Years ago, when living in Pennsylvania, north of Philadelphia, I was a member of a back-packing club. We’d meet at a nature center early Saturday mornings, and returned Sunday afternoons, having camped for the night. One of the places we liked to hike and camp was along the Appalachian Trail, in a state forest park with the wonderful name, St. Anthony’s Wilderness.
St. Anthony’s Wilderness also contained an abandoned 18th Century cemetery, which was usually the place we camped on Saturday nights. One of the old stones had a name chiseled into it: John Proud.
John Proud became the name of my hero in the ghostly tale, Devil’s Race, which is set in and about St. Anthony’s Wilderness. The title of the book I had chosen was St. Anthony’s Wilderness. This was vetoed by the editor who chose Devil’s Race, which has nothing to do with the story. There is no devil in the story and the word “race,” is a rarely used word which means fast-moving creek, such as the one briefly referenced in the story.
There is an old tradition in publishing, a party to celebrate the publication of a book. In all my years I have had only one such party. When my back-packing pals learned about my book, they insisted we must have such a party. So it was we all packed tiny bottles of champagne in our backpacks and hiked up to that cemetery. There, next to the stone that celebrated the once real John Proud, my friends toasted me, my hero, and my book, Devil’s Race.
Bad title. Great party.