Stories of Happenings either true - or otherwise
Below are stories related to actual or perhaps exagerated or downright not true happenings on the trail but written in a fanciful prose. If you have a story that is interesting and does not fit any of the other categories, perhaps it belongs here. If so, send an email with the information to: [email protected]
"Yogi-ing" By "Jack the Shark" Donohue
It was Memorial Day weekend and hundreds of cars, trailers and mobile homes loaded with vacationers, weekenders and day-trippers poured into the 200,000-acre Shenandoah National Park in northern Virginia. Within 24 hours the park's four campgrounds and 600 campsites were filled to capacity.
Very quickly tents and hammocks were erected, sleeping bags were unfolded, fire pits were stacked with wood, and the coals in portable grills were ignited. Most importantly plates, eating utensils, and condiments were placed on picnic tables in anticipation of devouring the smorgasbord of food most vacationers brought with them.
While some campers fished or hiked, the majority were content to remain at their campsite relaxing, reading, napping and eating. Their primary objective was to find some peace and quiet. But they should have paid better attention to the 6x2 inch white blazes on many of the trees in the park. The white blazes mark the path of the Appalachian Trail that extends 105 miles through the park and through the center of the park's campgrounds. Any hope a camper had of peace and solitude will be short lived.
Because, unfortunately for the campers, the leading wave of Appalachian Trail thru hikers were entering the park! For the past two to three months these half-starved hiking machines have hiked twelve to fifteen miles a day on a diet of instant oatmeal, Ramon noodles, Mac and cheese, stove top stuffing, peanut butter and freeze-dried foods. Many hikers have lost at least 20 pounds and ate far less than the 5-7,000 calories per day that their body now demands. Every step of their journey since they began their hike 850 miles ago in Georgia has been focused on food and how much of it they will eat at their next meal.
As the hikers entered the first of the park's picnic areas the aroma of grilled and frying food was overwhelming. Then their eyes were greeted by open ice chests full of cold sodas, potato salad, watermelon and ice cream. Was it a mirage? They saw picnic baskets overflowing with fresh fruit, cheese, and cookies. If it was a mirage it was a cruel hoax. It was all the hikers could do to restrain themselves from swarming the unsuspecting tourists and devouring everything in their path. But each seasoned thru hiker has learned self-control and now the thru hikers begin the "yogi-ing" phase of their hike - "accepting" food from strangers without actually asking for it. If you ask for food it's "begging". And there is a difference.
The basic "yogi-ing" technique is to hike until you spot picnickers at one of the many picnic areas, scenic overlooks or campgrounds in the park. Then the hiker must appear as helpless, tired and exhausted as possible before flopping on the ground in the general vicinity of "the food". If done properly, a cold drink or plate of food should be hand delivered to the hiker in short order.
There are many refinements to the basic "yogi-ing" technique and seasoned hikers have developed unique ploys over the years to extract food.
While "yogi-ing" opportunities may be found throughout the park not all hikers leave it to chance. Hikers like "Car Bomb", "Bar Fight", and "Nervous November" prefer to stake out a picnic area at sunrise and wait. "August Rush", a lover of grilled food, lets his nose choose in which direction to hike. In a form of reverse psychology "Vermonster" wears a sign around his neck that reads, "Please don't feed the hikers".
"Sprained Rice" and the "Italian Scallion" are very selective and will only target grilled food, in particular ribs and sausage. "Wildflower" looks for fresh produce while "Mountain Roamer" can't get enough watermelon to eat.
"Not That Vicious" and "Lothar of the Snake People" indicate "we need to extract as much food as possible from tourists before introducing ourselves". "We find that strangers tend to back away slowly once we tell them our trail names".
While some hikers develop a respectable "yogi-ing" technique it is widely accepted that "Deviled Eggs McQueen" is the master. Legend has it McQueen received his trail name many years earlier when one night he was spotted swinging in a hammock outside a large Florida motor home. With three empty plates of food and several watermelon rinds lying on the ground beneath the hammock he was heard pleading with the hostess "no more deviled eggs please!"
It is believed Deviled Eggs once spent two weeks at the large Big Meadows campground in the park, "visited" a dozen different campsites, and left the campground ten pounds heavier.
When asked by others hikers about his yogi-ing techniques McQueen is always non-committal. Some observers have seen him dragging his right leg while crossing a busy picnic area, like a bird's "broken wing" technique. Another time he was discovered exiting the shower of a large Winnebago where his host was handing him a freshly laundered set of cloths. His host told a passerby "when Mr. McQueen stumbled into the campground he was caked in mud so I rushed out to help him!"
Some hikers believe Deviled Eggs' "puppy dog" eyes and large hanging jowls are an unfair advantage as tourists that see him want to go up to him and give him a hug. Veteran hikers concede Deviled Eggs McQueen could retire anytime he wished living off the generosity of tourists for the remainder of his days.
While there can be only one "Deviled Eggs McQueen" most thru hikers develop good "yogi-ing" techniques by the time they exit the northern end of the park. With three months and 1,200 miles of the Appalachian Trail remaining before they reach the northern end of the trail in Maine thru hikers will have many opportunities to practice the "yogi-ing" techniques they mastered in Shenandoah National Park.
While the thru hiker experience for picnickers and vacationers is often a memorable and enjoyable one, that is not always the case.
