140: BOOTH’S TRAIL TOOK US FROM DIRT TO MUDD

As usual, my photographer’s alarm rang at precisely 6:00am. It was Wednesday May 19, 2021 and from my perch alongside the TV in our Dahlgren, Virginia hotel room, I watched as he and Mongo got ready for the day.  While I saw sunshine and blue sky through the window of our first-floor room, there was also a faint, but ominous black cloud that clung over the horizon.  Somehow, I knew it was only I who saw the darkness; a shadow, so to speak, that has cloaked a 60-mile-long path from Port Royal, Virginia to Washington D.C. since April 1865. 

The Northern Neck of Virginia was fertile with Presidential history – Washington, Madison, and Monroe were all born there.  But it was another Presidential connection, however, that became the center of my world that day – a link that was filled with mystery and conspiracy as the three of us retraced one of the largest manhunt trails in the history of our nation.  A lone .44-caliber lead ball was fired from a single-shot pocket derringer; a shot which tore into the head of President Abraham Lincoln on April 14, 1865 and set off a feverish 12-day chase to find and capture the assassin.  For the first time in my Presidential quest, my photographer and I, along with Mongo, followed the path of history’s most notorious villain John Wilkes Booth.  I was willing to walk where Booth had walked, but there was no way I could forgive that scoundrel for what he did. It’s no secret that I despise Presidential assassins, and Booth was perhaps the most despicable.

Once we had made the 17-mile drive from the hotel to a remote area located a couple of miles south of Port Royal, our day’s journey began where Booth’s had ended – at the site of Richard H. Garrett’s farmhouse and tobacco barn known as Locust Hill.  On April 24, 1865, which was ten days after Lincoln was shot at Ford’s Theater, John Wilkes Booth and accomplice David Herold were led to the Garrett farm.  The Garrett’s were unaware of the assassination, or so they claimed, and they didn’t recognize the famous actor who was introduced as “James W. Boyd” – a Confederate soldier who had been wounded in the Battle of Petersburg and was returning home.  Hot on the killer’s trail, Federal troops tracked the fugitives to the Garrett’s property and found the pair hiding in the tobacco barn before dawn on April 26th.  Although Herold surrendered immediately, Booth refused and the barn was set afire.  Minutes later, Sergeant Boston Corbett fired a single shot – mortally wounding the famous actor-turned-murderer in the neck.  Paralyzed and dying, Booth was dragged from the burning barn to the porch of the farmhouse where he expired three hours later.  In his dying moments, the 26-year-old Booth whispered to the soldiers: “Tell my mother I died for my country.” In my mind, had the nationally-known actor waited an additional two weeks before getting shot, he could’ve been the charter member of the 27-Club; a century later, he’d be followed by Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and Jim Morrison in the club.

The Garrett farmhouse and tobacco barn, where John Wilkes Booth made his final curtain-call, were long gone without a trace to be found.  We saw a historical marker on the northbound lane of Highway 301 (roughly three miles south of Port Royal), but the actual Garrett site was not alongside the marker.  Instead, the spot where Booth died was located over 100 yards north of the sign and was within the brush-covered median that separated the north and south-bound lanes of the highway.  Luckily for us, there was a narrow, gravel surface marked by white stakes that was intended as a place for people to pull-off the busy roadway.  Once parked, Tom (with me in hand) climbed over a large chain that signified the trail entrance and we headed into the thick brush.  I had to laugh to myself because all we saw were weeds, trees, brush, branches, and vines with pickers; there was nothing else there.  Earlier in the morning, I heard my photographer tell Bob that he knew of a ‘Warning’ sign that had been placed at the Garrett house site that instructed visitors to not disturb artifacts on the land.  But after a ten-minute search for that sign, Tom assumed that someone had taken that down as well.  In my mind, I wasn’t quite sure what there was to take anyways.  Once my cameraman set me onto the weed-infested ground where I posed for a few images, all I could see were pinecones and pickers – as well as a tick that clung to Tom’s pantleg.  Mongo tried to wrap his feet and legs with plastic like he had done at Shadwell, but the sight of the ever-present poison ivy prevented Bob from venturing far from the Rogue.  The last thing he wanted was an allergic reaction to the ivy, which may have affected the trip for days.

Once the two of us returned to the vehicle after our harrowing adventure in the small jungle, I noticed that Tom’s hand was bleeding – he had been stabbed countless times by the half-inch long thorns that protruded from the thick green vines.  He also brushed the tick off his pantleg and onto the ground before he closed the driver’s door of our car.  From the area where Booth and Herold’s journey had ended, we began our day-long task of retracing the fugitive’s twelve-day-long escape route; but only in reverse – our ultimate goal was to end up at Ford’s Theater at some point. 

