‘Nobody knows exactly what New Jersey’s ‘Cedar Family’ is up to. They are a group, a town, a commune that seems perpetually on the verge of dissolving into a cult. They achieved fame for their seeming utopia following a documentary in 2015 and their neighbors have been holding their breath ever since, waiting for a mass death, a militia, or (fingers crossed) a preemptive FBI raid. The fearful anticipation has taken a toll on nearby counties. Residents within 50 miles of ‘Cedar Family’ are up to four times more likely to be diagnosed with a stress-related mental health condition. People living in ‘Cedar Family,’ on the other hand, are of sounder mind and body than the average American citizen by far. They willingly submit to examinations. They advertise their medical records as part of their tourism campaign. These are the sorts of behaviors that worry people.

The average traveler won’t find much of interest in ‘Cedar Family.’ Visiting the town is much like being a newcomer to any sort of religious congregation. The residents are friendly and effusive. Their friendliness makes one feel embarrassed and out of place but it isn’t occult or even backhanded.

The average traveler may recognize some of the residents, though. This is because they systematically insinuate pictures of the people of ‘Cedar Family’ into thrift shops across the nation. They have sets and costumes for this purpose. They have a collection of antique cameras and old-fashioned dark rooms. They mix and match to keep things fresh. Platonic residents sometimes pose as couples. Families trade out kids and houses.

They offer no explanation for this.

Those in the know assume there is some religious significance to having members of the ‘Cedar Family’ in the homes of others. It may be some sort of self-worship. It may be some sort of spiritual surveillance.

Those who don’t know any better might find a box of abandoned photos in a thrift shop on the side of the road, available to purchase for pennies on the dollar. Maybe they take a few as a cheap souvenir. Those people are no worse for having the pictures wilting in their closet or framed ironically on their wall, but they’ve been tricked into placing them there- tricked into exchanging money for them. That makes is different, somehow. Exchanging money is the nearest thing to olde occultist binding that exists in 21^st century America.

Residents of ‘Cedar Family’ always stare into the camera- even in seemingly candid shots. That makes it different too.’

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

Signs for ‘THE Rock Shop’ loom large over I-15 where it passes through Montana. It’s not on my radar, initially, but the more signs I see the more I become convinced that I’ll find it in the book. When Hector and I pull over to load up on gas and beef jerky, I confirm it. Sometimes the Wayside just comes to you.

‘It’s reasonable to misinterpret the peculiar formatting style of ‘THE Rock Shop’s’ name as an example of Wayside hyperbole. Claiming to be the best, cheapest, largest, anything seems to be fair game in regards to highway advertising.

The truth is that the capital ‘THE’ is there only to describe the ‘Rock’ and not the ‘Shop.’ ‘THE Rock Shop’ has just the one rock to sell and as long as the signs remain up, it’s safe to assume that the business model is about as effective as it’s been since 1987, when ‘THE Rock Shop’ was founded by two men who felt it was something special.’

It’s immediately clear which rock is for sale. It’s a boulder, really, fenced off as though someone might dig the lower half from the ground and steal it. I hope to circle the thing once and check it off the list but the screen door of the nearby house squeaks open as I step off the bike. One man appears first, dressed in a sagging robe and slippers. He waves a paper and pen and shouts:

“Just a dollar, sir! Just a dollar and it’s yours!”

Another man follows shortly, dressed in sweats against the chill wind. “Over here! We’ll give you the tour!”

The man in the robe is on me before I can respond meaningfully to either. I nearly topple backward over the bike as he waves the paper in my face- a deed or agreement of purchase or something to do with buying the rock. I put my hand out in front of me and he shoves a pen into my palm, tries to curl my fingers around it.

“Sign here, sir! Just a dollar for THE rock. Just a dollar!”

The man in sweats rattles off qualities of the rock in the background. I can hardly make any of them out over the robed man’s fervent sales strategy. I’ve lost the key to the bike in the dirt somewhere. I drop to my knees to find it and the man drops with me, plastering the contract over the visor of my helmet. I’m dimly aware of Hector panicking in his kennel on the bike.

