No, You Cannot Use My Map!

It’s my Birthday Week, so I’m telling a story about one of my own life-adventures (like I did last year).

In 2008, Patrick and I traveled to Dartmoor, England for a hiking trip. While researching, I discovered the hobby of letterboxing which originated in Dartmoor National Park way back in 1854!

Letterboxing

Letterboxing is an outdoor hobby that combines hiking, map-and-compass skills, folk art and puzzle-solving. A user hides a hand-carved rubber stamp and a logbook within a weather-proof container. Clues to each letterbox location are distributed in printed form, on a website, or by word-of-mouth.

When a letterbox is discovered, the finder makes an imprint of the letterbox’s stamp in their personal logbook. Each lettterboxer has a “trail name” and their own “signature stamp.” With their signature stamp, the finder leaves an impression in the letterbox’s logbook – it’s like a calling card.

April 21, 2008
My first letterbox find on the Moor
(I also found a lost sweater)

Dartmoor Dreamer

After my return from Dartmoor, I wondered if this letterboxing-thing existed in the U.S.

Yes! There are many passionate letterboxers in America.

I chose the trail name Dartmoor Dreamer to pay homage to my 2008 vacation. During my free time, I have explored all aspects of the hobby: carving, clue-writing and meeting-up with fellow enthusiasts.

Great Lakes Gathering 2010

A letterboxing gathering is an event created for letterboxers to meet one another and pursue the hobby with gusto. In June of 2010, I traveled to Jubilee College State Park in Illinois for a full weekend of camping, hiking, friendship bounded together by little pieces of hand-carved art.

The long weekend started this way:

• Realizing that I forgot my hiking boots, I purchased bright green, $12 replacement boots at Walmart.
• Friday afternoon, while searching for a letterbox, a man startled me by walking up a steep incline, out of the creek bed; he was not on a trail. This poor guy looked disheveled and I made a passing comment about how terrible the nettles were. He remarked that he “didn’t intend to travel that direction.” When he walked behind me, he quietly said, “Sorry.” Confused as to why he would say that he was sorry, I turned toward him again. The clothing on his backside was completely shredded such that he was exposing himself as he walked back to the parking lot.
• Later on Friday, I hiked a route for a series of letterboxes. Truthfully, I attempted to hike through the monstrous nettles and the slippery mud. Early on, the score was Mud: 1 and Boots: 0 (unless you give the boots credit for containing muddy water). Soaked and feeling sorry for myself, I continued through the ankle deep water to a high spot of tall grass, dumped out my boots, wrung out my socks and put most of my clothes on a many-forked branch to dry. (At least I wasn’t drying out my expensive leather boots.)
• Friday evening I attended a campfire meet-and-greet. Then I saw the rain coming, not just rain. It was rain and wind AND HAIL! Quickly I took shelter in my trusty minivan. From the safety of my Dodge, I watched my not-staked-down, empty tent roll across the camping area and become tangled in a thorn tree. Just as quickly, the sun returned. I staked down my tent and it dried fast.
• Saturday morning: more rain. The voice on my NOAA radio told me that it would rain all morning, stop for the afternoon, and continue with more rain with the likelihood of flash floods in the late afternoon. I knew what to watch for, listen for and how to avoid flash floods. Confident, I set out with a “power-boxing” group (including a Process Engineer who organized us). We were a well-oiled machine as we hiked the State Quarter’s Trail, found over twenty boxes, and returned to the picnic shelter in time for lunch!

Saturday afternoon

This park contained many steep trails leading up from creek bottoms. And Saturday afternoon started out with sunshine, glorious sunshine! For several hours, I continued with a couple of my morning letterboxing friends. We found a LOT more boxes.

In the late afternoon, the rain started (again). Then we heard sirens. It was really raining: BIG raindrops with LOTS of wind.

As we hiked up what was surely a watershed for the flash floods that the nice NOAA voice spoke of during the morning’s broadcast. We heard more sirens.

I told my letterboxing partners my plan: “If I hear a locomotive, you will not see me anymore. To save myself, I will be laying down amongst the poison ivy and nettles and snuggled up to the largest deadfall that I can quickly find. I don’t care about the ivy and nettles, I need to be able to walk out of the park.” 

We continued to hike up and up and up out of the creek bottoms. The rain didn’t stop. At the top, we realized that we were not near our cars, so we hike the deserted road back to the picnic shelter parking lot.

Did I mention that we were soaked to the skin at this point? I didn’t care about getting wet as long as my precious letterboxing logbook with my newly acquired stamp images stayed dry!

We reached our vehicles, the only two left in the parking lot. My letterboxing pals jumped in their car and drove off.

I went into the concrete pit toilet enclosure and sat for a long time. Listening to the rain on the steel roof, I pondered what to do next.

What would my dad do?

Dad always said that he knew what to do if you were canoeing and saw a storm approaching. First, take off your clothes. Bundle them up and sit on them. Canoe naked until the sun comes out. Dad’s theory was that your skin would dry quickly and you would also have dry clothes to put on.

What should I do?

I was already soaked. (I couldn’t have hiked naked with my new friends, could I?)

Come to think of it, I had dry stuff in my faithful minivan.

Furthermore, I didn’t want to sit on the driver’s seat with my total wetness.

There was no one around, not a soul at the Picnic Shelter.

So, I stripped naked. Then I wrung the water out of my clothes.

Pushing the door opened, I pointed the remote keyless entry clicker at the van. Double-click. The sliding door began to open and I streaked across the parking lot. Dodging raindrops, I leapt into the van’s open door.

My bundle of wet clothes went directly into the food cooler. Next, I dried off with my spare towel. Lastly, I put on the hand-me-down, long-sleeved shirt that I used for walking among the tall nettles and poison ivy.

I was sort-of dressed, clothed enough to drive through the park to my campsite.  At least I was wearing a shirt.

Driving through the park, the rain was lessening. The road was littered with newly downed trees. But, where were my friends?

Closer to the campground, I encountered a large group of people emerging from the Shower Building where they sheltered during the storm.

Maybe someone knew if there really was a tornado. As I neared the crowd, I saw familiar faces of friends; a letterboxer from Wisconsin approached my van.

Panic

As John stepped closer, I remembered that I was only wearing a shirt!

Quickly, I grabbed my Illinois state map from the passenger seat. After completely unfolding the map, I spread it across my lap.

As I rolled down my window, John leaned on the van, greeted me and expressed gratitude for my safety. There had been a tornado!

John told me about his experience with the storm and wanted more detail about the path of the tornado. When he saw the map, he asked if he could take a look at it.

“No, you cannot use my map.”

Now, you, dear reader, know why I could not let him use my map. John did not understand my wardrobe predicament and asked for the map a second time. My reply was the same. “No, John, you cannot use my map.”

To commemorate this event, I made a Letterboxer Trading Card (a take-off of Artist Trading Cards).

This 2.5″x3.5″ card features: a hand-carved stamp, alcohol ink on glossy paper, blending chalk for color and pieces of the actual map that I would not let John use on June 5, 2010.

[None of my friends were seriously injured in the storm/tornado. My tent was the only one standing; it was totally dry inside, too.]