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Passport To Eternity
Saturday, March 1959 TO Saturday, April 1969
Interim dates deleted by editors for security reasons.
CHAPTER I
It all began in the spring of 1959. At times I would have the sensation of being watched. My conscience was reasonably clear and, as had paid my full income tax, I tried to dismiss it, but every so often I would feel there were a million eyes upon me. This was especially true when I would go into the desert and mountains prospecting which I did occasionally on weekends as a hobby.
This feeling of being observed continued for about a year until it began to bug me. I talked my problem over with a psychiatrist, with whom I came in contact with in my work, and he told me to forget it; that as long as I didn't see anyone watching me or hear voices, I was alright. He also advised that I should change my brand of whisky, saying it might prove helpful. The latter advice I discounted because though I do take a drink occasionally with friends, just to be sociable, I do not like the stuff.
In the latter part of 1960, I was mowing my lawn on Saturday morning when I got a compulsion which I could not resist. I packed my gear and headed for the desert. After leaving Los Angeles, I had driven for about two hours when something told me to turn off the highway. There was no sign of a trail or road there, but I drove up a dry creek bed as if someone else was at the wheel.
This trip proved to be almost too much for my car. It led over some of the bushiest, rockiest and sandiest country I had ever traveled in an automobile. After about fifteen miles of this road, and minus one third of the paint on my car, I was led to a big stretch of wind blown sand, up against a massive granite bluff. This is one of the most isolated places I had ever been. It seemed there had not been a man there in a hundred years, but I still had the feeling that I was on someone's property. I looked around for some sign of habitation, but there was none. During the whole weekend, at times, I had the feeling I was in a fish bowl.
The bluff and other ravines turned out to be highly mineralized and I spent the weekend picking around, gathering samples of ore expecting, like all prospectors do, to find the Mother Load.
The following weekend, another of these compulsions guided me back to the same turn off from the highway. This time I had three days off from my regular work and was planning on looking the place over and try to get to the bottom of what was bothering me. Going in, I noticed that my tire tracks were still visible and no one had been over the trail in my absence. I made my way in without mishap and set up camp where I had before near a bolder, as big as a house, that had fractured and rolled down into the sand from the bluff.
It was about noon, so I broke out the chuck box and boiled a pot of coffee to go with my can of beans and bread. After thoroughly enjoying my lunch, I stretched out in the sand for a little nap and rest. I was a little restless and, at times, I felt the same sensation of being watched.
After a while, I wandered off around the bluff, picking at outcropings here and there. All of a sudden I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I was being watched. This feeling continued off and on all afternoon. (When you are off alone, as I was, your primitive instincts seem to come back into play more strongly than they do in a herd.) I couldn't see anyone and tried to dismiss it, but I still kept up my guard anyway.
On reaching camp, I knew I had been right. There were tracks all around my car. The person was wearing a fairly small shoe - size 7 or 8. He had not bothered anything, just seemed to have been looking around. At first, I was a little disturbed, but after a dinner of bacon and eggs and a pot of coffee, my sense of well-being returned and I enjoyed my evening around the fire, and then a good night's sleep.
I awakened the next morning with the same feeling of someone staring right into my face. After stirring around and getting breakfast, the feeling wore off, but I resolved to follow those tracks and see what my visitor was doing around my camp. The tracks led off across the sand and up a rocky ravine where I eventually lost them. I made up my mind to pay no attention to them, or to that feeling of being observed, but those tracks did seem to get on my nerves a little.
I prospected around, crossed a couple of ravines and started back to camp for lunch. Coming in from a northerly direction, across a stretch of sand, I ran into something (as the kids would say), that really made me flip my wig! It was a set of tracks - but WHAT TRACKS!! They were at least two feet long and ten inches wide, roughly in the shape of a human foot and were about six feet apart. They led across the sand away from my camp back, generally in the area I had just come. Believe me, I did not follow them but raced back to camp, packed my gear and got out of there in a hurry. Who ever was watching me must have laughed, but I didn't care. I was really scared. It was a good thing most of the trail was down hill to the highway because I cut a few corners and got back to Los Angeles a day early.