A notable example is the day a park ranger encountered Nate Watkins exiting the park in his motor home. The ranger seeing a dazed look on Nate's face asked if he had encountered a bear. Nate replied "no, just a large thru hiker". Nate explained "initially, I offered him a hot dog". "By the time he left my campsite there was nothing left but watermelon rinds, egg shells, banana peels, and bones".
Continuing in a dazed fashion, the motorist mumbled "all night I kept having flashbacks of the National Geographic TV Special from East Africa". "It's the one documenting the annual clash of a million migrating Wildebeest that must cross the Wara River where hundreds of hungry crocodiles are waiting". "I kept dreaming I was one of the Wildebeest and that large thru hiker was a crocodile".
The park ranger could only shake his head as he asked Nate for his exit pass from the park. Absentmindedly and still in a daze Nate handed the ranger a Polaroid photo instead. The ranger saw it was a photo of Nate and a large hiker who had his arm around Nate's shoulder. The photo was autographed, "To Nate - Best Wishes, Deviled Eggs McQueen"
"The Prankster" By "Jack the Shark" Donohue
On a bright Friday morning in early May I began a three day hike north through the center of St. Anthony's Wilderness in central Pennsylvania. It is a remote fourteen thousand acre tract of land containing state game lands, old carriage roads, and dense woodlands. Old stone building foundations, mining sink holes, and a pre-civil war graveyard offer ghostly reminders of an all-but-forgotten nineteenth century civilization. The grape vines entangled in the tree canopies prevents sunlight from penetrating into the forest interior giving the woods an eerie quality.
St. Anthony's Wilderness gets few visitors except for hikers. It is not uncommon to hike through this wilderness and not see a single human being. On the first morning of my hike I was mystified when I approached a shelter and noticed a telephone on the outside of the shelter wall. It was a black wall phone with a long cord dangling below it. Like a fool I walked up to it and put the receiver to my ear. A recorded message said "I can't believe you thought this was a real phone!" I was more annoyed than surprised I was fooled so easily. I immediately took the phone apart to discover it contained two batteries and a small cassette tape. As I got over my initial stupidity I had to laugh at this great practical joke. I reassembled the phone and returned it to its place on the shelter wall. I assumed the numerous fresh boot prints in the mud near the phone belonged to the prankster. The large boot size told me it was a man and I could see he was also hiking in a northerly direction. I could visualize him installing the phone at the shelter and laughing. This jokester was confident someone would fall for his trick and didn't feel the need to wait to see the results of his cleverness.
I wished I could stay to see if anyone else might fall for this prank but I had a few more miles to hike before dark. It was late afternoon when I approached a stream where I saw an old blackened fire pit ringed by a circle of large rocks. There was a small rectangular area of bare ground nearby where other hikers had apparently pitched their tent. I decided this was a good place to camp and began to empty the contents of my pack. It was then I noticed a couple of peculiar objects on the trunks of two nearby trees. When I got closer I saw one of the objects was a beige-colored electrical wall outlet. Five feet away nailed to a tree trunk was a water spigot. Obviously, the prankster had paid a visit here also. Over the next two days my hike took on a new focus. I became very attentive to my surroundings not wanting to miss any additional gags I was sure were waiting to be experienced. On the morning of the second day I was not surprised when I found four large grape vines strung horizontally across the trail at different heights to resemble a split-rail fence. Hanging from one of the vines was a small rectangular yellow sign that read "Warning Electrical Fence". I loved the imagination of this practical joker. His jokes were well conceived and well executed.
Early Saturday afternoon I approached the ruins of Rausch Gap Village in the center of St. Anthony's Wilderness. The guide book suggested this was a good place to observe migrating sparrows and warblers. The male warblers in particular would be in their brightest red and orange spring plumage to attract the most desirable females. I could hear the singing of many warblers but it wasn't until I walked around the caved-in roof of a weathered barn that I saw my first bird. I could see the top of its reddish head sticking out from behind a stack of old wooden shingles. I immediately thought it might be a red-bellied woodpecker or perhaps a rare warbler so I proceeded very cautiously. As I approached the bird from the rear I thought it odd the bird hadn't moved during the twenty seconds I had been watching it. When I got a full view of the bird I understood why. It was a two foot tall plastic pink flamingo, commonly used as a lawn ornament. The prankster had struck again! I can't tell you how stupid I felt to be duped once more yet I had to laugh out loud.
I determined to quicken my pace in hopes of meeting the prankster before the end of my hike.
On Sunday it was late in the day when I arrived at the last shelter in St. Anthony's Wilderness. There standing in front of the shelter was a tall, slender, red-bearded hiker with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He appeared deep in thought. When I approached he turned to me and said, "Oh great, you're just in time to help me!" He dropped his pack and proceeded to lie in an awkward position on the floor of the shelter. Looking up at me he handed me a piece of chalk and said "trace the outline of my body on the shelter floor". I proceeded to do so realizing I had finally found the prankster. When I finished tracing his body outline he stood up, examined my handiwork and nodded his approval. He then opened his pack and extracted a large roll of yellow tape, approximately five inches in width. He stretched three, ten-foot long pieces of this tape across the entrance to the shelter. The bold black letters on the tape read, "Police Crime Scene - Do Not Cross". I laughed with joy at his cleverness. I was also quite pleased I could participate in a small way in helping him stage this gag. When he was satisfied the "crime scene" looked perfect we exchanged introductions. He said his trail name was Bilge Rat. As he worked as an engineer aboard a tanker his trail name was an easy selection. His eyes twinkled when I told him about how I have been duped by several of his gags. He couldn't have been happier. He said he didn't often experience the payoff of his practical jokes. It was enough for him to create a unique gag then walk away feeling confident it was likely to amuse one or more hikers.
