Hocking memories

The countdown has begun for another adventure, so I’m back to displacement activity to deal with the wait. This trip engenders a lot of good memories. Once in a while, you encounter those magic moments. Things unexpectedly coalesce into something wonderful. And, try as you might, you can never recreate it.

I’m leading an overnight paddling trip in the Hocking Hills this weekend. Going there never fails to evoke memories of such a moment.

About 25 years ago, I led such a trip. Saturday, we paddled in uncharacteristically cold and blustery weather. That night brought rain to the camp, which continued the next day through our hiking. We completed our last trail and piled into our vehicles, joining the sodden heaps of camping gear. Home was looking good.

The lead vehicle got lost trying to find the way back to the highway on the winding and hilly back roads. At the first opportunity, he pulled off so we could convene and discuss the situation. That was the gravel parking lot of an isolated country restaurant.

We decided that we could think straighter with full bellies, so we went inside. From the outside, it was an exquisitely maintained large frame house with a generous porch encircling it. It was predominantly white with elaborate red trim. Quaint and charming don’t even begin to describe the interior.

The round tables were full, so the hostess suggested we wait in the parlor (yes, she said “parlor”) or out back. Outside? In the chill and drizzle?

We looked out the bay window and the sun was shining brightly on a duck pond surrounded by Adirondack chairs. We went outside and the hostess followed with fresh squeezed lemonade, compliments of the house.

There, we sat, sunning ourselves like contented lizards on hot rocks and the mood swung sharply upward. We almost hated to go in when she rang the dinner bell, but the meal was well worth it. You didn’t order. You just sat around the gingham tablecloth and the hostess brought bowl after bowl of steaming home cooking out to share in. This experience made the weekend.

We found our way back to civilization, but no one noted the route. The next year, we were determined to end the trip on the same high note, but couldn’t find the place. We didn’t know the name of it either. So, our descriptions rendered to various clerks at gas stations, stores and the like only produced puzzled head shaking.

We made another attempt the following year, this time asking everyone we encountered from day one. More dry holes. This would reiterate year after year.

When I had about given up, we were on a bus shuttle for the river trip supplied by a local canoe outfitter. The bus driver looked like he could’ve lived there for many decades. So, I worked my way up the aisle of the old school bus and plopped down on the seat behind him. I ran through the description, which by now was a matter of rote.

“Sure I know it. That’s Dora’s place.”

I almost fell over. Not believing my ears, I began to run through some of the details, just to be sure.

“I said I know the place.”

Well all right then! “Can you tell me how to get there?”

“Sure can.”

I was almost delirious with glee. “Wait a minute! Let me get a pen and paper.”

I strided my way down the length of the rocking bus and excitedly demanded writing implements. My friends dug through what little belongings they brought along for the paddling portion of the trip while my hands fluttered around in frustrated gestures. Someone dredged up a pencil stub and a deposit slip and asked what the crisis was. I grabbed them and revealed the news. Everyone clapped and cheered.

Back at the front of the bus, I took down the directions. Then, I repeated them back in painstaking detail, not wanting to err after coming this far. This wasn’t all that easy as the driver wasn’t a patient man.

“Do you know if she’s still open Sundays?”

“Yes.” Jackpot! “She ain’t.” One more switchback like that might kill me.

But, there was still tonight. “How late is she open on Saturday?”

“She ain’t.”

“She’s not open on weekends?”

“She ain’t open any time. Ol’ Dora bought the farm a couple years ago.”

“She’s dead?”

“As a doornail.”

“But when I asked you…”

“You asked me if I knew the place you were talking about and how to get there. I did and I told you.” Fair enough. And, that about did finish me off. It was a long walk to the back of the bus, which was full of expectant faces.

Well, there’s always some new treasure to uncover and good memories to be made, possibly even this weekend.