Reading all these Bunker accounts of what is in the area and looking at maps took me back to high school riding the roads in that area with my friends. Like most bored teens, we spent a lot of time in cars. Some of those hours were spent riding little two lane country roads in the Shannon area, not far from where this young woman's car was discovered. Only we didn't call it Shannon. Everyone knew it as "Mad Dog."
We took thrill-seeking rides over the hills and through the narrow turns, barely avoiding getting airborne over certain stretches. We would park by an old trestle not far from a firing range and tromp through the woods, following train tracks and basically wasting time away from town. When the father of one kid in our group heard we had been knocking around out there, he got mad, warning that car thieves were known to use the area for stripping vehicles. "They'll shoot first and ask questions later," he admonished.
Lots of nights we spent out there, up to no good, but no particular bad either. There were the usual tales about haunted railroad crossings and Klan meetings that were good for frightening some. One time a buddy was too scared to ride through Mad Dog with us, so we dropped him off at a shopping center at 150 and 31, vowing to come back after a little bit. When we got back to pick him up, he noted one of us was missing. We laughed and told him we tricked the other rider into getting out of the car, then sped off and left him out there in the woods.
Our frightened buddy, now in the car, demanded we go back and pick him up immediately. When we got back to the spot where we claimed we left him, he was nowhere to be found. The scared rider grew more frantic, convinced something dreadful had happened. When he got to point we thought he was about to start tearing up, there came a knocking and moaning from the back of the car. The fearful rider suddenly composed himself.
"OK, he's in the trunk, isn't he?" he asked. We all burst into laughter.
Ended up, the joke was on the trunk rider. We left him in there for the better part of another hour while we rode around.
Nowadays, Mad Dog is suburbs. They may have paved over the stomping grounds but the memories remain.
We took thrill-seeking rides over the hills and through the narrow turns, barely avoiding getting airborne over certain stretches. We would park by an old trestle not far from a firing range and tromp through the woods, following train tracks and basically wasting time away from town. When the father of one kid in our group heard we had been knocking around out there, he got mad, warning that car thieves were known to use the area for stripping vehicles. "They'll shoot first and ask questions later," he admonished.
Lots of nights we spent out there, up to no good, but no particular bad either. There were the usual tales about haunted railroad crossings and Klan meetings that were good for frightening some. One time a buddy was too scared to ride through Mad Dog with us, so we dropped him off at a shopping center at 150 and 31, vowing to come back after a little bit. When we got back to pick him up, he noted one of us was missing. We laughed and told him we tricked the other rider into getting out of the car, then sped off and left him out there in the woods.
Our frightened buddy, now in the car, demanded we go back and pick him up immediately. When we got back to the spot where we claimed we left him, he was nowhere to be found. The scared rider grew more frantic, convinced something dreadful had happened. When he got to point we thought he was about to start tearing up, there came a knocking and moaning from the back of the car. The fearful rider suddenly composed himself.
"OK, he's in the trunk, isn't he?" he asked. We all burst into laughter.
Ended up, the joke was on the trunk rider. We left him in there for the better part of another hour while we rode around.
Nowadays, Mad Dog is suburbs. They may have paved over the stomping grounds but the memories remain.
