Scrapbook One Hundred Sixty Nine…

scrapbook

MARCH 2017

EUNICE, LA

One late Friday afternoon in 1951, I found myself in Eunice, LA., visiting Peggy Proctor and her family for the weekend. It was raining when a buddy dropped me off on his way to somewhere else. Peggy and I had been dating since our early grades in high school and everyone considered me part of her clan.

At the time, I was a PFC in the Air Force making $95 a month, and attending Radar Mechanics School in Biloxi, MS. I was on the red-eye shift, 1800 to midnight.

Sunday evening came too early and I had to be in school the next afternoon or really bad things would happen to me. The Korean War was new and the military was unreasonable about discipline. PFCs were easy targets.

I told Peggy to not worry about me and when I heard her front door reluctantly close behind me, it was dark and Biloxi was more than 200 miles away.

After walking a couple of blocks while holding my little suitcase over my head against the irrational moisture, I heard voices coming from a little church just ahead. The front doors were open and the warm incandescent lights were compelling. When two ladies saw me dripping in the vestibule they rushed over, and with typical Cajun hospitality, pulled me inside for coffee.

The congregation was playing Bingo. All of a sudden I was in a completely different world.

I didn’t have enough coins to jingle, but I did have a quarter, just one quarter, and the sign on the wall said “Cards – 25 Cents.” What the heck, I thought, and I invested all of my cash. There were three winners in the first game and I was one of them. Now I had $3.75, and hope was flickering.

The bus station was three blocks away and I started running. The drizzle stopped bothering me. When the ticket man told me the fare to Biloxi was $3.95, I felt numb. I spread all of my money on the counter and asked if I could please buy a ticket with that amount?

His finger started counting and with each word he spoke my pulse rate increased. Our eyes locked for an eternity and then he said, “No you can’t buy a ticket with that amount,” still looking at me hard, “but I’ll give you 20 cents.”

I waved to my friend behind the counter as I climbed into the bus. He was smiling, and I knew everything would be alright.

I came away from that experience with some thoughts to live by.

  1. There is no such thing as a self-made man.
  2. Give it your best shot and see what happens.
  3. Never underestimate the power of a quarter.
  4. Give some of it back when it is needed.

f

 

Scrapbook One Hundred Sixty Eight…

scrapbook

MARCH 2017

GENERAL SPICER

I thought I was the world’s greatest fighter pilot just like all twenty-four-year-old recent graduates of pilot training who were long on ego, and short on everything else.

When I walked in General Russell Spicer’s outer office and asked his secretary if I could please see the general, she asked if I had an appointment. When I said no, she asked me what I wanted. I told her I would like to have permission to fly the general’s F-86F. He was Chief of Flying Safety for the entire Air Training Command at Scott Air Force Base, and had no business letting a lowly 2nd Lt. fly his airplane, especially since I had never flown that model before. That’s what I had going against me.

Colonel Russ Spicer in WWII

I had not met the general but knew him by reputation. Everyone did. He shot down three German airplanes in WW-2 and when his P-51 took battle damage, he was forced to bail out over the English Channel. He floated around in a one-man dinghy for two days, finally washing ashore in France. His hands and feet were frozen when the Germans took him prisoner. As the senior officer in Stalag Luft 1, he gave a speech that the German commander said was “riotous,” and Spicer was sentenced to six months in solitary confinement and then execution by firing squad. The day before he was to be executed, his POW camp was overrun by Russian soldiers and the Germans fled. Spicer was liberated.

Major General Russ Spicer in the 1950s

When the general’s secretary picked up the phone and said, “General, I think you should come out here,” most of my cockiness went south, and I suddenly felt like a crippled ant in an elephant parade.

The general’s huge, black mustache startled me because it separated his nose from his mouth in such a commanding way. I wondered if he could intake air. When he grinned at me, and after we saluted, he invited me into his office. “What can I do for you, Sir?” the general asked as he lit his pipe and offered me a seat. I told him my name, and that I was a pilot in the 85th Fighter Interceptor Squadron flying the F-86D, and that one of our hangars was next to where he kept his plane. We talked for a while. I had seen him many times approach the field at 1,500’, 250 knots, make a tight pitchout, drop the gear and flaps, and land. To me it was like poetry. His F-86F was the same model that had shot down most of the Migs during the Korean War, and I really wanted to fly it

He looked at me for a few seconds, then picked up the phone. “Get my crew chief for me please.” The general said, “Pull my airplane out because Lt. Forrest Fenn is coming down to fly it.” I was really grinning. I thanked him, saluted, and turned to leave when he said, “Don’t you dare break my airplane.”