We hiked together for four miles until we reached County Road 501. This marked the northern end of St. Anthony's Wilderness and the end of my three-day hike. Bilge Rat was continuing his thru hike to Maine. I stuck out my thumb to hitch a ride to the nearby town of Pine Grove where I parked my car. The first vehicle that drove by was a mud-covered red pickup truck. The driver pulled over when he saw me and said "I guess you need a ride into town so jump in the back" As I climbed into the truck I saw Bilge Rat entering the woods on the far side of the road. I yelled to him "are you going to create any new practical jokes this week?" He yelled back, "come back next weekend and find out!"
I yelled back, "you can count on it!"
"The Roan Highlands Crusade " by Candybar Man
Once upon a time, Iksplor, a brave band of nature lovers, drove two cowardly gangs of ecoterrorists away from the scenic Roan Highlands. We were victorious at the battles of Yellow Mountain Gap, Little Hump Mountain and Big Hump Mountain. Our crusade was part of a campaign by a coalition of environmental organizations to drive ecoterrorists off the 2,200 mile long Appalachian Trail from Springer Mountain to Mount Katahdin. The coatition shared a burning desire to preserve the A.T.’s natural resources, exquisite scenery, and opportunities for outdoor recreation.
Long ago, Iksplor was founded by the venerable Tim Vogelaar. He was respectfully called General Vogelczar because of bold, brilliant leadership on battlefields. When our courageous commander called the Iksplorers to duty, we assembled at Cedars of Lebanon where we were hidden by dense evergreen forest. General Vogelczar divulged detailed plans for a daring nighttime raid on the Dudes, a gang of boarding school delinquents who harassed hikers and spray painted graffiti on rocks and trees. They had an extremely annoying habit of calling one another “Dude” over and over.
Transporting the Troops
Under cover of night, we loaded our gear for the long road trip to Roan Highlands. General Vogelczar drove Maxpatch67, carrying four Youthsplorers. I drove Skydreamer, accompanied by three notable Iksplorers who were veterans of countless campaigns. Heading east on Starstream Freeway, the veterans and I played a practical joke on the General and the Youthsplorers. Our troop transports became separated in heavy traffic. The General, unknowingly, passed us in the dark. We radioed, requesting his location. He responded with a milemarker number. We pretended to be several miles ahead. Following him, we laughed loudly as he drove faster and faster to catch up. When we confessed our prank, the General called us dorks. .
Battle of Yellow Mountain Gap
We arrived at the trailhead in Sugar Hollow after midnight. Freezing cold air sent shivers down our spines as we packed for our mission. Hiking up the steep Overmountain Victory Trail was strenuous, but invigorating. The night was peacefully silent and enchantingly beautiful. Wedding white moonbeams flowed down on the frosty forest that glistened and sparkled like a winter wonderland. Upon reaching Yellow Mountain Gap, we paused briefly to rest and review our strategy to rout the Dudes. The General, an admirer of Mohandas Ghandi, urged us to avoid violence. The Dudes were sleeping in an old barn that was used as an Appalachian Trail shelter. It was located on the south slope of Yellow Mountain several hundred feet below us. Stealthily, we approached the shelter. The dumb Dudes had no guards on duty so we quietly climbed into the loft and lay down among the scoundrels. In the twitch of a nose, Jeff began to rattle the rafters with thunderous snores. That’s how he earned the moniker Snore Monster. The Dudes were startled awake, and in predawn darkness, were unable to determine how many of us had infiltrated the barn. Frantically, the miscreant morons began shouting. “Dude, I think there’s seven of them!” “Nah, Dude, there’s eight!” “Dude, I counted at least nine!” Downstairs, an imbecile yelled, “Dudes, be quiet! They’re trying to sleep up there!” Confusion and chaos spread rapidly. The nitwits began arguing senselessly. Two Dudes in the loft almost came to blows over the identity of O J. Simpson. One growled menacingly, “Dude, I told you O.J. was not the creator of the Simpson’s cartoon show! Dude, O.J. is the football player who killed his wife!” Finally the bewildered buffoons fled like a herd of stampeding cattle. After their hasty departure, we took turns at guard, and our noble band got some badly needed sleep. At breakfast, we cheerfully celebrated the decisive victory. General Vogelczar issued an Emancipation Proclamation, declaring environmentalists were forever free from the detestable Dudes.
