About 'edward waters college'|...maintain a school, there were regular town subscriptions to support that college in Cambridge, Massachusetts to which they looked for their future ministers...
Chapter One: Diary entry---September 15th: the Effect. My name is Kelvin Atwater, and I can confirm there are no coincidences. I read something and something comes of it. I get a job and I learn it becomes a predecessor to some important job or task in the future. I see events and they seem to be related; I'm guided, like there's some controller out there, some staged play, and we're the actors. Yes, I believe in God, and in Christ. Call me crazy, therefore, but I know He is out there in-charge, and in a way, I'm grateful, because I haven't a clue about so many things, often-enough, and someone must help me to see the forest for all those trees. I'm too-often overwhelmed, and this effect we speak-of here is the very definition of overwhelming. So, then, I begin with the cause of this effect, and I thank God for giving us this opportunity to prove ourselves worthy of His loving kindness through His provision: His "daily bread" during our hours of greatest trial. I read the words years ago, and they seemed to suggest some kind of anomalous burst of cosmic energy. The article describes a wave of energy emanating from a distant star: some event, some explosion, generated a vast wave of radiation. It happened sometime in the 1960's, I believe, and with our low-technology capabilities of the day, few noticed. The burst, however, was extraordinary, highly energetic, and as a lover of science, my eyes were drawn to the article. It was written much like prose and full of adventure, and it seemed to capture my imagination at the time. It brings to recollection a Star Trek movie, Sulu at command, and a great energy wave approaching, an explosion of planetary extent from a foolish Klingon attempt at controlling God's power. Why would this capture my imagination so? I couldn't possibly know: no, not then. The time was not quite right. Still, the article describe a wave, vast and unimaginable in energy content, sweeping across our solar system, much like a giant wave hitting the shores of Northern California during the great Pacific storms of winter. Orbiting machines picked it up, some buzzed-out, some fuzzed-out, some winked-out, but nobody on Earth really noticed it. We were protected. Now, that article stands-out as Cause 1 of Tyndall, as I've come to call it. It's my love of ornithology, I suppose, that brought the name to bear: Tyndall effect refers to a refraction of light upon a birds feathers, bending it into a bluish fluorescence (akin to a prism), and it's caused by the way the protein coating of the feathers bends the light. It was just an increment of information: one of those seemingly unrelated tidbits of information, which were certainly related, but who could know at that time? The other tidbit came-about as I perused the news on the Internet: sunspots. Those long-missed episodes of solar outbursts were finally ending. Some of the radio buffs complained about their absence, saying ham radio simply wasn't up to snuff, but here they came. The eleven year cycles, long missed, were finally beginning, and this one was going to be a show-stopper. Killer electrons, words contained in the title of a science article I'd read some years before (yet another tidbit) and certainly quite relevant, would certainly be messing up power grids and communication satellites, like little gremlins at play. The term "coronal mass ejection" was mentioned in my hearing recently, along with a date in the mid-1800's, a date I couldn't quite remember at the time, and yet it was a date I was destined to remember vividly. Right, then: all things were brought to bear. All the information was in my brain, and I had only the need of time and effect to make the connections. ---------------------- The rain started as the sun set---a cold rain upon existing snow upon mud---from a cold grey April Northern Arizona sky---and most unwelcome given all the mud already present. (I emphasize the mud: that one element which I can never quite tolerate.) The scud, fractured clouds, black and shattered, flew across the sky from the Southwest, with a backdrop of convulsing, seething cloud shields above in various layers: upper atmospheric inversions. There would be snow later, but it would be on-top of that red muddy snot, and that meant a living hell for everyone out here. A growl of thunder to the Northeast suggested a freezing level indeed existed above us, as there are meteorological theories that upper-air freezing levels are needed for thunder, and temperature inversions made sense as they outlined the cloud layers flowing like a river overhead. It would be a long night of raindrops on the roof of the trailer, accompanied by the occasional gust of heavy wind from downdrafts which frequent any thunderstorm here. My love of meteorology showed in my thoughts and observations of the sky. Did I mention my intolerance for mud? I hate mud: it gets on shoes, tracks on floors, gets on dogs, on cats, on their feet, on the chairs. It finds the bed, the rugs, coats tires, and after all that it high-centers vehicles normally unwavering in the throes of Winter snow or rocky roads. Still, I learned to live with it, as I learned live with the flu. And I truly hate the flu! Given the weather, I thought nothing of the growls of thunder. Why would I? Rather, my love of meteorology only begged it to continue and to give us a show. Therefore, in my fitful sleep, the thunder did not immediately alarm me. Rather, it merely attenuated me in a semi-dozing state. I lay there and listened as I woke gradually to the reverberating rasps of an odd machine-like sound, not unlike thunder, but not thunder, either. The radio-clock blared 1:02 A.M. as I glanced to my right. The sleepy haze vanished as my senses snapped into place; I am normally alert at the drip of water or the rustle of wind in the Pinions, but in this case, my alert level went beyond normal limits. Adrenalin surged. There was an odd light, an oozing of some bluish phosphorescent glaze through the fog-glazed windows of the trailer. It was, as I recollected from my college physics and experiences with handheld UV lamps, shortwave light: UV. But it was more maroon than UV. It was ultra ultra-violet, a wavelength just short of invisible to human eyes. That was my first impression as I started-up in bed. The thunder was continuous, reverberating---as I suggested---but the reverberations were more than just echoes: they were rather piercing, if that's the right word, and they drove me up to sit on my hands. I looked over to my wife; her own eyes were open wide in the odd light. "What is going on" she gasped from her interrupted sleep. "No clue...I'm still trying to gather myself up...gimme a moment." I pulled-on some warmer sweats, struggling, as did she, to right ourselves in bed. This was "weird, very weird" as I went mumbling. As I started to move more towards the foot of the bed, to descend to the kitchenette area, the feeling of falling became clearly evident. "Do you feel odd? Like, dizzy or something?" I quietly asked. "I thought it was just my sinuses or allergy. I feel it, what the heck is goin' on!" Lydia declared, with some alarm in her voice. The hair on my neck rose high and the goose bumps covered me. I set a foot on the floor, but did not quite find it. It was like it was there, but there was no weight. The bile rose in my throat. My arms waived, my legs waived, and I was suspended mid-air. I felt like I was on that horrible roller coaster at Knott's Berry Farm, the one that always made me sick as we pulled zero G's. All the while, the rolling, oscillating thunder, if that's what one could call it, continued and grew louder; the maroon light oozed through the windows and the thunder and the falling feeling all seemed to rise to crescendo. Then, in an instant, there was absolute silence. I hit the floor with a thud, stressing a knee. All had suddenly stopped, but my brain reverberated from the cacophony. I instantly felt fine again, nausea-wise. Through the dead quiet, bright sunlight flooded-in. Sunlight? At 1 A.M., or so said the clock by the bed. "Is that the sun?" I rhetorically asked, amazed. Lydia peered out the window, through the torn curtains. "Yep. And I'm not making much sense of this...are you?" "No...I don't understand anything right now." I looked at the electronic thermometer. The night before, it was about 42 degrees F., and stuck at that temperature as the rain started falling. The temperature now read 70 F. That simply wasn't possible. It rose to 71 F. as I watched. It made no sense. I glanced at the cell phone, just to register the time: 1:04 A.M. But -- There was no service, and the Wilson antenna booster was plugged-in, glowing...orange...no service. No service? I've not seen that before. "Honey, there's no cell phone service...check yours -- do you have any?" Lydia reached around grunting, looked, and said "uh, no...justa moment" She sent a text to her daughter, and it came-back unable to send. I pulled-on my old sneakers, my brown Outback jacket, and walked-out to a balmy day. The jacket came-off quickly: It was warm, no...it was hot, darn hot, like the middle of Summer here. The sun shone brightly on the patches of wet snow remaining around our trailer, and what little snow was there lay melting with a wild fervor. I grabbed my brown leather hat as a sun shield, as it my habit in the hot days of summer at 6,200 feet on the Coconino Plateau. I saw snow to a point, then solid red clay soil, with the snow ending abruptly at that point. I looked at the lava ridge to the South, that rugged hint of days long ago when the earth wasn't so friendly, and it seemed oddly green: much more verdant than I remembered it ever being. I walked to the edge of what seemed the "snow/mud boundary," and there was an odd, brownish/blackish layer in the red clay soil, about a half inch thick. It was hard...rock hard, and it was glass-like. I recognized it: obsidian. It ran as a single line all along the snow/soil boundary, to my left and to my right. I looked about and saw the solar panels, the solar shed, the tool shed, the trailers, the backhoe, the F150, the chicken runs, the corral; Everything was as I remembered, even the deeply rutted, ugly brown muddy driveway leading-into our compound, now steaming in the hot sun. The limits of the snow, no matter where I walked, were bounded by this thin crust of obsidian. It was as though a pen had circumscribed us, encompassing us in solid obsidian ink. It was a very wide circle, perhaps an acre or more, and it ran all around our compound, well to the North, East, South, and West. "What makes obsidian?" I thought? "Where have you read that? Heat, is that it? Yes, high heat. That's it!" It's volcanic glass, and it forms, I thought, from rapid, hot