After Benjamin finished wallering around with the Girl Scouts, I noticed that the bed in the miniature truck was full of fossils. As I called him to take a look, State Park Lady came over and provided detailed descriptions of various extinct Nautilus ancestors, trilobytes, fossilized coral and sea worms.

“The parrotfish lives in the coral reef, and it bites the sea anemone to eat off the algae,” Benjamin said. My eyes widened a bit. Despite my asking him what he learns at school each day, he reveals nothing until it’s relevant, and he never stops surprising me.

I wasn’t surprised that his attention wavered when State Park Lady explained how petrification is different from fossilization, using phrases like, “at the cellular level.” Lady, he may have sounded great with that parrotfish stuff, but they haven’t quite covered cells in his first-grade science curriculum.

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She held up a small black ball covered with spiny protrusions. “This is a meteorite,” she said. “A friend of mine found it over in Salt Flat.” About three inches in diameter, it no doubt would have rendered dead anyone whose head was in its path. An object from outer space. Now you’re back on track.

Ben’s interest was gone by that point, and I wouldn’t let him throw rocks into the water with other people around, so I picked him up to slog back across the “bridge.”

As I looked down to take my next step, I heard a splash and the collective, “Oh!” of a crowd. I looked up to see a fallen woman on the opposite side, cold water rushing over her shoulders as she struggled to get up. Mental note: don’t step where she stepped.

My final step prompted applause from the crowd sitting on the “bleachers” as I set the boy on dry ground.

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Track Site 3 merely offered an overlook, recently set back about 15 feet from an older, more dangerous fence location. We barely could see the river below, where the tracks perhaps would be visible during summer.

Instead we made our way on a trail through the woods, Benjamin leading the way down to a gravel bar. Across the river a steep hillside led up to a sheer cliff wall topped by small cedar trees. With that beautiful backdrop the boy finally got to throw rocks into the water.

“Honey, you need to let it go a little bit sooner, when your hand is still up high,” said a man beside me.

A little girl, maybe eight years old, grabbed a rock about the size of my fist and threw it, following the directions perfectly. The rock splashed in the deep pool with a respectable *ka-thoonk* as the water closed back around it.

“Hey, that was great!” the man said.

The little girl saw me watching her. “My daddy taught me how to throw it,” she said and turned to walk away.

“He sure did. He’s a pretty smart guy,” I said.

Not to be outdone, Benjamin threw a rock about the same size, farther and higher. “I didn’t teach him how to do that,” I said.

The man smiled and followed his daughter. I hoped that he hadn’t taken what I said the wrong way. I just meant that boys pretty much come out of the womb with a desire to throw. Doesn’t matter what. If it can be held, it can and will be thrown.

Benjamin perches during a quick trip back to Track Site 1.

Next in this series: You just can’t pass up free, and sometimes it pays off.