With Tom behind the wheel of the SUV, my companions and I made the three-mile trek into Port Royal where we easily found a large, dilapidated two-story house located one block east of the “main drag”.  Once my photographer removed me from the camera case, I stood face-to-face with the Brockenbrough-Peyton House, which quite frankly appeared as though it was on the verge of total collapse at any moment.  But in the 1860s, the home owned by Randolph Peyton was considered one of the finest in Port Royal.  At roughly 2:30pm on April 24, 1865, Booth and Herold arrived at the house along with three former Confederate soldiers; they were in search of a place to rest.  Once again, Booth used the guise of a wounded soldier.  Although owner Mr. Peyton was not home when the group arrived, Randolph’s sister, Sarah Jane Peyton, admitted the five “soldiers” into their house.  The wily assassin quickly made himself at home in the parlor, until Sarah got nervous from being alone with five men. She thought it was improper and asked the group to head down the road to the Garrett farm.

Although I had posed for a handful of images near the exterior of the historic home, it was when I stood on the ancient front porch that gave me the chills.  While I stood on the weathered floorboards of the porch, it was as though I could see John Wilkes Booth and David Herold walk past me to the front door.  While the pair of fugitives looked worn and haggard after ten days on the lam, they also smelled of wet horse.  It was hard for me to believe that one of America’s most beloved actors; called by critics as “the handsomest man in America”; had been reduced to the most heinous and hated man in America. When he entered the Peyton place, Booth had only two days left on Earth.

The Brockenbrough-Peyton House was awesome, even in its current state, and I was excited to have stood on the porch. The next site on our Booth tour, Cleydael, would likely be a different story as my photographer didn’t think we would be able to get very close to the private home. At least not as close as the assassin and his accomplice did in 1865. Tom drove the three of us north out of Port Royal, over the Rappahannock River, to a hard-to-find location between two specks on the map known as Weedonville and Berthaville, Virginia. Once my cameraman had the Rogue parked along Peppermill Road, the three of us walked up the long driveway of Cleydael. While it seemed as though the owner was home, no one came out to discourage our visit – which was a relief to me.

During the afternoon of Sunday April 23, 1865, John Wilkes Booth, David Herold, and Confederate Agent Thomas Harbin arrived at Cleydael, the home of the wealthiest man in King George County – Dr. Richard H. Stuart. Although the doctor was a Confederate operative and was aware of Lincoln’s assassination, he became suspicious of the visitors and was smart enough to not get involved with the fugitives. When Booth arrived at Cleydael, he hoped that Stuart would treat his wounded leg and let the pair spend the night. Instead, Dr. Stuart gave them the boot and sent them packing after dinner.

Our stay at Cleydael lasted less than 20 minutes; by 10:15am, we continued our journey northward as we retraced Booth’s escape route in reverse. About a dozen miles into our trip to the next site, we crossed the Potomac River via the Governor Harry Nice Memorial Bridge and into Maryland. Once into the Old Line State, we made the short drive to a place called Captain Billy’s Crab House where we stopped at the site that we believed John Wilkes Booth and David Herold had attempted their first crossing of the Potomac and into Virginia. Later research by my photographer, however, revealed that we may have been a mile south of the exact location – and that meant only one thing: The three of us will return to the area at some point in the future and visit the precise spot.

From Captain Billy’s we headed due north for roughly five miles until we arrived at the small town of Bel Alton, Maryland. Our sights were set on a wooded area that was located a short distance past the Bel Alton Fire Department. While that wooded area looked no different than the tens of thousands of others we had passed during our travels, it had played a significant role in American history – it was the infamous “Pine Thicket” where Booth and Herold remained concealed from Federal troops until they made their dash across the Potomac.

Although it was difficult to know for sure if the wooded area in front of us was exactly where John Wilkes Booth and David Herold hid out, we were convinced that it was close. Two days after the historic events at Ford’s Theater had played out, Booth and Herald arrived to the home of Samuel Cox – known as ‘Rich Hill’ – after midnight. The fugitives entered the house and likely were fed by Cox during their three-to-four-hour stay. While darkness was still their ally on that Easter Sunday morning, a Rich Hill farmhand guided Booth and Herald about a mile south to a pine thicket where they remained concealed for six days and nights. While in that thicket, Thomas Jones (foster-brother and a fellow Confederate sympathizer to Cox) met up with Booth and Herold and supplied the fugitives with food, whiskey, and newspapers. It was in that thicket that Booth read the papers and learned that his deed was viewed as heinous, cowardly, and was condemned by Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee. It was also in that pine-covered area where Booth wrote his infamous diary passage: “Our country owed all her troubles to him, and God simply made me the instrument of his punishment.”

