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West Virginia is a special case amoungst our 50 states. It is practically our own third world nation right near Washington DC. On my cross-country bike ride long ago, passing through West Virginia remains high on my list of indelible memories. It was not even a week into our cross country journey that we rode into the little town of War, West Virginia. The town was buzzing. There were kids on bikes everywhere, many with rifles on their shoulders as they steered their banana-seat bikes with one hand. The sidewalks were crowded with men, women, and children, and they all seemed to be armed. For a couple of long-haired college grads on a long-distance bike ride they did not seem like a welcoming committee. One group of men, all holding firearms of a wide variety, hailed us loudly as we attempted to speed up, not pause, to just get through this little hornets' nest of armed activity. We tried to ignore the hailers, but they persisted, so we pulled over, as they did have guns. The man who hailed us down was Rocky Oakes, and he told us the tale of what had riled up his otherwise sleepy little town. Some days earlier there had been a prison break down in Georgia and the escapees had managed to rape, plunder, and pillage their way north until they were stopped at a road block by the West Virginia state police on the road leading west out of War. The escapees abandoned their car and headed up into those steep, wooded hills of West Virginia. When the citizenry of War heard what happened, they took up arms and headed into the hills after them.
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