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!
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