There’s a big hayfield up near Buxton – one in particular. It’s got a long rock wall, a big oak tree at the north end. It’s like something out of a Robert Frost poem. It’s where I asked my wife to marry me: we went there for a picnic and made love under that oak and I asked and she said yes.
Promise me, Red: if you ever get out, find that spot. In the base of that wall, you’ll find a rock that has no earthly business in a Maine hayfield. A piece of black, volcanic glass. There’s something buried under it I want you to have.
This is my favourite example of old-school geocaching.