An F-86F passing the tower at Nellis AFB

The crew chief stood on the ladder and talked me through the engine start. That must have been 1954, and I flew for about an hour. It was the thrill of my life to fly that airplane. I went back to my squadron thinking I was the world’s leading ace. When my boss learned what I had done, he came over and congratulated me, not because I had flown the general’s airplane, but because I had guts enough to ask him if I could.
But that’s not all of the story.

Five years later I saw the general again. He was commander of the 17th Air Force at Wheelus Air Base, Libya, where we had a gunnery school. He remembered some brash Lt. asking to fly his plane, but he didn’t remember my name.

Thirty years later, the lady who purchased my gallery hired one of General Spicer’s sons to be her driver. Is this a small world, or what? f

 

Scrapbook One Hundred Sixty Seven…

scrapbook

FEBRUARY 2017

Jon Lackman conducted this email interview with Forrest for a publication that did not use it. Rather than let it die in his computer Jon has decided to share it with us. The interview was conducted in May of 2015.

Thanks Jon!!

——————————-

– My apologies for the morbid impolite question, but it seems quite possible that this treasure hunt will be the first line of your obituary. Are you comfortable with that? Is there something else you’ve done that you’d prefer to come first? 

FF: I said in my book that my obituary should say, “I wish I could have lived to do the things I was attributed to.” During my art gallery years I advertised full page color in some of the most prominent magazines of that time, which made me an “expert” in the eyes of many. It was good for business, but it also made me a target. My treasure story lit a fuse that will burn until someone finds the chest full of gold, and perhaps beyond, My 20 years as a fighter pilot was a much larger part of my life. In Vietnam I flew 328 combat missions, and was shot down twice. The reality is that what my obituary says will be of little consequence.

– I’ve read that you wrote the book and set the treasure hunt to get kids off their little texting machines and outside to smell the sunshine.  Apart from this, are there any other important messages that you wanted to get across? 

FF: Yes, I have two daughters who are in their 50s and don’t know who Clark Gable was. I wanted them to know that their great great grandmother watched Comanche Indians run through her barnyard in Ft. Worth trying to catch chickens.

– You have said some things in scrapbook entries that seem too bizarre to be true, like the fact that you keep your jeans on when you shower.  Are you at times just pulling people’s legs?

FF: Yes, I didn’t think that comment would fool many people. I was trying to make a point.

– Last month, you indicated that still nobody has correctly solved beyond the first two clues.  Is this correct?  Still nobody has solved beyond the first two clues?

FF: Very few people tell me exactly where they are searching so there is no way for me to know. Some searchers have been within 200 feet.

– Without saying how you know, you have offered reassurance that you know the treasure is still in its hiding spot. Is there any method planned for hunters to obtain this reassurance after your death? 

FF: No sir.

– Do you intend to keep releasing occasional small hints for as long as you live? Have you made any plans for clues to continue surfacing after your death? 

FF: No sir.

– I’ve also read that you wrote the treasure hunt for an unemployed redneck with 12 kids.  Does this mean that all of those people who are delving into Native American history, Greek mythology etc are looking too deeply?  Can hunters really get to the treasure location with just a good map, the poem, and a decent knowledge of words? 

FF: I wrote the book for everyone who feels a sense of wanderlust. In your last question if you change the last word to geography, my answer would be yes.

– How much progress can be made by someone just thinking and searching the Internet from home? (Another way of saying this: How many clues can only be decoded in situ?) 

FF: All of them, in theory, but not likely in practice. A searcher must go to the site to find the treasure.

– People have become fixated on you telling them to bring a sandwich and a flashlight.  Are they just wasting their time focusing on these things as clues? 

FF: They certainly are not clues.

– How much more likely are hunters to work out where warm waters halt with the aid of TTOTC, compared to without it?

FF: You sure ask confounding, but insightful questions. The clues are in the poem, but there are hints in the book.

– Can you give me one quote that will inspire my readers that it is possible to find your treasure?  Something to motivate them?  Something to tease them.

FF: Those who solve the first clue are more than half way to the treasure, metaphorically speaking.

