SECTION TWO

Entry #0008: The Little Cabin in the Desert
10-22-2008


The journey took roughly three days of hard-driving and restless nights, and bad greasy fast food, but a lot of strong coffee and cold bottled water.

As I entered the old Valley I was so familiar with as a kid, I scanned the breathtaking expands, strewn with majestic Joshua trees, spindly yucca, bushy greasewoods, aromatic sagebrush, prickly cholla cacti, stout waterbarrel cacti, etc. Out here you’ll find rattlesnakes, scorpions, black widow spiders, roadrunners, crows, jackrabbits, coyotes, and those weirdly droning insects called cicadas. You'll see or hear them all if you've lived here long enough like I have. I could tell you stories about the dangerous desert wildlife and the treacherous flora -- but I’ll save that for a rainy day.

I came out to the desert in the middle of summer, nice and hot, when it was probably somewhere above 100° I imagine. But you get used to the heat here. I drove to the desert cabin that had been in my family for several decades, for vacation purposes. Up on the southern slope of the Valley, where a mildly majestic mountain range spans from east to west, is several thousands of acres of numerous little cabins, where many people in the city come to vacation, but some people actually live in them. These quaint cabins reside along several meandering, winding dirt roads you can easily get lost on, and if you don't have a large truck or SUV, the rocks and ruts in the road will damage the undercarriage of your vehicle quite easily.

Further down the slope a few miles resides the scattered residential area of the small desert town, whose real name I can't disclose, so we'll call it Mulvern, which is down in the main floor of the Valley, about one mile across from east to west. My little yellow cabin lies approximately eight miles up the vast slope from the little burg, whose population was approximately two-thousand something. Incidentally, my family used to live "down below," as people called it, where the big cities lie, on the other side of the mountains, and when I was a kid we used to vacation in this very cabin in the desert now and then.

But when I was ten years old, in 1966, we moved up to the high desert to live. So for the next ten years or so I lived here, where the whole majestic desert was my backyard, and its vast sweeping expanse was my stomping grounds. There were plenty of fun things to do here for a growing boy and his friends. Although dry and desolate in appearance, there was an inner beauty that can only be found when you open your heart to it.

The family had moved to a five-acre ranch property on Foothill Rd where a few hundred trees thrived; long rows of Cyprus and pine and elm. It was literally an oasis out here in the high desert. We even had a large vegetable garden out back. I was in fourth grade when I met the big-boned brawny kid who became my lifelong friend, Leo Stroud, who became my collaborator in various writings and webmaster of Bamblebrush.com, otherwise known as Leonardo J. Stroud. He’s the guy who made this blog possible on his site, along with "Strange Reports from Zones Unknown."

But when my brother and sister and I grew up, everyone split up and moved away. My parents moved to Oregon, after selling the big desert ranch property to somebody-or-other. I never paid attention to whom.

Enough of ancient history -- let's move on now . . .


File# 0009: A Place to Hide Out
10-24-2008


I almost got lost driving up through those meandering rocky, rutty roads, because essentially the whole area is a vast maze. I tried to remember landmarks, which are few and far between up here, like that colorful little cabins painted bright yellow, red, and blue. It was still here, but badly faded. There was also the old unpainted cabin, just plain wood, but recently someone had painted it an ugly avocado green. Yuck. Then there was the big boulder the size of an outhouse where the road curved around it.

Finally I found my family’s little yellow cabin. It's been about thirty years since I've seen it, or been in the Valley, as folks simply call it here. The paint is old and peeling, giving it a rustic look, but endearing nonetheless, for this place brings back memories.

Each of us kids had been given a key from Dad, so any of us can vacation in it whenever we wanted to. So I parked in the shabby carport, got out, climbed up the rickety porch, and thankfully the key still opened the front door. It was dark and dusty inside and smelled stale. First I pulled aside all the drapes and opened all the windows to air it out. I had a lot of cleaning to do, so I'll spare you the gory details.