action on sand, or soil, or something like that, and very rapid cooling. I broke a piece with some loose limestone. It shattered easily, and created that typical sharp shard-like quality of obsidian. It made great arrows for the Native Americans, as I recalled reading. I walked as far as I could, and noted another oddity: I did not see the fence that surrounded the local watering hole, or tank. Then I realized I didn't see the tank. I didn't see the property marker. I didn't see any of it. I grew more curious, or panicked, or perhaps dazed is a better word. "Something odd, very, very odd has occurred," I heard in my mind over and over...something has happened...I continued to take-in all the changes, all the extraordinary things happening. They hit me like waves as I continued walking. I felt out-of-touch, almost drunk, disbelieving. Lydia called: "Kelvin!" and her voice was filled with panic. I headed back to the trailer. I was running without realizing it, and I reached the trailer quickly, out-of-breath. She seemed wild with agitation. "Who are they?" I looked where she pointed. I saw a small group of people, short, oddly dressed, gaping at us: Again, very odd, as I hardly ever see people out here, especially on-foot. We were right-up-against state land, so few would wander around here, unless they were poachers. I didn't quite know, of course, who they were nor could I recognize anything of their faces, certainly not at this distance. They were simply a small group of men, dressed roguishly, perhaps in some "transient" clothing, several without shirts. They ran off quickly when they saw us watching them, leaving with some unrecognizable shouts as they ran. Chapter Two: Diary entry---September 16th: : Awakening. We spent the day wandering about aimlessly. There was nothing else to do. My calls went unconnected, without even a "no service" kind of recording. The phones just indicated "no service" and that was that. We could not call, we could not text, and our internet connection was "DNS server unavailable." The booster antenna continued to glow a red color indicating no service. As I walked about, I remembered the words of Sherlock Holmes in one of his adventures. They went something like this: "[ -- When one is presented with a problem having no apparent solution, one first rules-out all possibilities. Whatever is left, however improbable, must therefore be the correct solution -- ]" I stopped wondering where we were and my mind wondered now "when" we were. This was a displacement, a time-space displacement akin to the fantasy Arthurian novels that Lydia always loves to read. We had gone to sleep and we had awakened sometime other than our own, and I had no logical explanations for this. I only know there was an odd effect the night before, high energy was present, odd reverberations like thunder were occurring, and we'd slipped from night to day in an instant. All around us changed, but we remained the same. I wished at that moment I still had my UCLA Physics 6B notes on Einstein's Hamiltonian Equation from his Theories on Relativity. Somehow, that applied here. I also remembered there were sunspots "yesterday," really severe ones, after years of unusual quiet. So then, as I framed my thoughts and theories, Lydia framed hers as well, and we began. "I have a theory -- " I started. "Time shift, right?" she finished, adding, "like Back to the Future." I was surprised that she thought as I did. "Yes, or perhaps like H.G. Wells, but without the Time Machine," I completed. "I can't explain it, but we are sometime other than the time we know. We've got to stop and think survival now. We are either in the past or the future. The future's more probable, as time moves forwards, not backwards. But if it's the past -- however improbable -- then we've got a real problem." "Like Back to the Future -- " she said again. "Past means we've got stuff that hasn't been invented yet. Past means there are people here who may not like us, like those men we saw this morning. I'm scared, Kelvin -- what are we going to do?" Again, Lydia shared my thoughts intuitively, and she was right. If this is "past," then the peoples here, if historians are correct, are possibly the Navajo, or even "Pai" Indians. I remembered reading in a Western history book that "Pai" somehow became a word meaning "enemy" in Navajo." That can't be good. As a trail guide, I'd read that the Yavapai (People of the Soil, as I understood the translation from ancient Yuman) lived near this area, as did the Navajo. It was completely unclear who they might be, and how upset they might be at our "arrival." Could they alternately be Pai-Ute? They were a rather aggressive tribe towards the white man, as I recalled. Certainly, a famous Mountain Man named "Bill Williams" might attest to their behavior (they reportedly contributed to his demise in 1848). Our advantage, our technology, might just scare them off for a while, if that's what we were facing here. However, if it was a future time we were looking-at, then we should at least see remnants of our past. We should see fences, houses, rubble, or some evidence of technology. We had walked several miles, to where the neighbor's buildings should be, looking for dirt roads, or for twin tracks; we trudged out to the main road of 6 miles distance, searching for anything familiar, yet there was nothing. The Utah Juniper wood lasts for many years, and the fences built from it should be there. We saw no barbed wire. We simply saw nothing -- except for those footprints, leading up the lava ridge, from our visitors. I could follow them a while, but decided we needed to stay close to the compound. We had shelter, water, fuel, and electrical power, and these were sufficient for now. Water? Oh no! We had a cistern, and it was mostly full, maybe 1,800 out of 2,500 gallons, and that would last several months if we were very conservative. But then what: How would we get water? The aquifers are thousands of feet down here. Wells were unthinkable, even in modern times, without seven figures in US Dollars to drill-with. My mind ran to the other likely suspects for future problems: Food? Propane? Gasoline? Diesel? Weapons? Weapons? We had none. Food? We had a few weeks, at most. Gasoline? Well, where would we drive-to anyway. Diesel for the backhoe? Why would I need a backhoe now, anyway? My mind ran in a dozen directions. Lydia was pensive and quiet. We hugged frequently. We wondered: "past or future." We did this over and over. However improbable, a past solution began to make more sense, unless something to the contrary changed our minds. I'd need evidence of modern society somewhere, somehow, some burned-out hulk of an automobile, a remnant of a cell tower, rubble from buildings long since destroyed to make a dent in the "future" theory. Past was making sense, more and more. The verdant foliage suggested past as well. The desertification of our area had gone-on for a long time, and in the middle ages of North American history, I recall the Anasazi Indians ran upon a streak of very wet weather, a hundred years' worth, building their cities and assuming the wet climate would last. They were forced-out by the inevitable droughts that cycle in this state and invading tribes, and they seemed to just disappear. The Navajo were among their replacements: farming and hunter-gathering were their two chosen modes of survival, and these two modes served them very well until the White Man changed things. Well, the "when" leaned to "past," and now I needed to know precisely "when" we were. When is when? The question echoed. I searched for answers. There were none forthcoming. The skies, the sun, the stars, and the land offered no definitive clues. The evening of the first day came inevitably. Darkness fell, and I moved the clocks to the time I best reckoned from the sun and from the time of year. Night was falling fast and it was around 5:45 P.M. Twilight here lasts until around 7:00 P.M. on the shortening days of fall, in the September timeframe. There were no monsoonal flows, no suggestion of clouds, so it seemed close to the equinox, perhaps. The sun's angle from what I saw confirmed this, using a carpenter's angle as a measure, and the quickly-cooling evening temperatures only reinforced my beliefs. Mid-September was my best guess. I picked the honorary day of September 15th, yesterday, as our first day, and the clocks were set. Lydia concurred. It was "close-enough for the military," she'd say. I missed the radio most of all. We had our musical instruments: a violin and a flute for Lydia and an electric guitar for me with a decent 80 watt amplifier. We had a book of hymns from the church. I had a few music books and our memories of songs, as best we could remember them. I built a fire, knowing that those Pai, as I called them, would be back, possibly to investigate. The solar batteries were at full charge, thanks to a high sun, so I turned-on the compound lights. Lights and fire keep-away all kinds of threatening animals, and the two-legged variety should be no different. If I played my cards right, they'd see us as some kind of supernatural entity, something to fear, perhaps even to respect and to revere. We would have no problems surviving a little while here. It was that long-term survival, the cold winters, the lack of water in this desert landscape, and the paucity of food that kept the eyes open at night. The Bible was our only consolation, and with lack of other things to do, I read it well. All the methods of survival we needed were in That Book: Cisterns, slings, arrows, swords, spears, habergeons, shields, tunics, John the Baptist in his animal skins, seeds, honey, grasshoppers. Could I throw a stone at a hand's breadth and kill a giant? Could I shoot arrows with great skill, could I wield a sword, and how would I make one? How about a spear? I read how the Mexican lancers of the early Old West were formidable enemies. A man with a lance could easily kill anyone within reach of the weapon, and there was little defense, other than firearms, against a lance. The lance made sense. I could make one from a knife, a goodly piece of juniper, and some work. A sword was out-of-the-question: I had no forge, and I had no knowledge of how to forge steel, bronze, copper, or otherwise. Copper was here -- the azurites, malachites, and other greens in the soil told of its presence. Arrows were do-able. A bow of that juniper, some decent sinew-like substance for string, and some of that obsidian-like substance from around our compound would work just fine. I listened to Lydia's thoughts as I formed my own: we made a good team, and always had. Thoughts ran through our minds as we spoke. "How about some guitar, honey?" I suggested. Lydia smiled, so I drew-out the Ibarra and hooked-up the amplifier. I set up the amp outside on the porch, hooked to an extension, and I started to play some Clapton "Layla." The volume was