Geocaching - The Official Global GPS Cache Hunt Site

 January 28 by Snoogans

Sngans

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 November 30, 2009 by addisonbr

My first and by far best step – and I can't stress this enough – was to reach out to Snoogans himself. I had multiple motivations… First, he invited me to on the cache page (I was both "coming from a great distance", and would "need advice on preparations/accommodations"). Second, Snoogans had reported a problem at the Dead Drop and disabled the cache - with a warning to "Hunt it at your own risk." And finally, I wanted to know if Snoogans had any adventures suitable for a family man with 36 available hours, and three adorable children who would miss their daddy very, very much should anything happen to him.

I emailed Snoogans through gc.com with my phone number, and after playing phone tag for a bit we finally connected a couple of days later. Snoogans reassured me that the Dead Drop location would be repaired before Thanksgiving. Game on! Then he mentioned that he had clicked through to my profile and saw that I hailed from New York City. He assured me, with what I can best describe as a "Texas chuckle", that he would make extra-super-special sure that I received a "proper" Texas welcome. Thanks... I think?

Have you ever seen a dog bare its teeth, and you couldn't tell if he was smiling at you or getting ready to rip out your jugular?

I used the intervening weeks to accumulate the equipment that Snoogans suggested I bring along. Most of it I already had, but I did have to pick up a couple of items not already in my stable - including the ACR TerraFix personal locator beacon. At first that seems like a very sensible safety measure, as I would be caching alone. But it's also a little unsettling. Sort of like being handed a parachute when boarding an airplane. Um... why exactly might I be needing this?

My ultimate assault on QL began ignobly. I decided to make a run at the Dead Drop early in our stay, as it was just 7 miles away and it would give me more time to prepare for my trip to the bunker and beyond. The satellite photos looked promising, but when I got to GZ, there was just... nothing. Where the photos indicated trees, reality indicated a flat wasteland, plus what seemed to be a pretty fresh paved road and cul-de-sac that most definitely was not there on Google Maps. I poked around for a while anyway, kicking some rocks and looking through a few weeds. There were some PVC tubes stuck into the ground here and there, maybe for soil sampling or rainfall data... but I didn't see anything hidden in them. I was completely baffled, and was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the area must have undergone a significant transformation in the weeks/months since this cache was last logged. Trees cleared out, road paved, cache messed up. Argh, drat.

After about 30 minutes of half-hearted searching, I was ready to pack it in, but figured that maybe I should try decrypting the coordinates just to make 100% sure that I was in the right place... and to my astonishment, this time I extracted completely different coordinates. How I made this mistake I will never know, but it didn't fill me with a lot of confidence for the rest of the cache. How are you supposed to finish a 5/5 if you can't even transcribe numbers correctly? Ugh. Quantum Leap - 1, Me - 0.

Error corrected, the amended excursion to the dead drop coordinates was successful, although at the cost of severely damaging my GPSr. I didn't even get a good story out of it; it fell out of the car when I opened the door, maybe two or three feet to the pavement - something that has happened dozens of times before. Except that this time, something must have happened, maybe a connection knocked loose, and my maps no longer dynamically update. Ugh. Garmin tells me it will cost $110 to fix. Double Ugh. At least the numeric readings still work.

Quantum Leap - 2, Me - 0. I hoped it would get better, because this was just the exhibition round.

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 November 30, 2009 by addisonbr

Striking out in terms of either signs of civilization or running water, I was more angry with myself than anything else. And I'll be honest - at first, going through these initial motions, it felt more like I was playing an adventure game rather than preparing for actual survival. But as the sun began to hang low over the horizon, and the gravity of the situation began to set in a bit more, my feelings of adrenaline-fueled frustration rapidly gave way to panic. The reality of actually spending the night out here, with my wife worried sick that I didn't return, and still without a solid plan for how to approach tomorrow, started to become too much to handle, and I could practically feel my chest tightening up.

That's when I remembered the personal locator beacon... ohthankgod!

With an emotionally draining sense of relief, I activated the unit and slumped against the side of the car as my location / personal information shot to the heavens.

Just 10 minutes later - which seemed fast! to me - I heard the never more comforting sounds of an approaching vehicle, and almost found myself tearing up with a mixture of simple relief and embarrassment.

The Xterra pulled to a stop twenty feet away, and an absolute BEAR of a man piled out of the drivers side. He wore a bright orange fluorescent vest and "Lone Star Search and Rescue" cap. He seemed less happy to see me than I was to see him - the best way I could describe his face would be "grimly satisfied". He addressed me formally by my last name, asked a few questions about my current health and status, and looked me over carefully to make sure that I was in no immediate danger. I was eager to assure him that I was fine, but happy to be found, thanks so much for coming to find me, etc., but his mood seemed to darken with each reassuring answer. He returned to his vehicle and radioed in the news for a few minutes, then returned to me.

He said that the system data indicated that I live in New York, and he asked if that was true. After I confirmed, he fixed me with an unsmiling glare and asked me what on earth someone from New York City, obviously underprepared and undertrained for the outdoors, was doing in the wilds of Texas - alone. I started to explain geocaching, but that only seemed to make things worse. He asked if I understood how much I, as a New Yorker, had just cost the "good citizens of Texas" by mobilizing the rescue units, and that the purpose of SAR isn't "so that Yuppies can play treasure hunt games." He asked if I had given any thought before I left my home to the safety and well-being of the good men and women of Lone Star SAR whom I had put at risk, all because I was looking for a treasure box.

I was struck speechless. I obviously hadn't put myself in this predicament on *purpose*, and I didn't expect to get berated by a rescue team... but I had to admit to myself, that he was basically right. I had been underprepared, and had let the allure of this cache cloud my judgment. I didn't know any caching buddies in Texas, but rather than recruit a partner or plan ahead for a better time in the future, I decided to try to tackle this 5/5 monster alone. It was... pretty stupid. Quantum Leap - 4, Me - 0.

Feeling like I wanted to vomit from all of the emotional ups and downs of the past few hours, I tried to stammer out an apology. I told him I agreed, that it would never happen again, and that I would reimburse his department for any expenses I caused them. He told me that despite his personal feelings on the matter, his professional concerns were still that I be returned to safety as soon as possible. "Thank you so much," I replied, as I quickly scanned for a nametag. "I appreciate everything you've done for me here, Mr. -"

As my eyes locked onto the hand-stiched patch on my rescuer's vest, I could feel my voice box drop to the pit of my stomach.

Snoogans?

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