Battle of Little Hump Mountain
Iksplor’s next mission was to save the Children of Bambi from the Punkster Poachers who had been murdering dear deer in droves. We set off at noon, carrying light daypacks, and quickly ascended a ridge southwest of Little Hump Mountain. The stony path meandered along the ridgetop, preventing us from seeing far ahead. Without warning, we met three suspicious persons hiking hurriedly away from Little Hump. The suspects paused for a brief chat with us, trying to appear nonchalant. However, their stammering speech, shifty eyes, and strong stench revealed that they were a pack of poachers in disguise. We realized they were fleeing from the area because the Dudes had made them scared of us. We let them move on, knowing they would spread panic among other ecoterrorists. After our encounter, we proceeded confidently, following the ridgetop path out of the forest onto an expansive grassy bald. There, the trail bent sharply toward the north and rose up a gentle slope to the summit. General Vogelczar sent two Youthsplorers, Kitty and Cori, ahead to trick The Punksters into thinking we were a family on a day hike. That’s where they were first called Decoy Girls. Warily watching for an ambush, we followed the Decoy Girls to an outcrop of large boulders that looked like a giant turtle. From this stronghold, we searched the surrounding countryside with binoculars and discovered that the Punksters had abandoned the mountain. Great joy filled our hearts upon realizing that we had saved Little Hump Mountain. Everyone relaxed and enjoyed some light-hearted fun. Joel found a wooly worm and assured us that the length and color of its bands were accurate predictors of winter weather. Playfully, we asked how that could be because each wooly worm we found had a different appearance. Joel jokingly replied that each wooly worm is a different meteorologist and each meteorologist gives a different forecast. After some good-natured teasing, Iksplorers gave Joel the nickname Wooly Worm. I forecast the nickname will last a lifetime. Our picnic lunches tasted like a banquet for kings. We wanted to linger, but the day was rapidly waning. With spirits soaring, we focused our energy on storming Big Hump Mountain. Before moving on, General Vogelczar took reconnaissance photos of the route ahead. Wooly Worm and I volunteered to be the rear guard. We tarried at Turtle Rock a short while, ceremoniously smoking cinnamon peace cigars.
Battle of Big Hump Mountain
Big Hump Mountain towered over the surrounding terrain. Between us and its conical top lay the deep depression of Bradley Gap. Racing the sun, we traveled at lightning speed across rough country. While descending the North face of Little Hump, we spotted three Punksters in the gap below. Our rapid advance struck fear in their polluted minds. The scumbags scattered like fleas jumping off a shampooed dog! Two vile varmints raced off in opposite directions on ATVs. The third thug, carrying a high-powered rifle, scrambled rapidly up the trail toward the mountaintop. We pursued him closely, but carefully, lest he lead us into a trap. A plethora of large boulders and high grass gave the enemy lots of places to hide. When we reached the summit, he had disappeared from sight. We neither saw, nor heard, the Punkster Poachers again. Exhausted, we lay down in a bed of deep, dry grass under a blanket of blue sky and listened while wild wind played music of the spheres. A precious panorama encircled our eyrie at the top of the world. We thanked the Creator for being our strength as we fought to keep these magnificent lands forever wild. The sun was low on the horizon as we sadly said goodbye to this peak in paradise. The mountains, except for west-facing slopes, were already engulfed in shadow. The General and I carried Kitty, a Decoy Girl, on our shoulders for several miles. She was wounded by a big, bad, foot blister. We approached the shelter on Yellow Mountain as violet twilight deepened and darkened into ebony night. The glow of campfires and lanterns at a Boy Scout campsite was a cheerful sight. They would be our allies if any ecoterrorists launched a desperate counterattack. We were happy to learn that the Scouts would patrol the trail after our departure. Beside a large campfire, we prepared a feast. The College Girls, who had just arrived from Grassy Ridge, joined us for dinner. Under a star-studded sky, we raised our cups of sassafras tea and toasted the success of our daring deeds. I sprinkled Oregon sage over the flames. A sweet scent swirled upward in the smoke, rising with our prayers of gratitude to Great Spirit. General Vogelczar delivered a stirring speech reminiscent of Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. Before retiring, I covered my sleeping bag with a silvery space blanket. The next morning Wooly Worm said it sounded like a giant candy bar unwrapping every time I rolled over during the night. Never again did Iksplorers call me Michael. They gave me a new name, Candybar Man.
Journey to Round Bald
Iksplor held council during morning brunch. The College Girls assured us there were no ruffians between us and Grassy Ridge. We decided to go to the lofty crown of Round Bald to verify their information. Before leaving, Vinnie and Jonathan explored the valley below us. Wooly Worm, wearing a blue parka, hid in high grass on the hillside. As the two boys walked uphill to the shelter, they passed right next to where he was crouched. He jumped out, growling at them! Thinking he was a bear, both boys stumbled sideways and fell on the ground. Watching the drama, the other Iksplorers split their sides laughing. Vinnie and Jonathan were dubbed Blue Bear Boys. We enjoyed a pleasant hike back to troop transports in Sugar Hollow. Wooly Worm and I again formed the rear guard. We puffed on grape and cinnamon cigars, symbolically spreading peace smoke along the Victory Trail. The drive to Round Bald was adventurous on the steep and curvy highway. The views were spectacular. Giant icicles draped sheer rock cliffs lining the roadside. We parked at Carver’s Gap and then strolled through a dense, dark green, stand of spruce-fir trees up to the 6,240’ dome of Round Bald. Reverentially, we gazed at the majestic land around us. We felt like we were standing in a place unmarred by troubles and untouched by time. Maybe we were. The General snapped a picture of Pastor Bernie, sitting atop a boulder, looking as though he was pondering spiritual precepts and promises. Miraculously, the photo shows a bright halo in the sky above Bernie’s head. Bernie was given the sobriquet, Saint Bernard. We were elated to discover no signs of ecoterrorism and were completely satisfied that our mission had been fulfilled. For many moons, nature enthusiasts have freely and safely recreated in this sublime sanctuary. The kings of the Sierra Club, Wilderness Society, and Nature Conservancy awarded Iksplor with the Medal of Preservation, the highest honor they could bestow. Iksplor lived happily ever after.
