Medallion

This would be the year. I was determined to do everything it might take to find the puck. After years of trying to decipher clues and pick the right park, I was convinced that it was my time.

Living in one of the most frigid areas in the United States, we have an odd tradition or two for keeping things interesting when it seems mother nature is strongly suggesting hibernation. One annual event in particular is dedicated to the snow and ice.

Where the dairy cows inspire fall butter sculptures, the winter brings intricate ice carvings. In a place where nobody questions riding a mattress down a ski hill, plunging into a frozen lake, or ordering a drink from an outdoor bar composed completely of chiseled ice, an annual competition ignites a spark for the young and old.

A modern treasure hunt, a longstanding tradition, and something I look forward to every year: the hope that I might be the lucky winner of a $20,000 prize. For as long as I can remember, I have shared my love for this contest with anybody that will listen.

In past years, early editions of clue-containing newspapers would be dished out in the twilight hours to the most devoted seekers. In current times, the internet provides the first glance at a cryptic clue.

One of the most difficult tasks in sifting clues is spotting the red herrings. These are typically obvious references meant to steer the masses away from one super secret spot. While on the surface, a rhyming couplet might have folks flocking to a birdwatching pond, a barren heron might in fact refer to a dead tree in a park bordered by Heron Street.

Many clues require a basic understanding of local geography, eligible park amenities, and near folkloric history. I am not married to the message boards where people discuss clues, for better or worse. I'm not above lurking if I am feeling stumped, but it's just not a place I would expect anyone to share true insights.

As I prepare for the year's first clue to be posted online, I dig out my trusty treasure trove of past clues and their meanings. I peel open the cover of my palm-friendly notebook to find scribbles blurred by snow, pages crinkled by sleet. Despite choosing a smooth black weather-resistant cover for its contrast to the blanket of white often beneath my feet this time of year, my field notes too often end up with a light dusting of cold weather.

The first week of loosely literal lines that are published create a seemingly endless list of possibilities in my mind. I use push-pins on a map to indicate potential references to place. I do several slow crawls past promising parks, to assess whether anyone else has made similar associations. It's not a great sign, and maybe not even a good idea, to be the only person in a particular park.

Day 11 of the contest, and despite my best sleuthing, I have only felt a strong enough pull to two spots to actually get out of my car and kick some snow around. The evening clue comes in and like magic, the words form a clear image of a place I have been. I reread this year's clues to check consistency with the spot my brain is projecting.

I cautiously but quickly toe the icy walk to my car. There's no time to lose! Tomorrow's forecast calls for up to 10 inches of heavy white stuff, and I do enough shoveling in the name of transportation to add much more in the name of recreation.

When I arrive at the seasonally green space that shines in my mind, there are two other cars in the well-lit parking lot. I have a good feeling about my chances. I head toward the pavilion that overlooks the playground. This is a park my family frequented in my youth when the urge for a summer picnic struck. I sit down at a picnic table and skim the clues once more for the sake of seeing them in context.

A trail off the back of the pavilion leads to a small bridge where a dam gives off the sound of a waterfall in the spring. The clues have brought me here, as did my childhood drive for introspection and lifelong enchantment with the sound of falling water.

There, in a plastic gas station bag tied to a metal fence existing more for safety than security, my tenacious dream of finding the medallion hangs. It is heavier than I expected, as is the gravity of the moment. I pocket the puck, and walk unceremoniously back to my car. I dial the hunter's hotline with a shaking hand to claim the small fortune I hoped my whole life to find.