At any rate, this is where I would stay for the duration, hiding out, but for how long, I had no idea. I didn't even know how this whole fiasco would be resolved, if ever.



Entry #0010: Undisclosed Address
10-26-2008


Area 57 (unlike Area 51, which the government claims does not exist) is essentially a really cool bomb shelter beneath this desert cabin; walls of gray cinderblock and ceiling of concrete. My Dad and his two brothers, Rodney and Clifford, built it in the mid-50s, during a time when the fear of nuclear war was at hand. So what appears to be a simple bright yellow cabin up near the foothills of a long mountain range to the south is a quaint cover for this top-secret underground bunker, or Area 57.

After I fled from Sioux Falls, where rampant threats abounded, I had my close friend that I confided in carefully to discreetly mail me boxes of important possessions, one by one, so not to arouse suspicion, but the only address I allowed was a P.O. Box number at the Post Office in Mulvern down in the Valley. For the time being, I couldn't afford giving out this address to anyone else, but that may change later when matters get back to normal -- if ever. I had to cut myself off from others for now. So for the first month I had to go down to the Post Office to get my boxes. Although it would have been more convenient to use my cabin address, I had to be cautious.

Unfortunately, I do get the usual annoying junk mail, addressed to the generic "Resident," and of course everybody in town received this crap. But when you're little P.O. Box is crammed with idiotic junk mail, that can be really annoying. Alright, since everybody and their dog uses e-mail, who needs snail mail anyway? Right? For this reason I'm considering canceling my little P.O. box at the Post Office sometime soon, before it attracts the wrong attention, namely those pesky pursuers who are wondering where the hell I ran off to.

Anyway, since I’m here in town incognito, I'm using an alias, the name I give people around Mulvern, so obviously I can't disclose it here, because my pursuers would easily track me down (if they’re reading this blog). Let's just say I'm using the pseudonym Bert Green around town. Also, when my friend in Sioux Fall ships the boxes to the Post Office here, he uses this alias.

The hard part about hiding out is not knowing who my enemies are. Perhaps if I knew which side of the law they were on, it might make a difference. Or were they covertly above the law? There have been corrupt governments in charge of certain nations, whose actions were completely immoral, and yet allowed by their own laws. Atrocities thrived, and people were severely oppressed, and yet such immoral deeds were lawful by the edicts of those corrupt nations. Is this possibly the case with our own United States? Yes, my research has uncovered certain forms of corruption has been caused by the hands of our own government, yet behind closed doors where the public can’t see any of it, except where a little bit here and there leaks out.

It seems to me that we live in a world gone mad!


Entry #0011: There’s No Place Like My Cabin Home
10-28-2008


I’m getting off track. Where was I?

Alright. Those boxes that I had to retrieve from the Post Office contained all my important books, videos, CDs, DVDs, magazines, a small TV set, a VCR, a DVD player, a camcorder, a radio, and various other items. And most important is my Dell computer, which could use some upgrades -- eventually. But this is the medium where I flesh out all my writing work, and submit my blogs, especially Zones Unknown and Area 57.

Carrying these items down the narrow staircase to the bunker below was not easy -- one item at a time, of course. Eventually I had gotten everything unpacked and set up, making a makeshift base of operations down here, and making a home of the whole place. Since the cabin was already furnished, I didn't have to worry about buying any furniture. This cabin is essentially like a small one-bedroom apartment. On the eastside is a ten-foot long wall and on one side is the kitchen area at the front of the cabin, and on the other side of the wall is the bedroom. On the west side is the living room. Against the back wall is a tiny bathroom just outside the bedroom door, but just inside the door is a small closet. There’s something significant about that I’ll explain later.