During our 15-minute visit at the Pine Thicket where I envisioned Booth and Herold hiding in the brush, I was startled by a sudden movement in the overgrowth. Could it be a couple of fugitives hiding from the authorities? I laughed to myself when the “fugitives” turned out to be goats. That’s right – a small tribe of goats arrived on the scene and they seemed to be in the mood to eat everything in sight. As a matter of fact, I thought one of the larger goats (nicknamed Brady) was going to grab me from my photographer’s hand when Tom tried to pet the animal’s head. Then out of nowhere, we saw it – we saw what my photographer described as the “cutest animal I’ve ever seen”. At first the three of us thought the tan and white floppy-eared animal was a dog; but it turned out to be a young goat who was irresistibly adorable.

We had a short one-mile drive along Bel Alton Newtown Road that took us to the entrance of Rich Hill. When I heard my photographer mention to Bob that we were visiting Rich Hill, I thought he meant the Tampa Bay pitcher Rich Hill. In my mind, a visit with that pitcher would’ve been awesome because Rich Hill made Major League history on August 23, 2017 while he pitched for the Dodgers. On that momentous day against the Pirates, Hill became the only pitcher in Major League history to lose a perfect game in the 9th-inning due to a fielding error. Then an inning later, he became the only hurler in history to have a no-hitter broken up by a walk-off homerun. I would’ve loved to have my image captured while the history-making pitcher Rich Hill held me, but instead I’d have to settle for an old house that was in the middle of a restoration project.

That’s right – after Tom parked the Rogue, we walked into the front yard of Rich Hill where we saw the Lancaster County Timber Frames company working on the house. While the front of the historic home seemed virtually untouched, the right side of the building was completely exposed and a ‘Sky Power’ lift was parked nearby. My photographer talked to the site foreman for a few minutes and he explained their job was to replace support beams in the house to keep it from collapsing. The foreman also mentioned that the three of us could approach the front of the building for our photos, but we needed to keep our distance from the exposed side – which was okay with us. As a matter of fact, after the foreman saw me posing in front of the house, he asked my photographer to explain what we do and why we do it; and he seemed impressed. Well, he was either impressed or he didn’t want to hurt Tom’s feelings by saying only a nerd would travel around the countryside taking pictures of a toy.

As I posed for a small handful of images in front of Rich Hill, I could see in my resin-mind’s eye John Wilkes Booth as he knocked on the front door of the Cox home in the wee-hours of April 16, 1865. Even though Hugh Cox gave the house to his son in 1849, Samuel Cox had no way of knowing that on that fateful Easter Morning sixteen years later that history would be made there – an event that would affect his own life. Due to the fact that Samuel Cox fed and helped Booth and Herold avoid detection, he was arrested and forced to serve a short prison sentence for his part in the assassination conspiracy.

The three of us bid farewell to the project’s foreman and a few others who had gathered near Rich Hill to view the restoration work. Since we were less than ten miles from Port Tobacco, Maryland, Tom and Bob decided to break-away from the John Wilkes Booth escape route and pay a visit to Haber de Venture – the home of Thomas Stone, Signer of the Declaration of Independence. When my companions had visited Stone’s home and gravesite during their 1991 D of I Tour, the historic building was in the early stages of reconstruction and renovation from a 1970s fire that gutted the house.

When we arrived at the entrance to Haber de Venture at 12 noon, I heard the thud of Tom’s jaw as it hit the steering wheel of the car. The entrance gate to the property was locked – the site was closed every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. Since there was no way we had the luxury to return the following day, the three of us did what we do best – we snuck in. That’s right, Tom pulled the Rogue off to the side of the gate as to not block the driveway and my companions stepped over the short wooden split-rail at the side of the gate. That was the first obstacle – the house and Stone family graveyard were over a half-mile away and the temperature was in the mid-90s, which made the hike very strenuous for my rotund camera guy. About a quarter-mile into our walk along the gravel-covered driving surface, Tom and Bob had to hike cross-country along a mowed pathway that was cut into a field of tall weeds to get to the cemetery.