"Yogi-ing" By "Jack the Shark" Donohue
It was Memorial Day weekend and hundreds of cars, trailers and mobile homes loaded with vacationers, weekenders and day-trippers poured into the 200,000-acre Shenandoah National Park in northern Virginia. Within 24 hours the park's four campgrounds and 600 campsites were filled to capacity.
Very quickly tents and hammocks were erected, sleeping bags were unfolded, fire pits were stacked with wood, and the coals in portable grills were ignited. Most importantly plates, eating utensils, and condiments were placed on picnic tables in anticipation of devouring the smorgasbord of food most vacationers brought with them.
While some campers fished or hiked, the majority were content to remain at their campsite relaxing, reading, napping and eating. Their primary objective was to find some peace and quiet. But they should have paid better attention to the 6x2 inch white blazes on many of the trees in the park. The white blazes mark the path of the Appalachian Trail that extends 105 miles through the park and through the center of the park's campgrounds. Any hope a camper had of peace and solitude will be short lived.
Because, unfortunately for the campers, the leading wave of Appalachian Trail thru hikers were entering the park! For the past two to three months these half-starved hiking machines have hiked twelve to fifteen miles a day on a diet of instant oatmeal, Ramon noodles, Mac and cheese, stove top stuffing, peanut butter and freeze-dried foods. Many hikers have lost at least 20 pounds and ate far less than the 5-7,000 calories per day that their body now demands. Every step of their journey since they began their hike 850 miles ago in Georgia has been focused on food and how much of it they will eat at their next meal.
As the hikers entered the first of the park's picnic areas the aroma of grilled and frying food was overwhelming. Then their eyes were greeted by open ice chests full of cold sodas, potato salad, watermelon and ice cream. Was it a mirage? They saw picnic baskets overflowing with fresh fruit, cheese, and cookies. If it was a mirage it was a cruel hoax. It was all the hikers could do to restrain themselves from swarming the unsuspecting tourists and devouring everything in their path. But each seasoned thru hiker has learned self-control and now the thru hikers begin the "yogi-ing" phase of their hike - "accepting" food from strangers without actually asking for it. If you ask for food it's "begging". And there is a difference.
The basic "yogi-ing" technique is to hike until you spot picnickers at one of the many picnic areas, scenic overlooks or campgrounds in the park. Then the hiker must appear as helpless, tired and exhausted as possible before flopping on the ground in the general vicinity of "the food". If done properly, a cold drink or plate of food should be hand delivered to the hiker in short order.
There are many refinements to the basic "yogi-ing" technique and seasoned hikers have developed unique ploys over the years to extract food.
While "yogi-ing" opportunities may be found throughout the park not all hikers leave it to chance. Hikers like "Car Bomb", "Bar Fight", and "Nervous November" prefer to stake out a picnic area at sunrise and wait. "August Rush", a lover of grilled food, lets his nose choose in which direction to hike. In a form of reverse psychology "Vermonster" wears a sign around his neck that reads, "Please don't feed the hikers".
"Sprained Rice" and the "Italian Scallion" are very selective and will only target grilled food, in particular ribs and sausage. "Wildflower" looks for fresh produce while "Mountain Roamer" can't get enough watermelon to eat.
"Not That Vicious" and "Lothar of the Snake People" indicate "we need to extract as much food as possible from tourists before introducing ourselves". "We find that strangers tend to back away slowly once we tell them our trail names".
While some hikers develop a respectable "yogi-ing" technique it is widely accepted that "Deviled Eggs McQueen" is the master. Legend has it McQueen received his trail name many years earlier when one night he was spotted swinging in a hammock outside a large Florida motor home. With three empty plates of food and several watermelon rinds lying on the ground beneath the hammock he was heard pleading with the hostess "no more deviled eggs please!"
It is believed Deviled Eggs once spent two weeks at the large Big Meadows campground in the park, "visited" a dozen different campsites, and left the campground ten pounds heavier.
When asked by others hikers about his yogi-ing techniques McQueen is always non-committal. Some observers have seen him dragging his right leg while crossing a busy picnic area, like a bird's "broken wing" technique. Another time he was discovered exiting the shower of a large Winnebago where his host was handing him a freshly laundered set of cloths. His host told a passerby "when Mr. McQueen stumbled into the campground he was caked in mud so I rushed out to help him!"
Some hikers believe Deviled Eggs' "puppy dog" eyes and large hanging jowls are an unfair advantage as tourists that see him want to go up to him and give him a hug. Veteran hikers concede Deviled Eggs McQueen could retire anytime he wished living off the generosity of tourists for the remainder of his days.
While there can be only one "Deviled Eggs McQueen" most thru hikers develop good "yogi-ing" techniques by the time they exit the northern end of the park. With three months and 1,200 miles of the Appalachian Trail remaining before they reach the northern end of the trail in Maine thru hikers will have many opportunities to practice the "yogi-ing" techniques they mastered in Shenandoah National Park.
While the thru hiker experience for picnickers and vacationers is often a memorable and enjoyable one, that is not always the case.
A notable example is the day a park ranger encountered Nate Watkins exiting the park in his motor home. The ranger seeing a dazed look on Nate's face asked if he had encountered a bear. Nate replied "no, just a large thru hiker". Nate explained "initially, I offered him a hot dog". "By the time he left my campsite there was nothing left but watermelon rinds, egg shells, banana peels, and bones".
