What a Racket!

Mark and Kim at the Garage, Winston-Salem, 6-24-09.

Journey to the Centre of the Earth

There's a nice new multi-cache in town called "Greensboro Underground," and guess where you get to hunt. Yes...down there. So, right after work, I met up with friends Night-Hawk (a.k.a. Tom) and the Sneaky Bulldog (a.k.a. Ethan), all of us dressed for the occasion and armed with several flashlights. Thus, we commenced our journey. To my chagrin, halfway through the adventure, my brightest light began to dim rapidly, even with relatively new batteries; happily, I carried a spare, and between us, there was no shortage of lighting.

At the first of the three stages, we snagged the coordinates for the next, held our tongues just right, and made our way into the earth's depths. Here, the diameter of our conduit was only about four feet, so it was t-i-g-h-t. And then what should our lights reveal but...spiders. BIG FAT HAIRY BLACK F-'ING SPIDERS—of the four-inch leg span variety—in mass profusion, hanging on every surface; up, down, and all around.

Night-Hawk and the Bulldog gently suggested that I go first.

All righty then! Only ever-so-slightly daunted, onward I went. You should have heard the Bulldog scream when one of the spiders passed right under his legs. Still, at a junction, he bravely took the point and found the requisite clue in short order. Another stage down. By now, it was nighttime, and when we burst exuberantly free of the depths and barreled onto the nearby sidewalk, we surprised an elderly woman walking her dog. Her cry of alarm may still be echoing somewhere out in space. We apologized and explained that we were running from a tunnel full of giant spiders. She made haste to part company with us.

For the third stage, we found ourselves with lots of ground—or rather, underground—to cover. At several junctions, we had more than one choice of tunnels to take, and it paid to choose wisely. At least in these, we could mostly stand upright. For a long distance, we were able to straddle the narrow streams flowing beneath our feet, and we began to think we might actually come out of this endeavor without getting soaking wet. However, came a time the water grew wider and deeper, so we finally said the heck with it, and now my boots are drying out for the next couple of days.

At long last, and lord knows how far in, I spied the cache. But it was here I made a grave mistake! Night-Hawk had kept right on going, but in my enthusiasm, I blurted, "It's here!" Had I not, he might still be down there having scads of fun while I'm lounging around above-ground, enjoying a post-cache martini. I'm sure I'll do better next time.

Actually, I'm glad Night-Hawk is still with us because he documented the whole journey with pics. I was reluctant to take my camera with me because I am a devout klutz, and probably would have dunked it.

At least I am a wise klutz.

Wait, what...?

The Bulldog wanted to play ball, so we let him.

On and on it goes...

Success....

It's Just Over Yonder

Photo by Rob Isenhour

Until I became a geocachevangelist, I had no idea how many ancient, rusted-out vehicles lurked back in the deep woods, partying all by their lonesomes, hanging around in the darkest of hillside thickets where no self-respecting, unrusted vehicle would ever dare venture. But Mr. Isenhour sure knows how to find 'em. And when he finds 'em, you can be sure he'll leave a cache there. Needless to say, this means that Damned Rodan will soon be along to hunt it.

Helluva hot, humid day to be out in the woods yesterday, but there were new caches to be found, so guess who was out there tempting heat exhaustion. Yep. Got first-to-find on "It's Just Over Yonder," pictured above, as well as on three other new caches hidden by Mr. Kidd (Night-Hawk). Much to my surprise, Mr. Kidd also managed to place a cache close to a rusted-out, upside-down car out in the deep woods. Quiet mysteries, these old vehicles....

Came home, worked on Important Stuff, and then, long about 10 P.M., had a terrible carrot dangled in front of my nose by Mr. Bunce (XbunceX): Late-night caching trip? Discovered at this point that, despite sheer exhaustion, Mr. Rodan cannot say no to a late-night caching trip. It doesn't mean I need therapy. It doesn't mean anything, except ten more caches under my belt at 2:30 in the A.M.

Closed the day with #1,538. Even got a little sleep.

