Gentleman Outlaw

I’ve told my kids this story, but my memories were sketchy from this incident nearly fifty years ago. I’ve put together some details from old memories from the perspective of a young boy and from the newspaper articles I’ve found over the years. This is a tragic story from many years ago when I was just a boy. My memories of that time are sketchy, pulled from the perspective of an adolescent young boy and from nearly fifty years of distance. Some of the details may not be entirely accurate, but the emotions and that deep, unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach remain as alive today as they were back then. The memories may have faded around the edges, but the ache in my heart and the tightness in my gut are still as real as ever.

A Childhood in the Woods

As a boy, I was blessed with a childhood surrounded by nature. Our property backed up to state land, which made the woods feel like they stretched on forever. My dad owned 30 acres of mixed land, but the state land beyond our property was a vast wilderness—hundreds, maybe thousands of acres of dense woods, winding trails, and hidden ponds. To a young man, it felt like an uncharted world waiting to be explored.

My friends and I spent countless hours exploring, hunting turtles and frogs, and sometimes even going skinny-dipping. The woods were our playground, filled with old foundations, abandoned homes, barns, and shelters—remnants of a world long gone. Scattered along the trails were these mysterious, decaying structures, their histories unknown to us. Our imaginations would run wild as we transformed the woods into the wild west, battling cowboys and Indians, or maybe it was Indians fighting the cowboys—our roles changed as quickly as our imaginations sparked. Either way, the fun and adventure never seemed to end. The woods held an endless supply of stories, and every corner turned brought a new setting for our next great battle or adventure.

One of the most vivid landmarks was ‘Pinnacle Hill,’ a steep, glacially formed peak within the rugged Hadley Hills. This area was carved by ancient ice, leaving behind steep inclines, basin lakes, and hidden sinkholes that became our playground. Pinnacle Hill once held a fire tower at its peak, and from the top, you could see for miles in almost any direction. It felt like standing on top of the world. The old foundation of the tower became our fortress, and we would imagine living in a time long ago, creating stories and adventures in our minds. At the bottom of the hill, there were a few old, wrecked cars—likely failed attempts to climb the steep incline. To a young boy, those rusted-out cars were treasures, sparking our imaginations and adding to the mystery of the place.

Our imaginations ran wild—we were cowboys, Indians, adventurers in a world of our own making. The woods were not only a sanctuary but also a place where innocence met the wildness of the world. I remember the cool air against my skin, the way the sunlight filtered through the canopy, and the crunch of leaves underfoot. There was a sense of safety, yet also an unspoken awareness that the world was much bigger—and perhaps more dangerous—than we understood. As young boys, we stood on the edge of that understanding, playing in shadows, unaware of how quickly a shadow could consume the light.

For me, the woods were more than a place of play. They were an escape. My dad always had a list of chores—turning up the garden, mowing the lawn, taking care of the animals, fixing cars. I learned quickly to do my work as fast as possible and disappear into the woods before another list appeared. Those woods were my refuge, my freedom.

I don’t remember today how much of my wanderings in the woods my parents were aware of. I would never have been brave enough to go without the permission of one of them—probably whichever parent had the shortest work list that day. But did they think I was playing at a neighbor’s house, or did they know I was a mile or two deep into the woods? I don’t know. My parents were very protective, but the state land was always considered a safe place, almost like an extension of our own property. One thing I do know: in those days, I could run like a deer. It seemed like I could be back home in only a few minutes. I knew those woods by heart and could easily run through them, even in the dark.

One afternoon in early May of 1975, my friend Mark Mellendorf and I made plans to meet back in the woods after school to camp out. He told me about his cousin, Scott Hardy, whom I had not met yet, but he was coming to camp with us. By now, the weather was warming, and the end of the school year wasn’t far away. We were eager to be outside, to feel the freedom of the woods, and to camp out. We were just young boys, but the idea of spending the night in the woods, building a fire, setting up a tent, and playing cowboys under the stars was irresistible. It was the kind of adventure every boy dreams of. While we might have talked about camping out on the state land, in reality, we knew we would set up our tent on my family’s property—where it felt safe yet still adventurous. But when it came to exploring, playing cowboys and Indians, and frog hunting, we would often venture onto the state land, where the boundaries of our world seemed limitless.

That Friday afternoon, I saw Mark for the last time on the school bus. I can still picture him, the way he looked out the window, the casual way he said goodbye. It was just another Friday, just another bus ride home. There was no sign, no warning, nothing to hint that this would be the last time I would ever see him.

A Night of Tragedy

While I sat through the church event, my friends made their way into the woods. I can’t tell you why they were at Toby Lake (some maps say Tody Lake, all the names were just made-up by the locals). Toby Lake is not where we would have met. They would have had to pass Toby Lake on the way to our meeting place near Pinnacle Hill, so either they were playing along the way or they were taken there. I’ll never know. It’s also possible that the newspapers did not identify the lake properly. These lakes are really nothing more than ponds scattered throughout the woods—you could easily walk all the way around most of them in a few minutes. The lake we intended to camp at had a swimming hole on one end and a tree with a rope to swing out into it. I’m sure they were nothing more than mud holes, but to a boy—it was skinny dipping heaven.

Mark and Scott were found by a teenage dropout. Not the kind of kid we would have invited to our play time. My guess is that the 17-year-old killer, Kenneth Earl Nard, approached Mark and Scott and wanted to be involved in whatever they were doing. It would have been obvious that they were alone and headed into the woods to camp out. Kenneth was most certainly turned away and was offended that, once again, nobody wanted him. One newspaper even quoted a cop saying, “Kenneth was a born loser.”

The boys were beaten, sexually assaulted, strangled, and murdered that night. Mark was later found hanging in a tree by his own sweater, while Scott was found nearly naked, laying in a shallow creek. The truth of what happened to them was more horrific than any of the rumors that circulated at school, and the reality of it shattered the fragile innocence of our world.

After the tragedy, my home was filled with a silence that felt heavier than words could ever be. My parents never spoke of it. There was no asking if I was okay, no comforting words, no shared tears. It was as if the tragedy lived in the walls, a ghost that everyone pretended not to see. I would sit in my room, the house too quiet, and feel the weight of my unspoken grief pressing down on my chest. I often wondered if I was the only one who felt this way, or if my parents were just as lost as I was, unable to find a way through the darkness.

The grief wasn’t just in my heart—it was in my body. I remember the lump in my throat that never went away, the ache in my stomach, the way my hands would shake when I thought too much about that night. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I would wake up gasping for air, as if the weight of everything was pressing the breath out of me. And I had nowhere to put it—all that pain, all that confusion. So, I buried it, deep down, and hoped it would stay there.

One day, deep in the woods, away from the house and the silence, I broke down. I punched a tree until my knuckles bled, screamed into the empty air until my voice was hoarse. I sat at the edge of a muddy pond, knees drawn to my chest, and sobbed. I let the woods hear the truth—the pain, the anger, the questions. And the woods, in their quiet, ancient way, held it all without judgment.

When I walk in the woods even now, I often find myself looking to the little ponds and old foundations, wondering—what if I had been there that night? What if things had gone differently? Those questions linger, quiet but persistent, like echoes in the forest. And with each step, I still seek answers that never come.

I hope one day to meet them again along a small stream in heaven. Maybe I can be a teenage boy again, and we can go camping together. We can play cowboys and Indians and go skinny-dipping in the pond. I wonder if that’s allowed in heaven? The release of the man who killed my friends felt like a wound reopened, a reminder that the world is not always just, and that sometimes, the answers we seek never come.