The best way to appreciate the Old West is to drive there in an open vehicle, ideally in summer. That's the only way to appreciate the vastness and the harshness. There is something magical about the dry air and the vast landscapes of windswept desolation. When viewing such magnificent natural wonders as the Grand Canyon, Death Valley, and Valley of Fire one cannot help but feel small and insignificant. These are emotions that rarely make it onto my radar screen. Let's be honest.
A while back I opted for a side trip to the phenomenally unique Mono Lake in northern California, which is five times saltier than the Dead Sea. Along the way I felt inspired to see a nearby ghost town called Bodie. To my surprise, there something happened to make me feel as grand as my surroundings.
Bodie is an Old West ghost town in the most inhospitable high desert you can imagine. It only takes nine miles (14 km) of dirt road to reach it, but every mile reminds you how tough the old miners used to be. Actually, they guy who discovered gold here, a New Yorker named Bodey, froze to death here that winter.
Only five percent of the buildings remain, which says much considering there are over a hundred standing in a state of arrested decay. No one is allowed to fix or demolish them, letting the desert sun sere the wood dry. Yet the glass windows remain. I enjoyed peeking in to homes and read a calendar from 1934, one of the last years people were allowed to squat there.
It was warm, dry and windy. There is not much sand in the area, but the wind pushes the rocks around a lot. I reviewed the doctor’s office for a while, then noticed I was in the way of a lady with a tripod. I apologized and moved on. I moved over to the assayer’s office and read my guidebook. When I looked up, I discovered I was in the way of the same lady, and again apologized and moved on.
There are a handful of buildings the Park Rangers do maintain, and I spied a particularly attractive lady cleaning the windows of an old shop. I approached her, figuring if there was anyone I wanted to share this educational and historical moment with, it was surely the young, slender blonde over there.
So Cindy (coincidentally looking like a grown-up Cindy Brady, from the Brady Bunch) worked her squeegee and I regaled her with my immense knowledge about Bodie. Well, what I had learned from my guidebook, anyway. I know she was grateful for the education because she did not interrupt me. But then the very same tripod camera lady started snapping photos again. I realized, suddenly, that she was not taking pictures of the buildings at all.
She was taking pictures of me.
“Uh, can I help you?” I asked her.
“Oh, no, just keep doing what you’re doing,” she said. She was a 40-something woman with sunburned skin shining intense pink. She wore a hat that said SAC. I can only assume that meant Sacramento.
Having been ordered to continue my flirtations, I indeed resumed. I am sure Cindy was grateful for the attention. I observed how she had coyly moved to another building during my moment of distraction. Cindy noticed me following her and abandoned her squeegee to disappear into a building where I was not allowed to follow. She was so demure.
I turned around and saw the tripod lady yet again. She snapped off a few pictures, grabbed her tripod, and fled. I stared after her, blinking in confusion. Then I went into the gift shop and loaded up on all the literature I could, including 3 Bodie newspapers from the 1880s and a cool book on the use of cyanide to extract gold from ore. There she was again, talking to the clerk. She immediately squeezed off a few rounds of me browsing the prescription log from the pharmacist, circa 1885.
“Hey, Sac-lady,” I said irritably, “You’re freaking me out. What, did my girlfriend hire you to keep an eye on me?” Suddenly nervous, I strained my fragile memory for any potentially damning moments with Cindy. Upon reflection, I don’t think she had said a single word to me.
The photographer grinned, her nose now messy with white lotion. She had accidentally smeared some on her sunglasses in her haste to apply it. “I thought Bodie was pretty,” she replied, “but you’re the prettiest thing here!” She snapped another picture of me, undoubtedly with a deer in the headlights-look.
“Well, uh, I’m flattered and stuff, but—”
“Oh, I’ll stop if you want,” she hastily interrupted. “Can’t have anymore lawsuits, after all!”
Then she disappeared for good, leaving me with the matron of the counter. We shared a look of confusion.
“Well, that was weird,” I said as I paid for my items.
“If it makes you feel any better,” the lady said as she took my money, “I don’t know what she saw, either.”
Monday, August 31, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Mars Needs Women
What happens in Area 51... stays in Area 51.
