All’s well that ends well. But for a moment, we thought we were doomed.
It was a glorious Easter morning, March 23. We had just finished a joyous sunrise service on the aptly named Gospel Hill Road. We were a small band of intrepid Bullthistle Hikers out to explore the notorious Grog Hollow. The area is a part of the Wiley Brook State Forest straddling the town border between Guilford and Oxford.
Grog Hollow is famous for hosting the legendary resident monster of Chenango County. Bob McNitt first broke the story nearly three decades ago in The Evening Sun, October 31, 1979, page 12. He ran a follow-up on October 31, 1980, page 10. In the same newspaper on August 8, 2005, page 18, I described a previous, fruitless search for the monster. This year we hit the jackpot. Here are the harrowing details of our death-defying adventure.
As we cautiously approached the extensive beaver meadow that nestles in the Hollow, we marveled how spooky the dead trees looked, even in the bright early sunlight. The snow covering the wetland looked like white frosting on a cake. The trunks of the dead trees resembled candles. The previous day was my 74th birthday and I, proud of my status as an old geezer, was counting the “candles.” My hiking buddies had paused for a refreshing slug of stale coffee and some yummy bunny-shaped sweetie cookies. We were enjoying the eerie silence of this mysterious plot of treacherous wilderness.
But then we heard a soft crunching sound on the forested edge of the frozen marsh. We all glanced in the direction of the ever louder crunches. Soon we heard the wheezing snorts of deep, heavy breathing. The unseen source was rapidly advancing towards us. Perhaps it was a bear ... But then we remembered where we were and what it could be – the dreaded Grog Hollow Monster!
I whipped out my trusty camera as we all stayed quiet, guardedly apprehensive but uncharacteristically silent. Then it appeared. It was indeed the fearsome monster. We were the luckiest, or the unluckiest, folks in the county, for we were the first people to ever witness this startling sight.
There it is in the photo. Note that it seems to be an animated outgrowth of the ominous swamp itself. Its long unruly hair seems lavishly festooned with aqueous vegetation. It reeked of marinated carrion. Although we could not see its eyes, we felt as if it was watching our every move and glaring into our brazen souls.
When escaping from the clutches of a monster, you do not have to run faster than it – just faster than the slower runners behind you. As I was photographing the monster, my fearful colleagues had already run away. I was the one behind. It was just the two of us, stalwart ambulatory chronicler versus rampaging monster. In dire situations I like to reflect on how I have gotten out of tougher jams than this, but alas, never have I ever been in such perilous danger.
I did not know what to do. So I said in a trembling voice, “Happy Easter.” The monster stopped his lunging rush toward me, stood as erect as its hunched back would allow, inflated its massive hulk, and bellowed loudly, “Have a nice day.”
We waved good-bye to each other and departed, I triumphantly back to my timid comrades and the monster amicably back to its wretched lair. All’s well that ends well.