resided at a fairly frightful altitude in a tree that appeared big and solid. I had gone out to the greenway, scoped out the tree, and managed to spy the cache—a wee little bison tube—way up in the highest branches. I didn't think too much about scurrying on up there because, well, the tree was huge, and it appeared healthy. I hadn't gone up very far, though, when I grabbed a thick branch to pull myself up, only to have it pop off in my hand. That didn't deter me from continuing to climb, but the higher I went, the more I found mushy bark and wobbly branches. All signs of what I took to be pervasive rot.
"Hung Up," not so hung up.
More like submerged.
I couldn't have been more than three to five feet from the cache, which hung on a vertical branch. I had just started for it when I heard a very distinct, very loud crackkkkk come from behind me.

It had probably taken me a full five minutes to ascend the 30 or 40 feet into that tree. It took me about two and a half seconds to get back down to the bottom.

Coming so close, only to be thwarted by fears for my personal safety, galled me like little else. I ended up logging a DNF that day, and I did go back a time or two with the idea I might actually try it again, especially after a handful of other geocachers successfully made the climb. However, some time ago, I received notification from another cacher that "Hung Up" was no longer hanging. In fact, it lay somewhere down in High Point Lake. A massive branch from the tree—the very one I had climbed—had fallen and taken the cache with it. Although this event occurred many months after my attempt, it still felt like a narrow escape. Had I, or any other geocacher, been up there when that branch fell... well, that probably would have been someone's final tree climb. While I've taken plenty of risks, some fairly extreme, to get my signature on a little piece of paper, I do try to make at least marginally responsible decisions upon weighing those risks. In the case of "Hung Up," I reckon I did.

Still, it pisses me off I never did claim that little sucker. Ah, well. It was kind of nice to revisit the scene of the crime, as it were.

And I finished up the outing with some take-out from Thai Chiang Mai . That there was a winner, was what that was.
I feelz the forever alone. Left: the "Hung Up" tree in 2012; Right: the same tree today, missing a few crucial tree parts.
The geese did not appear overjoyed to see me.

Another Day for Old Farts

Another gathering of old farts, another Sunday on the caching trail. At age 60, I was the youngest of the gang on today's outing to the Hillsborough/Chapel Hill/Carrboro area. None of the other Usual Suspects were available, so it was just Robgso (a.k.a. Old Rob), Deifenbaker (a.k.a. Scott) and this old radioactively mutated giant flying Japanese rubber reptile. Not an overly strenuous day, unlike yesterday (see "Run to the Outback," March 7, 2020), but we did put in a fair distance (roughly five miles of hoofing it) and conquered a handful of marginally hairy terrain challenges. The meandering Bolin and Jones Creeks constantly bisected our chosen woodland routes, thus forcing us to utilize whatever crude crossings presented themselves. In the photo above, you'll seem me strolling across one such makeshift crossing, the odd photographic effect rendered by Diefenbaker pressing the wrong camera button.

We finished the day with a mere ten finds, but at least we worked for most of them. For our reward, we tracked down some vittles at The Spotted Dog , one of our favorite Carrboro dining destinations. The Bloody Mary wasn't much alcoholic, but the prevalent hot peppers in the formula sure hit the spot.

Next weekend, we're hoping for more of the regular irregulars to deign show themselves.
Horatius at the Bridge. Oh, wait, no. That's just Rob and Scott. Let's do it again, do it (do it), lets do it again (do it), mmm, do it again, do it again Scott trying to figure out how to get it all back together Lunch at The Spotted Dog. Scott's big old cheddar burger, my big old turkey burger.

Run to the Outback

I gave it a good run... literally.I am so not a running man. Now, in my search for geocaches, I happily hike miles upon miles at a time, climb and swing from trees like a monkey, and creepily creep through tight subterranean passages. But running.... nope. That's right out. Back in the 80s and 90s, I often ran for exercise. It was boring. Horribly, horrendously, mind-numbingly boring. Not my thing.

Well, usually. Anyway, there's this cache out there: Ranger Fox's "Run to the Outback" ( GC27934 ), which is a Wherigo cache. A Wherigo is a variation on the normal geocache in that it requires an app whose features are activated by proximity to designated coordinates. A Wherigo cache may take you on an adventure where, at each stage, you have to answer certain questions in order to proceed, or enter what you see around you and eventually advance to the actual geocache. "Run to the Outback" requires the intrepid geocacher to haul ass out Greensboro's most rugged trail — the Owl's Roost — and arrive at each stage along the 2.2-mile path to the cache within a prescribed time period. If you fail, you must start the preceding stage over again.