Noticed on the Way Home From the Office:

A van for a home-repair business. Van had little paint left on it, a crushed fender, and insulation erupting from a long, ugly gash below the driver's door. Oh yeah, I so want to call on said business for my home repair needs.

Good Times and Good Byes

Caching along the Dan River with Krazi Tribe, Mrs Death, and Snoopinaround

It was quite the weekend for gathering with good friends and hunting caches. I found my 1,500th on Friday evening, albeit solo. Yesterday, Mrs Death and I went to Martinsville, met up with our friends Scott & Chandres & children (a.k.a. Krazi Tribe) and Ed (a.k.a. Kuykenew), and then headed over to Danville and Chatham to claim a bunch. Soon as we arrive at the Dan River, who should we run into but friend and fellow cacher from NC, Caroline (a.k.a. Snoopinaround). We find a few caches, only to get stopped and questioned by a sheriff, who is obviously suspicious of some of the exceedingly seedy-looking members of our party (see photo). Ms. Krazi tearfully explains that we are actually scouting locations for the 18th remake of A Pittsylvania Chainsaw Massacre, and since the original is the sheriff's favorite film, he lets us off easy.

That's a true story.

Last night, a fine dinner and pleasant evening in Danville and then Martinsville with the Albaneses. Today, Mrs Death and I returned to Greensboro to get with our friend Beth (a.k.a. UNCG BogTurtle) for an excellent afternoon/early evening snagging more caches and then having dinner. Alas, for the foreseeable future, it was our last outing with Ms BogTurtle, who is moving to Illinois tomorrow. Over the past year, we've had many incredible adventures and shared an amazing number of fantastic times. I don't think it's quite sunk in yet that she and her husband, Al, are really leaving.

I expect it will next time I head out to hunt a cache. A sincere bon voyage to Beth. Mrs Death and I both hope she has a fantastic experience in her new home and new stage of her career.

I guaran-ass-TEE you she won't be having as much fun as she had here, though....

Shades of "Sticks"

I've said it many times: geocaching takes me to some damn cool places, few of which I would otherwise discover on my own. Today, I ended up at Dan Daniel Memorial Park in Danville, and since it was such a gorgeous afternoon, it was filled to the brim with visitors.

This rather extensive park has a couple of nice trails, though—sadly—they've gone unmaintained for some time now. No money in the budget, alas. Still, the Hidden Hollow Trail and the Turkey Trot Trail offer some enjoyable hiking, and the former actually took me into an area that gave me the creeps. Whoa, you say. Okay, so it wasn't all that creepy, but by god, if it were in my book, I'd sure as hell make it creepy. I mean, I'm a horror writer, so making things creepy is my sworn, solemn duty. For one thing, though the rest of the park was loaded to the gills with muggles, there wasn't another living soul on the trails. Once I got out a good ways on the Hidden Hollow Trail, it essentially disappeared, no doubt due to little use and the torrential rains we've had over the past month or so. On my way to a cache called "The Grassy Knoll," I actually emerged at a grassy knoll, from which I could see an old house, a couple of shacks, and an ancient satellite dish out in a field.

If I'd heard the sound of a chainsaw, I would have expected to see Leatherface bearing down on me with malevolent glee. As it was, there was a strange silence there, bringing to mind the atmosphere of "Sticks," one of my favorite horror stories of all time, by my old friend, the late Karl Edward Wagner. Or perhaps "Pigeons From Hell," another favorite, by Robert E. Howard. At any rate, I had a wonderful afternoon out in the woods—despite coming out of there crawling with those little pinhead-sized ticks. I stopped counting at 30 as I pulled them off me and out of my clothes, and there must have been twice that many altogether.

Not necessarily scary, but pretty damned disgusting. Vile little bloodfuckers they are....

More Horror Than the Heart Can Stand

Mein Gott, the Noise II—For Real!

Not terribly great quality—just taken with my digital camera—but here's a glimpse of last night's horror, courtesy of yours truly and the stunning Kim Murphy (whose head has been sadly hatcheted from the frame).