 

Scrapbook One Hundred Sixty Six…

scrapbook

FEBRUARY 2017

Graveyard Logic

At an opening in our art gallery during the mid-eighties, I met a nice young
married couple. They were in their twenties or so, and I’m sure of that.
People smiled at the sight of them walking around, holding hands, and
munching on the finger things we had near the wine cooler. In subsequent
weeks I saw them infrequently around town, whispering to each other, and
holding hands, a sure sign of impending problems.

I don’t remember her name, so for some subliminal reason probably, I’ll call
her Angel. She was walking toward me one day as I departed the bank on
Palace Avenue. Her eyes were red, her hair was a gnarling muddle, and she
was sobbing uncontrollably. I was startled.

When we stopped to talk, and as she smeared a hankie across her face, she
explained what a bad person her ex-husband was and that she would never
recover from what he did to her. “It’s been two months, you know.” No, I
didn’t know, but that was okay.

After a long coffee respite at the Plaza Cafe, her emotions subsided
somewhat. I learned that Angel was a professional potter who was trying to
support herself in a failing market. I felt terrible, and wondered what I
could do to help.

Finally, it came to me. I told her to go make her divorce in the form of a
pot, “because we’re going to have a funeral.” She started laughing and
hugged me, then laughed and hugged me some more. The spell of doom was
broken and she hurried away to her studio.

Well, ten days later I was digging a hole at the north end of room block two
at San Lazaro Pueblo. It was beside a pre-historic path that led down to the
clay mine. Angel was sniffling into her hankie. It had been an awkward
forty-five minute drive as I had tried desperately to concentrate on the
road.

She had made the ugliest pottery thing I have ever seen. It was about 18″
high, 10″ across, and it reeked with dismal black figures that had sharp
edges. The iron nails that she had driven periodically around that poor jar
had been mostly destroyed and were crumbling as a result of the
high-temperature firing. Angel had written her ex’s name in big black
letters, but I am sure it was misspelled. “Ferd,” it said. I wondered what
that was all about.

After she threw some things into the pot, I put the lid on, placed it
reverently into the ground, and covered it up with dirt. Then she started
piling rocks on the grave. She kept piling them on. I suppose maybe she was
afraid that somehow her divorce would get out of the hole.

Leaving her alone to conduct the funeral, I walked back to wait in the car.

Well, I’ve never heard such carrying on. It was so loud! There was yelling
and sobbing and singing, and screaming maledictions. She spit out a few
words, the definitions of which I was not cognizant. During one loud scream
I heard the word “Fred,” and I think the blossoms started falling from a
nearby cholla cactus. I quickly rolled my car windows up.

Twenty minutes later, we were driving home. Angel was giggling and her hair
looked nice. All of a sudden she rolled the window down, threw her hankie
out, and looked at me. She just looked at me and smiled. That’s all! Wow,
once in a while I do something really good. f

 

 

 

 

Scrapbook One Hundred Sixty Four…

scrapbook

JANUARY 2017

When Forrest sent me this poem I was put a little aback, Here is what I sent him:

“I don’t know how long you worked on that poem but it is pretty delicious, gut-wrenching and personal…
It’s very cool Forrest…
I think it reveals a lot about your feelings about war…
and loss…
But it conceals a great deal as well and that will be what folks will discuss…

I noted a couple of typos…or maybe they are intentionals…

Imagination is more fun than knowledge 
Did you mean to spell knowledge correctly…?
You have a reputation for your unique spelling of knowlege..

where on some Flanders Field my favoured companions fought.
Did you intend to use the Brit spelling of favored?…probably so…it works very well…

This mysterious vestige of a sailing past, shappend by myriad winds and waves, 
Did you mean shappend or shaped?

And here is what Forrest replied:
“Leave everything alone.”

Below is Forrest’s poem and original note:


Imagination is more fun than knowledge

A wanderer chanced upon this driftwood art, shipwrecked and lonely on a sandy shore. At least to me it plays that part; an olden sailing ship,
and nothing more.
Or maybe it’s a desperate soul, a sentimental sort, standing on a sodden knoll, searching for his Candy Ann, who, absent from her role, lately departed from a distant port.
And no one was there to pay her toll.
Or is it not his throbbing Ann, wrapped in shroud against the breezing cold, yelling with all she can, a screaming voice so loud, and nothing there is told.
Is she below the saline door forever reaching back no more?