Well, in theory.

"Run to the Outback" has been in the wild for damn near ten years — since April 21, 2010. As hard as it is for me to ignore a geocache (hunting them has become a pathological need), I have deliberately ignored this one because the requirement to find it struck me as more excruciating than exhilarating. However, today I was feeling a little fidgety, so I decided to try trucking out to this aging hide. Things actually started out swimmingly. I made good progress and cleared the first five (of eight) stages with time to spare. It was when I got to stage six that things went south.

I reached the designated marker in plenty of time, but the Wherigo app would not advance to the next stage. I returned to stage five to try again, mais alas, no joy. Needless to say, there was no way in heaven or hell I was going to go back and start the whole business over again. However, certain of my geocaching friends (who keep fastidious cache notes) had found this one way back when, so rather than give up after this much effort, I broke down and made the holler for help. Thankfully, I was able to acquire the info I needed to reach the final stage.
Better days, this one has seen.
At ground zero, I found the perfect host but, at first, there was no sign of the container. Rather than give up, I started digging in the mud and... bravo!... at last struck paydirt. The container was buried under about six inches of muck. The lid was cracked, the container full of water. Yuck. I did manage to get my signature on the soggy log. I cleaned things up a bit, but I couldn't do anything about the cracked lid.

Mission accomplished, albeit in roundabout fashion. Wherigo routines falling down and going boom are apparently commonplace, and looking back at many of the past logs, I am far from the only one to encounter such difficulties on this cache. Right now, my feet are on fire and my legs feel as though they've been twisted in several directions at once. But for all that, I got my little smiley for the find, and the workout was worth it.

And now... there is wine. Wine is good. Wine is our friend.

Going for a Ramble

These days, I'm far fonder of spiders than I used to be. At one time, I suffered from damn near crippling arachnophobia. I found spiders fascinating (still do), but the big ones inspired terrible panic attacks. All it took to conquer that particular fear was spending some quality time amongst 'em (see "Face Your Phobia," May 18, 2015 ). But I'm not so fond of Black Widows who decide to go for a ramble on my living room floor.

At first, I thought this might be a false Black Widow (Steatoda grossa), but after examining quite a few images, I'm pretty sure this one is the real deal. The northern and southern variants do have red spots on their backs ( this one , which I uncovered a few years back, is a Northern Black Widow (Lactrodectus variolus).

Black Widows are generally not aggressive, and this one certainly wasn't —  at least until I put the camera right in front of her face, at which point she charged. She appeared to be missing a leg, and the cats were giving her surpassing curious glances, so I wonder if they had tangled. In any event, while I'm generally all about live and let live where spiders are concerned, I didn't want to put her out, have her come back in, and risk another possible tangle with cats. So, sadly, this poor specimen has been flattened. Quick and merciful, yes. But flattened.
Charge! She was missing a leg. Sadly, she's now missing more than that.

Help for Hilary

Hilary Jeffers is one of the sweetest, hard-working, generous, and talented people I know. It makes me sick that, inevitably, it takes a fundraiser to help people stay afloat whenever something dire happens. Please consider donating to help a most worthy soul.

In 1984, Hilary survived a terrible automobile accident, caused by a drunk driver. Head trauma made it difficult for her to learn new skills, which affected her ability to secure certain jobs. Increasing pain and a deteriorating body made it impossible for her to work long hours or full weeks most of the time. While working at a local restaurant, her back pain grew so bad she could barely stand straight or walk. She paid out of pocket for physical therapy which was not successful. Yet, with the help of yoga and pain meds she was continued to work several more years until the restaurant closed down.

Hilary found she had no other option but to begin drawing disability to help support herself and her young son. Due to many years of shorter work hours and minimum wage, the amount of disability she received was and remains quite low; it doesn’t even cover the rent for her very modest apartment. Very skilled at drawing, for a while she earned some extra dollars by creating lovely greeting cards and drawings of homes and local landmarks, but severe damage to her shoulder and elbow and resulting, increasing pain, put an end to that. In addition to her back, arm, and shoulder problems, the problems with her hip — which had popped in and out of joint ever since the accident — became worse and now she suffers with hip dysplasia. She is currently working part time as a ticket seller at a local movie theater, a place she loves, though she had to reduce her part-time hours due to ever-increasing pain. She knows things will not get better without help.

Doctors have diagnosed Hilary with “severe degenerative changes” in her left hip with “subchondral cysts especially in the acetabulum” (a subchondal cyst is characteristic of osteoarthritis) with “similar findings seen in the contralateral hip to a lesser degree.” In addition, “Degenerative changes are seen in the medial compartment of the knee.” In other words, at this particular time Hilary is in dire need of a hip replacement at the very least. Such surgery should greatly help her pain and her quality of life.

