Feather River John lazily strummed his guitar in the back of a speeding Ford Ranchero, hat slung low to shield his eyes from the brilliant northern California sun. Beside him in the bed of the coupe-truck, Hot Shot Timer plucked away on a battered old banjo. When they weren't singing — mostly out of tune, according to Hot Shot Timer — the two shot the breeze about nothing and everything, as kids in their early twenties do. It was 1962, just outside Yuba City. The two were young, footloose and foolish, with the vast expanse of the American West laid out before them. Adventure awaited. As they traded old country and western tunes, the friends' idyll was interrupted. The car came to a stop, and the two young men heard shouting voices and barking dogs. They turned to see two policemen running their way, guns drawn. "We've got 'em!" yelled one. The car belonged to neither Feather River John nor Hot Shot Timer. Even if it had, it wouldn't have gotten them far on its own. The gleaming new Ford sat some 25 feet up on the third deck of a car carrier attached to a string of train cars bound for an auto dealership. As the cops closed the distance, bounding over the tops of boxcars, Hot Shot Timer turned to his friend. "John," he said, "I do believe we've been got." Sure enough, the two ended up at the police station. These days, Feather River John is better known by his given name: John McClaughry. He's a key player in Vermont political circles, a conservative thought leader who for decades has been a thorn in the side of the left — and, on occasion, the right. Now 80, McClaughry has been a prominent state legislator and a candidate for governor. He founded a Libertarian think tank, the Ethan Allen Institute. He served briefly as a senior policy adviser in the Reagan White House. For the past 50-odd years, he's been the Town Meeting Day moderator in his Northeast Kingdom home of Kirby, population 490. And, for several years in the '60s, he was a hobo. From 1962 to '65, McClaughry made a habit of hopping trains. He estimates that he logged some 5,000 miles in boxcars over those years. "I rode the rails through 19 of the 29 states that I was at one time down and…
Feather River John lazily strummed his guitar in the back of a speeding Ford Ranchero, hat slung low to shield his eyes from the brilliant northern California sun. Beside him in the bed of the coupe-truck, Hot Shot Timer plucked away on a battered old banjo. When they weren't singing — mostly out of tune, according to Hot Shot Timer — the two shot the breeze about nothing and everything, as kids in their early twenties do. It was 1962, just outside Yuba City. The two were young, footloose and foolish, with the vast expanse of the American West laid out before them. Adventure awaited. As they traded old country and western tunes, the friends' idyll was interrupted. The car came to a stop, and the two young men heard shouting voices and barking dogs. They turned to see two policemen running their way, guns drawn. "We've got 'em!" yelled one. The car belonged to neither Feather River John nor Hot Shot Timer. Even if it had, it wouldn't have gotten them far on its own. The gleaming new Ford sat some 25 feet up on the third deck of a car carrier attached to a string of train cars bound for an auto dealership. As the cops closed the distance, bounding over the tops of boxcars, Hot Shot Timer turned to his friend. "John," he said, "I do believe we've been got." Sure enough, the two ended up at the police station. These days, Feather River John is better known by his given name: John McClaughry. He's a key player in Vermont political circles, a conservative thought leader who for decades has been a thorn in the side of the left — and, on occasion, the right. Now 80, McClaughry has been a prominent state legislator and a candidate for governor. He founded a Libertarian think tank, the Ethan Allen Institute. He served briefly as a senior policy adviser in the Reagan White House. For the past 50-odd years, he's been the Town Meeting Day moderator in his Northeast Kingdom home of Kirby, population 490. And, for several years in the '60s, he was a hobo. From 1962 to '65, McClaughry made a habit of hopping trains. He estimates that he logged some 5,000 miles in boxcars over those years. "I rode the rails through 19 of the 29 states that I was at one time down and…