The chatter of the phone penetrated the pillow over my aching head and smashed the rum-flavored fog. It was my caching buddy, my incredibly cheerful and energetic caching buddy. My disgustingly non-alcohol consuming caching buddy who left the party reminding me that he would be calling when he got to my driveway for our long-planned geocaching trip on New Year's Day.

A blast akin to the horn of the Titanic emphasized the phone's clarion call in a voice that was not to be denied. It could only mean my day's fun was awaiting me in the driveway and only the inch-thick film of gunk and onion dip on my tongue was holding me back. I threw aside the pillow that landed with a crash on the shag carpet and frightened the cat that stomped, elephant-like, from the room. I bounced off the walls to the shower and ran the water.

A few minutes of soaking and I began to regain use of my cognitive abilities. My first rational act of the day was to remove my socks and the conical cardboard hat with the rubber band that was thoroughly knotted in my hair. The Scooby Doo boxers hit the tub with a thud and the shower curtain collapsed nicely as I stumbled from the bath. The last traces of sleep disappeared when my pale, pink toes collided with the doorjamb while trying to find my closet with my eyes closed.

The sound of hiking boots kicking aside empty chip bags, cans, bottles and a cousin let me know that my sickeningly cheerful caching partner had given up ringing the Bells of St. Mary's and pounding on my house with a DeSoto. He was laughing. Cheerfully laughing. I speculated on the definition of "justifiable homicide."

Ordinarily, the smell of coffee is the most welcome aroma this side of Heaven. The mere trace of that wondrous bean makes my eyes open and my heart gleeful. This morning, it served only as a reminder of a pitcher of Black Russians and a nasty mess in the fish tank.

My caching buddy met me at the closet door with a steaming mug of black death and the news that the shirt that I was certain was broken and poorly made was in fact a pillowcase that did not have holes for my arms and head. He helped me pick out appropriate clothing for the five- below-zero temperatures that awaited us. Fortunately for both our reputations, he did not comment on the fact that I was wearing the Valentine's Day underwear with the hearts and cupids and "Come to Papa!" screen print.

A few words about my caching buddy.... I have never before wanted to see anyone fall from a great height as I did in those precious moments as he crammed my feet into my boots, pulled me to my feet and herded me out the door. My caching partner doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, and doesn't stay up all night trying to find his car.

He's never painted his body to cheer a sports team or told a cop that "Badges are for sissies." He likes to geocache. He lives to geocache. He would trade his mother for a good set of coordinates. He has a "Garmin" tattoo. He has the stamina to hike five miles uphill and the patience to smile when he finds squirrels have eaten the logbook. He's one of the most amazing people I have ever met. Right now I want him to leap in front of a train.

An array of dash-mounted GPS units greeted me as I belted into his four-wheel drive. A sheaf of notes filled a file folder between the seats and a carefully marked route map was clipped to his visor. Pathetic. I fished my battered unit from my cache bag and turned it on... and turned it on.... I fished my Game Boy from my cache bag and swapped batteries with my GPSr and turned it on. I was ready.

The sun burned cleanly though the gray wintry sky as we headed down the road. I don't know where we're going. I don't know what we'll find. I think it'll be a good day. I may not kill my caching buddy today after all. Provided he stops at a lot of gas stations.