Ep 1.5 - Vantage Points (Closed)

[Feldspar]

High up on a desert ridge in Vantage, the horses were in full gallop.

They were stretched out, one after the other, running with power and purpose. The lead horse had reared against the sky, head tossed forward with the joy of motion, forefeet completely off the earth. Others followed behind, caught in all stages of their gait; stretched fully out with mane and tail lashing the air behind them, kicking up their heels, legs tucked under like a spring, ready to uncoil into the next phase of their speed. The mares speeding on in front, the heavy- crested stallion bringing up the rear of his band.

Fifteen horses in a scattered line nearly two hundred feet long, silhouetted rusty black against the pink-hazed light of early morning.

Overhead, the stars were fading spatters of distant light. The crescent moon hung thin, sharp and pale. The air was cold, crisp and dry. To the west, there was the heavy, rugged landscape of the Ginkgo Petrified Forest highlands; north there was the Colockum Wildlife Area, climbing steadily until it was five thousand feet above the river.

Below, traffic barely stirred on Washington State’s Interstate 90. Grant County was a small, quiet area. The winding road curved around the blue-silver shimmer of the Columbia River, and then cut to the north around the wide banks of Wanapum Lake. You could see everything from up on that ridge; for miles and miles. On this stretch of the land, predators would have a difficult time surprising any prey and those animals knew it and basked in the safety.

A jackrabbit nibbled on twigs and then rubbed the scent glands of his cheeks across the stripped edges of the branches before loping easily down into one of the many low washes scattered throughout.

Most humans had sense and were still warm and comfortably asleep in bed right now. There were a few scattered vehicles on this stretch of road, but nearly all of them were long distance truckers. The big rigs plodded methodically around the corners, patiently hauling their cargo and coffee-saturated long distance drivers along. The men slumped in their seats; they didn't look right or left at the landscape. Not much to even bother to look at.

Vantage wasn’t exactly an area most people thought of when they thought of Washington State. There were no deep green fir trees, ferns, or even one smattering of moss. Sagebrush fought tumbleweed for every single drop of dew.

The surrounding landscape consisted of bone dry mesa, brittle, faded clumps of grass and huge basalt boulders interspersed with crumbling, bleached sandstone. High ridges and low valleys.

The trail up to the ridge was a tough, difficult climb. It started at a pullout for cars, and had been worn down slowly into the earth by thousands of strides.

This morning it reflected the light; a dusty pale ribbon of silvery grey. The path cut upwards sharply, no gentle switchbacks; just a straightforward, head-lowering, elbow churning climb leading to where the horses powered their way across the upper mesa.

The other side of the ridge was even more daunting. No trail leading there; just a deep, steep canyon filled with huge boulders. Some were the size of large cars, others even bigger. They were scattered here and there; many half-buried in the earth, others sitting on top of the sandstone; basalt did not wear like the softer strata did. Long dark shadows stretched between them. It was an excellent place to conceal just about anything.

Even... well, a tank.

[Deleted]

He didn't know why he had come.

Fortress Maximus stood near the top of the peak and lifted his hand over his eyes. The breeze stirred his avatar's scruffy hair and the untucked hem of the same grey plaid shirt it had worn down in the canyon. He didn't see the point of changing its attire. Same worn and dusty jeans, same worn hiking boots. Nobody would know. Nobody knew who he was.

Traffic flowed sleepily around the curves in the interstate. The early morning light shone pink against their windshields. Few humans were out. He didn't really expect to be seen, not in this aloof place. Even the wind was quiet as it rustled through the tufted grass. A few clouds drifted across the pale sky.

He had hidden himself away at the bottom of the steep side of the ridge. The boulders shielded him well where he sat motionless in his tank form. A layer of desert dust lay atop his plating, dulling the blue and grey urban camouflage. His engines and auxiliary systems were powered down to reduce his radar profile. Only his sensor suite remained alert. Even a Decepticon flier would have a hard time detecting him here. Good.