down, pleasant, and the sounds made us feel a little more at-ease. "So who do you think they are -- those people out there?" asked Lydia. "I'm reckoning Navajo, or Hopi -- or maybe Pai. It's too difficult to tell. And I'm not getting too close to them figure it out right now. Prayer is going to work best." The Clapton changed to Eagles and Hotel California. The opening licks of the music echoed across the compound and I turned-on an overdrive to achieve a decent sound. As I did so, a scream erupted from nearby, to the East, across the compound, from a thicket of Utah Juniper. The hair raised on my back, my blood curdled, and my playing seized immediately. Lydia and I glared into the gathering darkness. It seemed to be a young voice, but we couldn't be sure. It seemed to be in distress. I assumed it was my playing, the sound of the overdrive on the guitar, which was simply too weird for the listener to bear or understand. We then glared at each other. "Okay, that's it," she murmured, as Lydia bolted for the door. "Right behind you." I gathered the guitar, amp, and we moved with a wild flurry inside. Harriet, our dog, stumbled in-front of us, sensing danger, almost tripping Lydia. The cats were already inside, as usual, asleep or cleaning themselves calmly. "Do you think the chickens are safe? " I asked. "God knows, I sure don't." answered Lydia. "They'll start clucking and Henry will crow at sunrise, so maybe it's best to coop them up for the night." "Consider it done." I quickly exited, ran across the drive under cover of gathering darkness, and latched the coop doors. The ducks will quack all night, and the geese will warn us of any approach: Chinese Geese are very territorial that way. There was no way to coop-up the turkeys. They'd have to be on their own in the fenced-in area. I hustled along and returned across the compound to the trailer. Turkeys, I wondered -- would make good food when the chips are down. "Thoughts, just thoughts," I muttered, as I raced back to the RV. "Okay, that's done. I think whoever that was must be way-scared and he ain't gonna come back any time soon," I suggested, reassuringly. "But Lydia, here's a thought: how are we gonna feed these birds." I bolted the trailer door shut. I hadn't really considered the animals and their welfare up until now. They were a normal part of our farming existence, and here one survived via hunting and gathering, not farming. "Well, how did they get fed before we had bags of feed? You grow it, you feed them." "Great," I retorted. "How do I grow corn or wheat without seed, in this soil, without water." Once again, I recalled the two modes of human survival throughout history: farm, or hunt and gather. "Great," I muttered to myself one last time. Lydia looked at me, probingly, and then let it go. There were far more questions than answers. We had feed enough for perhaps six weeks. The seeds in the feed were normally dead from processing. We had straw, which may have some wheat seed left, and we had alfalfa, which also might have some seed in it. But it was just too much for me. As with all such overwhelming circumstances I've faced in my life, I gave this one to God as best I could. The strategy always worked-out well before, so I used this one fact---that He always cares for me---as my best source of hope. Our music resumed inside, but it was quieter, and more of a Western flair: home on the range, first on guitar, then on violin, then in a poorly coordinated duet. I followed with other songs I knew from memory, songs I'd learned over the years. Lydia followed as best possible, and used a notation program to record the notes to the computer, so we could print it out later. "Our high tech stuff will help for a while, but we'll run out of ink, paper, and these modern machines will eventually die in this dust without parts" I sadly lamented, as I stopped playing. "Let's try to sleep. I'm ready for a glass of whisky." We drank a shot each, doled-out carefully for the days ahead, and we turned-in to sleep. Our first day was not too bad, but our feeling of dread kept us whispering and hugging all the night. The compound lights glowed, and the night was silent, except for normal coyote cries and an occasional set of hoots from a Great Horned Owl, somewhere in the distance. Morning came early as normal, with the glow of the early morning turning the inside of our sleeping loft soft purple. The clock glowed 4:30 A.M. I laid there in our bed as Lydia softly breathed and dreamed away and I contemplated things a bit as I prayed. I had no clue what the day would bring and what I'd do. I was still overwhelmed with thoughts, problems, and a multitude of solutions which might or might not work. Somehow, I'd dozed and woke to bright sunlight flooding the loft. 6:11 A.M. I kissed Lydia a gentle good morning and she opened her blue eyes and smiled. I rose and dressed and checked outside to find nothing amiss, and all as it should be. I heard chickens clucking and ducks quacking and geese honking and turkeys gobbling and an occasional "R--RR--R--RRRRRRRR" from Rocky, our Rhode Island rooster. The door was locked; I opened it, and walked-out to a bright warm sunny day, as it was yesterday. This would be a hot one, and I decided it might be nice to install the air cooler, then thought the better of it when I considered water: a swamp cooler needs water, and we've none. "We'll live with the fan" I thought to myself as I opened-up the nook under the trailer and released the hound -- Harriet. Half Rhodesian Ridgeback, half Queensland Healer, she took-off like a bolt of lightning into the juniper and pinion woodlands to care for her biological needs, in normal fashion. The cats went-out into the cat-run, with their fresh food and water. The poultry needed their normal routines: scraping dung from the shelves, egg-gathering, watering, and feeding. I noted the security lights were still on from the prior night and shut them off as I went-about my normal chores. The hens greedily accepted the 3-way scratch and cob, a mixture of oats and molasses, as did the turkeys. Lydia would be inside preparing some kind of breakfast, I surmised. My mouth watered at the thought of eggs cooked in butter, and perhaps some breaded chicken patties and potatoes. Oh, those potatoes -- they won't grow here -- how I shall miss potatoes, oh, and cabbage, oh, and salmon. There were so many nice things we could just run to the supermarket to purchase. They were all gone. Chapter Three: Diary entry---September 17th: First Contact That same scream erupted from just south of the compound. I spotted Harriet, our dog, joyfully chasing-after a dark thin-figured darkish male human, running full force and continuing to scream all the way. He stumbled, then he stopped. The dwarfed Whipple Cholla cactus had its way with his foot. The screams went unabated and I could only stare for several moments as Harriet ran about him, excited and thrilled to have a visitor. The visitor was clearly not thrilled, and made every effort to move, but his foot-full of cactus spines was not going to allow him to move very quickly. He swatted and yelled to no avail. Harriet was at her sport, herding! I looked toward the trailer, and Lydia was outside already, staring at the boy. She approached him quickly, as I stood amazed, and the boy could only stop and hold-out an arm with some kind of crude weapon. It appeared as a short spear, or a knife. I started in the boy's direction as Lydia approached him. She'd always championed the injured one and was a natural mom, so this was just in her nature to think to help and befriend the poor young man. My hands were held out so he could see no weapons in them, a normal "anthropological" approach at a greeting of intended friendship. I called Harriet brusquely, and she responded by approaching me, wagging her tail wildly, and prancing-about with a stick she'd just picked-up, in normal Queensland Healer fashion. The man was young, very young, and perhaps'"I thought to myself '" in his teens. "Lydia, show him your empty hands!" I shouted. I stopped, went to the trailer, and leashed Harriet. If this fellow was going to become violent, Harriet might be a good deterrent to any foolish behavior on the young man's part. I saw his vest of wood sticks, colorful and artistic, very well made, bare arms, and long dark hair: clearly, American Native Indian. Could he be Navajo? I could only wonder. Lydia was much closer to the young man than I, and she had her hands out, reassuring her in gentle mommy voice "awww -- did you get hurt? That's gotta hurt -- lemme help you -- okay." She kept soothing him with her gentle voice and smile. I approached with Harriet and the young man glared and held the weapon higher. I smiled and held-out the leash and yanked it. The dog stopped short and whimpered gently; the boy looked awestruck; I controlled the beast, and the boy knew it. He was not so scared as he was in pain and confusion at the moment, and we approached carefully, sounding caring voices and offering our best Christian foot forward. Lydia had the forethought to have brought the tweezers and hemostats in her pocket, as she knew the terrain, the foliage, and (of course) the cacti. She'd been watching and saw the whole fracas unfolding. She knew all too well how painful those dwarf cholla cacti could be. Of course, she even had the spray-on Novacaine/Bactine, in typical mom fashion. "Careful, hun -- watch him and keep eye contact." "I know -- let me keep talking to him." Lydia was in her best form, full motherhood erupting, full protection mechanism at play, and she walked up to this young man with the brandished weapon, took it right out of his hand, and tossed it aside. She took that hand that held the weapon and brought him to the ground gently, taking-out her instruments to work on his bristle-covered foot. "That's gotta hurt" She sprayed a little of the numbing solution and waited a moment. The young man mumbled words we couldn't quite understand, of course, looked fierce and frightened and awestruck, and his eyes were on Lydia and on Harriet and on me all at once. He was looking at us as though we were some kind of god. Oddly, it was a humbling experience for me. We certainly are and were no "gods." He suddenly smiled -- pointed to his bristle-covered foot, and said more odd words, with a gentle smile. They clearly meant -- "hey, it stopped hurting." Lydia pulled out a thorn with the tweezers. Out it came, and then another, and then another. All in all, there were an even 40 needles in this kid's foot. Clearly, he was young, he was about as dumbfounded as we were, and he motioned to Lydia for the tweezers. He took them from her hand, and eyed them closely. There were more odd words. He gave them back. He then looked at the hemostat. Lydia showed him how they could clamp shut and open with just one hand. He took them, trying them as well. His words, though odd, seemed to say "these are just amazing -- how did you make them?" He looked at me and grunted some words, and pointed to the dog. "Harriet" I stated slowly, articulating each syllable. I pointed to her again and said "Harr --- I ----et" carefully and slowly. He nodded -- "Hur-et" he mumbled. "Lord have mercy, " I exclaimed. "Lydia -- we just communicated. This kid's friendly and he's pretty darn smart." I replied with the only word I knew in Native American, and it was Pai: "Gamyu." I prayed he understood. Gamyu means "welcome" in old Pai language, and the Yuman language was mostly understood by all Pai tribes, irrespective of dialect. The boy looked at me. He smiled. He mumbled something I didn't have a chance of understanding. He smiled clearly and understood we wanted to communicate. He reached with one hand to touch Harriet, who was sniffing at him. Harriet licked his hand. "Pai" I clearly stated. The boy only looked at me. "Well, at least we have company, Lydia, " I shrugged. "He's a foot in the door with the rest of the tribal locals, I'd expect. I don't know where he belongs or what tribe he's from, but he's here and he's friendly, and that's a good start." "We should just call him Friday, like in Robinson Crusoe." Lydia shrugged her shoulders and looked at him and said, pointing to herself, "Ly-dia," and then pointed to me and said "Kel-vin," and pointed to the dog and said "Harr-iet." The boy looked a bit puzzled, then hesitated: "Ata Halne." He pointed at himself. "Ata Halne," Lydia repeated, and pointed again at herself saying "Ly-dia" smiling broadly. He repeated her moves, reiterating "Ata Halne". She was riding high here. She was communicating, and now we knew his name: Ata Halne, whatever that meant. The boy got up on both feet. He looked squarely at me and smiled. I held my hand out and took his and shook it firmly, smiling. We had an understanding. Then, unexpectedly, he stammered a weak "Thank you, " motioning to his foot and then to his chest with a hand to his heart. I looked incredulously at Lydia. "What! Did he just speak English? That cinches it. We're post-European time and he has met the white man, honey!" Lydia just smiled and shook her head and walked to him and hugged him, mommy fashion. "Are you all better now." The boy looked at me as she hugged him and smiled. Clearly, we were doing very well with our first encounter and with figuring things out. We let him hobble a bit and slowly walked him to our small trailer. We arrived finally and I sat a chair down outside the front door for him to sit. I sat, then stood up and pointed to him to do the same. He obeyed. I observed his feet -- perhaps a size 12 or so. I'm a size 13. I found my pair of rather poorly-fitting shoes, well-used white sneakers, which had seen far better days, and patted him on the shoulder as I placed them in his hands. He inspected them. He was curious about what they were, no doubt, and I gently took one from his hand, smiling and motioning to his left foot. With one finger raised, I said "watch," nodded and smiled, and placed this shoe on his foot. He pulled-back slightly as I raised his foot, but Lydia patted him on the shoulder, as I had done, and he allowed the shoe to slip-on. I cinched it with the laces. Ata Halne stood on the shoe and walked a bit, back and forth, making sounds like he was amazed. He pointed to the other shoe and then to his foot. He sat. I repeated the same process with his right foot now, the injured one, and he grimaced as it slid-over his arch. However, I cinched it in like fashion and he stood and began walking, then trotting, then running. He shook his head, pointed down, then smiled and pointed again. "Shoe," I said. I repeated the word several times, pointing. "Shoe!" he exclaimed. I bent down, placed my hands on the shoes of his feet, raised up, and said "yours." I raised my hands, as best I could, to suggest this was a gift. He began an odd dance, laughing, muttering in his language, and suddenly he began to run up and down the dirt driveway. "Haaaa" he yelled, "Haaaa," over and over. Clearly, this gift was a good one for him. Lydia and I couldn't stop laughing at his glee. We were all happy for a while, after several days of rather glum prospect. Reality, however, did sink-in. If this boy was a Pai boy, of some local Pai tribe, he had contact with the white man, that means that we were certainly post 1400, and with English spoken, and we were most likely in the late 1700's or better, as settlers to this area weren't frequent until then (possibly, this might be in the 1800's, after the "Homestead Act" went into-play). The white man changed things, and tended to deal treacherously with the tribes. We weren't to be trusted, as the invaders, and we could well end-up being handed our heads, literally. That gnawing feeling of where to get water and food kept creeping into my skull as well. Such thoughts fouled my mood a bit. Lydia sensed my somberness gathering. "We'll do alright. We have a friend, and he will help us. You just watch!" she declared. "So then," I queried, "When exactly are we -- dang, I wish I could nail the date range we're in, at least within a year or so." "It'll come," Lydia replied. "White men are here, and they have newspapers and knowledge of the date. We only need to head to Flagstaff and find-out." Lydia's comment hit me. Flagstaff. It was founded somewhere around in the late 1870's or early 1880's, and there certainly were settlers, loggers, and cattle ranchers here around then and'"certainly--well before. IF we could go to Flagstaff, somehow, following the highway route that Lydia and I know so well from here, we might just be able to find settlers and find answers. Ah, but how? Should we walk? I had enough gasoline in the F150 to get from there to here and back several times, but that's on an open highway, paved with asphalt, not via 4 wheel drive over rough and possibly un-drivable terrain. And how do we explain an F150 to an 1800's settler, assuming they don't shoot us first in blind fear! My mind began exploring the alternatives. We continued treating our guest to our hospitalities, including a glass of Coca Cola, which he tried, and then sneered-at. "Too sweet, I imagine," I glanced at Lydia. I poured-out half and filled it with water to dilute it 50/50. He tried again, and this time enjoyed it. Our friend and we enjoyed at least an hour or so together, with him sipping his watered-down cola and us just doing what we could to keep all of us calm and well-mannered. Harriet came-up to sniff-at him several times, and each time I showed him to put-out his hand and pet the dog. She'd inevitably leap up with paws into his lap as he sat on the yard chair, and he'd stand and panic a bit. Then he'd calm down. Harriet was always a rather energetic dog. He understood more and more that she was no threat. We treated Ata Halne to a luncheon of fried chicken patty, fried eggs, hash browns, and English muffin, which he downed with a ravenous appetite. His muttering and mumbling was reflective of his joy at the delicious food, food he'd never tasted before. He downed several glasses of diluted cola with his meal. The afternoon wore-on and he began to indicate his desire to leave. We allowed him two dozen fresh hen eggs as a gift, which he inspected especially well, given they were in cardboard cartons he'd never seen before. He clearly appreciated the gift. He loped-off with his shoes on, his eggs in hand, and that was that: he was gone. The evening was coming-on and it was high time for all of us to be where we belonged, including Ata Halne. "Ya know, Lydia, if this works like I suspect -- it's like feeding a cat. He'll just keep coming back!" "Yep, that's the plan. We need some friends around here," she exclaimed as she entered the trailer to clean-up the mess from the meal. Ata Halne was not a neat eater, and of course had no knowledge of forks and knives, but he was a dishwasher's dream: he had licked his plate clean. As the evening wore on, I assessed Ata Halne's behavior and appearance in retrospect. He wasn't very tall, perhaps only 5'7" and mighty lean, at no more than 150 or 160 pounds. But he was muscular, reflecting the nomadic hunting style, and I suspected he was a great runner, knowing the type of stamina needed in such a "sport." His long straight black hair was stereotype Native American, shoulder-length, and the wooden vest he wore was carefully and well made. I couldn't help but appreciate the art-form of his clothing. We had a light snack of popcorn using the last of the butter, belted-down a shot of whiskey each to wash it down, and sleep came easily. It had been an exhausting day, emotionally. I didn't notice how much the stress of encountering Ata Halne took out of me until I hit the pillow. The next thing I knew, the sun was back up and Rocky was crowing. Chapter Four: Diary entry---September 20th: The Journey We'd been contemplating and planning now for two days. We must find our way to Flagstaff, 50 miles distant to the Southeast, across an arid high desert. We needed a way to carry water, food, a change of clothes just in case, and decent camping and survival gear. If we moved at a rate of just five miles per hour, we'd be there within a single day (figuring ten hours of walking), but realistically, we needed to move slowly and deliberately, watching for telltale signs of civilization and considering what to bring so as to not arouse suspicions about us and our past history -- which was really the future. We planned for a three day walk, just to be sure. Use of the truck: out of the question. It was far too dangerous for several reasons, and that truck would come-in handy as a last ditch effort should we find ourselves in real trouble. Bedrolls were commonly used in the era we found ourselves. I corded-up blankets and our pillows. We made sure clothing had no odd monikers or initials to cause suspicion. We needed "period clothing," period! We'd bring matches, a small knife, a hatchet, and a flashlight which would be well-hidden. We'd tote bottled water but burn those plastic bottles afterwards. We'd bring dried fruit and make sandwiches and carry it in non-conspicuous, hand-sewn backpacks of used blanket material. We'd bring some jewelry for trading purposes, as we certainly had no money of the period. "These things must be done delicately!" declared Lydia as she fanned her fingers wide and imitated the Wicked Witch of the West from the Wizard of Oz. She'd finished sewing the backpacks. I smiled. She gave a decent witches laugh and we began packing things carefully. I'd bear the water and the heaviest backpack, at about 80 lbs. She'd bear just the light one, which we reckoned around 30 lbs. We had hats, we had simple coats, and we were ready. We shoved-off, walking up the lava ridge we'd so often hiked, towards where we knew Flagstaff should be. The time was right around 10 A.M. The animals had been given extra rations of food