The Mystery Of The Scribbled Notes
Not that I ever seriously embraced the idea, but the thought of being a spy has always intrigued me. Espionage, sleuthing, cloak and dagger--magnetic attractions all, but not in James Bond's 007 fashion. My forte would be in back room huddles, laboriously transforming mounds of codes and ciphers into fodder for real secret agents to nibble on.
Though hiking trails on the Buffalo River hardly seems the stuff of spies, cryptic notations scribbled throughout my old trail guide booklet piqued my curiosity. Dates stretching back a decade, hikers' names and trails followed--could insight be coaxed from such trivia?
Emulating good spy technique, I immediately arranged these notes in chronological order. Then digging through journals for "Buffalo River" unearthed critical details, flesh for bare bones.
Analysis trudged down thoughtful paths as pictures, sights and sounds of past expeditions regrouped in my mind, piecing together the puzzle.
Early trips of moderate duration followed well-marked trails. Barrett (our son, just shy of 12) and Old Smiley (his aged Cocker Spaniel) relished those low-impact outings.
Progressing hand in hand with our improving skill level, distance and intensity gradually increased. The chronology reveals an obvious shift in our patterns when a new friend with expertise, equipment and enthusiasm took us under his wing.
Overnight forays outside the familiarity of marked territory demanded map and compass, and the physical rigors punished an aging desk jockey, then crowding 50.
Eventually, the wonders of subterranean passages beckoned, and plowing through underbrush and rocky terrain became second nature.
Then on June 26, 1994, a distraught camper tore into our camp, screaming that his rappelling buddy had fallen from a cliff. Months of training found their reward as a high-tension rescue ensued, eventually involving a helicopter to save a life.
At the end of each case, Sherlock Holmes confounded Dr. Watson with marvelous conclusions derived by carefully observing what others had overlooked. So today, as I toss my spy hat back to the peg in the hall, let me wrap up "the mystery of the scribbled notes" by summarizing a few random lessons, now obvious in retrospect.
We can't wait for perfect conditions to initiate our plans. A Bible verse articulates, "He who watches the wind will not sow, and he who looks at the clouds will not reap."
Trials intensify to prepare us for the next one--and there'll always be a next one.
Faithfully working through hardships produces rewards, to others, if not to ourselves.
Finally, doors of opportunity open and close. A knee injury three years ago abruptly terminated my notations in the trail guide--perhaps forever. But though my scribblings have ceased, lessons continue, and I hope to eventually crystallize the good in even this latest closed door with Holmes' peculiar clarity: "Elementary, my dear Watson. Elementary."
Copyright 2003 James McAlister
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