Well, not exactly. While I have no actual story to write, I do have pictures of proof of life. The E.T. Midnight Moonlight Marathon was a huge success. Hats off to the race coordinator, Joyce, for putting on a show that was out of this world (yes, there will be space puns: deal with it). Before I launch into my own experiences at the midnight marathon, I should describe the gnarly background.
First of all, this race was held on the Extra Terrestrial Highway in Nevada. This is an official designation because there have been literally hundreds and hundreds of reported UFO sightings upon it. This lonely stretch of concrete is the closest that mere mortals are allowed to get to the infamous Area 51. For anyone who is not familiar with the lore, well, there is a whole lotta stuff to explain. I will be brief. If you know it, skip the next three paragraphs.
The most lauded UFO encounter in Earth history is surely the supposed crash site in Roswell, New Mexico. In 1948 or so, something crashed in the desert and the local Air Force base came in and hushed everything. Supposedly it was a UFO and exhibited intriguing, beyond-Earthly technology. Some say there were even a few alien survivors of the wreck. The point is, the government allegedly spirited away the technology to Area 51, where they tried to reverse-engineer alien technology to create our own spaceship.
That's the legend. The reality is that Area 51 is extremely top secret, even now, but in those days particularly so. For decades the U.S. has tested new technology, such as the famous U-2 spy plane of the Cold War and the amazing stealth technology of today. No one is allowed anywhere near the area, which is just a patch of dirt in the middle of nowhere. Actually, it is enclosed by the Atomic Proving Grounds and a U.S. Airforce Bombing Range. Thusly very few people are within hundreds of square miles. The few ranchers out there, or those passing a lonely night on Highway 375 (the E.T. Highway) have repeatedly seen very, very odd sights in the night skies around Area 51.
The closest spot to Area 51, smack dab in the middle of the E.T. Highway, is a little speck on the map called Rachel, NV. Rachel has a famous structure called the Little A'Le'Inn, and all the UFO buffs and fanatics congregate there. It is miles from anywhere, and only until the last decade of last century did it even have a gas station within 100 miles of it.
The logistics of the marathon were daunting. First of all, some 600 runners participated. Now, Rachel has not even a gas station, so the organizers of Calico Racing had to bus in folks from Vegas. That's a 2.5 hour trip by bus. They stopped at the Black Mailbox. What is the Black Mailbox? It is a local rancher's mailbox, but it happens to be the only landmark within so damn many miles that everyone uses it as a launching point for secret forays into Area 51 (none of which have ever worked in history). UFO buffs snuck bits of it for mementos of their visit to this shrine of alien activity, so much so that the rancher had to replace it with a heavy iron bastard of a box. He included a second box for donations to the aliens, for those foolish enough to think they will receive it. Oh, and it's a white mailbox.
But as my wife and I drove up race night around 11PM, there was no mistaking the site. Six huge buses were there and hundreds of people milled around. It was a creepy, shifting mass in the darkness lit only by glow sticks and reflective tape. We pulled up and were an immediate sensation. No, not because I'm famous (more's the pity) but because I was dressed as an alien.
Yes, I went all out on this one. I had spent weeks trying to find a silver, sparkling unitard to make an alien costume, but they just aren't commonly worn by 200 pound men. This should not be a surprise to anyone. I finally found a silvery space-man outfit, and had to complete the alien costume. That meant green makeup, fake ears, and shaving my head. It was not an ideal get-up for a race, to be sure, but it was only 13.1 miles and I was still worried about my leg injury anyway. This way I would be forced to take it easy.
Within seconds of arrival a trio approached me. The man gestured to his two young, female companions and said to me very formally, "Welcome to earth. I present to you a gift of these two female earthlings, in exchange for peaceful intentions towards out planet and a photo with you."
"I agree to your terms," I replied, trying not to meet my wife's frown. "Mars needs women."
At midnight the marathon was to begin, and at 12:30 the half. The starting line for the half marathon was a nondescript spot on the highway, and everyone was bused there. Joyce, the owner of Calico Racing, made it clear that everyone MUST be bused and if they try to drop themselves off in their own car, they will be disqualified instantly. Because this was a government highway, she had severe rules to obey and there were no shoulders on the highway there. So the cops allowed the buses, and the buses only, to block the highway for us. The logistics of busing people from Vegas to the Black Mailbox to the halfway starting point to the finish line and back to everything was a nightmare. Joyce is amazing.