Medicare will help with some of the cost of the hip surgery. Yet, until then (the surgery is in late June or early July), and with less income from her work, there is a big income gap that must be filled in order for her to make it. And following surgery, there will be at least 8 weeks of recovery, which means no part-time work at all.

Contribute to help Hilary here: www.gofundme.com/f/help-and-hope-for-hilary

Unsmashing

Before AfterQ Branch got the Toyota back together (see "A Smashing Valentine's Day," February 15, 2020). As it turns out, the fellow who hit me had insurance after all, so the repair work didn't cost me anything. I do have to go to court as a witness regarding the accident, which will require time off from work and a trip to Martinsville. If I lived farther away, that might be problematic, so I guess I'm glad I don't live farther away. Anyway, now I'm going to be paranoid every time I stop at a red light. Perhaps it would behoove me not to.
The owls are not what they seem.

It's a Book! Summer of Lovecraft

The Kindle edition saw the light of day just before the most recent New Year's, but the big old paperback edition of Summer of Lovecraft is now roaming about in the wild. My contributor copy arrived from Dark Regions today. This one features my tale "Short Wave," which, for my part, I consider one of my most eerie, unsettling works of short fiction.

In the summer of 1969, a couple of teenage boys find an old short-wave radio. Man has, for the first time, set foot on the moon, and although the boys realize it's a silly idea, they decide to try contacting the astronauts of Apollo 11 on their radio. To their shock, a voice responds to their attempts—but it is immediately clear to them that the voice is not of human origin. They soon realize that something—an intelligence not of this earth—has taken notice of them. And now, no matter what they do or where they go, they cannot escape the malevolent attention of this unknown intelligence from outer space.

CTHULHU MEETS FLOWER POWER in this weird, wild, trippy, far-out, cosmic, and horrific anthology. Summer of Lovecraft - Cosmic Horror in the 1960s , edited by Brian M. Sammons & Glynn Owen Barrass, published by Dark Regions Press .

Night Trippers by Lois H. Gresh
Operation Alice by Pete Rawlik
The Summer of Love by C.J. Henderson
Being for the Benefit of Mr. Sullivan by Lee Clark Zumpe
Dreamland by David Dunwoody
Lost In the Poppy-Fields of Flesh by Konstantine Paradias
Five To One by Edward M. Erdelac
Keeping the Faith by Samantha Stone
Mud Men by Sean Hoade
Misconception by Jamie D. Jenkins
No Colors Anymore by Joe L. Murr
Shimmer and Sway by Jayaprakash Satyamurthy
Short Wave by Stephen Mark Rainey
The Song that Crystal Sang by Tom Lynch
Through a Looking Glass Darkly by Glynn Owen Barrass and Brian M. Sammons
The Color from the Deep by William Meikle
The Long Fine Flash by Edward Morris
Just Another Afternoon in Arkham, Brought to You in Living Color by Mark McLaughlin and Michael Sheehan, Jr.
Crystal Blue Persuasion by Jeffrey Thomas

Off-Season Beachin'

A rarely seen scene: a beach empty but for seagullsTHURSDAY, FEBRUARY 20
From time to time, Ms. B. enjoys going to these artsy-crafty-scrapbook-makey gatherings to do artsy-crafty-scrapbook-makey thingummies with a bunch of women. She's been to a few in Myrtle Beach, SC, and I especially enjoy these because I get to accompany her and go geocaching while she's doing her thing (see "Geo Artsy-Fartsying," November 11, 2018). The Sun N Sand Resort on S. Ocean Blvd., is one of the traditional settings for these events, which pleases me since it's only a couple of buildings down from Regency Towers , where I spent many a summertime week with my folks at our time-share condo from 1977 to 2000. The building that is now the Sun N Sand Resort used to be the Sheraton Hotel, where, sometime in the early 1990s, for two nights running, my brother and I won their bar's karaoke contests (good for $25 bar tabs—not at all shabby in those days). Unfortunately for us big people, the bar here has been remodeled to be a kids' arcade/ice cream parlor. What the hell kind of fun is that, anyway?

