I've written about the sport of geocaching before; a combination treasure hunt and swap-meet using a GPS receiver to locate a hidden container.

Last Monday, I was doing that, in Ontario. It was a mile from the parking to the location, much of it muddy and brushy. I'm used to walking; generally that includes about three miles, five times a week. However, with the mud patches and puddles, this was more like a mile-long hopscotch course. And then there was the first fall, caused by a downed wire fence lurking in the grass. Getting to the cache required a short hop over a small stream with slippery mud banks. Made it over. A clue included the fact that the container would be hidden in a dead Hawthorne tree. This was no help at all to a guy who has difficulty distinguishing between small trees and large shrubs. But I found it; removed something from the container and placed something in it as the trade. The second fall was at the same stream; this time the mud got me. Even so, the only damage was to my jeans.

So now for the trek back. I was plowing along, hopscotching over and around the mud, when Ben Gunn Syndrome kicked in. Remember him? Marooned alone on Treasure Island for years, he'd taken to talking to himself. I do that sometimes, but prefer to call it "self-consultation." So John told John that being by yourself in the middle of a wildlife management area is not as smart as it should be. A broken bone, a heart attack. Not smart. In the future, there'll be a partner or at least a cellular phone. Then at least I wouldn't die alone, right?