And so the race began. Being at night, we were required to bring a flashlight. I never used mine because everyone else had one and my costume reflected so much light I was fine. A long line of glow sticks and jumping points of light disappeared into the distance. I forced myself to go slow, paranoid that my injury would flare up again, but it was hard to watch so many people rush out before me. It was a cold night at 5,000 feet elevation with a chilly breeze. The route ascended for the first six miles up to the top of Coyote Pass, at nearly 6,000 feet, then descended down to Rachel.
What a fun race! It was a quiet run beneath the stars, which was a first for me. Also a first was running with an iPod, which I will do forever after. What a distinct pleasure the run was, just me and the night. I stared up at the sky, wondering if I, too, would see a UFO. In fact, I did see a couple shooting stars that were damned odd. The first coincided with my crossing a cattle guard. You know how hard those are to run over in the dark? One wrong step and you twist your damned foot off. Right when I was running over it the light above me shot through the heavens very, very low and very thick. This was not your usual falling star. A UFO? I wish, but in fact the Perseid Meteor Shower happens every year about this time.
Anyway, I think my difficulty with the cattle guard was karma for what happened at a previous one. Runners are spread out thin and running alone, remember. At one point when I began to pass a lady, she turned and looked at me... and nearly jumped out of her skin. Out of the corner of her eye, miles from anything in the dark, a huge bald green being was about to rush her. This coincided with a cattle guard, and she nearly fell to her doom. This type of reaction happened a lot, actually. Kinda funny. Hell, I had the same reaction from my wife when she came home from work and saw me sitting at the computer in my makeup!
I ran hard the last several miles, when I realized my injury was not going to be a problem. In hindsight I wish I had pushed it a lot harder, but that is what got me in trouble in the first place. I had the satisfaction of passing many people near the end, though of the 291 people running the half marathon, I ranked a paltry 48. It didn't matter though, I was just happy to finish feeling better than when I started. That was a race first for me.
I also won the Best Costume award, thank you very much. That's good, because I got green makeup on everything. Pics are on my Facebook site, for those inclined to see a bald, green Brian. I never saw any aliens, but I got to see the famous A'Le'Inn, featured so prominently in the X-Files, among other Sci-fi favorites. What a great race... I'll be back next year for sure!
Well, not exactly. While I have no actual story to write, I do have pictures of proof of life. The E.T. Midnight Moonlight Marathon was a huge success. Hats off to the race coordinator, Joyce, for putting on a show that was out of this world (yes, there will be space puns: deal with it). Before I launch into my own experiences at the midnight marathon, I should describe the gnarly background.
First of all, this race was held on the Extra Terrestrial Highway in Nevada. This is an official designation because there have been literally hundreds and hundreds of reported UFO sightings upon it. This lonely stretch of concrete is the closest that mere mortals are allowed to get to the infamous Area 51. For anyone who is not familiar with the lore, well, there is a whole lotta stuff to explain. I will be brief. If you know it, skip the next three paragraphs.
The most lauded UFO encounter in Earth history is surely the supposed crash site in Roswell, New Mexico. In 1948 or so, something crashed in the desert and the local Air Force base came in and hushed everything. Supposedly it was a UFO and exhibited intriguing, beyond-Earthly technology. Some say there were even a few alien survivors of the wreck. The point is, the government allegedly spirited away the technology to Area 51, where they tried to reverse-engineer alien technology to create our own spaceship.
That's the legend. The reality is that Area 51 is extremely top secret, even now, but in those days particularly so. For decades the U.S. has tested new technology, such as the famous U-2 spy plane of the Cold War and the amazing stealth technology of today. No one is allowed anywhere near the area, which is just a patch of dirt in the middle of nowhere. Actually, it is enclosed by the Atomic Proving Grounds and a U.S. Airforce Bombing Range. Thusly very few people are within hundreds of square miles. The few ranchers out there, or those passing a lonely night on Highway 375 (the E.T. Highway) have repeatedly seen very, very odd sights in the night skies around Area 51.
The closest spot to Area 51, smack dab in the middle of the E.T. Highway, is a little speck on the map called Rachel, NV. Rachel has a famous structure called the Little A'Le'Inn, and all the UFO buffs and fanatics congregate there. It is miles from anywhere, and only until the last decade of last century did it even have a gas station within 100 miles of it.