Alas, this may be the last of these Sun N Sand gatherings because, for whatever reason, a bunch of the women regulars are not altogether pleased with this facility. Personally, I find this both sad and mystifying, as it's a damned nice place at a very reasonable price, but then, it ain't my event. This morning, Ms. B. and I put in half a day at the office before hitting the road for the beach. Back home in Greensboro, there was reasonably serious snow in the forecast, but as we drove beachward, we encountered naught but rain. Now, at times, it was a pretty enthusiastic rain. Of course, this hardly put the brakes on the geocaching; I grabbed a small handful on the way. Once checked in at the Sun N Sand, we headed to dinner at Dirty Don's Oyster Bar , which was in the running and is now firmly in the lead for my personal favorite seafood joint anywhere. Steamed shrimp and oysters for me, and fried shrimp for the nice lady. I also had a couple of what may have been the spiciest Bloody Marys ever. Not necessarily the tastiest ever, but I'd still rate them pretty high on the Mighty Happy Drink list.

Afterward, we hoped to drop some coin at the nearby Coastal Wine Boutique , which has been a favorite wine destination on past beach trips. The one at 21st Ave. and Ocean Blvd. however, appears to have odd hours; last time we were here, they didn't open till well after their posted time of 5:00 PM. And tonight, after dinner, they weren't open yet again. Thus devastated, Kimberly and I decided to try the liquid refreshment at Soho , just down the street. We each had a glass of wine each (both just fair), and a spicy tuna roll (fabulous). Before heading back to the Sun N Sand, on a lark, we decided to check out Coastal Wine one more time. Lo and behold, this time, they were open. Go figure. On our entry, the friendly pup we remembered from our previous visit greeted us with his customary unbridled enthusiasm. The wine here, as expected, far surpassed the more muggle-oriented fare at Soho: a Gen 5 red blend for Ms. B. and a Bourdeaux blend pour moi.

A cache in the rain on the way back to the resort, and then some mellow time for Ms. B. and me.
Oyster and shrimp bones. All that's left of a Dirty Don's feast. The goodest boy in the wine bar, according to Ms. B. I might have taken exception
except that she might have been right. Off-season at the beach is the best.FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 21
Hoo-doggies, that was one killer wind this morning! It felt a lot more like Michigan than South Carolina. In November 2018 and January 2019, the temps here were far milder. Needless to say, the blustery bluster wasn't about to sway me from a good geocaching outing. As Kimberly made for her day's activities, I headed toward a few hides—though I did opt for some that required less hiking than those I had originally targeted. Regardless, I ended up with seven, and avenged a couple of DNFs (read as Did Not Find) from previous visits.

I've gotta say, I will never understand muggles who spend several eternities sitting in their cars—always right where the cache is hidden. Not once, not twice, but three times this morning, I entered parking lots that were completely bereft of vehicles except for cars parked right at my respective GZs. Un-freaking-believable. I mean, what the fuck, do geocaches have some kind of subliminal draw for people with nothing better to do than sit in their fucking cars? People, just go. Go away. Go somewhere. Do something. Something besides sit in your fucking car.

After geocaching, some lunch and mellow time back at the hotel—shattered for a brief time by a piercing, pointless fire alarm. I suspect some bored dingbat kid decided to make mischief. At so many fan conventions over the years, I experienced bogus fire alarms to the point that I came to expect them. As there is no fan convention here, I expected this one somewhat less.

We hunted down and killed dinner at Travinia Italian Restaurant , a short distance from our lodgings. The restaurant always appears crowded, and could be considered relatively upscale. The five-piece band playing was quite good, with jazzy tunes I found mostly appealing, though the volume was such that Brugger and I simply could not converse, even seated a fair distance away. Our bottle of wine—an Orin Swift Italian Red Blend, which we have had on any number of occasions—was pleasing enough, though at a 250% markup, not exactly inexpensive. Ms. B. ordered Pollo Isabella (grilled chicken breast, sun-dried tomatoes, goat cheese, lemon basil beurre blanc, & baby spinach), and I went for Short Rib Rigatoni (slow-braised beef, roasted garlic, mascarpone, & tomato cream sauce), both of which were just okay; both somewhat bland, requiring considerable salt & pepper to bring out the flavor. The service, I will say, was exemplary. I can't give Travinia more than a B– in the food and drink/value department, but I'll offer a solid A for the cordial, attentive service and general atmosphere. Given the typical crowds and overall good reviews, I might have hoped for somewhat more distinctive fare. Still, in the grand scheme, we're at the beach, we're not starving, and we've been able to take considerable joy in this respite from the ongoing bullshit of the real world. So let us call ourselves a couple of happy campers on this occasion.
Old Rodan at "A Walk Around the Block #19," avenging a prior DNF. Notice my look of pure joy. So much for any "Cache In, Trash Out." I guess I won't be watching any Gilligan's Island out here. Nice nighttime view from the balcony. It's cold out thar!SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 22
Serious hike requires serious attitude.
After a bit of a sleep-in, Ms. B. and I set out for one of our favorite breakfast destinations: Woodhaven Pancake House , just around the corner on Hwy 17. Now, this happy place offers 70-some different omelets, and I do love me an omelet on occasion; however, on my last visit, I had not just French toast but Paris toast, and this particular treat has its hooks in me. So, once again, I tore into Paris toast with a side of sausage links. C'est magnifique.