But is it all for naught, wild upon my imaginations fraught; dreaming of wild journeys too late sought, or of cold battles where on some Flanders Field my favoured companions fought.
Let it stop now, and be no more.

This mysterious vestige of a sailing past, shappend by myriad winds and waves, occupies my hand at last, subject to whatever whim my mind, in its wanderings, craves.
And that will henceforth, forever be her lore.


A treasure searcher, a pleasant stranger, posted me this wonderful wooden hand-size object along with words that bare, wonderful enough to covet, yet too personal to share.

This paragon of expression stands straight and bold. Its blackened keel, harden by fire, hints of battles fought and won. A single jib yet unfurled, still serves testament to this vessels willingness to bare its gun.

Surprisingly the forces of oceanic turbulence combined to pare this ready boat. I’ve told you what I think, but what else does it know?

Thank you for the favor, Mister Poe. f

 

 

Scrapbook One Hundred Sixty Three Point Five…

scrapbook

DECEMBER 20, 2016

Crew of the Candy Ann and Forrest after snatching him from the jungle in Laos. This photo was taken on December 21st after Forrest spent the night in the jungle and was rescued by these guys on the 21st.

I am toasting myself with hot chocolate because 48 years ago today I was shot down in Laos and enjoyed all of the fruits such a jungle paradise could provide. It would be my hopeful lot to retrace my steps and retrieve my pistol and Minox camera, both of which were unceremonially extracted from my person as I egressed that location, up through breaking limbs and leafs galore, via a life-saving hoist. But alas, perhaps I shall fail that rendezvous in lieu of, and deference to, demands made by my 86 year-old carcass. I guess my parachute is still hanging in that tree where I left it. I will wish it a Merry Christmas and thank it for doing a great job. Ain’t life grand? f

F-100F  Super Sabre cockpit at the National Museum of the U.S. Air Force. (U.S. Air Force photo)

Forrest flying an F-100 Super Sabre.

If you’d like to hear Forrest tell the story of being shot down and then rescued the next day follow the link below to go to a video interview of Forrest filmed by the Air Force Association a couple years ago.

http://lummifilm.com/afa/page3.html

The interview is in two parts. The link to the second part is on the bottom of the video page.

 

Scrapbook One Hundred Sixty Three…

scrapbook

NOVEMBER 2016

 

Remember the story titled “The Everlasting Forrest Fenn” that appeared in the California Sunday Magazine last summer? The writer, Taylor Clark, visited Santa Fe early in 2016 to interview Forrest. After he wrote the story and his editor approved it for publication it went to a “fact-checker” whose job is to make sure the purported facts in the story are true and not simply the imaginative construction of the writer. So, the fact checker must contact someone who can authenticate the facts in the story. In this case that was Forrest.

California Sunday Magazine comes inside the Los Angeles Times and San Francisco Examiner every Sunday, so potentially, a few million eyeballs browse the colorful, photo essay stories they publish.

I was perusing my files and ran across the following note from last May.  I thought you’d find it interesting. Below is the fact-checker’s questions about “facts” in the story and Forrest’s factual replies. Do a little fact-checking on your own. Compare what Forrest wrote to what was actually written in the story. What do you think?

The California Sunday Magazine story is on our Media Coverage page on this very blog…
Look about three links down..
CLICK HERE TO GO TO THE MEDIA PAGE

 


The cancer in your kidney was in more than one spot? 
It was under my kidney embedded in the inferior vena cava, which is the vein that takes blood from the lower body back to the heart. There was just one spot

Your cancer was removed in 1988? 
My kidney was removed in 1988 and also the cancer.

You were shot down in an F100 over Laos? What happened? How did you survive that?
I was shot down twice in the F-100. The first time was in south Vietnam and the second time in Laos. I crash landed the first time on a small airstrip and walked away. The second time I parachuted into the jungle and was picked up by a helicopter the next day.

You’ve searched for artifacts in deserted canyons?
Deserted canyons is not a good phrase. I have looked for artifacts in the mountains and deserts of New Mexico, Wyoming and Montana.

You’ve sold moccasins to the Rockefellers and sculptures to the Spielbergs? 
Yes, I sold antique Sioux moccasins to Peggy Rockefeller and Charlie Russell sculpture to Steven Spielberg.

Two years before you were diagnosed with cancer, your father was diagnosed with advanced cancer?
Yes, my father had terminal pancreas cancer.