The rear door of the living room opens to a rectangular piece of ground that stretches about twelve feet back and surrounded by a ridge of dirt and rocks -- not exactly a fence. This was obviously left over dirt when they dug out and built the bunker. I'm surprised the cabin above didn't collapse when they tackled this arduous ordeal. Anyway, back here I use my barbecue grill to cook hot dogs or hamburgers or steaks, right on a makeshift patio, or a six-by-six area of flagstones. Behind this backyard spot is the electric water pump which pipes water from the Artesian well to the cabin. You'll see these Artesian well pumps at almost every property or homestead out here in the high desert, since the water runs freely in underground rivers beneath the desert’s surface. Beats that freaking city water!

Attached to the eastside of the cottage is a makeshift carport where my Chevy Blazer is parked. It only has a plywood wall facing east, a lattice partition to the rear, and a flimsy fiberglass roof supported by two thick poles. Real cheap job, Dad! There is a nice front porch, facing north, down into the Valley below where Mulvern lies, but I can turn my rickety wooden chair to the west at dusk to watch those spectacular sunsets, or to the east to watch those beautiful sunrises.

I‘ve set up two security cameras. One is on my front porch, cleverly hidden inside a little birdhouse that hangs from the porch ceiling, which scans the immediate area and the Valley below. And I’ve got another installed in my carport, hidden in a battered box in the back corner with one tiny hole for the lens--gotta keep my eye on my vehicle, you know. Both cameras can be accessed via my computer. While I'm sitting down in the bunker, I can watch the area above, say for any cars coming up the dirt road--or to see if someone is messing around in my carport. So far I've seen no one suspicious driving along the road, just residents or vacationers, but no one pulling into my private driveway. The cameras are just a safety measure. It satiates my flagrant paranoia.



Entry #0012: The Layout of Area 57
10-30-2008


I suppose you’re wondering how I access the mysterious Area 57 from the cabin above. Alright, in the bedroom is that little closet I mentioned. In here is not only hanging clothes and coats, but beneath a clever throw rug is the square wooden hatch that leads down the very steep concrete stairwell, entering a small anteroom, and then you face a large metal door bearing three heavy-duty deadbolts -- on the inside of course, to keep the riffraff out--if they’re smart enough to get this far, which they better not. Obviously I only bolt these when I’m down here, but when I leave the premises, I lock the door with three industrial strength padlocks, to thick for a bolt cutter.

After you enter through the metal door, there is a narrow corridor of cinderblock, and there are various rooms to either side. To the immediate right is my main station of operations, a tiny bathroom, and a small kitchenette. To the left is a storage room with old file cabinets (my Dad’s) and other miscellaneous crap, a pantry with dry and canned goods (which I stocked recently), then a large bedroom with four bunk beds, which would equal eight people. I'm not sure what my Dad and his brothers had in mind for who would end up being down here if the dreaded "A-bomb" ever hit. And it hasn’t yet. Thank God.

In my main operation station is a large wooden desk (which has been down here for ages) where my computer is, my radio, miscellaneous books, manila folders and other crap; items that demonstrate I’m in the middle of some research project for my Zones Unknown work. Against one wall to the left is two wide bookshelves where I put all my books, magazines, videos, DVDs, and CDs, etc. On a TV table rests the small portable TV near my desk, and beneath this on the floor sits my DVD player and VCR. I need both, of course. I know VCRs are going the way of the dinosaur, but then so are my old videos, but many of these are documentaries with important information for my research, the usual UFO, paranormal, and conspiratorial crap. Some of the videos are my interviews of various people who have valuable or even questionable information, and some of these individuals claimed that strange phenomenon had occurred to them. In Sioux Falls wherever I went I had my micro-recorder and camcorder handy; I’d never know if I would find some juicy morsel of information or run into some fascinating eyewitness -- or even some crackpot that just wanted attention. I had to learn to sort the loonies from the legitimate cases. But out here in the desert, so far I've had little luck. But then I‘ve only been here a couple months -- I haven’t searched for fascinating people yet for Zones Unknown -- I'm busy hiding out. But when you're a diligent paranormal researcher like me (yeah, right!) you have to be prepared, be careful, and be paranoid as hell.