Thomas Stone became a delegate to the Continental Congress in 1775 and at first thought it was a mistake to engage in a huge war with the British. Because he was a pacifist, Stone suggested diplomatic relations with Great Britain rather than to poke the bear. But a year later, Stone voted for and signed the Declaration of Independence. When his wife Margaret visited him later in 1776, Philadelphia was in the midst of a smallpox epidemic. Although Margaret was inoculated for the disease, she suffered an adverse reaction to the mercury-based vaccination and she became very ill with mercury poisoning shortly thereafter. Unfortunately for the Stone’s, Margaret’s health continued to decline for the remainder of her life. Thomas Stone did his best to continue his public service in the Maryland Senate, as well as his law practice, but both suffered as he needed to care for his ill wife and their children. Margaret Stone died in June 1787 at the age of 37. Roughly four months later, Thomas Stone; the unselfish and unwavering Signer of the Declaration of Independence; died at the age of 44. Likely cause of death? A broken heart.

During our time at the Thomas Stone National Historic Site, we did have one moment of uncertainty. As Tom carried me from the cemetery to the house, which was once again a hike along a mown pathway through a field of weeds, the three of us saw a white truck that unexpectedly appeared out of nowhere. That truck seemed to be headed on a roadway toward the house and it was only about 75 yards from us when we noticed it. At that moment I thought to myself: “Well, we’re caught – we’re going to jail. Tom and Bob will have some explaining to do as that guy can’t miss noticing us; both of my companions are wearing bright shirts. Heck, the astronauts onboard the International Space Station would be able to see them standing in this field.” In all honesty, I was shocked when the truck sped past the house without stopping, although I expected someone to show up at some point during our time near Haber de Venture.

Thomas Stone had purchased 400 acres of land shortly after he married Margaret Brown in 1768. In 1771, construction began on the Central Block of the estate that Stone had dubbed Haber de Venture. By the following year, he and Margaret moved in – even though construction was ongoing. Haber de Venture was Stone’s estate for the remainder of his life, although his public career kept him away from home a lot. On the day of our visit, Haber de Venture looked impressive and well-preserved; but I knew it wasn’t always like that. In 1977, fire severely damaged the Central Block and gutted the entire home. Renovations to the historic site started in 1981 and were finished by 1997 – my companions made their first visit to Haber de Venture in 1991 when the house still appeared to be gutted and in disrepair.

I knew that Tom and Bob weren’t concerned at all about getting caught by authorities during their visit to Haber de Venture; because in their minds, they weren’t doing anything wrong. The duo only wanted to pay tribute to one of the 56 Signers of the Declaration of Independence and it wasn’t their fault the site wasn’t open to the public on Wednesdays. During the long walk back to the Rogue, which took us along the same road the white truck had travelled, I knew that my companions were impressed by the renovations that were done to the Stone estate. I also knew the next time we come to the area, Tom will plan better and we’ll tour the interior of historic Haber de Venture.

We had been diverted from the John Wilkes Booth escape route for nearly 45 minutes, and quite frankly it was nice to think of someone else besides that scoundrel for a while. But after a 14-mile drive east to Bryantown, Maryland, we arrived at St. Mary’s Church where Booth was once again the central figure in our thoughts; as well as one of his alleged cohorts.

On November 13, 1864, just five months before Abraham Lincoln was shot at Ford’s Theater, John Wilkes Booth and Dr. Samuel Mudd met for the first time at St. Mary’s Church. Booth had come to the area to contact the Confederate underground there and to recruit men to help him kidnap the President. When Mudd was introduced to the famous actor, Booth asked the doctor if he knew of anyone who had a good riding horse for sale; to which Mudd replied that his neighbor had one. That evening, John Wilkes Booth spent the night at Mudd’s house. The following morning after breakfast, the actor and doctor walked across the field where Booth purchased the horse. Over the next five months, Booth and Mudd had met several more times; all before the fateful night when the doctor set the assassin’s broken leg inside his home.

The primary reason for our visit to St. Mary’s Church was for me to pose for pictures on the grave of Dr. Samuel A. Mudd. It took only a few minutes for my photographer and Mongo to locate the grave of the infamous doctor, which was situated on the north side of the church near the parking lot. When Tom placed me onto the granite tombstone of Dr. Mudd, I didn’t have a warm and fuzzy feeling inside my resin stomach. As a matter of fact, I felt the same as I did in the past when I stood on the graves of Booth and Lee Harvey Oswald. While it was true that when Dr. Mudd died at the age of 49 on January 10, 1883, he had been pardoned by President Johnson after only four years in prison. He had also returned to his medical practice for the final 14 years of his life where he was revered by friends and neighbors alike. In my opinion, however, Mudd had played a larger role in the assassination of Lincoln than Mary Surratt and perhaps the doctor should’ve met the same fate that she had. Keep in mind, however, I don’t think Surratt should’ve been executed for her role either.

