Thunder Swamp
Pennsylvania
July 1998
There is a complex of hiking trails in eastern Pennsylvania at the Stillwater Natural Area, including Thunder Swamp. Our trail description and map are fifteen years old, but the trail looks easy to follow. We think.
Maybe not. We find ourselves on private property when the old dirt road that is our trail peters out. Wandering around the woods by a cabin, we are greeted by a round-faced young man in fatigues and fishing hat. We explain that we can’t seem to find the trail. He shows us where we are on our map and tries to convince us to come in for coffee. We decline more than once. When he sees that we mean it, he insists that we wait until he puts on his boots so he can show us the way out. We really just want him to point the direction but while he tells us about skinning possums, he disappears into the cabin. A moment later he emerges, straps on his gun (his gun?) and starts down the road. “Folks get lost back here all the time. I led a whole group of boy scouts back to the trail last week.”
“Um, what’s the gun for?” I ask.
“Ya never know,” he says.
We walk amicably down the road until we come upon a ribbon tied to a tree branch, where he abruptly turns into the brush. “This way.”
We don’t know where we are. We don’t know where we’re going, or how to get out. We don’t know this guy. He’s carrying a gun. Neither one of us has fired a gun in our lives.
I’m thinking, “This is where it happens.” You know the headlines.
On the other hand, I think, “Don’t be so paranoid, this guy is okay.” He leads boy scouts to safety. Then I think, “I can take this guy,” because he’s smaller than me and skinny. But then I think, “He’s got a gun,” which is only slightly smaller than a cannon I once saw in a Veteran’s Day parade.
Now we’re bushwhacking with Gun Boy, confused by how we missed our turn earlier, and continuing not to know where we are. “Trust in people, trust in strangers, trust in the good heart in each one of us,” I think. I resist the slight urge to sing.
Besides, between the two of us hikers, we probably are carrying about twenty dollars and some toilet paper in a plastic bag. Shooting us would not at all be profitable.
We chat. Gun Boy is studying for his degree in engineering and owns acres of land here in the Thunder Swamp area where he spends weekends and hunts on his own land. “Saw a bobcat last week. This big.” He indicates about the size of a caboose.
“Say, Gun Boy. Bobcats don’t grow that big,” I think. He has that gun. “Wow,” I say.
And now, here is the trail, straight ahead through the trees. He walks us down the trail until we reach a familiar junction. We shake hands and he turns right, heading back through the woods. Gone. Thank you, Gun Boy. Nice gun, by the way.