Stashing the Gear

I checked the locked iron latch above me one last time to confirm it hadn't shifted in the dark. With the gate steady, I needed a safe cache for the night's resting spot. Right beneath the wooden strike plate, dry cedar chips had piled into a hollow between two roots. I retrieved my green acorn from the knot hole, wedged it into the wood shavings, and set the silver coach's whistle right across the top to weigh them down. My joints felt heavy from kicking and climbing all day. I sat down on the cedar bed, leaned against the fence post, and let the night air settle in.