Located only six miles north of Dr. Samuel Alexander Mudd’s final resting place at St. Mary’s Church was the home where the doctor’s name became permanently etched into the history books during the early hours of April 15, 1865. At roughly 1:20pm, Tom navigated our vehicle along the dusty gravel two-track driveway and parked near the two-story home of the infamous doctor. While my photographer and Mongo waited for the next available tour of the interior, the three of us walked the grounds where I posed for numerous photos. At one point, Tom placed me on the step near the front door and I envisioned John Wilkes Booth as he hobbled up to the door around 4am to seek medical treatment from Dr. Mudd. The reason the actor needed help was Booth had broken his left fibula when he jumped to the stage from Lincoln’s box after he shot the President in the head at Ford’s Theater.

Six years before the “shot heard around the world” occurred at Ford’s Theater, Samuel Mudd and his bride of two years, Sarah, moved into their newly constructed home the doctor had dubbed ‘St. Catharine’. When the three of us were led inside the historic house by Marilyn (our tour guide who was dressed in period clothing), it was as though we stepped back in time. It didn’t take long before I was allowed to stand on time as well. When Marilyn finished her description of the parlor, which was the first room on the tour, Tom asked for and was granted permission to photograph me posing on the original sofa that John Wilkes Booth sat on when he was examined by Dr. Mudd shortly after the fugitives arrived to the Mudd house at 4am on April 15, 1865. While it was likely the plush burgundy sofa had been reupholstered over the last 156 years, it was still the same sofa where Booth had stretched-out while Dr. Mudd examined his left leg and I was standing “smack-dab” in the middle of it. But as I stood there proud as a peacock, it dawned on me that when the injured assassin was sprawled-out on the same sofa, President Abraham Lincoln still clung to life in the Peterson Boarding House. That instant jolt of reality brought the significance of Mudd’s house on that night, with the characters involved, to life for me. As I was carried from room to room, including the second-story bedrooms, it was as though I was in the house on Saturday April 15, 1865 from the moment John Wilkes Booth knocked on the door until he and David Herold left about 12 hours later. Since pictures are worth a thousand words, please let the following images from my visit to the Dr. Samuel A. Mudd House Museum tell the rest of the story.

Altogether we spent over an hour inside the home of Dr. Samuel Mudd as Marilyn’s stories brought that infamous night to life for the three of us. While it’s no secret that I despise Presidential assassins and their cowardly deeds, it was still an honor for me to stand where history was made on April 15, 1865. In my mind, I can’t fault the doctor for setting Booth’s broken leg on that fateful night – after all, he had been sworn to the Hippocratic Oath. But the fact that Mudd hated President Lincoln and he had met with John Wilkes Booth several times in the months leading up to the assassination, it was very likely the doctor was aware that something bad would eventually happen to Lincoln. With his prior knowledge of possible injury or death to the President, did Dr. Mudd break his sacred oath by not stopping the dastardly plot?

In the late 1970s and early 1980s, Dr. Mudd’s grandson, Richard Mudd, tried to clear his grandfather’s name as an accomplice to Lincoln’s assassination. President Carter was sympathetic, but believed he had no authority under the law to set aside the conviction; and Ronald Reagan was convinced that Mudd was innocent of any wrongdoing. Richard’s exhausted attempts failed, however, and today Dr. Samuel A. Mudd remains a convicted accomplice in the assassination of America’s greatest President.

After we bid farewell to Marilyn and headed out to our vehicle, my head was flooded with emotions from our amazing tour. Strange as it may sound, Dr. Samuel Mudd, John Wilkes Booth, and David Herold were in that house with the three of us – I could feel their presence. The fact is: I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like that feeling; and I surely wouldn’t want my name to be mud!

Finished at the House of Mudd, Tom drove the Rogue a little over 14 miles to the north where we arrived at our day’s last scheduled stop – The Mary Surratt House in Clinton, Maryland. Even though we arrived at the historic Surratt House at 3:45pm, the building was closed due to COVID restrictions; which was very disappointing considering a lot of the restrictions had been lifted within the past week or two. It was important to me to visit the house that served as the first stop on Booth’s escape route after the actor shot President Abraham Lincoln on April 14, 1865.