Once he had assured himself that he was alone he had projected his avatar midway up the ridge. Now it stood with one foot resting on a rock and surveyed the landscape. No living creature was in sight. Just rabbits.

He turned. Left Fortress Maximus at the bottom of the canyon and resumed the climb as Max. Just Max. Just a middle-aged human with worn lines on his unshaven face and a beat up knapsack on his back.

What the hell was he doing here.

He almost hadn't come. Had almost dismissed the whole thing as a wild chase and turned his mind back to his duties. His authority was gone but there was still work for him to do. He was needed at the base. He was...

The thought trailed off as he trudged onto the top of the ridge. A stronger breeze blew across it. The air was cooler there, clear. His boots crunched in the loose dirt and rock as he turned in place, getting his bearings. He couldn't deny that the view was beautiful. He stood for a moment and stared out over the mesa. The river was like a sheet of glass at this altitude, reflecting both sky and clouds. In the distance a bridge spanned the water, silver in the dawn light.

Reluctantly, Max turned. When he caught sight of the horses he froze. What on...

After a pause he approached them warily. Steel. They were steel. Sculptures. Now he could make out the details in them, the red rust and the machine-cut lines of their manes and tails. At least a dozen of them, all lined up along the bluff.

Max stopped short of the lead horse. It reared above him, forever caught with its front hooves lifted against the sky. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch its fetlock. A human had carved these and left them here for all to see. A long time ago, judging by the rust.

He slowly walked down the line, his gaze intent. Each one was different, down to the fatigue that years of wear and weather had etched upon their sides.

Was this what the Decepticon courier had wanted to show him...?

[Feldspar]

As Max walked along the ridge, the valley spread out around him. Nothing here but him and cool air, changing dawn. Silence, except for the soft distant purr of a passing truck. All directions around him, the landscape was touched with soft light. Dust puffed up from his feet as he moved; but the ground was hard-pack and Max left no obvious prints behind. The drab rocks seemed to glow, the clumps of brush and angles shone crystal with dew.

The air was crisp and cold, eddying with the woody scent of sage.

The arid desert seemed almost like some other place than Earth; the curves and bends of the river far below him where it was not hidden in shadow reflected the shifting light as bright, shimmering gold.

The lake was still, a mirror of glass. The bridge spanning it was a delicate thing. It slipped off the solid red stone of the shore and stretched across the water; even the solid posts of concrete shoved into the lake bed didn’t make it appear sturdy. Wisps of mist were playing along the cables, drifting softly through the structure and clouding the farther end from view.

The horses were eight to ten feet high. Each horse was at least an inch thick of plate steel, and to the mech’s trained eye, he’d realize they’d been hauled up here unassembled and put back together with heavy, thick welds. There were other things, the way the metal cutter had jumped and left a rough spot on a mane, or hadn’t cut absolutely perfect on a leg or a tail. They were cleverly built, from a distance each animal looked solid and thick; up close they were made of plates and braces.

His observation was absolutely correct. Each of the charging horses all had individual markings of metal; a human hand print on a haunch, raised swirls and dots; starbursts and suns, even the one with the lightning bolt that zig-zagged down the outer shoulder. There were other markings that weren’t so nice though. Some had been defaced with graffiti, tagged with spray paint. Names, dates, and crude drawings on their metal hides, splashed across their necks, their shoulders, whatever broad spaces a human could reach.

However, there was the sense that they were being cleaned now; scrubbed back to that soft patina of metal- a few in the front of the line showed no signs of paint. Someone had been working on restoring the damage.

So different, each animal, personalities showing through. One was playful, one determined; another kicking up heels in the sheer joy of the run. A little foal trotting gaily next a bigger horse, and finally a pair galloping in tandem, close enough to touch, noses inches apart, ears turned to focus fully on the other with pure admiration and affection.

A gust of wind over the ridge. Up here in the high country, there was nothing to soften it; it lifted the dust and the gravel and spun it quietly around the stones. It was even strong enough at times to cause the statues to sway slightly, to shift their weight against their braces.

