It’s no use. I know it before I tuck my hatchback between the sport utility megafauna. Their bumper stickers say 26.1 and Not All Who Wander Are Lost. Mine says Jersey Girls Don’t Pump Their Own Gas. 

I am only here to pillage the forest. I am already planning to shellac the pinecones in glitter and Mod Podge. If God stationed cherubim outside Tyler State Park, they would have an APB out for anyone with intent to Mod Podge. But the cherubim have unionized for exempt status and dental insurance, so they are all at national parks, and I am unsupervised.

I have attempted to shoehorn myself into a green spirit. I am wearing hosiery with the powers of something called “moisture wicking.” I have determined not to be dismayed if I besmirch my sneakers, although I am betting high on the sacramental powers of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers. I have composed a list of twelve wonders I must observe before I permit myself back into air conditioning, although like the apostles they did not sign up for this.

I am just about to pursue the first quarry on my scavenger hunt, “something yellow,” when I spot an oracle. I have determined that every creature at Tyler State Park has something to teach me. I have promised the Ancient of Days and my cat that I will listen without interruption. I will silence such insights as, “You know what would make this place better? A Bath and Body Works.” 

I will listen, even if my interlocutor is undercover. No Sphinx worth its sand has ever sought celebrity, which is one of the ways you can tell us apart. The prophet in Pavilion #2 is under five feet tall. He is testing his conviction that gravity is as optional as a side salad. But his skateboard is a law-abiding citizen. It pitches him off the picnic tables no matter how foul his language. 

“Hi.” 

I know it is dangerous to greet forest people, even if they are middle-sized amphibians who ate an entire sleeve of Pop-Tarts for lunch. But I am here to experience nature, and this individual is at least 49% organic material.

He lowers his baseball cap. “Don’t you hang out with my sister?”

I contemplate telling him that we are all doing the tarantella on a spangled web of knowledge, so, yes, I have brushed his sister’s shoulders in the conga line of souls. Instead, I say, “I don’t think so.”

He attempts flight, but he has entered the wrong cheat codes, and the skateboard snickers out under him. I nod to confirm that he meant to do this. His response is tympanic. “I AM THRAXTON.”

The cherubs’ record says his name is Liam or Noah or Oliver, but Thraxton knows his name. He has not been cauterized by the suburbs. He is Thraxton. He is not sure I know my name. “Why are you here?”

“I’m on a scavenger hunt.”

Thraxton is skeptical in his Def Leppard T-shirt. I could distract him with the scandal that all the leppards are now older than his grandpop and fall asleep halfway through Wheel of Fortune. Instead, I confess. 

“You’re right,” I say.

“I didn’t say anything.” Thraxton is a tutelary spirit. He is going to make me work for this.

“I’m here for the same reason as you.” I do not know what I am saying, but saints can read souls, and I am peeking over Thraxton’s shoulder at the teleprompter.

Thraxton parries. “I don’t see your skateboard.”

“I’m here because I want to be famous.”

Tectonic plates crash, blowing the baseball cap two inches off his head. “I don’t want to be famous!”

I sit down on a picnic bench. The caps of my Reeboks have lacy Mandelbrots of mud. “Well, I do.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” Thraxton stoops to pick up the second artifact on my list, an undeniably cool rock. 

I tell this secret agent what I have not yet told myself. “I want to get my writing into snooty literary journals that only publish stuff about the environment.” 

“Huh.”

“But I’m prissy and indoorsy and would rather write about cat toys or Funfetti cake. So, I’m here to get excited about nature, so I have something to write about.”

“That sounds dumb.”

If I had any doubt that I was dealing with a holy man, it has departed. “It is dumb.”

There is a time to gather stones and a time to cast them away, and Thraxton heaves an undeniably cool rock into the forest. “In 2028, I’ll be old enough to do the half pipe.”

I play along, despite all evidence that Thraxton is secretly old enough to join AARP. “Old enough?”

“For the US Olympic Team. I’ll do winter or summer. I can snowboard and skateboard. I’ll go wherever they need me most.”

I spot an acorn in critical need of Mod Podge. “What if they need you for both?”

“I can do it all.”

“Your mom must be proud.”

Thraxton extends his hand. He wants my acorn. “Your mom must be proud, too.” He shakes his arm like electrocuted spaghetti. Give it.

I close my fingers. “I need this.”

“To write about?”

“No, it’s on my scavenger hunt list.”

Thraxton puts down his skateboard to extend his second arm. His hands are now cupped into a begging bowl. “I want it.”

“Will you take good care of it?”

“It doesn’t need anything.”

I steeple my fingers around the oak’s infant. I wonder if Thraxton has met St. Julian in the conga line. She says the world is a hazelnut in the palm of God. It is lovable because it is unremarkable and small.

“It needs someone who thinks it’s cool.” 

Thraxton wriggles with desperation. “I promise I think it’s cool.”

“Will you take it to both the Winter and Summer Games?”

“I’ll take it everywhere!”

It’s no use. The acorn was never mine to give. I restore it to his hand. “It’s yours.”

He gestures as though to throw it into the forest, then makes dolphin noises. He knows it’s not an undeniably cool rock. “Are you gonna write about it?”

“I’ll probably just write about Funfetti cake again.”

“Good. Nature is dumb.” He waits for me to agree. I don’t, but I also don’t want to go into the park. This was enough. What this place could really use is a Dairy Queen.

“Good to meet you, Thraxton.” I drop my yellow legal paper in the recycling bin. “I’ll look for you in 2028.”

“I won’t look for you in the snooty journals. You should write for Nintendo Power.”

I remind myself to review their submission guidelines just as soon as I clean my shoes.