From the single oak tree among the pines in the Barrens, it is said that on stormy nights one can see, riding on his high horse, the Jersey Devil, on his way to foment mischief, riots, murder, lust, and incest. But all I saw on such a night was smoke rising from Atsion Lake, improbable and incongruous on this night of rains, rains that washed out our campfire, and beat like Ginger Baker’s drums upon our brave little tent. Unable to sleep, I kept watch, but the Jersey Devil’s visage eluded me until dawn, when the rain suddenly ceased, and I dropped off to sleep. Later that day, we wandered toward the lake, where we discovered hoofprints and what appeared to be small scales.