As Max got to the end of the line, he would find a small square, dusted with earth, half buried at the base of the far horse. The barest sheen of bronze under paint; this had taken a beating from vandals. The concrete base had been colored hot orange; there was white and red and even ugly magenta spattered on the surface. The words had been hacked at, they were worn down, hard to make out, but some could be read given time and patience in the dim light.

these ponies I am cutting them loose... work and play on this planet.

Then it skipped a section since there was a huge gouge where someone had obviously pried up a chunk. Who knew where it had gone. Probably on some bored teenager’s desk somewhere or thrown down the hill.

... power of reasoning the gift of free will... of limitless nature of this ever expanding universe... live to inspire each other.

If Max looked up from it, straight ahead of him was an odd thing in the landscape. It was not part of the installment. Among the old, buried stones and brush about five hundred feet away from him was a cairn of stones, built carefully. On top of it rested a long, thin stone and even in the wind it did not move.

Like a compass needle, it pointed off into a rocky wash ahead of him.

[Deleted]

He almost missed the plaque as he came up to the last horse. It was only a reflection of light on the bronze surface that caught his attention, a flicker that made him frown and look down.

When he realised what he was looking at, Max crouched down. He studied the plaque critically. It looked as if a number of vandals had already found it. The words were difficult to read, and he spent a moment dusting them with the side of his hand to remove a little of the wear and dirt. It didn't help much - they had been pared at by something sharp in places - but when he could make a little more of what was written there he sat and did his best to read it.

Live to inspire each other.

"Huh," he said aloud.

For a minute or two Max remained crouched on the balls of his feet, thinking, as the wind stirred through the dust and grass around him. His mind returned to the courier with reluctance. He made a conscious point - a difficult one - to not dwell on the Cons these days. But now he wondered.

With his hands on his knees Max slowly pushed himself to his feet. As he did he caught sight of the odd stack of rocks. It was plain to see that they had been piled on top of one another by human hands. Frowning, he made his way towards him, dusting off his thigh as he went.

Close up, he spotted the thin rock on top of it. Like a marker it pointed into a rock gully, perhaps the dried bed of an old stream. It had been deliberately placed.

Max's frown deepened. After casting a glance back at the horses he warily followed the rock into the wash, his eyes alert.

[Feldspar]

On this side of the statues the horses were dark shadows framed against the rising sun. The light had changed with the angle; it limned the sharp edges of the flying manes and tails, drifted along broad haunches and wide shoulders. Rusty, dull metal gleamed copper gold.

The top rocks of the cairn had been cemented down with a gob of clear adhesive. Someone had taken the time to assure that no matter what; the weather, the wind, humans themselves... hopefully that rock still pointed that direction down the landscape. Human hands had built this, and it had obviously been here for a while. Dust had built up around the base, tiny silver-green shoots were poking up from between the gaps the bottom rocks.

No visible traveled trail led down into the wash; this area was covered with short scrub. It grew among the stones down the hill, indicating that the landscape was stable and solid, even though the angle veered sharply down. There was a series of boulders half buried that would give better purchase for his boots if he walked across them. They cascaded down the hill, the sturdy basalt shelves and curves making a natural, if unconventional path.

The faint traffic noise from the highway all but disappeared as Max headed downwards. There was just stone, rock and brush. It was difficult, but not so much to be stupidly dangerous to a human. Just a place that took a bit more thought in navigating.

One area he'd have to step off of the boulders and scramble down fifty feet; but after that there was another rock shelf below. This one was flat and sturdy, a resting area of sorts halfway down the wash.

It would provide the mech's avatar with a lookout point down and across the parched streambed.

[Deleted]

The quiet was a little unnerving. The loudest sounds he could hear were his footsteps as they crunched in the dirt. He had a good avatar, solid. It even left a trail of boot prints in the dirt behind him.

Max picked his own trail into the wash. It was steep, but he found that if he kept to the rocks he was less likely to slide in the loose soil. He walked back and forth down the slope, moving with care. A fall wouldn't harm his avatar, but it would certainly sting his pride.

