A Day in the Life of a Puxy Pilgrammager

Welcome to "God's Country!" Not that you had any doubt. Here in the rolling hills of north central Pennsylvania is the key to one American's greatest treasures -- Punxsutawney Phil. (No wonder they call it the Keystone State.)

Yes, earlier this month, year and decade I stared the beloved rodent straight in the eye -- albeit 50 yards away -- and I learned first hand what it means to be "the seer of seers and prognosticator of prognosticators."

Puxy, as it became known by our clan of Washingtonians (meaning no one was from D.C), is located about a 90 minute drive northeast of Pittsburgh and is home to about 6000 residents. Those locals feed off of the excitement like a high school senior boy hoping Prom will bring the “sure thing.”

We arrived in town at about 11:30 the night before and went straight to the libation trough -- the local Eagles aerie 1231. There we mixed with some drug-induced Nascar-loving tourists from the Steele City, who were there "to ‘experience’ Phil first hand." We also chatted up the locals, such as Mark (we never got his last name) who loved the annual binge spree as an opportunity to show off his community.

After splurging and wrestling through $5 pitchers and Bon Jovi on the juke box, the clan split up. While some went straight to the knob, the rest of us, led by Mark, found a secret portal called ISDN or something with a weird letter password. (The next day an 80-year-old Eagles brother told me that it’s the place to be on Saturday afternoons, when all hell breaks loose and the town's local pool talent has some stiff games.) Here, on the second floor of a building that had been as old as the first Roosevelt Administration we found the strangest piece of paradise. Every other person was dressed up in furry gobbler gear and complemented with a $3 22-ounce Bud Light bottle. (Keep in mind, there were about 500 people crammed in there.)

As the bar closed, the hundreds of out-of-towners congregated to the one place that would serve them with justice: Mickey D's. It was there that we met three 60-something retirees, who too were making their first Puxy pilgrimage with hopes of seeking a glimpse of the furry friend. One man -- a former insurance salesman from the Greensburg area -- had been waiting his whole life to travel to Puxy on this infamous date. Being sober as an Andy Garcia in "When a Man Loves a Woman," the man was delighted to show off his American Legion pins and top hat as he was overmatched with the ambiance of drunken stuporship. (If the latter isn't a phrase your familiar with, add it to your vernacular. It’ll come in handy next time you drive through a college town on a Saturday night.)

The sauna like symptoms of America's favorite fast food joint would be the last time we would feel warmth on our bodies, which had been up for nearly 21 hours straight.

For the low price of $5 we were then set due uphill to majestic Gobblers' Knob, where our critter had been taking habitat for more than a century. People were fearful that the northeaster like symptoms would only get worse and that their buzzed up bodies would go into Kodiak arrest (a term I learned from an Alaskan years before), but they knew this was a time to become part of American History.

The site on Phil’s territory - nothing like Bill Murray showed us in the movie - was swarmed by thousands of his best friends. By the end of the day more than 20,000 people joined in on the fun on the knob while another 10,000 stayed in town, which is about 1.2 miles downhill “as the crow flies," or that’s what the locals told us.The knob had a huge sign that was as welcoming as a family's gathering when grandpa comes home from hip surgery. It also had a bonfire, which was flocked by freezing looking like chipmunks, who thought northern PA in early February would be more like Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Phil's decorated stage was filled up with the top-hatters dressed in tuxedos giving proclamations of their own and attempting to be Tim Allen on stage before he started doing those Santa Clause movies.

"Who wants the Patriots to win the Super Bowl," one of the guys said of the next day's big event. The response was an overwhelming, "boo." "How about those New York Giants," he asked. Giving a mix result of "boos and yeahs" people appeared more discontent with the Patriots perfect season than the choice of rooting for the eventual champs from the Meadowlands. "And what about those Steelers!" A roar of cheers followed by a round of air fist pumps came out. I imagine if anyone from Puxy had been sleeping at 5:30 a.m., not that anyone could with this kind of excitement, they were now awake with the goal of seeing Phil live via the local access network.

As dancers with groundhog hats continued to jump like a worker at a Munich bar in October, the area was soon covered by a 20-minute long light show; fireworks flew from inside the woods to over our heads. "Its simply beautiful," I heard a man say to his significant other as they kissed. My friend Todd gave me a look like 'don’t get any ideas buddy.'

It was almost 7 a.m. now and any beer buzz that was once very much in us was gone. With that said, seven of our clan had given up and staked ground in our lustrous motel. In about 10 minutes two others would leave too. For me and fellow Michigander, Todd, no cold or frozen teardrops could stop us from this. The “Inner Circle” then made way to the physical knob, which is a large tree trunk. They acknowledged one another much like Congress: They bowed to one another. I say this in pure sarcasm of course. A few of the men made their way to the stage by slapping hands with fans of the now de-clawed creature. This shining moment was as much for them as it was for Phil.

After a brief introduction, a man said he would need some assistance. All of sudden the words “Phil,” “Phil,” “Phil,” grew louder like a clapping routine from a John Hughes film.

Another man spoke up saying, “Hear Ye! Hear Ye! Hear Ye!
On Gobbler's Knob on this fabulous Groundhog Day, February 2nd, 2008, Punxsutawney Phil, the Seer of Seers, Prognosticator of all Prognosticators…”

About 30 seconds later, after the group of 15 grown men discussed what was before them, the man said, “"As I look around me, a bright sky I see, and a shadow beside me. Six more weeks of winter it will be!”

The crowd erupted in jubilation and that was it. The world’s most famous weather forecaster had spoken. Well, sort of.