and water, enough for an absence of six days, if need be. The day was already quite hot, but the heat was bearable and we knew the terrain and what to expect. Our hike went slowly, and as I tired from the weight of the backpack, the pace slowed a bit. We rested after about 2 hours, reckoned from the sun's position, in the shade of a large Pinon pine. The water tasted like wine, given my thirst. Travelling in the heat of the day would not be easy, but the never-ending blue skies were as beautiful as ever and the sounds of whispering winds in this Pinon-Juniper woodland were refreshing. Cicadas sang periodically, and dust devils often whirled within the ear's distance. Pinon Jays would squawk joyfully in their large flocks, and we heard the Juniper Titmouse jumping through the branches: that little bird was always a joy to watch, as it would jovially search-out insects in the bark. I heard the cry of a nuthatch somewhere now and then. We'd both stumble over lava and limestone from time to time, but we kept our pace decent. I estimated we averaged 3 miles in an hour. The sun's angle kept rising, then it began sinking. I reckoned it to be around 7 P.M. and we were both tired. The peaks of that great volcano north of Flagstaff were closer, and we followed the familiar terrain of what would eventually be Hwy 180. It was time to make camp. The evening winds were low, the temperature a fair 70'ish, I judged, and the clear skies of Northern Arizona were going to provide us with a celestial show for the night. We picked a spot clear of trees and any obvious insect or ant activity, made a fire ring of black basaltic lava rock, and proceeded to gather juniper wood for the fire. We decided to keep the fire modest to keep any humans from being interested in our presence. The sun set and the fire began crackling. The sandwiches, PBJ of course, were humble yet delicious. We rolled our bedrolls out and lay there, watching the embers fly as the evening sky rolled overhead slowly, but perceptibly. I had the foresight to sneak-along some whiskey and some hidden Starbuck's coffee bottles, and the two in combination made for an excellent and unexpected treat for Lydia. We strained to hear the sounds of the night, and were rewarded with the singing of the coyotes. They were just communicating at first. Then they found their quarry: jack rabbit. The inevitable screams and whimpers of the rabbit, dying as it was being torn apart, always turned our stomachs. But this is the way of things, and it works well according to His design. We find our solace there always. The yelping and screaming and whimpering ended, mercifully. Then the coyotes rose to sing in a final chorus, and I imagined them dancing about in joy over their meal. Somewhere in the night, some time, we slept. I woke now and then, watching the Milky Way glow wildly in the sky, filled and brimming with so many stars. The meteorites swept across now and then. I closed my eyes and slept a good long sleep. Then I woke to a glow to the East: the fore-glow of the sun. I could see it taking shape above me, a long channel of light forming a clearly contrasting boundary between night and day, yet barely perceptible. I slept a bit more and suddenly the sky was bright. We stirred the coals and threw-in some wood and enjoyed a bit more fire as we woke and sipped the last of the Starbucks. The bottles were then shattered and thrown into the hot coals. The fire would melt and fuse all the evidence of Seattle's future main beverage. The plastic water bottles suffered the same fate. I took time to put the fire completely out, and then I scattered the fire bowl rocks. The fire was well covered and there was but little evidence of our presence, except for footprints and imprints of our bedrolls, which I handily effaced with some nearby branches. I'd read enough Louis L'Amore western novels to know I needed to hide our trail from human eyes, at least as best possible. These little novels, historical fiction, were proving worthwhile reading in my mind. We gathered our belongings. There was a sound in the distance, barely perceptible: "honey -- does that sound at all like a chain saw?" I mused. The sound ended. There was silence. "Well, nothing then. It must have been the wind." Lydia smiled and kissed me. We kept packing. "It's going to be a long day, I suppose," she said with resolve. "We'd better get crackin!" She smiled. "Yep, and another hot one. We seem to have enough water, and I am sure we'll find some ponds along the way as we get near the Peaks." I referred to Humphreys and San Francisco Peaks, the tips of that great volcano ahead of us, raising-up some 14,000 feet, shrouded in Aspen and Ponderosa Pine. The mountain bore no snow now, but the aquifers around Kendrick Park and the perched water there should provide some local surface waters which would be safe to drink, but with some boiling. We had an old small pan for that. The sun rose as the sweet smell of Pinon and Juniper filled the air. A cool drainage wind blew from the direction of our intended travel, and the tree-line of the Ponderosas was well-visible. The sky was a wonderful aquamarine blue, and some cumulus arose as the sun moved higher: "monsoonal moisture, no doubt, but just hints of it" I was thinking to myself. Two jovial ravens played the skies, hovering just over the Pinion tops, and I watched them as they came closer to us to get a look at us. One hung low, croaked a bit, then the other followed, and silently they flew-on towards the rising sun. On we walked, and up we walked, clearing the 6,500 foot level. The Ponderosas formed a clear line, and we entered that great biomass of trees: the largest stand on the planet lays here. The typical resident, a jovial Abert's Squirrel, chattered as we walked. He scurried off with his big tail and his bat ears and we watched. We walked the same path we'd driven so many times, clearly impassible with the truck. We'd made the right decision to not drive. There were fallen trees, boulders to walk-around, rocks and steep grades. There were antelope ground squirrels. There was difficult going. But before long we were astraddle to the volcano; It was to our left and clearly Flagstaff was not much further. We would do this walk in two days, not three, I realized. That was fine. The afternoon sun was kept off us by the thick pine. We gratefully walked and enjoyed the sweet butterscotch aroma the pines exude. The air was cool, fragrant, the ambiance subdued and gentle. A sudden movement and jostling in the trees signaled a small herd of elk, moving quickly away from the crackling footsteps of our presence. We caught but glimpses of them, but they were striking in size and grandeur. We listened as the sound of their hooves died away. Lydia and I said little: we were mostly huffing and puffing and walking. We'd stop every hour or two to rest. But the destination was becoming within reach now. I reckoned we were already near the "Baderville" area, approaching Fort Valley. Then, we came around a bend and the tree line suddenly fell away. It was indeed the Baderville area, quite familiar to our eyes, except now there were no oversized grandiose homes. This was high prairie, a volcanic park, a bit of ground where trees could not grow for all the volcanic ash and rock from the eruptions of not too long ago. We were above the bare prairie area, still well into the trees, and this was a good place to be: a great vantage point to observe human habitation. If the year was early, we'd not see Fort Moroni, a stockade build by the son of Brigham Young, John Young. That year was around 1881 as I recalled. And as I recalled this, I remained amazed that I was allowed to know these things, courtesy of my tour guide job. I knew of the Sitgreaves expedition to the area, circa 1853 or so, as the first expedition to the Flagstaff area. How close to those years were we? "How far to town, do you think?" puffed Lydia. She was tired. "I can't imagine it very far. We are almost into the Fort Valley area, so it can't be more than 8 to ten miles. That's two more hours. Can you make it?" "I need to rest. Let's stop a while." As she said that, we noted a small watery area, and there above this marshy area was one of the many springs I'd heard-of. The water spouted cleanly and clearly, and as fresh water from the ground, it would require no boiling. It tasted sweet and it refreshed us instantly. We sat and pondered the area. "I remember reading the first settlers here in 1876, on the Centennial." All I'd learned was now coming forth. "They stripped a tree bare and rose the flag at a spring they'd found, they camped there, and everybody stopped to see that flag staff." "And the name stuck, I guess" she responded. "Yes, but I also read that the flag staff was possibly put-up earlier, by someone else, a fellow named Beale. Doesn't matter. It's just nice here." It was indeed nice. The wind whispered through the pines as we sat, and the PBJ sandwiches went-down easily. We were quite hungry, but the sandwiches kept us filled. We'd made 20. I was afraid we'd get sick of them, but they never tasted so good. We walked more, continuing east bound now, past the volcanic park area and into the valley, still shaded by Ponderosas. The surroundings grew ever more familiar, and I eventually saw the site of our future church, Mt. Calvary Chapel. It hadn't changed that much. A curl of smoke caught my attention. Lydia noticed it, too. It wasn't too far off, just towards the East-Southeast, and it meant either a lightning strike that was still burning or human activity. We pressed on and quickened our pace. "Do you think it's people?" asked Lydia. "I can only hope it's friendly ones," I returned. "Let's just keep a low profile, scout it out." The smoke column was closer now. The walk seemed interminable, and it was as though we took one step forward and two back. My Christian patience was wearing thin. Lydia was puffing. So was I. We were tired, but we were sprinting at the end of the race, or so I supposed. We were intent. We turned slightly more southerly and a familiar hill took place: this looked like old-town Flagstaff. The column of smoke was right in front of us. We were stealthy, quiet, moving quickly. Suddenly, we could hear voices. I heard English. Lydia and I froze in our tracks. The voices were still far-off, but audible to an extent. The concept of "a country mile" applied in our area where we lived, as it did here. I couldn't make-out all the words, but the voices were unmistakable. We then pressed-on, moving ever-closer, and taking care to keep our footsteps quiet. The voices grew more audible. "Calvin -- put the guts there, way away. We don't need no varmints visitin like the other night." "Yeah, Reese won't soon forget that skunk, will he?" The conversation died and we could hear rustling ahead. We saw in the distance a strung-up deer, stripped of its hide and gutted already. They'd shot