My grandpa always used to tell this story; when I was a boy, in my hometown, we had a major fox issue. They would get all up in our chicken pens, and we would lose hundreds each year to the foxes. We always wanted to kill them, everyone had a gun, we could stop them. But we weren't allowed to kill them because there was this man.
  This man was a real hillbilly. Called him Dan. He had a braided beard and wore a mustard yellow wife beater. This hillbilly would wear a Budweiser cap all around town. And he was a real crazy guy. His eyes would bulge out of his head and the hair on his head was frail and erratic. He'd walk around in a half-split, like somethin' would jump out at any moment. 
 Dan'd told us not to kill the foxes because we lived on a ancient Iroquois burial ground and we would be cursed for all eternity. You see, the Iroquois worshiped the fox, sacred. 
 Our whole town said that Dan was crazy, but every time we tried to kill a fox without him seeing, he'd pop out o' nowhere and whisper "Sacred Grounds." We didn't like the foxes. We didn't like Dan. We didn't like one bit of it. I started to tell everyone to leave town and move to some other place. And eventually we all left Dan and his hillbilly superstition. We went west.
 The whole group couldn't go at once so I had to go ahead to scout it out while they got ready with packing. They told me to go 30 miles and come back. I set out from town through wheat fields and rivers running. With nothing but a knapsack on my back, I entered the forest.
 I was getting around 18 miles, at this point, and knew that the journey ahead was long and hard. The forest was wet with mud, and leaves, and sticks. It was thick, and unclear where the path was at times. But I made it.

At least, that's the way my grandfather told it.