Beer, wailing, and caching. Doesn't get much better. Almost didn't make it over to Winston, though, as the early evening storm in Greensboro literally drowned our place, and it was worse just down the road. Never seen the like. We were lucky not to have six inches of water in the living room. The front porch was under that much.

Anyhoo, maybe we'll give the Garage another shot one of these days. Love the venue.

Mein Gott, the Noise!

It's been a hellishly long time since I've played guitar and hollered in public, but I'm gonna up and do it. Yep. The Garage, 110 W. 7th St., Winston-Salem, NC 27101 (N 36° 06.166 W 080° 14.735), tomorrow evening (6/3) at 8:00 PM. If you're in the area, please come round. If I'm not mistaken, it doesn't cost anything but whatever you want to drink. I'll be doing an original or two as well as a cover of a song by The Decemberists, with the lovely and talented Ms. Kimberly Murphy accompanying. Don't be late; my set only lasts about 20 minutes (I'm the lucky soul leading off the evening).

If blame must be cast, please blame my brother, Phred, for providing the inspiration for this. Otherwise, just come and have a good time. It's a win-win situation, you know. If I sound good, you get to go home saying, "Damn, Mark sounded good." If I suck, you get to go home laughing your ass off.

Back From ConCarolinas

The con started out slow for me, but picked up nicely yesterday. Sold some books, yakked on panels, got with friends. Possible new development on the writing frontier as well. Last night, I discovered a decent Thai restaurant and found time to take a couple-mile hike and grab a half-dozen nearby caches. (Of course, on the way home today, I bagged another 25.)

Oddest thing lately, though. When I least expect it, my car pulls into a Taco Bell and orders something for me. I don't get it. Stupid damned car.

Relative Obscurity...

...is infinitely preferable to the idiocy of Kanye West, CFM.*

Kanye West Is a Proud Non-Reader, Author of Books

*Certified Fucking Moron

At ConCarolinas This Weekend...

I'll be a guest at ConCarolinas in Charlotte this weekend (Saturday 5/30 and Sunday 5/31), so come see me. I'll be on several panels and have several of my books available (most at a special con discount rate). I will not be there tomorrow night (Friday), alas.

Here's my schedule as it stands now:

Saturday, 5/30
10:00 AM—"After the Writing Is Done"
1:00 PM—"What Editors Want"
9:00 PM—"Wait Until Dark"
10:00 PM—"The Horror, The Horror"

Sunday, 5/31
11:00 AM—"Creating Gods"

The con is at the Hilton University Place, 8629 JM Keynes Drive, Charlotte, NC 28262, (704) 547-7444. Other guests include Katherine Kurtz (writer GOH), Alan Welch (artist GOH), Travis Taylor, James Maxey, Tony Ruggerio, Ed Schubert, and James Robert Smith (co-editor of Evermore).

Deer Island

It's become an annual tradition to spend Memorial Day weekend camping on Deer Island at Philpott Lake, VA, along with a mess o' friends. Done and done. Good weather, good food, good friends. One of the highlights for me was hiking Deer Island end to end. The island is a mile long and about a half mile wide, and I pretty much went around the circumference. It's also steeper than all getout. Several times, I reached a point and looked up, expecting to see sky. Nope; just more nearly vertical hillside. Undaunted, I went on until I reached the southernmost end.

Then I had to hike back.

It never felt so good to get off my feet—until after this morning's hike, which was only about half as long but twice as steep. Hoo! This morning, though, there was a geocache waiting for me at the end of it. Yep.

Click to enlarge pics.

Are You a phD YET?

Geocaching has introduced me to a vast number of interesting, talented, and all-around wonderful people. Just over a year ago, while on the hunt for a cache, I ran into a friendly cache-hunter who went by the name UNCGBogTurtle (whose real name is Beth, but don't repeat this, as it's a dirty little secret). Turns out she was a friend of a friend—who, quite coincidentally, is also a cacher (Cupdaisy, a.k.a. Ermengarde). So the lot of us went on a big old nighttime cache outing, which proved to be just a wee bit on the fun side. Then we up and did it again...and again. Before I knew it, we were getting together regularly, along with another friend, Geodogg (whom I will call Climbacus, though his real name is Joe). During this period, Ms Bog Turtle was laboring diligently to earn her phD in geography.