And he took a handful of pills after he was diagnosed?
My father was given 6 months to live and 18 months later he took 50 sleeping pills

When you talked about facing death, you expressed that you’d rather die alone, but with dignity, and at first, you thought you might take sleeping pills at the site of your treasure? 
Yes, since I was told I was going to die I wanted to do it on my own terms as my father had done.

So it would be fair to say that you sort of see this as a dignified way to go out, rather than sort of dying slowly?
I saw my alternative as being a hospital bed that would offer a temporary postponement with a hose in my nose, tubes down my throat, and needles in my arm. And with friends and relatives watching and crying. That was the last thing I wanted.

Initially, you weren’t really sure how you’d want to die?
I don’t understand that question. If I had my way I would die under a tree somewhere deep in a pine forest and let my body go back to the earth.

But then one night you were lying in bed when you got the idea for hiding the treasure chest and then leaving behind a poem. Correct? 
Yes

But then the whole scheme was a disappointment because the cancer treatment fortunately ended up working?
Yes, I got well and ruined the plan.

However, you still liked the idea of hiding a treasure, so you stuck with that part of the plan?
Yes

The hidden treasure includes Ceylon sapphires and Alaskan gold nuggets the size of chicken eggs?
Yes, two nuggets weigh more than a troy pound each, and hundreds of smaller ones. There are two Ceylon sapphires, hundreds of rubles, 8 emeralds and lots of diamonds.

And while some of the things included in the treasure came from your own collection, you bought some of the things to add to the chest?
Yes

Even your wife didn’t know when you buried the treasure, correct? 
I have never said I buried the treasure so please don’t say that. I hid the treasure, but that does not mean it is not buried. I just didn’t want to give that as a clue. My wife’s name is Peggy.

You hid it in 2010?
I have never pinned it down that close. I just say I was 79 or 80 when I hid it.

It took you two trips from your car to get all of the treasure to the hiding spot because it weighed 42 pounds? 
Yes

So you were 80 then?
I was  79 or 80. I have a reason for not wanting to give an exact date.

And you kept  what you’d done completely secret? 
What I have done is no secret at all. My book describes it. The hiding place and when I hid it are secrets. I am the only one who knows where it is.

And even your daughters didn’t find out until you published your autobiography?
Yes, but I call it a memoir.

How long did it take you to refine the poem included in your autobiography? 
I worked on it for 15 years, changing and rearranging words.

You originally had 1,000 copies published?
Yes, because I didn’t think anyone would want my book.

And you’ve now sold around 20,000 copies?
I gave the books to the Collected Works bookstore in Santa Fe, and they sold them. I have made no money and have not sold any of the books personally

And you gave rights to your book to Collected Works because you didn’t want to be accused of doing this for the money? Is that correct?
No, I did not give the rights or the copyright away. I gave only the books. I didn’t want anyone to say the hidden treasure is a hoax for me to make money on the book.

But the treasure is worth a lot of money, correct? 
Yes

So that would be funny if people accused you of trying to make money off of this. 
You are correct. I didn’t even get my publishing costs back.

You added to the gallery a brick-laid plaza, a gold-fixtured guesthouse and a sculpture garden with a scenic pond, correct?
The brick plaza is part of the big guest house. There were 3 other guest houses and the pond has 2 waterfalls.

And you did that by hand? You did that yourself?
No, I had contractors do it for me, but I helped.

And the pond once housed two pet alligators, Elvis and Beowolf? 
Yes, but the name is Beowulf, not Beowolf.

Did you self-publish The Thrill of the Chase? 
Yes, I have self-published all 10 of my books. The name of the company is The One Horse Land and Cattle Company.

Your walls are lined with age-cracked pottery, feathered headdresses and a case of arrowheads. Correct?
Age-cracked is not a good phrase. How about ancient pottery?

You grew up in Temple, TX? 
Yes, born and raised

Your dad was the principal of the elementary school you attended?
Yes

As you were rising in the Air Force ranks, you realized you worked best as a schemer, working on your own? 
I was not a schemer, but I knew that if I was to compete with PHDs and aeronautical engineers I had to out hustle them, and I did.

You left when they tried to promote you to colonel lieutenant?
I was promoted to Lieutenant colonel but turned it down and retired. If I had accepted the promotion I would have had to stay in the Air Force two more years, and I wanted out.