When he reached the drop off the boulders he did not bother stepping down onto the scramble. After a wary look around himself he simply leapt into open space and fell straight down. He hit the rock shelf on both feet and straightened, brushing the dust from his clothing. He turned and looked back up at the place he had jumped from in satisfaction, shielding his eyes from the sun.

He had not really used his avatar much before the canyon, seeing little point in it. He was not here to interact with humans outside of a military capacity. He was here to fight the Cons. But he had to admit that the avatar was coming in handy now. It had turned out that there was more to Earth than an old silo in the Nevada desert, or a vague front in the war. How things changed.

Max stepped to the edge of the rock shelf and looked down. Below was a dried out streambed. Hm.

He rubbed his chin. His avatar was not equipped with sensors, but it could act as a target designator of sorts. The hidden tank locked in on his avatar and scanned the area around it, searching for traces of anything that was not rock or dirt or grass. That needle had to be pointing to something in particular.

[Feldspar]

When Max jumped and landed on the stone; a pair of striped ground squirrels who had been cheerily eating breakfast and stuffing their faces with dry seeds scattered out from the edge that touched the dirt. They scampered up the side of the wash and dived into a burrow; then peeked out at him before they both cursed him out for dropping in like that in squirrelese. Luckily, universal translation software hadn't quite got the hang of that language - these two little guys no doubt made Cybertronian smelter workers sound tame.

They quickly got over their fear though, and were chattering and scampering around on the rock again, picking up their dropped seeds. Apparently they'd learned that humans were of no danger to them. They didn't seem to take note of Max's lack of scent; or if they did, they weren't concerned.

Trail dirt fluffed up from his avatar's clothing, and then swiffed off like smoke, drifting back into the landscape. As Max looked upwards, the ridge was above him, smoothed gently by nature and time.

The monument horses had disappeared with the angle of the draw. Around him, the sun lit the draw; once it had set itself to rise, the fast spin of this planet brought it quickly off the horizon. Light rippled softly down the wash; soft pink and warm orange. The air brushed against him, lifting the hem of his grey plaid shirt before it settled once more.

The relay of his sensors through the avatar only took a few seconds to settle and sweep the area. He was rewarded almost instantly with something that was not at all natural or nature.

It appeared to be a lidded plastic five gallon bucket dug down into the soil. It was about another hundred feet down from where he stood now and to the left. Once he'd targeted it, he could easily follow the invisible line off the tip of the rock needle above- it would have landed right in the middle of it.

It was well hidden though under another cairn of stone. Unlike the pointer cairn, in this case the rocks over it had been placed very tactfully and carefully. No doubt human beings hiking past without the benefit of an amazing sensor array would have walked right by it; never to give the area a second look. Part of the landscape, and nothing more.

[Deleted]

Max greeted the blip on his sensors with surprise, then satisfaction. He had only scanned the area on a hunch, but it had been a solid one. That odd rock needle had been placed deliberately.

But he was puzzled. Why would a human have buried a bucket at the bottom of the wash in such a fashion? He thought of what the courier had told him of geocaches – hidden artefacts left for other humans to seek and uncover – and thought that this had to be what she was talking about. Judging by the rocks stacked on top of it, this ritual was meant to be a challenge of sorts.

The cairn wasn't far away. Max picked his route towards it, walking slowly now. When he reached his destination he circled it once, studying the rock pile with some uncertainty. There seemed nothing for it. If he wanted to uncover the bucket he would need to move the rocks first. And if he was honest with himself he was admittedly curious about what was buried here, hidden to all except for those who knew what they were looking for.

Max wearily sighed. He rubbed a hand down his face. This was ridiculous. He was fully repaired again, back on the active duty list. There were more important things he needed to be doing with his time. Decepticon patrols to intercept. Matters of security to iron out.

He stood and did nothing, while the breeze toyed with his hair and the dust and the hem of his shirt. Then, silently, he began to take apart the cairn, lifting each rock from the pile and setting it aside at his feet.