Continuing in a dazed fashion, the motorist mumbled "all night I kept having flashbacks of the National Geographic TV Special from East Africa". "It's the one documenting the annual clash of a million migrating Wildebeest that must cross the Wara River where hundreds of hungry crocodiles are waiting". "I kept dreaming I was one of the Wildebeest and that large thru hiker was a crocodile".
The park ranger could only shake his head as he asked Nate for his exit pass from the park. Absentmindedly and still in a daze Nate handed the ranger a Polaroid photo instead. The ranger saw it was a photo of Nate and a large hiker who had his arm around Nate's shoulder. The photo was autographed, "To Nate - Best Wishes, Deviled Eggs McQueen"
"The Prankster" By "Jack the Shark" Donohue
On a bright Friday morning in early May I began a three day hike north through the center of St. Anthony's Wilderness in central Pennsylvania. It is a remote fourteen thousand acre tract of land containing state game lands, old carriage roads, and dense woodlands. Old stone building foundations, mining sink holes, and a pre-civil war graveyard offer ghostly reminders of an all-but-forgotten nineteenth century civilization. The grape vines entangled in the tree canopies prevents sunlight from penetrating into the forest interior giving the woods an eerie quality.
St. Anthony's Wilderness gets few visitors except for hikers. It is not uncommon to hike through this wilderness and not see a single human being. On the first morning of my hike I was mystified when I approached a shelter and noticed a telephone on the outside of the shelter wall. It was a black wall phone with a long cord dangling below it. Like a fool I walked up to it and put the receiver to my ear. A recorded message said "I can't believe you thought this was a real phone!" I was more annoyed than surprised I was fooled so easily. I immediately took the phone apart to discover it contained two batteries and a small cassette tape. As I got over my initial stupidity I had to laugh at this great practical joke. I reassembled the phone and returned it to its place on the shelter wall. I assumed the numerous fresh boot prints in the mud near the phone belonged to the prankster. The large boot size told me it was a man and I could see he was also hiking in a northerly direction. I could visualize him installing the phone at the shelter and laughing. This jokester was confident someone would fall for his trick and didn't feel the need to wait to see the results of his cleverness.
I wished I could stay to see if anyone else might fall for this prank but I had a few more miles to hike before dark. It was late afternoon when I approached a stream where I saw an old blackened fire pit ringed by a circle of large rocks. There was a small rectangular area of bare ground nearby where other hikers had apparently pitched their tent. I decided this was a good place to camp and began to empty the contents of my pack. It was then I noticed a couple of peculiar objects on the trunks of two nearby trees. When I got closer I saw one of the objects was a beige-colored electrical wall outlet. Five feet away nailed to a tree trunk was a water spigot. Obviously, the prankster had paid a visit here also. Over the next two days my hike took on a new focus. I became very attentive to my surroundings not wanting to miss any additional gags I was sure were waiting to be experienced. On the morning of the second day I was not surprised when I found four large grape vines strung horizontally across the trail at different heights to resemble a split-rail fence. Hanging from one of the vines was a small rectangular yellow sign that read "Warning Electrical Fence". I loved the imagination of this practical joker. His jokes were well conceived and well executed.
Early Saturday afternoon I approached the ruins of Rausch Gap Village in the center of St. Anthony's Wilderness. The guide book suggested this was a good place to observe migrating sparrows and warblers. The male warblers in particular would be in their brightest red and orange spring plumage to attract the most desirable females. I could hear the singing of many warblers but it wasn't until I walked around the caved-in roof of a weathered barn that I saw my first bird. I could see the top of its reddish head sticking out from behind a stack of old wooden shingles. I immediately thought it might be a red-bellied woodpecker or perhaps a rare warbler so I proceeded very cautiously. As I approached the bird from the rear I thought it odd the bird hadn't moved during the twenty seconds I had been watching it. When I got a full view of the bird I understood why. It was a two foot tall plastic pink flamingo, commonly used as a lawn ornament. The prankster had struck again! I can't tell you how stupid I felt to be duped once more yet I had to laugh out loud.
I determined to quicken my pace in hopes of meeting the prankster before the end of my hike.
On Sunday it was late in the day when I arrived at the last shelter in St. Anthony's Wilderness. There standing in front of the shelter was a tall, slender, red-bearded hiker with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He appeared deep in thought. When I approached he turned to me and said, "Oh great, you're just in time to help me!" He dropped his pack and proceeded to lie in an awkward position on the floor of the shelter. Looking up at me he handed me a piece of chalk and said "trace the outline of my body on the shelter floor". I proceeded to do so realizing I had finally found the prankster. When I finished tracing his body outline he stood up, examined my handiwork and nodded his approval. He then opened his pack and extracted a large roll of yellow tape, approximately five inches in width. He stretched three, ten-foot long pieces of this tape across the entrance to the shelter. The bold black letters on the tape read, "Police Crime Scene - Do Not Cross". I laughed with joy at his cleverness. I was also quite pleased I could participate in a small way in helping him stage this gag. When he was satisfied the "crime scene" looked perfect we exchanged introductions. He said his trail name was Bilge Rat. As he worked as an engineer aboard a tanker his trail name was an easy selection. His eyes twinkled when I told him about how I have been duped by several of his gags. He couldn't have been happier. He said he didn't often experience the payoff of his practical jokes. It was enough for him to create a unique gag then walk away feeling confident it was likely to amuse one or more hikers.
