When I was a young one at camp in Bemidji (if you read this rag, I talk about camp way too much, so apologies), I spent a lot of activity-time riding bikes around camp property and the open Minnesota highways. The bike instructor was a guy named Moonpie (all the counselors had nicknames) who had long dark hair and, around the campfire, sang "Ramble On Rose" like a little mouse. I was one of the few guys in my cabin who thought Moonpie oozed cool, so I spent a lot of time up at the bike shed with him, playing guitar while he blew up tires and did bike repair. I'm sure he thought I was wildly annoying, but I didn't think about that at the time, so I continued on with my shiny black Washburn, hoping that if I sang "Run Around" enough times, my voice would drop.Since then, I can't help but equate Moonpies with the outdoors and, well, being cool, bikes and Jerry Garcia. I never did ask him where he got his name, but I can only imagine him showing up at the steps of the mess hall with a great big Moonpie in his mouth, asking for a job. And knowing the lame stories and lack of effort behind some other counselor's names, that probably isn't too far off.Anyway, I was cleaning out my backpack the other night to get ready for the upcoming months and found a chocolate Moonpie stuffed in the bottom of my bag. I end up buying them a lot on my way to the trail, but can't remember ever actually liking them very much, so it was no surprise to find it. It was months old, from the last trip I took to God knows where, but still looked edible, so what's a boy to do but eat a chocolate Moonpie.Great name. Not so great dessert.