The bucket did not appear to be buried deep. Once the cairn was gone he could dig to it with his hands if needed.

[Feldspar]

Stone lifted off easily. These were were solid, sturdy rocks, but as he got down to the bottom of the cairn, they became flat slabs of sandstone, carefully placed as to interlock over the top. It created a sturdy, stable resting spot for the rest of them.

Almost immediately when he set to digging, a few sweeps of his hands shifted the fine, dry dirt. It wasn't packed down, more of a nominal covering of silt, the barest inch or two just to smooth over the top of the bucket.

This had obviously had been here a while. The wear on the outside showed that it had been opened many times. Once sharp edges of plastic around the lid were smooth and curved by the process of human hands. It was buried securely and fit smoothly into the hole. It had not been removed out of where it rested for a long time.

Dirt had settled loosely around the curve of the plastic, indicating to Max that it was not supposed to be lifted out of the hole, but reached into. The oxidation of sediment stained the once white plastic red-gold in places.

When he cleaned off the lid, Max would see that it screwed down on top, creating a dry, weatherproof seal for the contents inside. There was no lock, no pin or cable; nothing to keep someone out of the hiding place - a few turns of his hands would open it up.

During his digging, the bucket had shifted slightly. If the mech wiggled the lid at all, it rocked back and forth, and there was a soft jingle and rattle from inside of it. The contents were not packed just so for maximum space use in the bucket, they were apparently loose and layered within.

[Deleted]

Nonplussed, Max sank back on his heels. He rubbed a hand through his dusty hair and sat and stared down into the shallow hole he had dug.

The bucket was embedded in the dirt, still dusted with silt. It had clearly been here for some time, if the wear on the plastic was anything to go by. Buried and dug up countless times, by dozens of human hands. Primus only knew who had been the first to bury it.

Something was inside it. He had heard the muffled rattle of its contents while digging. Huh.

Max brushed dirt on the lid, then tested it with his fingertips. It didn't pull off when he tugged it, but an instant later he realised that it wasn't meant to. With both hands he grasped the lid and twisted it, trying to be gentle about it. Not something he was good at. But it turned easily enough, and an instant later it had spun free.

He set the lid down beside himself and, with an odd sense of curiosity niggling at him, peered inside.

[Feldspar]

The bucket contained a bunch of scattered objects tucked within.

There was an old tattered journal on top. It was in a resealable plastic bag - the kind that Miko often used for sandwiches. In the bag along with the book was two cheap blue Bic pens and several pencils. The bag had been obviously opened and reopened many times, but the nice seal still was a bright emerald green; blue side and a yellow side of the locking plastic.

There were other things in here once he removed the journal...

Oddly enough, it was like a little trove of odd things. There was a couple of small flashlights, a small cookie cutter in the shape of Texas. Several pens and pencils - so many glittery gel pens. One when it was picked it up had water in one end. When you turned over the pen, there was a couple of small plastic fish that floated to the other end, "The Amazing Columbia River!" was the slogan on the side.

A couple of CD's- bands he'd never heard of before. Also there were several paracord survival bracelets in multiple colors. A couple of costume jewelery pins. Two books with bookmarks in them; one was by Asimov- The Caves of Steel. The other was a copy of the "Best Hikes in the Pacific Northwest." A couple of tickets as well - a pair to OMSI, and a pair to a local classical music concert.

Also... a flier, wrapped around something. No, it was a brochure in beige and blue, secured tightly with rubber bands around a rather heavy object that was about the size of his fist - well, his human fist. On the top of the brochure it said "Visit Hoover Dam" and if he picked it up and turned it, underneath it had a picture of the dam in nice, deep colors, and then it said, "Theater! Tours! Exhibits!"

There was a very sweeping paragraph under the picture as well. In nice flowery prose it could be boiled down to exploring the rich history of this magnificent monument to American determination, viewing the massive generators and impressive winged figures, and the majestic views of Lake Mead!!!