From there, Kimberly went to her sit-on-her-butt-all-day crafty thing while I sallied forth to Murrells Inlet and the Waccamaw Neck section of the East Coast Greenway. Before commencing the hike, I stopped off for a few hides scattered around Murrells Inlet, then parked at the trailhead for the approximately three-mile stretch of trail down toward Litchfield. Most of the caches were relatively easy to find; a scant few required more than a couple of minutes of hunting. None required any physical challenges beyond the hike itself. It started out mighty chilly, but by noon the temp started climbing. I grabbed all the caches on my outbound hike, so that on my return, I power walked the entire distance. Yes sir, as much as I love that Paris toast, I'm pretty sure my body will thank me for getting rid of as many of those nasty old calories as possible. I left a couple of handfuls scattered along the trail.

But, oh, I'm sure I regained a calorie or two at dinner. I hadn't been back from Murrells Inlet for very long when we turned around and headed back that way for dinner. Our choice tonight: Nance's Creek Front Restaurant , which was a regular dining stop for my family when we came to Myrtle just about every summer in the 70s, 80s, and 90s. I remember quite enjoying Nance's fare back then. And tonight, it was very good. Kimberly ordered sauteed scallops with baked potato and cole slaw. Very, very good little shellfish, those, although a few of them were a tad overcooked and on the tough side. Sadly, the kitchen had run out of fresh oysters on the half shell, so I settled for fried oysters, with baked potato and green beans. Good, not great. The dirty vodka martini hit the spot. Still in all, the food was a darn sight better than last night's Italian. Neither came close to our goodies at Dirty Don's from Thursday evening. Dirty Don's, once again, is the clear winner for this trip.

Now, at times, I feel compelled to indulge Ms. B.'s eccentricities. Like, sometimes—rarely, of course—she drinks wine. Last year, while she was doing her sitting-on her-butt-artsy-craftsy-scrapbook-makey thingummy, I rather randomly decided to take her a glass of wine. I can safely say that I do such things because I love her dearly, and making her happy brings me joy. And I know she appreciates it. This evening, though, I get a text indicating her wine glass is empty. So, yes, I did slog down twelve floors (read push the elevator button) to take her some wine. The warmth of satisfaction I get from this service can no doubt be felt to the ends of the earth. (This is why, actually, the polar ice caps are melting.) However, this afternoon, after returning from a six-mile power hike, I get a request from the nice lady to hammer out the kinks in her back; this because she's been sitting on her butt all day. Now, while I might be happy to indulge Ms. B.'s eccentricities—and I am—I might suggest that she consider increasing my tips enough to put me into the next tax bracket. It seems only fair.
Bright but chilly morning at the beach Have you seen the bridge? Where's that confounded bridge? It's a swamp out there! By midday, the temp had risen sufficiently for the bugs to start stirring. A nice evening view from our balconySUNDAY, FEBRUARY 23
Last night, Ms. B. and I pulled a pretty late nighter (she insisted we sit up and drank wine once she came in from her activities), so we ended up sleeping in a bit later than we originally intended. Once marginally awake and alert, we packed everything up, checked out, and then went our respective ways for the next hour or so—she to her art, I to Surfside to grab a few more caches. I snagged four and spent quite a while looking for a newer, very tough one that eluded me.

We had lunch at Denny's (a place I probably haven't been to since I had hair), and then we hit the road for home. We did venture out a few intriguing country roads after a couple of caches, one of which I found, one of which I did not. All in all, it was a decent, uncomplicated trip back.

It sounds like Ms. B.'s future Myrtle Beach events will be at a different venue; nearby, though a bit pricier. And I've come perilously close to finding the majority of the geocaches at and around the beach. Holy cowz, who'd have thunk it? Hopefully, before the next one, somebody will repopulate the area with some new ones. Hopefully....

A lovely trip, it was. Although at times there were a good many people out and about, off-season at the beach is most definitely the best.

To close, here are a few photos of Ms. B.'s scrapbook pages she made this weekend. They're from our Europe trip back in the fall.