The logistics of the marathon were daunting. First of all, some 600 runners participated. Now, Rachel has not even a gas station, so the organizers of Calico Racing had to bus in folks from Vegas. That's a 2.5 hour trip by bus. They stopped at the Black Mailbox. What is the Black Mailbox? It is a local rancher's mailbox, but it happens to be the only landmark within so damn many miles that everyone uses it as a launching point for secret forays into Area 51 (none of which have ever worked in history). UFO buffs snuck bits of it for mementos of their visit to this shrine of alien activity, so much so that the rancher had to replace it with a heavy iron bastard of a box. He included a second box for donations to the aliens, for those foolish enough to think they will receive it. Oh, and it's a white mailbox.
But as my wife and I drove up race night around 11PM, there was no mistaking the site. Six huge buses were there and hundreds of people milled around. It was a creepy, shifting mass in the darkness lit only by glow sticks and reflective tape. We pulled up and were an immediate sensation. No, not because I'm famous (more's the pity) but because I was dressed as an alien.
Yes, I went all out on this one. I had spent weeks trying to find a silver, sparkling unitard to make an alien costume, but they just aren't commonly worn by 200 pound men. This should not be a surprise to anyone. I finally found a silvery space-man outfit, and had to complete the alien costume. That meant green makeup, fake ears, and shaving my head. It was not an ideal get-up for a race, to be sure, but it was only 13.1 miles and I was still worried about my leg injury anyway. This way I would be forced to take it easy.
Within seconds of arrival a trio approached me. The man gestured to his two young, female companions and said to me very formally, "Welcome to earth. I present to you a gift of these two female earthlings, in exchange for peaceful intentions towards out planet and a photo with you."
"I agree to your terms," I replied, trying not to meet my wife's frown. "Mars needs women."
At midnight the marathon was to begin, and at 12:30 the half. The starting line for the half marathon was a nondescript spot on the highway, and everyone was bused there. Joyce, the owner of Calico Racing, made it clear that everyone MUST be bused and if they try to drop themselves off in their own car, they will be disqualified instantly. Because this was a government highway, she had severe rules to obey and there were no shoulders on the highway there. So the cops allowed the buses, and the buses only, to block the highway for us. The logistics of busing people from Vegas to the Black Mailbox to the halfway starting point to the finish line and back to everything was a nightmare. Joyce is amazing.
And so the race began. Being at night, we were required to bring a flashlight. I never used mine because everyone else had one and my costume reflected so much light I was fine. A long line of glow sticks and jumping points of light disappeared into the distance. I forced myself to go slow, paranoid that my injury would flare up again, but it was hard to watch so many people rush out before me. It was a cold night at 5,000 feet elevation with a chilly breeze. The route ascended for the first six miles up to the top of Coyote Pass, at nearly 6,000 feet, then descended down to Rachel.
What a fun race! It was a quiet run beneath the stars, which was a first for me. Also a first was running with an iPod, which I will do forever after. What a distinct pleasure the run was, just me and the night. I stared up at the sky, wondering if I, too, would see a UFO. In fact, I did see a couple shooting stars that were damned odd. The first coincided with my crossing a cattle guard. You know how hard those are to run over in the dark? One wrong step and you twist your damned foot off. Right when I was running over it the light above me shot through the heavens very, very low and very thick. This was not your usual falling star. A UFO? I wish, but in fact the Perseid Meteor Shower happens every year about this time.
Anyway, I think my difficulty with the cattle guard was karma for what happened at a previous one. Runners are spread out thin and running alone, remember. At one point when I began to pass a lady, she turned and looked at me... and nearly jumped out of her skin. Out of the corner of her eye, miles from anything in the dark, a huge bald green being was about to rush her. This coincided with a cattle guard, and she nearly fell to her doom. This type of reaction happened a lot, actually. Kinda funny. Hell, I had the same reaction from my wife when she came home from work and saw me sitting at the computer in my makeup!
I ran hard the last several miles, when I realized my injury was not going to be a problem. In hindsight I wish I had pushed it a lot harder, but that is what got me in trouble in the first place. I had the satisfaction of passing many people near the end, though of the 291 people running the half marathon, I ranked a paltry 48. It didn't matter though, I was just happy to finish feeling better than when I started. That was a race first for me.