Well, at last, she has done this thing. Yesterday at their place, Beth and her husband, Al, hosted a graduation party that included family, friends, and the caching cadre. (That's Ms Bog Turtle in the photo above, along with an old fart and Mrs Death, in case there's any ambiguity.) Nice affair, for sure. The sad part of all this is that Beth has accepted a position at an institution of higher learning far, far away, and she and Al will be leaving all too soon.

Over the past few months, Beth and Al have become such good friends to Peg and me that, despite our best hopes and wishes for her success, I fear we are going to be very glum cachers indeed. In the relatively short time we've known them, it feels like we've shared many years' worth of adventures—experiencing new places, sharing life stories, conquering fears, and re-energizing ourselves when life's burdens have grown heavy. I mean, wow. Among the many wonderful friends I've made over the years, there are few with whom I have experienced so much life in so brief a time.

Of course, we wish them every success in their new home, and particularly Beth as she embarks on a whole new stage of her career, in brand new, distant digs. But we're going to miss you peoples like we've missed few others. I hope that, somewhere down the line, we'll all be back together for the long haul, and we can take up our adventures right where we left off. Y'all do mean the world.

Here's looking till then.

Fireman in the House!

Blogging, Facebooking, My Spacing, Tweeting, etc., etc., have not entirely slipped out of my repertoire, but daily activities and responsibilities have relegated them to a less-than-prominent role in the schedule. So I hope there's a soul or two out there still giving the old blog a look-see now and again, as I do like to post a little note here from time to time—even if it's just to jog my own fawlty memory when I try to recollect events from more than a few hours ago.

I'm a day late posting an entry I don't want to let fall by the wayside. Wednesday night, whatever date that was, I drove over to Winston-Salem to watch a performance at the Garage—a neat little hole in the wall that offers a showcase for a lot of local talent. It was a 20-minute set by a strangely familiar-looking dude who, on stage, goes by the name of Joe the Fireman, though who, in day-to-day life, goes by the name of Phred—which to some might seem odd since his actual name is Alan. (I hope to his fans that this is not a shattering revelation.) Yeah, he's my brudda.

Over the years, I've watched Phred develop as a serious musician—just as he's seen me grow as a writer of scary fiction. He makes a fair racket with that guitar and voice of his, and he's been known to wail out some original tunes that are heartfelt, personally revealing, and musically haunting. I've seen him play, like, lots, but the other night, I saw a truly professional, dedicated musician with a stage presence that captivated everyone in the place. This ain't just tooting the boy's horn, as I imagine you're aware. Anybody who's read my views, here or elsewhere, on the creative output of others, be they friends, relatives, foes, or otherwise, know they can expect from me an honest appraisal. It's safe to say that, in his old age (or is it my old age?), Phred has really come into his own as both a composer and performer. He brings with him a touch of Neil Young, Michael Stipe, Lou Reed, Colin Meloy, and even Springsteen (on thunder-stormy days, anyway). I was taken enough with his work several years ago to include lyrics from a couple of his songs in my novel, The Lebo Coven.

I'm sure they love him at the Garage as he brings them in a fair bit of business. If you're anywhere within range of the NC Triad, keep an eye out for where he's going to be and then come for a visit. You can listen to Phred/Joe/Rainey the Younger at MySpace Music, here: www.myspace.com/joethefiremanmusic

Bad thing did happen to me coming back from the show, however. I stopped off to grab a few geocaches, and one of them was behind Taco Bell. Now, I haven't been to Taco Bell in probably five years. Swore off the stuff, even. But it was going on midnight, and before I knew it, my car had pulled into the drive-thru and ordered a soft taco. Now I tell you, people, I took that soft taco, went and parked near the next cache, and I commenced to eating. Oh my lord, and this is tearing me up, it was good. I was out there hollering, signing the cache log, and praying to the good lord that I don't develop some kind of new, horrendous addiction, as there's a Taco Bell not that far down the road.

Nah. Ain't never gonna happen.

Truly.