something for dinner. "I guess we should announce ourselves, huh?" I glanced at Lydia and whispered. She nodded and in a low voice "you say something -- " "Okay -- you hang back and let me see what they are like -- " I took a deep breath, a gulp, and I spoke the way I thought I ought to speak in these parts in such a situation. "Ho there at the fire -- two visitors request approach, man and woman, if ye please!" Their conversation stopped. They looked up. I heard a rifle cock. "Come forward -- lemme see yer hands." It was the fellow named Calvin, the one handling the guts, and his bloodied hands grasped a long barreled rifle pointed in my direction. I moved forward, hands out and away. "My wife Lydia's behind me. We are unarmed. We're looking for anyone and just need a little food if ye can spare." "Calvin -- hold em thar a moment. I'll go get the Lieutenant and see what he feels." "Yessir, Sergeant Klune. You heard 'em. Both of ya come forward so I can see ya. Keep yer hands where I can see em!" We walked sheepishly out. Calvin lowered his rifle the he saw us. We were clearly unarmed. We wore no gunbelt. The handmade backpacks must have been giveaways that we weren't that dangerous. Lydia smiled. "Can we put these heavy packs down?" she asked in an exhausted tone. "Slow, but go ahead. Who are ya, and what are ya doing all the way out here alone like this?" "I'm Kelvin Atwater, and this is my wife, Lydia. We came out here for farmland, homesteading you know, and haven't fenced anything yet. We don't see any good farming land here, contrary to what we were told by others." I'd rehearsed it a bit, just in case we met someone. "We came out from Boston." That was a big lie -- the last time I was in Boston I was knee-high and visited for a day. I'm a California kid. He wouldn't need to know much more, though. I assumed he wouldn't know Boston from Talahassee. "Boston, eh? Family's from thar -- ever hear of the Sterlings?" That figured. He knew Boston. He called my bluff. I needed to change the subject. "No -- I see you got a good deer there -- nice shootin -- you get it?" "Nope, the Sarg got it. Course, I had ta skin n gut the dang thing." I asked the burning question: "We've been out here for some time. Lost track of time and date -- can you tell us what day and Year of the Lord we're in, sir?" "Well -- ta be honest -- dunnoexactly either. September sure. The Lieutenant'l know. I can tell ya it's still 1859." My heart skipped a beat. 1859. I glanced at Lydia. We got our answer. It's close enough for the military! I felt relief at the answer to this riddle. "Oh Kelvin," she whispered, "this is clearly an army or calvary detachment. They can really be of a help to us, I'm sure." "Whas that, little lady?" Calvin asked. "We are just so tired and hungry, that's all. Could we please sit? There's a felled tree there -- okay?" I looked up and saw a plank nailed to a de-barked and bare tree. A US Flag flew from it. I glared at Lydia and whispered "This is the place, Lydia. This is the flag -- .staff -- .get it? This must be those springs, I think originally called Antelope Springs. Lydia -- we're in the middle of history -- this is unbelievable -- " "What ya say thar, fellow?" Calvin blared. "Oh, sorry -- it's just been a while since we saw a US flag and it's a fine sight, sir!" "Out in these parts -- better believe it." The Sergeant, the man named Klune came out from the shadows of the pines followed by a man of obvious rank. The man of rank spoke. "At-ease, private. I presume they are secure. Are they armed?" He turned to us with a raised eyebrow. He wore beard and moustache, and medium length hair, all well groomed, with a dusty uniform, jacketed. His brown hair covered his ears slightly. He pierced me with his eyes, looking for signs of danger. "No, sir. I see no weapons on 'em anywhere. Dunno how they even survived this far." "My name's Beale, Lt. Beale. Who are you and how do you come to be all the way out here?" I almost fainted. It was HIM! Lieutenant Edward Fitzgerald Beale, the army Lieutenant commissioned to find a path across the 35th parallel. I used his name frequently in my tours. Now, I'm talking to the very same man, face to face. Somehow, I needed to keep cool and not act like a groupie in front of one of his favorite stars. "Ummm -- .sir -- ."I stammered, "we seek only a bit of information and food and drink. " Then I remembered to identify myself. "I am Kelvin Atwater, this is my wife Lydia. We come from Boston, looking for homesteading land. Heard it was good farmland. It isn't. We're still looking and haven't fenced anything just yet." "Hummm -- " the lieutenant muttered. "Sergeant, Private, see our guests have some place to bed down. It'll be dark soon. We'll share what we've got, and we've got plenty here, as you can tell from this deer carcass. Private, check their bags for weapons." Beale would be thorough, I assumed. When we approached, I'd already ditched the water bottles and other futuristic items just in case we were searched. We were "clean," I was sure. The private lurched forward, grabbed our backpacks, and poured-out the contents. The hatchet and knife weren't considered odd. There were no firearms. The sandwiches, though, they were the one thing I hadn't considered. There were three remaining. They were in Glad re-sealable zipper bags. "Wha the heck are these," Calvin asked. I thought and thought fast. Now what. Glad zipper bags aren't the kind of thing one sees every day in 1859. "Oh, just some leftover -- er -- algae bags." "Whaaa the heck is that." "Ummm -- it's an old -- ummm -- way of preserving food. Came from the middle ages -- not many people know about it." I needed -- once again -- to change the subject. "Here -- lemme show you, Private." I took one, quickly unzipped the bag, pulled-out the sandwich, and showed it to him. "It's a kind of soft-tack, made of peanuts and bread with fruit preserves. An old Bostonian delicacy -- I'm sure you've had some, right?" The bag disappeared into my hand with a bit of prayer and sleight of hand. Two more sandwiches lay on the ground in their own bags. I felt like I was selling a hairbrush to a bald man. "Here, try it." I tore off half, and took a bite, handed him the rest. He tried it. "Dang, purdy good stuff -- yep -- just like my, um, grandma Sterling made. Yep..was just a boy when I, um, tasted one of em um. Whadya say they was called?" He was faking it, as was I. Private Calvin's new favorite sandwich was a PBJ. I told him so, that is, the name of it, while Lydia glared and raised an eyebrow at me. I winked at her, and proceeded to sit down -- on the two remaining sandwiches to hide them. His and my respective halves of the sandwich disappeared quickly and mercifully. "Lydia, you weren't feeling so good a while ago -- Private, I think my wife will need a bit of privacy for afew minutes, if you understand -- " I turned to her and winked, glancing under me. She understood. That was the break I needed. "Oh, um, yep -- Kelvin, you and I can move over thar -- yer wife can head-off yonder to deal with things." We headed off, our backs to Lydia, as the Glad Bag went into my pocket, and we left Lydia alone to ditch the remaining PBJ's. I kept the subject off the PBJ and kept talking about what I knew of the time and date. Chapter Five: Diary entry---September date revised: September 8th, 1859: The Lieutenant. That night, we spoke at length beside the campfire. The correct date is the 8th of September 1859, according to Lt. Beale. I couldn't bear to contain how amazed I was to meet the man, but I tried. My curiosity was satisfied in one way, but then again, I counted-back the days to our arrival, and that date was now firmly set as September 2nd, 1859. That date? There was something about that date. Something clicked in my mind. Yes, it was the mid-1800's, and there was a mention about a "coronal mass ejection" as well. It was the biggest one ever in recorded history, as I started to recall the facts, and the Aurora Borealis was visible as far south as the Caribbean. I remembered how it interfered with the telegraphs of the day, causing all sorts of fires and burned wires and such. "And those sunspots, the big ones the day before we arrived here," I wondered aloud, unthinking. "Whas that ya said," mumbled Private Sterling, or Calvin. "Oh -- I was just remembering some astronomy lesson from my younger days, just unrelated to anything." Calvin interrupted my adding one plus one together, but I'd begin to puzzle it. There was a relationship. There had to be. How would we deal with this in our lives now. We were here for good, and I could see no way "home," back to our proper time and future. "Astronmy, ya said. Whas that?" "Oh, the study of the heavens, the stars, the planets." "Yeah -- really -- so ya know what stars those are up thar and such." "Well, I'm no expert, don't know all of 'em, but look up, toward the volcano." Oops -- again I put my foot in my mouth. I was going to show him Cassiopeia, but I stopped. "Volcano -- say what, man?" Lt. Beale's attention was now piqued. Oops -- "Um -- " I had to think fast yet again. Lydia gave me a glare, like Morticia from the Addams Family, upset at my continued mistakes. This wasn't going to be easy for me, I could see. "I studied a bit of geology," you see, and the rocks here -- they're" I paused "volcanic, extrusive magma, basalt, you see, and I surmised they came from this mountain because it all seems to be made of the same stuff." "Humm," mused the Lieutenant. "And astronomy, too, huh?" "Yeah, tell me bout that astromy stuff.." bade Calvin. I was suddenly a center of attention, a center I did not wish to occupy. "This could be dangerous," I thought to myself. Lydia just smiled and put her arm on my shoulder. It was becoming cool as the evening progressed. "Okay, look up north, up and find a set of stars like a big W. See there." I pointed through the trees which nicely framed Cassiopeia. "That is the constellation Cassiopeia, named after a queen, an Ethiopian queen, purportedly married to Cephus, King of Joppa -- it's all myths from the ancient Greek times. As I recall the myth, she is lost in vanity after some fairly treacherous acts and was placed by an angry Poseidon in a reclining position on a couch. The W shape is supposed to represent her body, lying down." "I'll be danged," whispered Calvin. The Lieutenant raised his eyebrows, too. "Well, sir, you seem to be a host of information. I could use a man like you on my detail, perhaps, particularly with the geology and navigation of the stars." "Sir, I am honored," I smiled. "But my wife and I have decided to stay around here. We did find some land that we like and may just stay in that area." Imagine that. Lieutenant Edward Fitzgerald Beale wants me to tag along on his expedition. The idea was beyond fascinating. "Ned, please call me Ned -- " the Lieutenant bade. "So, then, we're on familiar terms, " I thought to