I also won the Best Costume award, thank you very much. That's good, because I got green makeup on everything. Pics are on my Facebook site, for those inclined to see a bald, green Brian. I never saw any aliens, but I got to see the famous A'Le'Inn, featured so prominently in the X-Files, among other Sci-fi favorites. What a great race... I'll be back next year for sure!
Saturday, August 1, 2009
The Wrong Miracle, Part 1
“Today has another heat warning,” I said absently over my morning coffee. “It will top 113 degrees again.”
My wife grunted, but did not take her eyes from her magazine.
“There’s a funny article here about a guy in Sweden…” I began, but I trailed off. I did not notice when I stopped reading aloud. My wife, of course, had not heard me even begin. She had long ago, and wisely at that, learned to tune out whenever I was speaking, which was constant. My eyes burned through the printed words again and again obsessively.
Benumbed fingers dropped my coffee mug with a clank. My hands shook with agitation and the newspaper they held shivered. I noticed none of this, nor the raised, inquiring eyebrow of my wife. Quickly, almost greedily, I reread the article yet again that had my heart fluttering with excitement, and made my brain sweat with wonder and possibility.
“Something interesting?” my wife asked blandly, returning to her own breakfast musings.
“What?” I blurted a bit too sharply. “Uh, no, honey. Nothing new to report.”
My mind raced. How could I get a piece of this article I had just read? There was no chance, none at all. What happened in Sweden to that man, why, it could never happen in the Las Vegas valley in July. Whether I liked it or not, I was not in a gambling town, and had to think of a way to improve my odds.
“Honey, I need to go on a hike today.”
“Sure,” she answered as she drizzled honey across her scone. “Where are we going?”
“Oh, not we,” I corrected anxiously. “Me. I am going to, uh, to Mt. Charleston. Yes. I am going to climb Mt. Charleston today.”
Finally my wife set aside her scone to regard me fully. “Didn’t you say it is over sixteen miles round trip to the peak?”
“Yes.”
“And it’s twelve thousand feet.”
“Yes.”
“And you plan on getting started this late? With no preparation at all?”
I swallowed and answered with a careful, “Yes.”
“And it’s going to be 45 degrees C today?”
“That about sums it up!” I concluded cheerily. “I’ll see you when I get back!”
Her raised eyebrow never lowered to match its partner. “Are you crazy or just stupid? Or are you suffering from the heat already? You are sweating and… are you shaking?”
“No no no,” I dismissed. “I’m fine. Just excited, see. It will be cooler up in the mountains. You said you had some shopping to do, so take my credit card. Take all of them! I’ll be back tonight with pictures as proof.”
So I hit the road. My preparations took mere minutes because I always have a hiking backpack ready to go. In it I store numerous safety and survival gear in case of emergencies, and require only a quick filling of the water bottles. Usually I throw in a couple of granola bars and I’m good. For this trip, however, I brought along condoms.
Yes, condoms. Yet this was not some extra-marital tryst. This was a hope, a prayer, for history to repeat itself. I was desperate for a miracle on Mt. Charleston, a miracle that had just occurred in Sweden. I had studied the newspaper article so closely that I could see it in my head even as I drove.
"Police in central Sweden are on the hunt for a gang of tattooed women who sexually molested a 50-year-old man as he was riding by on his bicycle. The incident took place on July 8th as the man was cycling down Vintergatan in central Örebro.
"The girls ran up to him and pulled the bicycle down so he fell,” Örebro police spokesperson Annika Haaster told the newspaper. As the man was lying on the ground, the women proceeded to pull off his trousers and underwear and molest him sexually before fleeing the scene. According to police, the 50-year-old was not otherwise beaten or physically assaulted by the gang of five tattooed girls."
Now really, who wants to live life thinking, ‘I should have…’? I was going to do everything possible to ensure that I was sexually molested by a Swedish girl gang. Sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. This was why I brought my camera, of course. None of my guy friends would believe me otherwise.
