Print

Email story

Comment

Email editor

Campfire lore kindles Naked Hobo

By GREG HAMILTON
Published July 9, 2006

This is the story of the Naked Hobo, made even more interesting because no one was naked and the person in question was not a hobo.

It is as much a story about how campfire lore gets started and how one mysterious incident can become so embellished in the retelling that it bears little resemblance to the truth. And how everyone's version of that truth is both different and accurate, based on their own personalities and preconceived notions.

Our Boy Scout troop was well into a hike on a Saturday afternoon deep in the woods of the Croom tract of the Withlacoochee State Forest.

It was one of our typical hikes, which means we aimed for 6 miles but likely would wind up trudging for 8 or so. We kept to the marked trail except for the couple of times that we zigged when we should have zagged or found our way blocked by downed trees.

The 11 kids and six adults plowed through the woods undeterred by any wildlife since no animal in its right mind would surface anywhere near this noisy bunch.

We did find plenty of evidence of active nature all around us, from a shedded snakeskin to a pile of feathers left by a wild turkey that had lost an encounter with a fox. A senior Scout declared that watching a banana spider subdue a battling beetle was the coolest thing he had ever seen.

Our goal was to reach the Iron Bridge, a somewhat mythical edifice in that the map showed it to be there but we had never actually seen it.

And so we pushed through the steamy woods, deeper and deeper, as the sun climbed higher in the sky.

Then, off to the right, down a slight slope and in a thicket near a patch of swamp not far from the river, some bushes began to rustle. Too much for a snake or bird, but maybe an angry boar? A frightened deer?

Out stepped a middle-aged man with whitish-blond hair, drenched in sweat, with an inscrutable expression on his face. He was wearing no shirt, but clutched what appeared to be a gray one in his hand. He wore white shorts that were also soaked through, making them all but transparent.

He seemed to be in a great hurry.

One of our adults tried to engage him in conversation as he came up the slope and passed through our line of hikers, not making eye contact with anyone. Are you lost? No, I canoe around here. Need any water? No, got some in my truck.

He slipped by the troop and once ahead of the line he broke into a run up the trail, disappearing around a bend.

And the chatter began.

Who was that? What was he doing this far from nowhere? Why was he in those bushes? Why was he in such a hurry?

With 17 active imaginations in gear, the theories poured forth. Each reflected the preconceptions of the person.

One adult assumed the worst and had been reaching for his hip knife as soon as the guy appeared. Another figured the guy was just off amusing himself away from prying and judgmental eyes.

The leader who tried talking to the fellow believed the man was harmless, that he had been hiking the trail and needed to make an emergency bathroom stop. Our unexpected presence embarrassed him.

I figured the guy had been out running on the trail to get into shape (he was sporting a bit of a spare tire). I was impressed that someone would subject himself to such torture on a hot weekend afternoon.

The kids, however, had more interesting theories that became even more outrageous as they tried to top each other. I really doubt that the fellow was an alien albino crack smoker who had buried bodies in the woods that he would dig up later for dinner.

But who knows? Once the fellow disappeared, so, too, did all hope of solving the mystery.

The man, however, did get a moniker: the Naked Hobo. A legend was born.

For the rest of the trip, the Naked Hobo was never far from our conversations. He became the punch line of jokes and the first thing the kids told their mothers about when they returned home.

He will grow in stature as the years go by and the story is retold around the troop campfire. He will become our Bigfoot, our Sasquatch, our Jersey Devil. He will be used to keep younger Scouts quiet in their tents at night, and older boys will use the confrontation as evidence of their courage.

We faced the Naked Hobo and lived to tell about it.

By the way, we never did make it to the Iron Bridge on that hike. With water supplies running low, we turned back to camp.

A determined adult leader, however, got us all piled into vehicles and drove out to find the bridge.

We bounced along rutted roads and sugar sand till we found the place indicated on the map.

There is a canoe launch along the river bank, a couple of concrete embankments, a picnic table. But no bridge.

Turns out that the Iron Bridge is as much a figment of someone's imagination as the Naked Hobo.

Greg Hamilton is editor of editorials for the Citrus County edition of the St. Petersburg Times.

[Last modified July 7, 2006, 11:08:30]