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.
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Horatius at the Bridge. Oh, wait, no. That's just Rob and Scott.
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Let's do it again, do it (do it), lets do it again (do it), mmm, do it
again, do it again
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Scott trying to figure out how to get it all back together
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Lunch at The Spotted Dog. Scott's big old cheddar burger, my big
old turkey burger.
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