Mt. Charleston is just northwest of Las Vegas and, amazingly, gets enough snow in the winter to have a ski run. The base of the mountain is surrounded by dramatic, pretty ridges with ample hiking at moderate temperatures. Just getting there is rather unique, actually. The highway is a straight shot from the bowels of the Mojave Desert right up to the ridges, so that within a fifteen minute drive you ascend, almost escalator-like, some 4,000 feet. From limitless brown dirt and desolation to occasional cholla cactus and horse skeletons to scattered scrub to stunted piñon pines to actual evergreen forest. This change in vegetation coincides with the raising of the elevation, and the heat eases at the same pace. Most people would not notice this because they are in an air-conditioned car. But with my open Jeep, named Lola, I could feel the overlapping layers of heat easing their grip over the blasted land.
I parked Lola and stared up at the ridge before me. Cathedral Rock, Echo Canyon, and Mummy Mountain were the names of the geographic features here. A blanket of greenery covered the cliffs and slopes, providing plenty of shelter for wild animals and, hopefully, wild women. I slung my backpack on and reviewed the maps and trail guides. The South Loop ascent of Mt. Charleston was accessible from the much more popular Cathedral Rock trail. I thought this was a good start: much more potential victims for a gang of feral females, yet still plenty of places to hide. There was a network of trails crisscrossing down in the meadows near the parking lot.
The trails are extremely well groomed and highly trafficked. They pass cleanly through a fan-shaped meadow that is, in fact, an avalanche chute. This angled fan of land is a stark contrast to the evergreen-clad ridges. It was filled with the skinny, ramrod-straight trunks of aspen. Their tiny leaves of brilliant yellow shivered in the breeze and reflected on the white of the trunks. These were Quaking Aspen, called such because they always look like they are shaking in an earthquake.
A beautiful area, to be sure, but frustratingly unlabeled and girl gang free. It was too hot here for a realistically comfortable molestation. I wandered, passing half a dozen crossroads leading to several destinations, yet not one was marked with a sign. So before I knew it, I was halfway up Cathedral Rock where I happened to know there were no more intersecting trails. I passed dozens of hikers, including parents with small children, and realized how futile my goals were here. I had to descend back to the parking lot, unmolested and annoyed. That wasted forty-five minutes!
So I needed a plan. How to maximize my chances of abduction? I needed to be alone and in the woods. Well, these hills were crawling with families, so I had to go higher. Going higher meant discarding the easier Cathedral Rock and Echo Canyon trails. I had to ascend the South Loop, which ultimately leads to Mt. Charleston.
And so I climbed. And climbed. The South Loop Trailhead begins steeply and launches an assault on a huge ridge overshadowing the impressive Echo Canyon. The switchbacks began immediately, wherein a southerly incline sharply turns over on itself into a northerly incline. The trail zigzagged up a thousand grueling feet before I realized the futility of my hopes. It was far too steep for any kind of attack. So onward I plodded, knowing that at the top of the ridge was a huge meadow that provided my one, last hope for fantastic, aroused abduction.
The heat was tolerable, though my back dripped sweat from beneath my backpack. I slogged from one switchback to another, and slowly rose higher and higher. I was panting from the lack of oxygen by 9,000 feet, and about to write off the whole adventure when I finally, finally topped the ridge. Here a flower-filled meadow spread out along the saddle that connected the two mountain peaks of the ridge: little Mt. Griffith and big Mt. Charleston. The saddle was, in essence, a four-mile bridge between the two. It sloped to my left in a decline that swept all the way down to the dead brown dirt of the Mojave. I could see Death Valley clearly down there in the distance. On my right was a jagged series of cliffs, the tops decorated with the gnarled, gripping roots of Bristlecone Pine.
I paused a moment to admire the stands of Bristlecone Pine. Amazingly, these were the oldest living things in the world, many having been alive before the Pharaohs ruled Egypt. They lived only at the extreme top of the tree line, where few things could survive, between 10,000 and 11,000 feet. Harsh winds swept over them constantly, twisting their trunks into bizarre caricatures of trees. Unbeknownst to most people, the oldest living thing on the planet earth lived near Las Vegas. One particular Bristlecone Pine, named Prometheus, was 5,000 years old when someone cut him down in 1964. The current record holder, Methuselah, is some 4,800 years old and living on the border between California and Nevada. The actual location is a secret to prevent trophy-seekers from slaughtering him, too.
