In years of tramping hither and yon over hill and dale I've crossed paths with grizzly bears, black bears, moose, yaks, alpaca, bobcats, mountain goats, porcupines, otters, whales, sharks, eagles, hawks, owls and a veritable Noah's Ark of other critters, but the strangest of all have not been ones with fins, feathers or four legs, but two-legged characters.

Here's a sampling of some of my favorites:

While trekking through the Khumbu region of Nepal's Himalayas, a hiking companion and I took a side excursion with a Sherpa to the Everest View Hotel. which had been built as an exclusive resort at an elevation of about 14,000 feet, and indeed it did have an extraordinary view of the world's tallest mountain, but there was a problem: Few guests were willing to fly first from Kathmandu to the tiny village of Lukla, and then spend days climbing to and even tinier village, Namche, as we did, and then hiking a few more days to the hotel. So they landed at a tiny airstrip next to the hotel, without having a chance to acclimatize. The result: Would-be guests died from pulmonary edema. So the hotel closed.

When we visited the dining room tables were set with china and crystal, the bar was stocked with fine liquor and the rooms were all made up (I didn't check under the pillows to see if there were mints).

The only occupant was an ancient Nepalese man, presumably a caretaker, who sat by the doorway. He looked up briefly from the drop spindle he used to twist yak hair into yarn.

We only exchanged one word: "Namaste," but hardly a week goes by that I don't think about him.

I met a more talkative character on another mountain halfway around the world, while on an expedition to Aconcagua, the tallest peak in the Western Hemisphere that rises in the Andes between Chile and Argentina.

Somewhere above Camp 2, 17,000 feet I decided to take a break and sprawled in the snow just off the trail, when a bearded figure lugging an enormous pack marched up and stopped to chat.

This turned out to be an Australian named Jon Muir (no relation to the celebrated 19th century U.S. explorer, but equally accomplished in his own right). This Jon Muir had his face painted up in different shades of zinc oxide as sunscreen that made him resemble a Zulu warrior. What's more his giant pack was laden with pots, pans and all sorts of other paraphernalia that hung from carabiners, which made him rattle when he walked.

For half an hour he regaled me with tales of his exploits -- kayaking around Australia, hiking across its desert and other long-distance excursions. He also climbed all seven of Earth's continental peaks, including Everest, and showed me photographs as proof.

In each picture there was a small object next to him on the summit.

"What's that?" I asked.

He reached into his pack and extracted a stuffed animal.

"My teddy bear," he said. "I take him wherever I go."

With that, he resumed hiking.

I had two interesting encounters while hiking on Vermont's Long Trail from the Massachusetts border to Canada with my son, Tom.

The first was just north of Killington, when we saw a backpack placed in the middle of the trail. Not far away,a man in his 70s walked toward us and retrieved the pack. Then he hiked back in the direction from which he came. What gives?

"I hike with two backpacks," he explained.

Sure enough, a little way ahead, he passed another backpack, dropped the one he was wearing, put on the other one on and continued.

I did some hasty calculations and figured we would have to hike more than 1,000 miles to complete the trail in that fashion.

"Good luck," I said, after we left him.

"You too," he replied.

A few days later, Tom and I stayed in the Clarendon Shelter and were about to leave in the morning when a rather rotund man came jogging up the trail.

"Wait a minute!" he exclaimed. "I have to pipe you out."

Huh?

He reached into his pack and pulled out a set of bagpipes.

"OK, follow me," he said, and led us away from the shelter while playing "Scotland the Brave."

Having spent some time in shelters, both as a guest and as a volunteer caretaker one frigid week in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, I suppose he wasn't all that unusual.

I remember the first caretaker I met near Mount Washington, Hawkeye, who traveled everywhere with a three-legged dog, and never said a word.

That seems a little odd, but not nearly as creepy as this one lone hiker we met at a packed Guyot Shelter in New Hampshire's Pemigewassett Wilderness.

While the rest of the hikers took turns telling stories of memorable outings, he sat silently in the corner. Finally, just as we were about to crawl into our sleeping bags he began a long monologue.

"I was stalked one night at Resolution Shelter," he said.

The rest of us looked nervously at each other.

He went on to describe how he had to leave the shelter in the middle of the night while a strange man followed him all the way back to the road.

This was not the sort of story you want to hear (or tell) in a remote hut full of strangers.

I slept with one eye open. Happily, in the morning he was gone. I don't know if there ever was a stalker and don't care to find out.

Anyway, maybe one day I'll bump into the Abominable Snowman, Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster, but until then, there are plenty of other strange creatures roaming the wilderness.