Devil’s Race

There was a time I did a lot of back­pack­ing. I often hiked along the Appalachi­an Trail, which went through a part of Penn­syl­va­nia called St. Anthony’s Wilder­ness. Con­sid­er­ing St. Antho­ny is the patron of lost things, it was well named. The area had once been a place where towns, farms, and mines exist­ed. When I hiked there all this was long gone—save for bits and pieces of homes, farms, roads—and a ceme­tery. It was strange to hike through the for­est with all those ghost­ly remains peep­ing through the trees. In that cemetery—an old one—there was a grave­stone for some­one named John Proud. All of these things came togeth­er in Devil’s Race. I must say, I nev­er did like the title. It was cho­sen by my editor—and in those days I didn’t have much say. I would have used St. Anthony’s Wilder­ness, but that was lost. When the book was pub­lished, my back­pack­ing friends and I hiked back to St. Anthony’s Wilder­ness. That night we sat around John Proud’s grave­stone and toast­ed him and the book.

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