Trekkin' Across the Universe

I've always had something of a soft spot for Star Trek. Grew up on the original series, enjoyed most of the movies, thought The Next Generation was usually okay. Couldn't get into Deep Space 9, Voyager, or Enterprise. Had lukewarm feelings about this new movie from the get-go, figuring it was time (and then some) to maybe just leave the whole thing alone. I had to admit, though, the trailers started looking pretty tantalizing. The brief glimpses of the characters suggested that the new actors might be nailing the familiar roles pretty well. On the other hand, the Red-Barchetta-esque chase across the Iowa plain and the big-ass critter chasing Kirk through an icy wasteland looked pretty well groan-inducing.

So I went to the theater today for the first time since Quantum of Solace came out, feeling reasonably generous toward cinematic endeavors since my daughter was home for the weekend and wanted to see it as well.

The first half proved to be quite engaging, as the characters sure enough became themselves. I had no trouble at all believing that Chris Pine, Zachary Quinto, and Karl Urban really were Kirk, Spock, and McCoy, respectively, in their younger years. Urban in particular nails Bones like nobody's business. There might have been a few too many utterances of "Damn it, Jim, I'm a doctor," but Urban was otherwise so good in the part I could overlook this without grumbling.

It was obvious early on, though, that this was one of those movies where something fast and loud has to be happening at every moment. Personally, I tend to prefer movies that stop to breathe every now and then, but figuring that this wasn't in the cards, I just adjusted. I knew in advance, too, something about the plot and where it was going to lead. Time travel. Oy. Again. I didn't like the idea beforehand, and upon reflection, I like it even less now. I have an aversion to most time travel tales—although there are certainly exceptions, such as The Terminator series and J. J. Abrams's own Lost. However, mucking around so fundamentally with Trek's origins somehow seems particularly egregious, even to me, a mere casual fan of the series.

Well, still. It all proved to be a pretty fun movie, albeit loaded with too much video-game-style imagery and effects. The nods to the original show were mostly spot-on, and I'm very glad the actors reflected the portrayals of the original cast without resorting to parody. Simon Pegg as Scotty came pretty close to going over the top, but then, for Scotty, that didn't seem much out of place. He brought some welcome levity to the proceedings.

Overall, I'm going to give Star Trek a B, as it really was a fun couple of hours. For the more dedicated fan of the series, a serious adjusting of mindset might be in order, but if one can do this, I think a good time might be manageable. And of course there's Leonard Nimoy on board to add a sense of "authenticity" to the production.

It ain't the Star Trek of old, but neither does it flop at capturing some of the show's most distinctive aspects—at least in the character department. I reckon I'll pick up the DVD when it comes out, for whatever that's worth.

Somewhere My Love and the Old Dude

A nice birthday surprise for the old man—my story, "Somewhere My Love," is now posted in issue #12 of Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show. He even does a reading of the story, which I did not expect, and it's extremely well done. Also to my surprise was the fact that it's illustrated by Nick Greenwood, whom I used to work with at The Education Center here in Greensboro. Many thanks to Mr. Card and editor Ed Schubert for a fine job—and so nicely timed to elevate the old dude's spirits. The whole issue is available for just $2.50 at Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show.

Apparently, Mrs. Death has a little something planned for this evening, though she isn't sharing very much. That Mrs. Death.

Actually, my first official act for my birthday was getting first-to-find on a new cache that came out last night. After a big old hike/bushwhack yesterday afternoon, I was pretty zonked and I figured I'd skip it and just go to bed. However, I quickly came to my senses, went, out and snagged it at 12:50 AM. Nice present.

Walpurgis-Cache!

In certain shadowy corners of the world, the night of April 30 is known as Walpurgisnacht—the Witches' Sabbath. Whoa, scary, right? Well, rather than spending a creepy May Eve all by our lonesomes—subject to the whims of all sorts of ghosties, ghoulies, long-leggedy beasties, and things that go bump in the night—a good fifty-some geocachers all chased away our mortal terror at Walpurgis-Cache, a horribly lively social event that Mrs Death and I hosted at Beef O'Brady's bar in Greensboro.