To the right of my desk is a cork bulletin board with pieces of paper and sticky notes push-pinned to it, with important names, numbers, and addresses of sources and contacts and eyewitnesses and such, usernames and passwords, and other bits of useless information. Unfortunately, most of the people I had contacted live in the big Midwest, particularly around the Sioux Falls vicinity and South Dakota in general. One of these days I'll have to rip all those notes down and put new ones up, with info about people around the high desert area.

In a desk drawer I have my special cell phone that I purchased recently, since I had to throw my old one away -- too many undesirables had its number, especially my pursuers--plus it broke once when I threw it across the room after being put on hold for fifteen minutes to get my "nest egg" savings balance, then I got ruthlessly disconnected. Sheesh! So far the only person who know my new number is my old friend Leo Stroud -- and one other person, a special contact. I’ll explain about this mysterious individual later.

Anyway, as I learn to trust certain individuals, I may give this number to others--with caution. But sometimes I take my cell phone with me when I leave the cabin, just in case I need it -- for emergency purposes; if I get stranded somewhere in the middle of the desert and have to call for help. Or even find myself in the middle of hot pursuit by my ruthless enemies -- if they ever actually find me. You’ll never know.



Entry #0013: Happy Halloween, all you ghosts and ghouls out there!
10-31-2008


The first thing I wanna say today is you should go to the main page of the Bamblebrush site and click on "R. R. Stark," then click on "Spooky Stories", originally geared for Halloween buffs, but since a lot of people like Horror stories year-round, this is the place to catch up on all your creepy-crawly, bloodcurdling, eyeball-popping, ghost-streaking, werewolf-howling, scary tales of hideous, insidious, and ominous occurrences that go thump and bump in the freaking night!

Plus, in "Strange Reports from Zones Unknown" you'll find an eerie zombie article! Are zombies real -- or what? Read it and find out![1]

Yep, I've been cranking out Halloween material this last couple of weeks, while I sit down here in my station of operations in Area 57, my secret bunker hideaway, hiding out from those ghastly ghoulish goons in dark outfits -- wherever they may be.

Out here in the desert, at least in the residential areas up the slope and south of downtown Mulvern, and also some of the more scattered areas north, east, and west, essentially the whole Valley floor, you will find little trick-or-treaters tonight going house to house as they uphold the tradition of Halloween. Way up here in the vacation cabin district near the mountains, you won't find these little masquerading characters. So it'll be pretty lonely for me this Halloween. That's why I spend time cranking out all this Halloween oriented material, just like I did last year for Bamblebrush. While I stuff my face with Halloween candy I bought a few days ago, and wash it down with hot coffee. Plus on my VCR I’ve been watching old flicks like the original "Halloween," and an old favorite of mine, "Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein." Gotta celebrate somehow!

In the meantime, folks, have a creepy happy Halloween!

Bwooo-Hahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!


[1]Article: Zombies of the Living Dead


Entry #0014: My Personal Apocalypse
11-02-2008


Autumn is a great time for the high desert; not too hot, not too cold. A happy medium. Generally you get between 70° and 90° F in the daytime.

I enjoy long walks out here amidst the Joshuas, the yucca, the greasewood, the whining cicadas and howling coyotes, especially around dusk. I can watch the sun go down, and the stars come up. On days when it's really dry and windy, I stay inside the cabin. On a real windy day, dust fills the air here in the high desert. Quite often you'll see little whirlwinds spinning around the place, anywhere from the size of a bush to a large tree, if they’re pretty tall spinners. But I’ve seen even taller and bigger ones before! But the smaller ones were relatively harmless. As a kid I used to jump inside them as they whipped around with whirling dry leaves and debris and dust -- only to get the dust in my eyes and mouth. Kids can be stupid! I know I was!

