It was June 1967, and I was hitchhiking through Appalachia. I had dropped out of college, not knowing what to do with my life, and had decided see the country before being tied down with a job and family. It was the summer of love, and little did I know at the time how accurate that name would be.
I was about four miles away from Point Pleasant West Virginia, and it was beginning to get dark. The woods on either side of the road or dark and foreboding, and I felt a sense of unease as I walked down the blacktop towards the sleepy town. It had been a long day, my legs were tired, my feet hurt, and I was desperate for something to drink and eat. I knew that I would soon be at my destination for the evening and so I trudged forward determined to make it before the restaurants in town closed. I looked into the sky and saw that the moon was beginning to rise over the horizon. It was full, and I knew that even if I didn’t make it into town by nightfall I would still be able to see by the light of the Moon.