2013년 11월 23일 토요일

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...







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






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