Geoturtle, Mrs Ego, Kuykenew

Mr & Mrs RobGSO

Night-Ranger

Mr. Spring1

Team Fuzzie

Cupdaisy & Geodogg

The Sneaky Bulldog family

It's Linda Freakin' Blair!

BogTurtle trying not to be seen

Mrs Death and Old Rodan announcing the winners of the door prizes

It's WHOSE birthday???

This was a grand evening, topped off by some excellent birthday cake that Mrs Death secretly devised for me (so come Saturday, I'm older than the hills, big deal). I don't think anyone went away dissatisfied, and I noticed that at least a couple of people looked to be having a good time. For the sake of their families, I won't reveal their identities.

Cleanup

For an old fart, I burned a lot of energy over the past couple of days. Yesterday, got off work early, came to Martinsville, and planted five new caches down along the Smith River, which involved a couple of miles of hiking. Hot day, hot hike. I found that one of those caches needed some "adjustment," so first thing this morning, I did the hike over again to make the adjustment. Again, hot day, hot hike. As I was exiting the woods, I encountered my good friends Norman and Lynn D., a.k.a. Spring1 (pictured above), who were coming out to find said caches. They'd gotten lost on the way over from Danville, due to the fact that—unknown to me—there are two roads in town with exactly the same name. Not all that far apart, either. Go figure.

Anyhoo, from there, it was over to the city park for the Earth Week Cache-In, Trash-Out event coordinated by my friend Lynn P., a.k.a. Guesthouses. Norman and Lynn D. were supposed to be coming, but they were obviously going to be late. Here, I met the charming Medicine Turtle couple and their passel of young'uns (also pictured above). We set about the big cleanup job, and it wasn't long before the Medicine Turtles unearthed...of all things...a skeet launcher. Old and rusted out, but still in one piece. No telling how long it's been half-buried back in a dark corner of the park, but since I personally don't see lots of skeet launchers lying around in the woods, I found it kind of cool.

From there, it was Chinese food with Mum and my friends, the Albaneses. Then back to the woods. Tiki torches, a little campfire, and a bunch of beer. Beautiful evening, good company.

Officially very tired and very satisfied. After the rest of this week, I can certainly live with that.

Family History

My mom and my wife both get excited about genealogy, but the bug has never bitten me. Not much, anyway. Still, now and again, it's interesting to pick up colorful tidbits about relatives from days gone by. My great-great uncle, Tom Bell, was a somewhat flamboyant congressman from Georgia back in the early-to-mid 20th century. There's a neat article about him in the Gainesville Times, much of it based on information provided by my great-uncle Herbert Bell.

Congressman Helped Find His Father's Killer

Road rage is nothing new. I'd not be surprised if my occasional urge to shoot out the tires of offensive drivers' cars hearkens back to Old Uncle Tom Bell...

I've Got Blisters on Me Fingers!

Long ago and far away, I used to play me git-fiddle religiously—much to the chagrin of anyone within earshot. The past few days, I've felt compelled to pull out the old guitar-box and bang noisily upon it. Spent just enough time playing to make my fingers very, very sore. In fact, at work, I suggested that the old digits hurt enough to prevent me from typing, and I should go home. Alas (no doubt because it was an utterly beautiful day and I appeared otherwise healthy) they didn't buy it. The nerve!

Anyway, I figured out a couple of songs by the Decemberists, as I've been digging 'em, a couple of old New Christy Minstrels standards that I had to relearn, and an original that I wrote sometime around 1984. Matter of fact, I wrote lots of songs back in the 80s—again, much to the neighbors' chagrin.

Really enjoyed doing this, but now my fingers are really sore. I just don't see how I'm going to be able to type tomorrow. And I think the weather's supposed to be nice again...

On a much sadder note, today marks the second anniversary of our cat Charcoal's crossing the Rainbow Bridge. She was sweetest of the sweet. I miss her.