Hundreds of fat dragonflies buzzed in swarms over the little alpine wildflowers. Small yellow flowers carpeted the land in some areas, whereas in others there were huge patches of green scrub. The breeze was refreshing and the temperatures were most pleasant. If ever there was a spot to be sexually overwhelmed by Swedish babes, this was it.
My wife grunted, but did not take her eyes from her magazine.
“There’s a funny article here about a guy in Sweden…” I began, but I trailed off. I did not notice when I stopped reading aloud. My wife, of course, had not heard me even begin. She had long ago, and wisely at that, learned to tune out whenever I was speaking, which was constant. My eyes burned through the printed words again and again obsessively.
Benumbed fingers dropped my coffee mug with a clank. My hands shook with agitation and the newspaper they held shivered. I noticed none of this, nor the raised, inquiring eyebrow of my wife. Quickly, almost greedily, I reread the article yet again that had my heart fluttering with excitement, and made my brain sweat with wonder and possibility.
“Something interesting?” my wife asked blandly, returning to her own breakfast musings.
“What?” I blurted a bit too sharply. “Uh, no, honey. Nothing new to report.”
My mind raced. How could I get a piece of this article I had just read? There was no chance, none at all. What happened in Sweden to that man, why, it could never happen in the Las Vegas valley in July. Whether I liked it or not, I was not in a gambling town, and had to think of a way to improve my odds.
“Honey, I need to go on a hike today.”
“Sure,” she answered as she drizzled honey across her scone. “Where are we going?”
“Oh, not we,” I corrected anxiously. “Me. I am going to, uh, to Mt. Charleston. Yes. I am going to climb Mt. Charleston today.”
Finally my wife set aside her scone to regard me fully. “Didn’t you say it is over sixteen miles round trip to the peak?”
“Yes.”
“And it’s twelve thousand feet.”
“Yes.”
“And you plan on getting started this late? With no preparation at all?”
I swallowed and answered with a careful, “Yes.”
“And it’s going to be 45 degrees C today?”
“That about sums it up!” I concluded cheerily. “I’ll see you when I get back!”
Her raised eyebrow never lowered to match its partner. “Are you crazy or just stupid? Or are you suffering from the heat already? You are sweating and… are you shaking?”
“No no no,” I dismissed. “I’m fine. Just excited, see. It will be cooler up in the mountains. You said you had some shopping to do, so take my credit card. Take all of them! I’ll be back tonight with pictures as proof.”
So I hit the road. My preparations took mere minutes because I always have a hiking backpack ready to go. In it I store numerous safety and survival gear in case of emergencies, and require only a quick filling of the water bottles. Usually I throw in a couple of granola bars and I’m good. For this trip, however, I brought along condoms.
Yes, condoms. Yet this was not some extra-marital tryst. This was a hope, a prayer, for history to repeat itself. I was desperate for a miracle on Mt. Charleston, a miracle that had just occurred in Sweden. I had studied the newspaper article so closely that I could see it in my head even as I drove.
"Police in central Sweden are on the hunt for a gang of tattooed women who sexually molested a 50-year-old man as he was riding by on his bicycle. The incident took place on July 8th as the man was cycling down Vintergatan in central Örebro.
"The girls ran up to him and pulled the bicycle down so he fell,” Örebro police spokesperson Annika Haaster told the newspaper. As the man was lying on the ground, the women proceeded to pull off his trousers and underwear and molest him sexually before fleeing the scene. According to police, the 50-year-old was not otherwise beaten or physically assaulted by the gang of five tattooed girls."
Now really, who wants to live life thinking, ‘I should have…’? I was going to do everything possible to ensure that I was sexually molested by a Swedish girl gang. Sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. This was why I brought my camera, of course. None of my guy friends would believe me otherwise.
Mt. Charleston is just northwest of Las Vegas and, amazingly, gets enough snow in the winter to have a ski run. The base of the mountain is surrounded by dramatic, pretty ridges with ample hiking at moderate temperatures. Just getting there is rather unique, actually. The highway is a straight shot from the bowels of the Mojave Desert right up to the ridges, so that within a fifteen minute drive you ascend, almost escalator-like, some 4,000 feet. From limitless brown dirt and desolation to occasional cholla cactus and horse skeletons to scattered scrub to stunted piñon pines to actual evergreen forest. This change in vegetation coincides with the raising of the elevation, and the heat eases at the same pace. Most people would not notice this because they are in an air-conditioned car. But with my open Jeep, named Lola, I could feel the overlapping layers of heat easing their grip over the blasted land.