In 1852, John and Mary Surratt built their two-story house in what became known as Surrattsville. Within a year, John turned part of the home into a tavern and an inn. But after her husband died suddenly in 1862, Mary got involved with some of her son’s undesirable friends who began to scheme with John Wilkes Booth to kidnap President Lincoln in early 1865. As a matter of fact, the beginning of the end for Mary Surratt came on December 23, 1864 when our beloved Dr. Samuel Mudd introduced John Surratt, Jr. to Booth in Washington D. C. and the actor became a frequent visitor to Mary’s boarding house in Washington D.C. On the morning of Lincoln’s assassination, Booth rendezvoused with Mary and asked her to bring a package that contained binoculars to her Surrattsville tavern and to get the “shooting irons” ready for pick up.

Throughout our 20-minute visit to the Surratt House, I not only envisioned Booth and Herold arriving there less than two hours after the actor shot the President, I also thought about Mary Surratt. She was a widow in her early 40’s whose son’s ideologies may have influenced her. Mary may have also been “star-struck” when she met John Wilkes Booth – one of the country’s most famous and handsome actors. Whatever the reason, there was enough evidence that connected Mary Surratt to Lincoln’s assassination and she became the first woman to be executed by the Federal Government in U.S. history. The sad part of the story was her son, John Surratt Jr., played a larger role in the plot, but made it out of the country in disguise after the assassination. By the time he was brought back to a court in the U.S. nearly two years later, his two-month trial ended in a hung-jury and he was released. John Surratt Jr., who once lived in the house that stood before me, had just turned 21 the day before Lincoln was shot and lived to the age of 72. In my mind, I could only hope that John Surratt Jr. lived out his life with the mental guilt of what he did to his mother.

It was a few minutes after 4pm and our John Wilkes Booth escape route tour was finished – at least for that day. I heard Tom and Bob talk about visiting Ford’s Theater where it all began, but that site would have to wait until Friday. In the meantime, we began the 19-mile drive to the place we would call home for the next three nights – the Comfort Inn Pentagon City, located in Arlington, Virginia. After a brief bout of miscommunication over the phone between Mongo and the desk clerk at the Comfort Inn, we arrived at the hotel around 5:30pm. Upon arrival, I suffered a horrible flashback – from an opening in the camera case, I caught a glimpse of the “Cockroach Inn” that we stayed at in 2014. Although seven years had passed, the moment when Tom killed a monstrous cockroach in the bathroom of our Best Western room immediately rushed into my resin-filled mind. While there are times I’m not comfortable standing in some of the places where my photographer sets me, it’s no secret that I hate bugs – especially big, ugly, fast bugs like cockroaches. And when I saw that Best Western again, I wasn’t surprised at all that it appeared to be deserted; at least by human guests anyway. I bet there were still millions of cockroaches who were permanent residents in that “so-called” hotel.

My companions were exhausted after tracking John Wilkes Booth’s escape route for the entire day and the pair decided to relax in their room after dinner. But after we returned from a quick trip to the local Walmart where Tom and Bob purchased some supplies, as well as their evening meals, I saw something in the parking lot of the hotel that looked uglier than a cockroach. At first I thought it was an alien from another planet – then I heard Tom say that it was a cicada. I knew that my photographer had hoped to see some of those noisy, yet harmless bugs at some point during the trip. And then out of nowhere, just when we thought we wouldn’t see any cicadas, we came face-to-face with one of the orange-eyed critters in that Arlington, Virginia parking lot.

For dinner, Mongo ate a couple of Walmart bean burritos while my photographer wolfed-down two Hungry Man frozen turkey dinners. In my mind, I knew it wasn’t gourmet dining – but it served several purposes for my thrifty travel mates: The food was quick, it was cheap, and they didn’t have to drive far to get it.

Once my photographer and Bob had completed their D.C. sightseeing strategy that they planned on using the following day, the pair turned out the lights around 9:00pm. I was in my usual spot near the TV set where I spent the night thinking about John Wilkes Booth. It seemed as though I couldn’t get that scoundrel out of my mind – and then it got worse. I envisioned the actor as he stood behind Lincoln with his gun pointed behind the President’s left ear – but in my mind, Booth had huge orange eyes that stared down at me. Booth’s face looked like that cicada I saw in the parking lot. What caused me to envision something strange like that? It must’ve been the fumes from Mongo’s burritos that had filled the room!