The dead beaver is gone.
We saw it last Sunday as Liz and I traced a Charlie Myer route through Franklin County. For much of the day we skirted waterways, from narrow, limestone-lined creeks to wide, sandy shores along the Whitewater River. The desolate countryside was a nice contrast to the streets of Metamora where we began, a tourist town struggling to stay relevant, its canal, antique stores and candy shops seeming more outdated than historic.
I’ve seen a lot of things from the saddle of a bike, but never a dead beaver. We smelled it before we saw it. With its head tucked out of sight, only the flat tail indicated we weren’t seeing an oversized groundhog.
I’m looking for the beaver as I revisit that course with Dave. We’ve started from Brookville to take advantage of a steady southwest wind on the latter stages of the ride. But as we turn onto a lonely country road where the beaver lay five days earlier, there is no smell and no carcass. A few pedal strokes up the road, however, comes a surprise.
“Stopping!” I yell to Dave as I pinwheel my bike on the uneven chip-and-seal. I’m not sure what I just saw, but I’m certain it’s worth a momentary break to check out. I’m telling myself it’s a piece of trash, maybe a label someone has peeled off a Gatorade bottle, folded and tossed in the ditch. But, I’m hoping for something else.
My curiosity pays off.
“What is it?” Dave asks as he walks his bike toward the spot where I’ve stopped.
“Money,” I say, holding up my find.
“How much?”
“A twenty-dollar bill.”
“Good deal,” he says just before stooping over to pick up something in the ditch where he’s walking. “Here’s another one!”
I’m not sure what to think of our good fortune. How does someone lose $40 in the middle of nowhere? Is it counterfeit? Drug money? We don’t know. And, for the moment, we don’t care, pedaling off, giddy as schoolgirls.
41.75 miles — Franklin County