myself, smiling. "Well, we can only do what we must. As for me," continued the Lieutenant, "I'm just finishing-up the trail we forged through Arizona. We mostly followed Whipple's route, but this is just another pass through it to keep it up-to-snuff, you know. I should be back in Ft. Tejon in another couple of months or less. I think this is the last pass. Bless us, we've found water on average 'bout every 20 miles or so. It's a fine trail!" The lieutenant grinned and cocked his head in a bit of pride. "Ned," I muttered in friendly tone ("How cool, I kept thinking! I'm calling a general -- yet to be -- his nickname -- here I am, trapped in the jaws of US History!"), "I think I heard something of the path you mentioned -- didn't you folks try camels?" I was just getting warmed-up and I was amazed to be able to chat with the first one to try this idea. "Odd, yes, you heard right, and a darn shame they didn't work out. Ate almost anything, like goats. Great foragers and easy to care-for. Oh, and faster, stronger, better able to bear heavy burdens, yet they scared the tar outta the horses and mules. We had to abandon the idea for all the ruckus they raised." "Well, I guess it will have to be horses and mules then -- " I continued. Our conversation wore into the night and it seemed we all sat and talked like old friends for hours. But before too long, I noted other men in the group were pulling into their tents and canopies, unrolling their bedrolls, and the night was waning into late night quickly. I was tired, Lydia was tired, and Ned certainly seemed to be in the same mode. "With your permission, Ned, I think Lydia and I will turn-in. I think it'll be an early morning tomorrow for all of us." "Of course, Kelvin -- there's a spare canopy over there" he pointed past us into the darkness "some 50 or 60 feet. It's not wind proof but it will keep the dew and the frost off ya!" He smiled and stood, revolved, and slowly ambled on to his sleeping quarters, wherever they were. Lydia and I took our opportunity to get some privacy, dealt with our biological needs for the evening out beyond the light of the campfire, and quickly located the canopy the Lieutenant, or Ned, had mentioned, and we brought our bedrolls out bear for the night. We slept soundly, now confident of the date and our surroundings and the risks we were now facing. However, around 3 A.M. or so, by Lydia's watch, there arose a great clamor and clinking, then shooting which started us right up. We heard some yelling, and then more shots, deep and loud and suddenly some dark thing hurried past huffing. "Sergeant!" yelled Ned, Lieutenant Beale. "Report!" he screamed. I heard rustling and stumbling and some decent cursing here and there as men scurried about in the dark. Sergeant Klune was not the one who did the shooting, so he had little to say "Sir, we're trying to figger this out!" Calvin, the Private suddenly spouted "Was a darn bear, sir! I shot at him, think I hit 'im, but he run off anyways. I rekkun it's safe, sir!" He had a sound of panic and adrenalin in his voice. "Kelvin Atwater, here sir -- we saw the thing run past -- he's gone" I shouted. "Okay, then, keep a sharp lookout thar, Private" called the Lieutenant. "Good thang you got that bear outta here!" "Sir, thank ye sir!" Calvin retorted with some sound of pride and excitement in his voice. I heard a deep breath from his direction. Lydia and I echoed the deep breath. That was a bit close. The rest of the early morning was quiet thankfully, and we slept soundly despite the unexpected threat. Chapter Six: Diary entry---September 9th: The Journey Home I woke to the sound of chopping wood and a crackling fire as the sun barely lit the sky. The air was wretched cold and damp, probably in the upper 20's owing to the clear night sky, and damp from the moisture of the Ponderosa pines. Lydia gasped and rolled over. "Sleep, honey, I'll go see what's happening." Lydia was still exhausted, I could tell. Yesterday was a very, very long walk and the culmination of two ridiculously long days. Other men, some I hadn't met formally -- just a face and some nods and acknowledgements, were there. One was hacking-up some downed pine tree for firewood, while others were sipping coffee and stirring about. Several were off to the far side of the camp, dealing with their biological needs. That seemed to be the place to be right now, so I joined them. "Morning, folks," I smiled as I approached. All nodded and continued as I began my chore. Some left and I finished as the Private, Calvin, walked-up for his turn. "So that was a bear, huh?" I asked politely. "Yeah, got a good look at it -- girl or boy bear don't know, but darn big and darn dangerous. Bears hunt at night, and we're on the menu ya know." "Thank you for handling him. You were very brave, Private." "Calvin, please." He smiled. "Well, I guess I earned some good marks with the Lieutenant, huh?" "Suppose so, " I returned. "Wish we had a decent weapon -- only got a knife and that's about it," I humbly suggested. I could only hope someone might arm us with something of a decent -- oh -- shall we say "caliber." I hoped the hint would catch-on. "Well, heck, I got a spare pistol I could give ya -- taint much but it'll keep the buzzards off ye!" he answered. It worked. I got a weapon! "Got some bags of ammo for it too -- just a single action but she works and she shouts good!" We walked back to his tent and he pulled-out a long-snouted pistol. I knew nothing of its type or brand, nor did Calvin, but he made good his word to give me this pistol and two heavy bags of ammunition, each about ten pounds. This would be difficult to carry back, but it would be a necessary burden. "Calvin, I can't tell you how grateful we both are for this," I said thankfully. "You are too kind, and you might just have saved two lives with this gift." "Well, I haven't used it fer a spell -- best clean er out fore ya have ta use it in a pinch!" He offered a pipe brush and some oil for cleaning, and I set to work. About an hour passed, as did several cups of strong, grounds-bearing coffee, and the gun was cleaned and loaded for a shot. I decided to test it out, and found the Lieutenant. "Ned, would you mind if I did a little target practice with this pistol? Your private, Calvin, gave it as a gift so we can be armed, just in case." The Lieutenant looked up and smiled. "Well, if he hadn't I'd have given you something. Have you got enough ammo for it?" "Yes, I think so -- a couple of pretty heavy bags. I left them over where we slept." "Well, over there is a good area. Point away from camp." The Lieutenant took a breath and shouted "test firing to the South -- ignore it men!" "Sir" shouted several of them. It seemed I was cleared to go do my practice. I headed south where the Lieutenant suggested, and squeezed-off some rounds, well-away from camp. I had a decent aim and hit what I intended. The pistol was fine, not as noisy as I'd expected, and I was well pleased with the security it offered us. "Ned, " I said as I headed back past him, with a smell of gunpowder on my clothing," Lydia and I will be headed back, towards the west and north, to that land we were thinking of settling. I cannot thank you or your men enough for your hospitality and your generosity." "Kelvin, you and the wife are heavy-burdened. We've a spare pack-mule you may have -- he's an old one but he can pull a reasonable load such as yours." Again, the Lieutenant's generosity poured forth. I looked at him in amazement. Some bags appeared, carried by two of the men. One rattled of bottles "A little something to dull the pain of the trip or the lonliness" nudged Ned, elbow into my side. I noted several bottles of sipping whiskey. Then three small rifles were loaded onto the load, with several boxes of balls and powder. "Well, they're Burnsides, not too accurate but they'll get ya out of a pinch and are decent for short range huntin'" mentioned Ned, nodding at the rifles. He showed me how to load and maintain them. "Ned -- you are too kind -- thank you so very much -- all this will be a lifesaver for us. You cannot begin to imagine -- " I grew a bit overly grateful, wistful, and Ned put a hand on my shoulder. "The Lord be with you, Kelvin." "Thank you Ned, and also with you and your men." My Lutheran liturgy showed well. I walked back to find Lydia up and the bedrolls already rolled-back and into the backpacks. "Honey, we've a bit of luck. I have a pistol from the Private, Calvin, he gave us lots of ammunition, some rifles, afew other things, some whiskey, and Ned gave us a spare mule for hauling our load back. What do you think of that?" I announced with glee and a grin. "Wow, you're kidding. We need to thank these men for this," she said with an amazed overtone. I watched her walk over to the Lieutenant and give him a hug. She headed to Calvin and gave him a hug. She came-back crying from the joy of not having to carry all those things herself, and also for the Christian generosity of these men. Sergeant Klune showed me the mule the Lieutenant had mentioned. The animal was a big boy, a draft mule no doubt, and I couldn't tell its age, but it seemed well-fit for travel. I began loading it with the Sergeant's help. Klune could tell I'd not handled a mule before. He showed me how to put the halter over his head, and I assured him I understood well the care of a mule. "Those shoes on it are fairly new, Kelvin," began the Sergeant. "Just watch him for limping, in case he picks-up a rock in his hoof -- it'll cripple him if you don't get it out." I nodded. "If it throws a shoe, you're on your own. You'll have to become a blacksmith and ferrier, or find one." Sergeant Klune looked at me kindly. "Here are some spare shoes, cause I think you don't have forge or such. These can be cold-fitted. Here's some nails. You got a hammer?" I nodded to the negative. "We've few tools." The Sergeant gave me a hammer, a set of pliers of some type, and a flat file. "Use these on his hooves -- make 'em as even as ya can, use these to pull the nails out, be gentle." He showed me how to use it all. We bound all the tools and the bedrolls and such to the mule, who bore the weight as though it was nothing. It stomped a foot and brayed. I'd wait for Lydia to name it -- she always named the animals. I walked the mule over to her. She looked and immediately approached, hand out. "Awww -- aren't you the sweetie." She rubbed its nose, rubbed its mane "such a big boy." I stopped her -- "Ummmm, honey, mules are a sterile cross breed -- they have no sex." Lydia rolled her eyes. "Ed. His name is Ed. Like the horse." I rolled my eyes. "Ed it is, honey. We now have a mule. However, I'd have called him Francis, just 'cause." I referred, of course, to the talking mule from the 50's black and white movies. "I like Francis better -- okay, then, Francis, we'll call him Francis," she capitulated with a smile as she petted his soft nose. He seemed