(Also, shop the Hoover Dam store. For the best Dam souvenirs, and the best Dam gifts in the West.)

Underneath that oh so clever slogan, if he turned it farther was a neat little scrawl of writing. It was careful, as if someone had to hold the silver pen just so to perfectly do every letter so that it was legible. They were not used to writing like this, perhaps...

"For Professor Freeman" it said, and then there was a little arrow drawn underneath as if to point to the inside of the wrapped brochure.

[Deleted]

Max knelt in the dirt. Working silently, he pulled each cached item from the bucket one by one.

There were a lot of them. More than he would have expected.

The journal he laid down first, with half a mind to leaf through it in a moment. The rest of the trove was studiously picked up and examined before being placed on top of the growing pile. He clicked on and off the little flashlights to see if they still worked; they did. No matter how many times he rotated the cookie cutter he still could not determine what purpose it served. The pens looked like something Miko would take to school.

Max opened and clicked shut each CD case and examined the silvery discs inside. Music. He frowned at the tiny fish as he turned the tourist pen over. Humans collected strange things. But the Columbia River was familiar to him. He stared at the words as his mind wandered back to the river, his brow furrowed.

More books. Max flipped through them with his thumb before he placed the tickets inside them like bookmarks. He lingered over the book about hiking. The Pacific Northwest. Hm.

The flier he pulled out last. It was wrapped around something heavy, something that fit into the palm of his hand. There was writing on it, the letters neat and clear.

For Professor Freeman.

Max frowned.

Each of the items had been left in the bucket over time, by numerous strangers. But this had been left just for him. And he knew exactly who had written those letters with such care.

The elastic snapped off easily. Max unwrapped the flier and shook his head at it, not without a trace of irony The best dam souvenirs. Good god.

Something fell into his hand. He lifted it and a shadow passed over his eyes. Banded in earthy tones, solid and worn with time and the passage of water - he knew exactly what it was and where it had come from.

He didn't smile. But a little of the pinched look relaxed from his features as he turned the stone over between his own worn fingers.

[Feldspar]

It was an interesting stone, and held all the colors of the canyon he had rafted through that day, red, gold, a grey that shifted to lavender depending on how he turned it in the hot sun. There were some deep marks on one side where it had been broken in half and then pared down carefully with a sharp object. Perhaps it was to fit in the bucket... or looking at it, it fit much better into a human-sized grip.

The brochure had been folded carefully back into place. The rubber bands had creased the cardstock; it had crumpled a bit to the shape of the stone it had been wrapped around. It was one of those three fold sorts; that universal constant of cheap tourist brochures across the entirety of Earth.

Inside, there was more silver pen, written very concisely in the borders of the brochure. It was stilted a bit at first; letters far too neat and perfect, as if the writer was trying to figure out not only how exactly the mechanics of how to write, but also carefully what to say.

Hi. Hope you're feeling better, Professor. So, this is the monument in Vantage- probably pretty small compared to what you're used to, but it's a fantastic view. Honest.

Then he'd have to turn the page ninety degrees and it continued on. The writing was smoothing out and becoming more confident.

Well, and the horses. The sculpture is called Grandfather Cuts Loose the Ponies - it's not completed yet. Ran out of money. It's funny, I like it unfinished, I guess... it's been here a while, and-

Another turn, whoops. This time there was an attempt to write smaller.

So here's the coordinates for the next cache, if you want...? 45°34'33.4"N 122°06'55.3"W . You have to hike in for a bit, it's not bad though. There's more people there, so - Another set of coordinates followed - I even found a good place to park for you, because-

Final turn.

I kind of figured the main lot doesn't fit your vehicle very well. - R.

[Deleted]

Still crouched, Max began to read.

He continued to frown as he ran his gaze over the letter. Not only did the clean, precise words speak clearly of who had written the message, but the courier's manner echoed through the tone of address as well - polite and wary, but honest. It was the tone of someone who was used to keeping apart from others, but here in words was making a genuine attempt to reach out to another. Careful wording. Fearful perhaps of saying the wrong thing. But someone who believed keenly in what they wrote.