We hiked together for four miles until we reached County Road 501. This marked the northern end of St. Anthony's Wilderness and the end of my three-day hike. Bilge Rat was continuing his thru hike to Maine. I stuck out my thumb to hitch a ride to the nearby town of Pine Grove where I parked my car. The first vehicle that drove by was a mud-covered red pickup truck. The driver pulled over when he saw me and said "I guess you need a ride into town so jump in the back" As I climbed into the truck I saw Bilge Rat entering the woods on the far side of the road. I yelled to him "are you going to create any new practical jokes this week?" He yelled back, "come back next weekend and find out!"
I yelled back, "you can count on it!"
"The Roan Highlands Crusade " by Candybar Man
Once upon a time, Iksplor, a brave band of nature lovers, drove two cowardly gangs of ecoterrorists away from the scenic Roan Highlands. We were victorious at the battles of Yellow Mountain Gap, Little Hump Mountain and Big Hump Mountain. Our crusade was part of a campaign by a coalition of environmental organizations to drive ecoterrorists off the 2,200 mile long Appalachian Trail from Springer Mountain to Mount Katahdin. The coatition shared a burning desire to preserve the A.T.’s natural resources, exquisite scenery, and opportunities for outdoor recreation.
Long ago, Iksplor was founded by the venerable Tim Vogelaar. He was respectfully called General Vogelczar because of bold, brilliant leadership on battlefields. When our courageous commander called the Iksplorers to duty, we assembled at Cedars of Lebanon where we were hidden by dense evergreen forest. General Vogelczar divulged detailed plans for a daring nighttime raid on the Dudes, a gang of boarding school delinquents who harassed hikers and spray painted graffiti on rocks and trees. They had an extremely annoying habit of calling one another “Dude” over and over.
Transporting the Troops
Under cover of night, we loaded our gear for the long road trip to Roan Highlands. General Vogelczar drove Maxpatch67, carrying four Youthsplorers. I drove Skydreamer, accompanied by three notable Iksplorers who were veterans of countless campaigns. Heading east on Starstream Freeway, the veterans and I played a practical joke on the General and the Youthsplorers. Our troop transports became separated in heavy traffic. The General, unknowingly, passed us in the dark. We radioed, requesting his location. He responded with a milemarker number. We pretended to be several miles ahead. Following him, we laughed loudly as he drove faster and faster to catch up. When we confessed our prank, the General called us dorks. .
Battle of Yellow Mountain Gap
We arrived at the trailhead in Sugar Hollow after midnight. Freezing cold air sent shivers down our spines as we packed for our mission. Hiking up the steep Overmountain Victory Trail was strenuous, but invigorating. The night was peacefully silent and enchantingly beautiful. Wedding white moonbeams flowed down on the frosty forest that glistened and sparkled like a winter wonderland. Upon reaching Yellow Mountain Gap, we paused briefly to rest and review our strategy to rout the Dudes. The General, an admirer of Mohandas Ghandi, urged us to avoid violence. The Dudes were sleeping in an old barn that was used as an Appalachian Trail shelter. It was located on the south slope of Yellow Mountain several hundred feet below us. Stealthily, we approached the shelter. The dumb Dudes had no guards on duty so we quietly climbed into the loft and lay down among the scoundrels. In the twitch of a nose, Jeff began to rattle the rafters with thunderous snores. That’s how he earned the moniker Snore Monster. The Dudes were startled awake, and in predawn darkness, were unable to determine how many of us had infiltrated the barn. Frantically, the miscreant morons began shouting. “Dude, I think there’s seven of them!” “Nah, Dude, there’s eight!” “Dude, I counted at least nine!” Downstairs, an imbecile yelled, “Dudes, be quiet! They’re trying to sleep up there!” Confusion and chaos spread rapidly. The nitwits began arguing senselessly. Two Dudes in the loft almost came to blows over the identity of O J. Simpson. One growled menacingly, “Dude, I told you O.J. was not the creator of the Simpson’s cartoon show! Dude, O.J. is the football player who killed his wife!” Finally the bewildered buffoons fled like a herd of stampeding cattle. After their hasty departure, we took turns at guard, and our noble band got some badly needed sleep. At breakfast, we cheerfully celebrated the decisive victory. General Vogelczar issued an Emancipation Proclamation, declaring environmentalists were forever free from the detestable Dudes.