to enjoy the attention. She continued to pet Francis and ogle him with her motherly tone. I couldn't help but join-in, and Francis seemed to understand we were his new masters. He enjoyed the attention, and I suspected he hadn't gotten much as an Army mule. We drew him along as we began the walk back. The day was beautiful, a cool day to start, yet the sun was scorching hot when it hit the arms or the neck. I observed the clouds, white and puffy and heavier than yesterday. A cool breeze whispered through the Ponderosas. "Thunderstorms might be coming. It's not too late for monsoons, honey," I mentioned. "I think so too. I have a headache so the weather's probably changing." Lydia walked on, uncaring and happy to be unburdened by those backpacks. Francis brayed now and then, and walked-on happily, stopping to take-on water or some green foliage. He seemed to know what was and wasn't edible, eating grasses but avoiding the weed-like plants. The forest floor was aglow with grasses from what must have been a great monsoon season. Our path was lower this time, more in the valley, and we saw many pools of rain water. It had been raining here not too long ago. The trip continued, and the day warmed even more. We rounded the volcano on its west side slowly, winding through the forest, listening to the Stellar Jays squawking, watching the Abert's squirrels jostle about through the pine needles for pine nuts, and taking-in the grandeur of a forest primeval, "Adam and Eve" existence amidst the paradise of a warm, humid summer's day. The billows of clouds flowed overhead and a grey-bottomed one loomed just over the shoulder. I could see the virga precipitation already flowing downwards and a gust of wind, a pre-blast of a downdraft hit us from the direction of the falling rain column. "Looks like we're in for a shower honey -- did you bring the soap & towel?" I humphed. Lydia looked at me, smiled, and she reached into her backpack on Francis' back. Out came a bar of soap. "A woman's work is never done -- " Then she pulled-out a well-wrapped pair of towels that I hadn't noticed, nor had the private and sergeant as they were searching our backpacks back at Beale's camp. Alone in the wilderness, the rain began to fall as the wind gushed and howled for but a moment. The rain blazed downwards, large drops that actually hurt from their size. The splats would quickly soak us, so we took advantage of the weather and the privacy and enjoyed a good shower, our clothes quickly pulled-off and placed in beneath the shelter of a pair of fallen trees that proved waterproof. I continued to think the Adam and Eve theme as we washed and soaped each other, husband and wife alone in the fun of a cool summer shower. I'd tethered Francis beneath a good-sized Ponderosa, and he brayed from the rain and moved further under the tree. He shook and the backpacks flopped about his back. The shower lasted but 20 minutes perhaps, and we were rinsed clean as the last few drops fell from the sky. The towels were freshly laundered and felt good. Lydia brought-out a brush and I brushed her hair, she brushed mine (which needed little given it's short length), and we dressed and continued, clean and refreshed. Of course, Lydia had thought to hide deodorant in the towels, so we'd be fresh all day long. She was in her element, and given her foresight, I was quite thankful. We made it past the rock-strewn prairie of Kendrick Park, beautiful scenes of the Peaks all around us, and rumbles of thunder reverberating periodically to break the silence of the day. It had rained on and off periodically, but only briefly, and we sought the shelter of the Ponderosas. The sun was well down into the setting position now, and we were not too tired, yet it was good to make camp. We camped on the escarpment above the volcanic meadow and watched the waning sun drop below Kendrick Peak, silhouetting the pine trees as it set. Streams of golden sun filled the dying thunderheads with pastels, pinks, yellows, backdropped by the growing blue of the eastern sky. Twilight hues spilled across the sky, as the thunderheads began to dissipate, weeping the last of their rains upon mountains. They grew to fiery colors as Lydia and I sat watching. Slowly, the twilight became French-blue, and then the sky grew to black as the stars of Cassiopeia winked into view. Lightning darted on the horizons to the east, but no thunder could be heard. We lay beside a campfire as the howls of coyote danced on the wind. A Great Horned Owl called. "He gives a hoot, honey, I said smiling. " Rutting season had begun and we heard bugling of the elk bulls somewhere ahead of us. Sarah and I spoke in quiet whispers as the fire crackled. Francis returned a bray to the incessant elk bugling. We heard a cacophony of toads erupt from a pond somewhere to our south, and it continued. Thus, the evening ended quietly and softly. We faded into sleep surrounded by a blanket of trees, stars, endless sky, and the songs of the animals in our ears. Morning came early as ever, and the sun broke the ridge to the east of the peaks about 6:30 A.M. The air was moist from rain and chilly, but refreshing. The fire had died and I stirred the coals for a bit of coffee and warmth. Water from a nearby rain puddle supplied adequate coffee water. The fire caught immediately, as I'd found some dry deadwood in a rain-sheltered spot under the Ponderosas. We broke camp and led Francis down the grade into the high desert below 6,500 feet. The miles passed quickly as we walked-along, and often Francis would stop and take a bit of forage from the grasses growing from the rains. There are characteristically few decent grasses in our area, which has a carrying capacity of 40 acres per beef, in cattleman terms: one cow for 40 acres. However, Francis found the foliage and grasses decent. As I walked, the thoughts began to emerge again: survival. We're heading into the deep desert without much water, except for monsoon rains. We can't go to the gas station. We don't dare drive except in an emergency, and even then -- a grave risk. Our technology had been left alone now these four days, and I began to wonder if it was wise to do so. Ata Halne might have returned, perhaps with friends or family to visit. What would they do if they found or took things we needed, things they shouldn't even have, things that don't exist in this time? "Lydia, we need to make it back today." I sounded resolve in my voice. "Of course." Lydia always knew my thoughts. "I'm not too comfortable leaving the animals alone and I don't know if those Indians came back." Our thoughts and words focused on the goal of returning home. We knew the landmarks well, and we watched as familiar hills came and went. I turned us right around where the area looked right, and we proceeded past the correct landmarks. Before long, the lava ridge appeared to our right, and I knew we were almost there. We'd probably walked a longer way to ensure we found our place, but being careful is wise, I thought. We nudged our way along and there was the wash, the Holy Moses wash as Lydia named it. We followed the wash and I caught sight of our compound. The goats were grazing in the corral as we approached and bleated in relief to see us. I heard Rocky crow. I heard the geese going wild at our approach. The female Rouen Ducks quacked loud laugh-like sounds. I made a quick checklist, and saw no changes. Harriet had already finished her food and I let her and the cats out of the run. The cats came dashing out after her, desperate to get back into the trailer. I spent an hour just feeding and looking around, and found nothing amiss. Our trip to Flagstaff was wildly successful, and I was quite satisfied for the whole thing. I went into the trailer, and Lydia was already snoozing on the bed, surrounded by cats. Harriet lay sleeping under the table. Her tail thumped as I walked in and Lydia stirred. "I'm tired, honey," I admitted, and I changed to sweats and climbed into the bed. That old, too-short, hard-to-climb-onto, lumpy-mattressed bed never felt so good! TO BE CONTINUED -- The Tyndall Effect: Increment Two |
Image of edward waters college
edward waters college Image 1
edward waters college Image 2
edward waters college Image 3
edward waters college Image 4
edward waters college Image 5
Related blog with edward waters college
- meacswacsports.blogspot.com/Jacksonville, FL - The Edward Waters College Tigers scrimmaged Saturday at the Bob Hayes Sports Complex. The...
- sportsday.typepad.com/sportsday/...straight win with a 42-0 victory over Edward Waters College (0-6) for homecoming at ... not return and Trent Edwards made his Jaguars debut...
- meacswacsports.blogspot.com/... to an end Friday as the Crusaders fell 7-4 to Edward Waters College in NAIA National Tournament Opening Round action at Sliwa Stadium in the Daytona Beach...
- meacswacsports.blogspot.com/... three turnovers as part of a 21-point second quarter in a 44-21 rout of Edward Waters College Jacksonville. Kenny Foster ran for 89 yards and two touchdowns...
- meacswacsports.blogspot.com/...guidance." Brad Bernard to be named new football coach at Edward Waters Edward Waters College will announce the hiring of Brad Bernard as its new head football coach at...
- antoniusradiocomix.blogspot.com/...from left over petroleum, and tooth paste and ice water, I still know enough to recall that all ...Batman forever. I saw the grand parody, Blake Edwards never so perfect again, with an almost...
- alcorn.blogspot.com/...for it, Gore’s entry into the race is unlikely. Clinton, Obama, Bill Richardson, John Edwards, Joseph Biden, Christopher Dodd—the field already provides a pool of talent and a...
- platoshrimp.blogspot.com/...finale. The Love-Ins (1967, D: Arthur Dreifuss) Hair-brained story about a college professor who quits his job and becomes a Timothy Leary-style hippie guru...
- talesofthenewworld.blogspot.com/...maintain a school, there were regular town subscriptions to support that college in Cambridge, Massachusetts to which they looked for their future ministers...
- exposit.blogspot.com/...Kerry, Dick Gephardt, and John Edwards seem to have forgotten...enroll in Foreign Policy 101 in college? Although it may prove to be...electricity, and running water – is an excellent...
Edward Waters College - Blog Homepage Results
... Elegant Looking Tall Lord Cadogan Lorraine Archives Suomi College Los Alamos Evacuated Los Alamos Evacuation Lot...
...County Sheriff's Office Arrests * Jesse Edward Cockream, 21, of 104 Shearer St., Inglis, at 4:30...by foreclosure can get help June 1, 2011 County Water Resources initiates ‘Call...
...president and COO • Was CEO of Teachers Insurance and Annuity Association College Retirement Equities Fund (2002 to 2008); CEO of the Alliance for Lifelong ...
Related Video with edward waters college
edward waters college Video 1
edward waters college Video 2
edward waters college Video 3
0 개의 댓글:
댓글 쓰기