His frown deepened as he scrolled down the page. Grandfather Cuts Loose the Ponies. Huh. He lifted his eyes back to the ridge he had just hiked down from. Sculpture. Unfinished. Worn by wind rain, those wild metal horses had been left alone to weather the passage of time, forever frozen in mid-gallop. Somehow, it seemed appropriate.

Max flipped around the brochure. He rubbed his chin as he digested the coordinates. His navigational computer accepted his silent query and provided a location: Mount Hood National Forest, alongside the Columbia River.

The Columbia River again. Hm. Not far from here. And it what she was saying was true, it provided good cover for his tank mode -

Wait.

Unbelievable. Max shook his head in disgust. Was he actually considering following this trail to the next cache? Just because a Decepticon had written him a polite letter? He was an Autobot officer of security, damn it. He knew better than this. He had more important duties to attend to than this.

The wind ruffled through his hair as Maximus sat in silence and contemplated the truth of that.

A moment later he stiffly packed the little trove of oddities back inside the bucket. The rock and the brochure he kept beside him. He didn't know why. Maybe it was because they meant something to Professor Freeman, and nothing to whatever anonymous treasure seeker would find the cache next. Before he repackaged the journal Max took a moment to unseal its plastic bag and thumb through it, curious. It looked well used. What had been written inside it?

[Feldspar]

The journal's fake leather cover was dark green; a logbook. The corners were rounded and the cardboard underneath showed through the wear; greyed out and frayed with time and hundreds of human hands. As he pulled it out, it settled nicely into his avatar's grip. The pages were lined, pale blue against slightly yellowed paper. It was perfectly dry, and none of the pages were brittle yet - the plastic bag and the tightly sealed bucket kept it shadowed and out of the harsh sunshine up here behind the ridge.

Right inside the cover was a neatly computerized printed piece of paper that had been glued directly within.

"Geocaching! Congratulations!" it said. "You've found it, (intentionally or not.)"

It went onto explain about how it was part of a worldwide game loved by GPS users who are on the Internet. Like a scavenger hunt - a GPS user hides a "treasure" (this container) and then publishes the exact coordinates so other users can come on a treasure hunt. The only rules were: if you take something, you have to leave something in its place - nothing illegal or harmful, and you must write about your visit on the log sheet. If you found it by accident, they were happy to have you join, just don't vandalize or move the container.

The real treasure is finding the container and sharing your thoughts. Again, don't forget to sign the log sheet! If you want, please visit our website at...

Here it gave the website location and then the next page was full of entries. All different handwriting, different color pens. There was a name, a date. Hundreds of them, actually. Since this was a larger logbook, there were often paragraphs under each entry. Some mentioned the weather - dry as a bone, soaking wet, raining buckets today. Others mentioned a group of people they were with; a wife, kids, a husband, a boyfriend, one was written in pink gel pen and had a whole bunch of names. That one was signed "Girl Scout Troop 541, Washington."

The book was easily three quarters full. Towards the end though, there was the Decepticon's handwriting in that same silver pen she'd used on the brochure. Her pen, perhaps? It wasn't in the bucket with the other ones.

Like many of the other names in the book, it wasn't a real one. Or at least not the one she called her avatar. Trackpony was what her entry started out with, and the date she'd tagged it with was about a week after their experience in the canyon. There was that same careful, just so penmanship she'd used on his brochure, as if she honestly was a bit nervous about filling it out, perhaps.

Trotted in this morning, it began. Watched the sun come up over the horses and the lake. Absolutely gorgeous morning. Packed out some trash - too pretty of a place to leave it, for sure.

After that there were several more entries. A couple of them agreed and had packed out some trash as well, and cheerfully added that on to their notes. There was just a simple sense that these people were good-natured outdoors types... and enjoyed the space around them enough to care about it.

A little puff of dust swirled up, caught by the dry air. A bird chirped and twittered, flitting from one patch of brush to the next.