A convoy of clunker cars and rusty pick-up trucks slowly progressed along freshly painted roadway PA 26 towards State College and Whipple Dam. The distance between bumpers was just a few yards and if the chain of traveling Millers had been viewed from high above the canopy of trees, perhaps through the eyes of a tiny flea buried beneath the feathers of a circling crow or buzzard, one would notice that the Miller family in their cars resembled the wooly bear caterpillar, slinking along the fern and pink lady slipper orchid lined roadways of Central Pennsylvania.
Within the various sections of the multi-colored, fluffy caterpillars, old timers, men like Bill Miller, could predict the weather for the upcoming winter—if the wooly bear caterpillar was covered in mostly black—the winter ahead would be a harsh season. If mostly brown, then less wood would be needed for the furnace that heated the tall, wooden Miller household. As far as the many shades of cars and trucks, ranging from red, white to blue, there was no known reasoning in nature as for the shades, but inside, behind bug stained front windshields, it seemed the land with a black road with fresh white and yellow lines through it went on forever—but such was not the case, for miles behind, in the little town of Petersburg, the world seemed to be growing like a big city, and country folk—fisher people like the Millers—appreciated the state park that the state of Pennsylvania, long before it was a state, had purchased from the Iroquios Indians in 1754 for less than what it had cost to fill the tanks of all the Miller cars.