A tale of travel and treasure

[This is the story that I sent up to the A Treasure's Trove publishers for consideration in their solution book.]

It came subtly but strongly as most epiphanies do. My mind was overused, wrung with various ideas and theories on solving the puzzles found in A Treasure's Trove. I had been studying the book in its entirety since early February, the month when it had initially struck my interest and wedged itself deep into my consciousness. But today, I found something concrete.

I was in the midst of working on page 33, my so-called "Firefly page", trying to come up with a solution that would pinpoint the exact location of the Firefly token. I had failed at other pages and decided to try my hand at something new, something fresh to sink my teeth into. The proverbial lightblub sparked when I took notice of the orientation of the acorns around the border, and ignored their sizes and patterns - two attributes I’d attempted before. I found five distinct directions, and with these I created a string of data with which to populate the beloved "5x5 grid" that I had become so familiar with. Many different configurations later, and I was left with a heap of text string results. Some of them looked typically useless, but one stood out among the others. “LAASKTPELA”. It didn't spell anything immediate, but I figured that with the Firefly being the second most valuable jewel, it may require some anagramming to come up with a proper solution. A quick letter rearrangement later, and a vacation-to-be was staring me in the face: Alta Lake SP. My fingers nimbly typed that phrase - substituting "State Park" for "SP" - into an online search engine, and I found that Alta Lake State Park was an authentic, truly existing state park in mid-northern Washington. And the entire west coast had yet to see a token! My solution seemed so solid that I began to grapple with the potential possibilities.

It was a Sunday, the day before Memorial Day, and the next day was a holiday from my work routine. Perfect timing. I did some flight, map, and town research before deciding that this was well worth the risk involved. Regrets are abundant in life, and if I were to come home empty-handed, I’d have fewer regrets than if I never took the journey to begin with.

On Memorial Day in 2005, I flew out to Spokane on a 3:40 flight from Sacramento, arriving at 6:30. I secured a rental car – ah, the privileges of being 25! - and began the westward trek out across Interstate 90. And let it be known that I love road trips, however so small. Windows rolled down, gas station snack stops, and constant map and direction checks are sheer bliss for me. My veins were fueled with exhilaration and my eyes glued to the countryside. I turned off in Moses Lake and took Highway 17 up towards the small towns of Pateros and Brewster, where Alta Lake would lie. It was nearly 10:00 when I arrived and found that the only motel in town was the Lake Pateros Inn – which was less economical than I had hoped for. However, the closest secondary option was six miles behind me; my decision was made with ease. That night I was restless, so I ended up driving the two miles to Alta Lake State Park to see what it looked like in the darkness. I policed the scene, stepping out once or twice to patrol the local foliage and take stock of the signs, the camping areas, and potential possibilities. The park was smaller that I had anticipated. My resolve began diminishing ever-so-slightly, and I decided that a thorough once-over could only be accomplished after a good night's rest. I arrived back at the inn and set about bringing my things into my downstairs room. After I was settled, I called my wife to say goodnight, and shut my giddy little eyes to find some peace and dream of pirate's chests and other such things.

The next morning, I awoke at an early hour to my phone’s alarm. I packed my things, cleaned out, and went to find a brief respite at the Sweet River Bakery down the lane. The smells of a good bakery at an early morning hour are virtually euphoric. With my senses rejuvenated, I headed back up to the state park. Its size hadn’t changed much in the morning’s light, but I was able to start capturing photos in an attempt to document my excursion. I solidified my hopes and began the searching process, starting with the best candidate areas. There was a small picnic area at the front of the park with good knothole-supporting trees (I was determined that the token would be in a knothole). I’d brought gloves, a multi-purpose tool, and a pocketknife as my assistants. Rifling through detritus and debris in each knothole became standard in my search, but always to no avail. Throughout the day I made my way across the entire state park, raiding each different area with renewed vigor and an increasingly time-imprisoned rush. My searches included the beach and commons area at the center, each of the separate campgrounds, the initial picnic grounds, and a scrambling last-minute attempt up a scenic hiking trail. It was a Tuesday, and the park seemed next to deserted as I loped about, looting and pillaging the local foliage. My hurriedness was due to my time deadline: 3 o’clock. My flight left Spokane at 6:55 and I wanted to allow plenty of time for my departure.

That time closed in on me with the stealth of a stalking mountain lion. I could see it happening as the sun burned somewhere high overhead, and in a nonstop fluid motion, raced assuredly toward the horizon. It was all too soon that I reluctantly glanced at my watch and saw those hated hands pointing at the 12 and the 3. Forced to bid Alta Lake goodbye, I slunk away defeated and tokenless to a tired trip home. A few final pit stops were made in Pateros at the local Chevron and the Rest Awhile fruit stand, where I got some food and fruit to help me survive the drive that would conclude my episode in Washington.

And so the routine returned. It was all a short but seemingly endless outing that resulted in not much more than empty pockets and a drift of a hike. I felt some sad sense of longing as I drove out of that tiny town - supposedly holding some 643 souls, give or take - and the smells of the bakery that welcomed me as long as the sun shone. I can't explain why I feel like I am leaving something behind. Maybe my expectations were too high. Maybe they were too low. I had hoped for an improbable burst of life and excitement, all the while planning for the sad reality that would most likely realize itself once again. I’m not angry or upset; I might be disappointed or discouraged. But the smell of the Washington air that was so new to me, the somewhat-heat of the pollen-tainted breeze that filled my rental car's humming engine vents, those things keep my senses alive. Those people that seemed alien, those Washingtonian foreigners, they are so eerily similar to me and mine. The well-traveled backroad highways, paved decades ago - they speak some testament of my smile for life and the spontaneity and lack of reason that could fuel and refuel me for an eternity. Sometimes it doesn't really matter if practicality speaks loud enough. I guess my ears were muffled at least for a day or two.

Upon safely returning home, I kissed my wife and babies hello, smiled, and quickly got to work on dreaming up my next grand adventure.