There’s a high pitched whistle, suddenly, and the man ahead of us is screaming. The robed man is gone in an instant, running over to help. I snag the key from the ground and pull the paper from the helmet and see the man in sweats is laid out on the ground, bleeding from a head wound. The robed man curses the rock and begins to drag his companion inside.

I’ve frozen, trying to discern the threat- trying to understand whether I have better odds in the house with them or on the bike or whether there’s anything immediately dangerous about what’s happening. The robed man makes the decision for me. He slams the door and in a matter of seconds his face is pressed against the nearest window. I can hear him through the glass and through the helmet- he’s shouting for me to sign the paper and leave a dollar at the door. Then THE rock will be mine.

It’s a quiet autumn day and cars glide past us on the highway. I consider the tour I’d planned on taking and see a little impact crater where the man had been bleeding. Probably not worth the risk.

I’d like to be the person I was when the idea of a stationary boulder inflicting blunt force trauma at a distance for no discernable reason seemed unlikely. I’d settle for being the sort of person that would stick around long enough to help these men or to at least understand what sort of dread force binds them to THE rock. I’m the sort of person that drives a mile down the road and calls an ambulance, instead. The kind of guy that feels a little bad for the EMTs that will have to put up with that peculiar sales technique.

-traveler

Of Autumn by the Wayside’s many appendices, one is entirely devoted to branches of something called ‘The Museum of the American Diet,’ for which there is no official entry. Appendix F is nearly thirty pages long and it consists only of addresses, listed first by state, and then seemingly at random.

I’ve visited nearly twenty and I think it’s safe, now, to say that they are all buffets.

-traveler

‘A peculiar group of whales has haunted the Massachusetts coastline since its abrupt appearance in 2018, forgoing any sort of migratory behavior in favor of a specific patch of water, roughly five miles in diameter. This is not what makes the whales peculiar. The pod is peculiar physically in such a way that the term ‘whale’ only loosely describes the things floating in the Atlantic Ocean. They are gray and balloon-like. They have small, black eyes and are never seen moving their fins (which stick out rigidly from their sides) or their mouths (which gape open to form perfect circles). They bob along the surface like bath toys and spin lifelessly whenever water blows from their spouts. The term ‘whale’ is used in this entry only because federal law requires that all publications refer to these ‘whales’ as such.

The federal government has created a program called ‘Whale Watch’ to surveil these creatures. ‘Whale Watch’ is free and, when interest is low, it’s also sometimes mandatory. Like a jury summons, an invitation to ‘Whale Watch’ is easier to answer than ignore. Selected participants are boated to a retrofitted oil rig called ‘Whale Watch Island,’ where they spend 1-2 days eating stales sandwiches and watching out for any behaviors that have not already been listed as ‘innocuous.’ A second list of ‘not innocuous’ behaviors has been supplied in response to a request made through the Freedom of Information Act, but so much of the list has been censored that the only new knowledge gleaned is that there is enough content to fill four pages.’

Hector and I are alone on the ferry out to ‘Whale Watch Island,’ which I find reassuring because I assume it means there’s a cohort there already. Some people return to ‘Whale Watch’ over and over. They become veterans of the process, driven to understand the mystery themselves or perpetually chosen by whatever lottery system nominates participants in the off-season. I’d rather be stuck with them than with a group of total rookies. It’s sunset when we arrive and I’ve only just got my feet on the ‘island’s’ grated metal deck when three harried-looking men shuffle past me and onto the ferry. It turns for shore without ever cutting its engine.

There is nobody else on ‘Whale Watch’ duty tonight. The tower is empty and the lights are off. A fridge inside is stocked with plastic-wrapped sandwiches. Handwritten directions for baking frozen pizzas in the toaster oven are taped to a chest freezer. There are seven pizzas inside and a half-scooped tub of neapolitan ice cream.