The next day after I recovered from the shock of one or two things, I decided that either the desert heat had finally gotten to me or that I had really seen something. I headed for the library but where would one look up human tracks as big as an elephant's? Finally, I remembered reading somewhere about the abominable snowman and research told me that in the snow country they are known as yuks or yaks. There are legends among the Indians in northwest Canada about big men with big tracks. These legends have been handed down for years and years. A few pictures have been taken, but nothing concrete as to it's existence. One hunter in the northwest woods said that he had one in his gun sights but could not shoot because, as he looked it in the eyes, he realized that it was human. I began to wonder if I had seen the tracks of an abominable "sand" man? However, I did not tell anyone.
After about a week had gone by, the sharpness of my encounter with the tracks wore off and by Saturday I was again at my favorite turn-off from the highway. This time I took particular notice that no one had been over that creek bed since I had come tearing out a week before. I had search all maps and determined that this was the only way any vehicle could get in without wings.
I got up to my big boulder and made camp without incident, had my usual lunch except I didn't make any coffee. Then, like Pilgrim's Progress, after taking two steps forward and one step backward, I at last reached the sand where I had seen the tracks. The wind had come up and blown any signs of them away, much to my relief, or else I had a touch of the heat and had never seen them at all. I sure did, as they say down south, congratulate myself that I hadn't told anyone or brought anyone out to see the missing tracks.
Everything seemed to be normal as I went back to camp and I was off up a ravine looking for the desert rat's dream (the mother lode) or a reasonable facsimile.
About five o'clock, I ambled back and fixed my favorite supper; homemade biscuits cooked in a dutch oven with bacon, beans and a big pot of coffee. Just as I was sitting down to eat, when I heard footsteps and here was a man about 5'10", a hundred and sixty pounds. His complexion was light and I noticed that he had small feet. He was garbed in some kind of suit like I had never seen before, but people on the desert and everywhere else are dressing funny now, anyway.
His age puzzled me. He seemed to be mature but neither young nor old. After I greeted him with the old desert salute of "HI", he asked me if he could join me and, remembering my manners, I got out another plate and poured him a cup of coffee. He protested that he was imposing upon me, that he had not come over for dinner, but I soon put him at ease and insisted that he have dinner with me. I was glad to see a human way out there after the tracks and everything, even if I couldn't figure out how he got there.
He seemed to be good and hungry and I enjoyed seeing him eat. He examined every bean and got a kick out of my homemade biscuits. This man was not used to the desert grub, I could see that.
After dinner, I put some more wood on the fire and poured another cup of coffee and we settled down in comfortable positions and had time to study my guest, who was doing the same thing to me. This man had an air of calmness and the steadiest gaze. Then something all at once told me that he was not of this world. I obeyed the unwritten law of the desert to never ask a stranger questions, that is, until he opens up, but I was really bursting to ask him a few.
We talked about a little of everything. He noticed that I was having to strain to understand some of his language and he informed me that his native tongue was "sanscrit", that he had picked up english by monitoring our radio and television with a short course of English in school. My observation that sansrit was a language that had not been spoken for thousands of years, made him laugh. In fact, he laughed easily and seemed to have a good sense of humor and was getting a bang out of me.
He was particularly sharp in history and seemed very well informed on world affairs. I was afraid that I didn't measure up to this man's intelligence and knowledge and told him that I was practically a kindergarten drop out; that all I knew about world affairs was what I read in the newspapers and they were probably slanted.
This seemed to strike a chord in him and all at once he seemed to make up his mind about something and I could see that I had been accepted. For what? At the time, I didn't know.
When we first sat down to eat, he had said that his name was too long to remember, so just call him "Bill", and of course I told him to call me "Larry". Finally, after a couple of hours, Bill apologized and informed me that he had to leave, but before he did, he wanted to tell me he was the one who had been watching me for the past year and, after laughing, asked me what I thought when I found those big tracks in the sand. By this time, we we had developed enough of a friendship and understanding that I could say what I wanted to. So, I told him to stop laughing like a hyena and tell me what in the world made those tracks and, if he did it, he sure scared me out of a years growth. This only made him laugh all the more and he wanted to know how my heart was, and if I would invite him over for breakfast, he would show me something.
I have always been more or less a loner and very few close friends, but that night when I shook hands with Bill before he left, I realized that I had met a true friend.
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