Battle of Little Hump Mountain
Iksplor’s next mission was to save the Children of Bambi from the Punkster Poachers who had been murdering dear deer in droves. We set off at noon, carrying light daypacks, and quickly ascended a ridge southwest of Little Hump Mountain. The stony path meandered along the ridgetop, preventing us from seeing far ahead. Without warning, we met three suspicious persons hiking hurriedly away from Little Hump. The suspects paused for a brief chat with us, trying to appear nonchalant. However, their stammering speech, shifty eyes, and strong stench revealed that they were a pack of poachers in disguise. We realized they were fleeing from the area because the Dudes had made them scared of us. We let them move on, knowing they would spread panic among other ecoterrorists. After our encounter, we proceeded confidently, following the ridgetop path out of the forest onto an expansive grassy bald. There, the trail bent sharply toward the north and rose up a gentle slope to the summit. General Vogelczar sent two Youthsplorers, Kitty and Cori, ahead to trick The Punksters into thinking we were a family on a day hike. That’s where they were first called Decoy Girls. Warily watching for an ambush, we followed the Decoy Girls to an outcrop of large boulders that looked like a giant turtle. From this stronghold, we searched the surrounding countryside with binoculars and discovered that the Punksters had abandoned the mountain. Great joy filled our hearts upon realizing that we had saved Little Hump Mountain. Everyone relaxed and enjoyed some light-hearted fun. Joel found a wooly worm and assured us that the length and color of its bands were accurate predictors of winter weather. Playfully, we asked how that could be because each wooly worm we found had a different appearance. Joel jokingly replied that each wooly worm is a different meteorologist and each meteorologist gives a different forecast. After some good-natured teasing, Iksplorers gave Joel the nickname Wooly Worm. I forecast the nickname will last a lifetime. Our picnic lunches tasted like a banquet for kings. We wanted to linger, but the day was rapidly waning. With spirits soaring, we focused our energy on storming Big Hump Mountain. Before moving on, General Vogelczar took reconnaissance photos of the route ahead. Wooly Worm and I volunteered to be the rear guard. We tarried at Turtle Rock a short while, ceremoniously smoking cinnamon peace cigars.
Battle of Big Hump Mountain
Big Hump Mountain towered over the surrounding terrain. Between us and its conical top lay the deep depression of Bradley Gap. Racing the sun, we traveled at lightning speed across rough country. While descending the North face of Little Hump, we spotted three Punksters in the gap below. Our rapid advance struck fear in their polluted minds. The scumbags scattered like fleas jumping off a shampooed dog! Two vile varmints raced off in opposite directions on ATVs. The third thug, carrying a high-powered rifle, scrambled rapidly up the trail toward the mountaintop. We pursued him closely, but carefully, lest he lead us into a trap. A plethora of large boulders and high grass gave the enemy lots of places to hide. When we reached the summit, he had disappeared from sight. We neither saw, nor heard, the Punkster Poachers again. Exhausted, we lay down in a bed of deep, dry grass under a blanket of blue sky and listened while wild wind played music of the spheres. A precious panorama encircled our eyrie at the top of the world. We thanked the Creator for being our strength as we fought to keep these magnificent lands forever wild. The sun was low on the horizon as we sadly said goodbye to this peak in paradise. The mountains, except for west-facing slopes, were already engulfed in shadow. The General and I carried Kitty, a Decoy Girl, on our shoulders for several miles. She was wounded by a big, bad, foot blister. We approached the shelter on Yellow Mountain as violet twilight deepened and darkened into ebony night. The glow of campfires and lanterns at a Boy Scout campsite was a cheerful sight. They would be our allies if any ecoterrorists launched a desperate counterattack. We were happy to learn that the Scouts would patrol the trail after our departure. Beside a large campfire, we prepared a feast. The College Girls, who had just arrived from Grassy Ridge, joined us for dinner. Under a star-studded sky, we raised our cups of sassafras tea and toasted the success of our daring deeds. I sprinkled Oregon sage over the flames. A sweet scent swirled upward in the smoke, rising with our prayers of gratitude to Great Spirit. General Vogelczar delivered a stirring speech reminiscent of Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. Before retiring, I covered my sleeping bag with a silvery space blanket. The next morning Wooly Worm said it sounded like a giant candy bar unwrapping every time I rolled over during the night. Never again did Iksplorers call me Michael. They gave me a new name, Candybar Man.
Journey to Round Bald
Iksplor held council during morning brunch. The College Girls assured us there were no ruffians between us and Grassy Ridge. We decided to go to the lofty crown of Round Bald to verify their information. Before leaving, Vinnie and Jonathan explored the valley below us. Wooly Worm, wearing a blue parka, hid in high grass on the hillside. As the two boys walked uphill to the shelter, they passed right next to where he was crouched. He jumped out, growling at them! Thinking he was a bear, both boys stumbled sideways and fell on the ground. Watching the drama, the other Iksplorers split their sides laughing. Vinnie and Jonathan were dubbed Blue Bear Boys. We enjoyed a pleasant hike back to troop transports in Sugar Hollow. Wooly Worm and I again formed the rear guard. We puffed on grape and cinnamon cigars, symbolically spreading peace smoke along the Victory Trail. The drive to Round Bald was adventurous on the steep and curvy highway. The views were spectacular. Giant icicles draped sheer rock cliffs lining the roadside. We parked at Carver’s Gap and then strolled through a dense, dark green, stand of spruce-fir trees up to the 6,240’ dome of Round Bald. Reverentially, we gazed at the majestic land around us. We felt like we were standing in a place unmarred by troubles and untouched by time. Maybe we were. The General snapped a picture of Pastor Bernie, sitting atop a boulder, looking as though he was pondering spiritual precepts and promises. Miraculously, the photo shows a bright halo in the sky above Bernie’s head. Bernie was given the sobriquet, Saint Bernard. We were elated to discover no signs of ecoterrorism and were completely satisfied that our mission had been fulfilled. For many moons, nature enthusiasts have freely and safely recreated in this sublime sanctuary. The kings of the Sierra Club, Wilderness Society, and Nature Conservancy awarded Iksplor with the Medal of Preservation, the highest honor they could bestow. Iksplor lived happily ever after.