I parked Lola and stared up at the ridge before me. Cathedral Rock, Echo Canyon, and Mummy Mountain were the names of the geographic features here. A blanket of greenery covered the cliffs and slopes, providing plenty of shelter for wild animals and, hopefully, wild women. I slung my backpack on and reviewed the maps and trail guides. The South Loop ascent of Mt. Charleston was accessible from the much more popular Cathedral Rock trail. I thought this was a good start: much more potential victims for a gang of feral females, yet still plenty of places to hide. There was a network of trails crisscrossing down in the meadows near the parking lot.
The trails are extremely well groomed and highly trafficked. They pass cleanly through a fan-shaped meadow that is, in fact, an avalanche chute. This angled fan of land is a stark contrast to the evergreen-clad ridges. It was filled with the skinny, ramrod-straight trunks of aspen. Their tiny leaves of brilliant yellow shivered in the breeze and reflected on the white of the trunks. These were Quaking Aspen, called such because they always look like they are shaking in an earthquake.
A beautiful area, to be sure, but frustratingly unlabeled and girl gang free. It was too hot here for a realistically comfortable molestation. I wandered, passing half a dozen crossroads leading to several destinations, yet not one was marked with a sign. So before I knew it, I was halfway up Cathedral Rock where I happened to know there were no more intersecting trails. I passed dozens of hikers, including parents with small children, and realized how futile my goals were here. I had to descend back to the parking lot, unmolested and annoyed. That wasted forty-five minutes!
So I needed a plan. How to maximize my chances of abduction? I needed to be alone and in the woods. Well, these hills were crawling with families, so I had to go higher. Going higher meant discarding the easier Cathedral Rock and Echo Canyon trails. I had to ascend the South Loop, which ultimately leads to Mt. Charleston.
And so I climbed. And climbed. The South Loop Trailhead begins steeply and launches an assault on a huge ridge overshadowing the impressive Echo Canyon. The switchbacks began immediately, wherein a southerly incline sharply turns over on itself into a northerly incline. The trail zigzagged up a thousand grueling feet before I realized the futility of my hopes. It was far too steep for any kind of attack. So onward I plodded, knowing that at the top of the ridge was a huge meadow that provided my one, last hope for fantastic, aroused abduction.
The heat was tolerable, though my back dripped sweat from beneath my backpack. I slogged from one switchback to another, and slowly rose higher and higher. I was panting from the lack of oxygen by 9,000 feet, and about to write off the whole adventure when I finally, finally topped the ridge. Here a flower-filled meadow spread out along the saddle that connected the two mountain peaks of the ridge: little Mt. Griffith and big Mt. Charleston. The saddle was, in essence, a four-mile bridge between the two. It sloped to my left in a decline that swept all the way down to the dead brown dirt of the Mojave. I could see Death Valley clearly down there in the distance. On my right was a jagged series of cliffs, the tops decorated with the gnarled, gripping roots of Bristlecone Pine.
I paused a moment to admire the stands of Bristlecone Pine. Amazingly, these were the oldest living things in the world, many having been alive before the Pharaohs ruled Egypt. They lived only at the extreme top of the tree line, where few things could survive, between 10,000 and 11,000 feet. Harsh winds swept over them constantly, twisting their trunks into bizarre caricatures of trees. Unbeknownst to most people, the oldest living thing on the planet earth lived near Las Vegas. One particular Bristlecone Pine, named Prometheus, was 5,000 years old when someone cut him down in 1964. The current record holder, Methuselah, is some 4,800 years old and living on the border between California and Nevada. The actual location is a secret to prevent trophy-seekers from slaughtering him, too.
Hundreds of fat dragonflies buzzed in swarms over the little alpine wildflowers. Small yellow flowers carpeted the land in some areas, whereas in others there were huge patches of green scrub. The breeze was refreshing and the temperatures were most pleasant. If ever there was a spot to be sexually overwhelmed by Swedish babes, this was it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