How, if at all, did your experiences in Vietnam impact the decision to leave? 
When I was shot down in the Laotian jungle I had a lot of time to think. I kept telling myself that there had to be something better than this.


 

If you are interested in comparing some of what the fact-checker fact-checked, against what was eventually published in the story you can find a link to the California Sunday Magazine story on our Media Coverage page on this very blog…
Look about three links down..
CLICK HERE TO GO TO THE MEDIA PAGE

Scrapbook One Hundred Sixty Two…

scrapbook

OCTOBER 2016

 

mnewmexico

 

Forrest forwarded this to me with few words, which is not like him at all. I think parts of it made him nervous.
dal-

—————————
Mr. Fenn,
You likely don’t remember me but I wrote about a month and-a-half ago to praise you on your book The Thrill of the Chase.  In my email, I mentioned that my husband and I would be visiting New Mexico (for a business trip, which would include a quick search for your treasure, beginning at 32 degrees latitude at the southern border of NM and working our way north.)   Well, we took the trip and, as you know, we did not find the treasure.  There was some disappointment of course — I was secretly certain that I’d interpreted your clues accurately — but that disappointment was quickly dispelled by what we did find… amazing sites and interesting history.  Because of the book, I truly believe that our eyes were open a bit wider and our minds that much more receptive to the stories and histories we learned.  So, although we didn’t find the treasure, it was a wonderful trip.

I write again to give you a bit of an update.

I’ve reread The Thrill of the Chase and Too Far To Walk umpteen times now.

I laugh now when I think back to the first few times that I read The Thrill of the Chase.  At that time, I was enamored with what I thought were the simple, gentle musings of a fellow harkening back to his younger years .  To me it was a collection of amusing stories, life lessons, and inspirational insights.  It was imperfect yet sweet.  Now, I simply think that the piece is genius and calculating, thick with creative license (remember non-fiction only has to be 85% accurate), multiple layers and ciphers that redirect the reader to entirely different end points.  It is not a collection of short stories culminating in one book; it is a collection of riddles culminating in what could be three or four books, depending upon which layer you’re on.  Pictures contain hidden letters and numbers, the meaning of words and sentences are altered by either a phonetic re-read or a reorder or substitution of letters.  It’s flexible and supports unsuspecting readers as they continue down the wrong path.  It’s the literary version of the Butterfly Effect.  And it is the reason everyone has different starting points, different ending points.   It is brilliant… and addictive… and the reason why I question everything I read (hmmmm, I wonder what that’s supposed to mean), why I’ve read Hemmingway and Salinger and why I know that Robert Redford actually has written a book.  It’s the reason I know your Grandpa Fenn’s name and about the YMCA (thanks to my love of genealogy), and the countless other tidbits of information I’ve garnered along the way.  It’s the reason why I may just go for it and search for the “missing appendix” behind the hardcover and binding…

And it’s the reason why I’ve never squinted so much in my life!  My flashlight’s batteries are now dim and my eyes are nearly crossed.  I never used “reader” glasses before but over the past several weeks have found them to be quite helpful.  My rock hounding loupe (my husband and I are rockhounds) is constantly at my side and I eagerly await a new one, which I ordered off Amazon, with a stronger magnification.  Then perhaps I can learn your alphabet (I do know that L = Y, as in YMCA) and I’ll hopefully soon make sense of what appear now to be random numbers and letters and superimposed images cleverly hidden behind the innocent photographs of your youth.  Until I can figure out the alphabet, my “solve” begins by Hebgen Lake and winds up at the Thumb Basin in Yellowstone. Perhaps yet another victim of the butterfly, or perhaps my route will change, but right now it is the path that I’m on.

Regardless, it is a fun ride and I just want to thank you for this perfect puzzle.

Sincerely,
Bonnie

 

 

Scrapbook One Hundred Sixty One…

scrapbook

OCTOBER 2016

 

pork01let_sleeping_porcupines_lay

Here is a story from the 1941 Alaska Miner..
So what do you think?
Can a porcupine actually throw his quills or not??
Castus
————–

Castus-
A porky swats with his tail, and it stands to reason that if some quills find their mark other quills would fly, caused by the sudden stop of the said tail. The skin of a porcupine is not attached to the animal’s flesh in the same way that a banana is not attached to the peeling, which means the quills are loosely hanging in the skin. Now, that’s everything I know on that subject and it graphically explains why bananas can be so dangerous. f