04-11-01: My Dear Dad

Eight years ago tonight, my dad passed away. Over many years, complications from diabetes gradually debilitated him, until finally his body couldn't take any more. It was a terrible time, those last couple of years. But his spirit was strong from day one, and even during the period when he was a complete invalid, his patience and wisdom always showed through. He was the role model for my life, and these many years later, I still wish I could share things with him and seek his guidance when life is too much. If there was ever anyone who knew how to make it through when life did that, it was Dad.

A few pics from the good times:

The family, circa 1976
Mom and Dad's wedding day
Dad, Brother, and Young Old Fart at Callaway Gardens, GA
Cowboy Dad

New Interview at The Occult Detective

Author Bob Freeman was kind enough to interview me for his Occult Detective blog. Check it out here: Author Spotlight: Stephen Mark Rainey

Thanks for the opportunity, Mr. Bob.

It's Where?

Another fun trek into the bowels of the earth to hunt up a new geocache. Above, it was pouring rain, but down below, it was just kind of wet in general, as I was traipsing through an aquaduct and dodging torrents from the overhead drainage conduits.

I get a real charge out of hides like this one. Of course, after this little subterranean jaunt, I had to put myself through decontamination. I think I saw an alien egg depository down there.

The Spooky Trail!

Actually, it's not terribly spooky, at least in daylight, but it sure does have some atmosphere. The new Fieldale Smith River Trail, just northwest of Martinsville, VA, has just become one of my favorite places anywhere. The grand opening of the new mile-plus stretch was yesterday, and today, I walked out to its end and back—twice. Oh yeah, a little sore. (But it's a good kind of sore.) Hid three new geocaches out there—a couple with spooky themes, since the sites overlook the old Koehler warehouse on the Smith River, which used to double as the Jaycees' haunted castle at Halloween. I got to work it several times during my teens and early twenties, designing some of the chambers of horrors and playing the roving monsters that scared the poop outa the patrons. Good times, those.

Now I figure if cachers are out yonder hunting and hear a bunch of eerie howling commencing, it's probably because they've disturbed the evil, hungry living dead that frequent the area. (Or maybe it's just somebody's dog. But who'd want to take the chance of finding out?)

Some of the biggest, oldest trees I've ever seen are out on that trail. Several islands parallel the banks (I hid a cache on one of them). And near the trail's end (at least until it is extended farther), I found what appears to be the place where old gas grills go to die. Yeah, for real; it was a clearing filled with several old gas grills (one of which was apparently used to cook golf balls—see photo below), some camping chairs, a fire pit, and a mason jar of what appeared to be peach moonshine (possibly older than I am).

So it was a really neat afternoon. Got in four-plus miles of hiking, found some caches, and planted a few. Plus the writer's instincts got a good workout. I foresee a new tale in the works in the very near future...

A special shout-out to the Pritchetts and the Albaneses for their hospitality this weekend. Couldn't do without such excellent folks. Thank you.

R.I.P. Luther 1992–2009

My brother Phred's goodest ol' friend, Luther, passed on today. He was a sweet, sweet dog—pretty much a real nephew to me. Luther had a good life with my brother, who loved him mighty dearly. Please raise up some good wishes for Phred. Bye bye, Looth. We'll miss you much.

Randleman Outing

Mrs Death accompanied me on a nice evening trip to Randleman, a little town just down the road a piece, to hunt for a passel of caches. We found 15 out of 16; I brought home a travel bug, the remainder of an excellent dinner, and a crapload of briers embedded in my flesh. Yeah, there was a terrain challenge or two, so the souvenirs were kind of inevitable. Worth every little drop of blood, too.

We found one of those wonderful, quaint local joints for dinner, called The Wild Onion. Southern home cooking and all, and just damned good. I had me some killer pig ribs. I mean the ribs were killer, not the pigs. Well, probably.

Once again, caching has taken us to some really neat places we'd just never otherwise get to. Love it. And I made it another day without falling into a river, lake, creek, or other body of water. Yay!