The whales are east of the island and entirely still. I locate the list of innocuous behaviors and see that remaining entirely still on the surface of the water is the topmost item. Below that: spinning, screaming, surrounding ‘Whale Watch Island,’ disappearing underwater entirely for up to five minutes, and seeming to float in mid-air for up to 30 seconds. I expect them to start screaming immediately but they don’t. They just float, there, on the water.

By midnight I’ve learned why it isn’t necessary for the program behind ‘Whale Watch’ to establish rules about sleeping or watching the whales. It’s impossible to want to sleep knowing that the whales sometimes exhibit non-innocuous behaviors and it’s impossible to concentrate on anything else for any amount of time without feeling as though the whales are watching back.

-traveler

Hector and I arrive at a place called ‘Hangman’s Ledge’ on a cold day in early autumn. There is nothing particularly special about ‘Hangman’s Ledge.’ Every state has a hangman’s this or hangman’s that which, of course, begs the questions ‘who was hanging who so often they named somewhere after it?’ and ‘if it’s who I think it was hanging who I think was, should we really hold on to that sort of name like it’s not a big deal?’ In terms of places to visit, however, ‘Hangman’s Ledge’ is entirely mundane.

It does offer a sprawling view of the valley below and, though it would be difficult to pinpoint ‘The Moonshine Spring’ without binoculars, it is very possible, on a cool autumn night, to see whether or not the spring has been ignited. The internet says it’s as simple as looking for flickering orange light, like a massive candle has been lit miles away. The internet says a person knows it when they see it. I don’t see it, so I assume ‘The Moonshine Spring’ carries on in its unignited form below and we skip it.

You see, the internet says that, in its unignited form, fumes from ‘The Moonshine Spring’ are capable of intoxicating or killing any small animals that happen to wander into the area.

Autumn by the Wayside offers another reason:

‘People have been killed over ‘The Moonshine Spring.’ You wouldn’t think that would be the case, but it is. Imagine a natural fountain of unbelievably high-proof alcohol. Imagine it exists, unregulated, on private land. The landowner has thrown the gates open- never thought to build gates, really- so anybody can visit ‘The Spring’ and drink or bottle to their heart’s content. It is a free, seemingly-infinite supply of a reasonably valuable resource.

But that resource is moonshine.

It is impossible to think of a reason why one person would kill another over such a thing and it’s impossible to believe that such a thing wouldn’t invariably lead to manslaughter in some form or another.

People come from all over the country to peaceably fill a bottle at ‘The Moonshine Spring.’. But those people also leave. The people that remain at ‘The Moonshine Spring’ for days on end are often of a different sort and they are, by definition, the most likely to be found there. The longer ‘The Moonshine Spring’ remains unignited, the drunker and angrier these people become. An unarmed traveler might check in town for recent burning dates and, finding they are a long ways off, should consider buying the pre-bottled stuff and saving the site for next time.’

Hector and I swing past ‘Hangman’s Ledge’ on our way back through again. It’s late autumn and cold. Colder on the ledge than anywhere else. Wouldn’t you know it- the internet was right about this one thing. The orange glow of ‘The Moonshine Spring,’ ignited, is unmistakable. Even from miles away.

We take the bike down off the ledge and walk the half mile or so to the dry rock field, finding it stinks of stale alcohol and urine at its outer edge but is fairly clean-smelling nearer the flame. Maybe the explosive ignition burns the residue off the rocks or maybe the long-term residents retain enough sense to separate the bathroom from the bar.

Autumn by the Wayside lists, in its many appendices, the ways ‘The Moonshine Spring’ has been ignited over the years. Everything from lightning strikes to dares. More often than not, though, it’s some drunken Icarus who wants to smoke with his drink. There’s a picture of it happening to a man- of his body silhouetted by the growing flame. It does round on the internet every once in a while. Isn’t hard to find.

We warm ourselves by ‘The Moonshine Spring’ and, when I worry Hector’s acting strangely, we head back up the valley wall, satisfied to have seen the thing in its better form.

-traveler