It's so quiet here in the high desert compared to the cities, I feel as if I’m living in some kind of strange post-apocalyptic era where civilization has collapsed, where small bands of people group together against the pillaging radical militant survivalist, or perhaps where savage nuclear-altered mutants raid any and all small villages. Then there's the strange scenario where you’re hiding out in the desolate high desert from a mysterious unidentifiable enemy who’s searching for you -- and who’ll probably kill you if they catch you.

That's my plight. When you don't know exactly who your real enemy is, that can be scarier than the enemy who's obvious and in-your-face. At least you can see their face as they whack you. Reassuring, eh?

I'm still wondering who these unknown pursuers could be. Will they eventually find me? What will they do if they do catch me? Will they interrogate me, torture me, or just throw me in a cold damp cell and let me rot? Or will they bypass questioning me and just execute me? But if our own government is behind it, they might simply arrest me and throw me in jail, and I could get a good lawyer to help me out of this crazy mess. But I have a feeling this whole fiasco isn't that simple, that it’s far more complicated than that. There are corrupt forces at work here.

So I have to be careful while I remain in hiding. I'm not sure how my account is going to unfold as I await the inevitable out here in the serene desert. I have a feeling that serenity might not last too long.

Out here in the quiet desert where few people live, my imagination tends to run wild, because it's kind of fun to imagine that I'm surviving in weird post-apocalyptic times, after civilized society has crumbled to dust, leaving a lawless society in its wake, and unknown foes are lurking here and there, seeking you out. As I take my long walks and look out over the tranquil desert landscape where I quite often see nobody in sight, except occasionally, it sure seems this way. But then that's how writers think in order to create their crazy stories, by imagining yourself in a particular crazy situation. But when I had to abruptly leave Sioux Falls and flee to the windy, desolate desert, this has become my own personal Apocalypse. Everything ended for me, and now this is a new beginning.

It sure seems that some of these covert agents of the Unknown aren’t acting in the best interest of the law. Back in Sioux Falls where those scary incidents occurred, there was an element of lawlessness about them. But if this anonymous enemy did represent the US government, did this suggest a corrupt government? Or perhaps just some secret covert faction of it? One that believed it was above the law, or immune to the usual authorities? That was my fear. I could imagine who they might be, but I just didn't know for sure. And simply calling them dark strangers didn’t put a face on "them." I was in the dark.

When those dark-suited men that came to my door had threatened, "Your life as you know it is over," they weren’t kidding. Everything has totally changed now. Living in my own personal Apocalypse is intriguing on one hand, but it leaves me tense and paranoid on the other.



Entry #0015: In Reflection
11-05-2008


Yesterday evening, I sat on the porch of my yellow cabin, facing my wooden chair to the west as I watched the gorgeous sunset, drinking a mug of hot coffee. Unfortunately, I was not enjoying it very much because I was distracted.

You see, I've been reflecting on the whole strange series of ordeals that took place back in Sioux Falls. In the beginning "they" were just testing or prodding me. But that last incident, that auto accident, was a threat on my very life. It's obvious to me that someone had intentionally tried to snuff me out, but they failed. Or were they just trying to scare the holy shit out of me?

I have written several conspiratorial articles within the last few years, and I’m pretty sure that one or more of them hit a nerve. I’m pretty sure there was some truth that somebody didn't want revealed to the masses. I wonder how many other journalists, reporters, or investigators were being harassed, some of which may have vanished without a trace, or were even murdered. Or did some of them get smart and hide out like me?

They say that life can be stranger than fiction, which may be true. But sometimes how can you tell which is facts and which is fiction? It's not everyday that you meet someone who is running or hiding from unknown malevolent individuals who are out to do you harm, or causes you to change your life around radically, like I've had to do.  You may find what I’ve been writing hard to believe in what I call Chronicles from Area 57, and that's up to you to decide. There was once a famous man named Robert LeRoy Ripley, who coined the famous phrase, "Believe it or not."

Enough said!


Contents | « Section 1 | Section 3 »
Area 57 Main