The Wild Onion, a quaint little restaurant down in Randleman

I Didn't Fall in Today

I really like the Greensboro watershed trails; there's many miles of them around the various lakes to the north of town. They make for fine hiking and are abundant with wildlife and unspoiled woodland. Not to mention they're full of geocaches. It was such a beautiful afternoon that I expected the woods to be full of muggles. Nope. For all practical purposes, I was the only soul out and about on the Piedmont Trail today. I put in an easy three-mile hike and found a number of the remaining few trail caches I haven't yet claimed. Not much wildlife out today, I found. Several times, I stopped to take some pictures, and the air was as still and silent as I've ever experienced. Not a breath of breeze or chirping of birds. Absolute, natural silence.



Of course, it's a great place for the horror writer's instincts to kick in big time. There's one spot where you come out of the woods and you can view an isolated house in the distance. While it's a nice place, I get the feeling if I were to venture much closer, I might be treated to the sound of chainsaws and screaming.



The Boggy Creek monster is probably very happy here as well.

Three caches and one stage of a multi claimed today. It was a good, long hike. I be bushed.

That Water Sure Is Wet

Went out to Northeast Park for a few caches after work, only to find that, for a couple of them, you had to go across the river. After all the rains, the river was right swollen. And the very steep bank was very muddy. And slick.

Emphasis on slick.

It was a weighty splash—the distinctive sound of 185 pounds dropping solidly into two and a half feet of water.

By the time I got to the nearby graveyard to find the cache hidden there, I was pretty well dried out. It's a neat little place, with graves dating back to the very early 1800s. A fine place to hang oneself out for a while.

The Horror at Midnight

When I was a kid in Martinsville, VA, the Rives Theater was my home away from home. It's where I first saw a huge number of the horror and science fiction movies that I've loved ever since. To my dismay, the theater closed a few years back, and given the state of the local economy (currently, the unemployment rate is 18%, and it was bad here even when the rest of the country wasn't in recession), I figured it was probably for good. The other theater in town, the Martin, vanished many years ago, and it just seemed the Rives was destined to go the same way. Happily, though, the Rives has reopened—both for movies and live music shows—and they're even showing midnight movies on the weekend. Last night, they ran Night of the Living Dead, so Mrs Death and I rode up from Greensboro, got with our friends, the Albaneses, and made a night of it, with dinner and a great late-night horror movie (not to mention a number of caches).

Back when I was about ten, Night of the Living Dead came to the local drive-in theater on a double-bill with Ghidrah, the Three-Headed Monster. I desperately wanted to see Ghidrah, but my mom and dad were leery of taking me because they'd heard Night of the Living Dead was mighty intense. So, one night in advance, they went to check it out. Well, sure enough, it freaked them out pretty good, and they told me I couldn't go. "I don't want to see Night of the Living Dead," I said (even though I kind of did). "I just want to see Ghidrah."

"You're not going anywhere near that drive-in theater!" was the response.

Evidently the proximity of flesh-eating zombies to Godzilla and friends was enough to make my folks fear for my sanity. I don't recall exactly when I got to see Night of the Living Dead for the first time, but I do remember that the TV spots for it were enough to give me nightmares. I probably should never have mentioned that way back when....

Anyhoo, a night at the old theater with a classic horror movie in the company of good friends was exactly what the doctor ordered. Coming soon, the Rives is showing A Clockwork Orange for one of the midnight features. Gonna have to go because I haven't seen it in years—even though at home it's very aptly the second feature on the videotape of our wedding.

NORTHERN HAUNTS and StellarCon

Recieved my contributor copy of Shroud Publications' Northern Haunts antho today; it features my tale "Black Tom," which is a horror story about—I'm sure this will shock you—geocaching. All the stories (exactly 100 of them) are very short and told in the first person, to affect the mood of a scary campfire tale (my favorite kind). A very nice-looking volume, also featuring stories by James S. Dorr, Blu Gilliand, Nate Kenyon, Gina Ranalli, Steve Vernon, and...let's see...94 other authors.

This weekend, or at least a portion of it, I will be at StellarCon, in High Point. I've got a panel at 9:00 PM tomorrow night, but I'm not certain at this point what the rest of my schedule will be. Reckon I'll find out when I get there. I will probably be doing a reading and booksigning sometime on Saturday. If you can get my coordinates, perhaps you can track me down.