Aliens - http://maxpages.com/unknowngalaxy/4_Edge_of

The sun was making a slow, measured dive toward the horizon as I pulled off the highway and onto the dirt road marked by the infamous "black mailbox." The mailbox is the only landmark along a road as empty and barren as the lunar surface, and holds an ominous place in the lore surrounding Area 51. I pulled my four-wheel-drive up next to the mailbox, expecting something to happen, but not knowing what.

It was, alas, just a mailbox.

The dirt road cuts through a scrubby patch of ranchland, where cows stare blankly as you wind your way over their unfenced grazing land. In fact, not a single fence lies between the cows and the base perimeter (which is actually an unfenced "buffer zone"). Watching the cows follow me with their glazed, bovine eyes, it occurred to me that perhaps at night, they snuck into the base to commune with alien saucer pilots. Or perhaps the cows and gray aliens were mortal enemies, which would explain the strange cattle mutilations across the southwest.

A long, well-groomed dirt road stretches on for about nine miles past the ranch, knifing its way through some of the strangest terrain this side of Mars. The road, straight for miles up until this point, dips down through a series of small washes and switchbacks, making a high-speed land assault on the base border difficult if not impossible. Soon afterwards, I reached the unguarded, unfenced border of the base...or at least its buffer zone.

"Warning. Restricted Area," say the signs. "It is unlawful to enter this area without permission of the Installation Commander." The signs also point out that photography is prohibited, and wrap things up with a simple, understated sentiment that hardly seems appropriate for a military installation that officially doesn't even exist: "Use of deadly force authorized."

To the left is a strange-looking stalk sticking up from the top of a small hill with a camera and what looks like a few other instruments mounted on top. There are often white Jeep Cherokees parked atop the hills surrounding the base, but today, the Jeeps and their cammo-clad private security goons are not present--or at least not visible. For a moment, I flirt with the idea of strolling across the border, just to say I did it. Then I contemplate the warnings so many people have passed along to me; virtual guarantees that I'll be caught, detained and fined at least $600.

Screw it! I take a brazen stroll across the border, beyond the imaginary edge of nothing. I take a look around, breath the air inside the perimeter, and hop quickly back across to the safe side.

I snap a few more pictures, get back in the truck, and head back to the black mailbox. As I drive along, the sun melts behind the mountains that lie beyond the base boundary. Its unblinking, all-seeing eye has gazed at the base for hours as it passed over, but it has taken with it the secrets of Area 51 into the darkness of night.

I park by the mailbox and wait. The minutes crawl by. There are no stations on the radio dial. Not a single car passes by on the main road. The Nevada desert is still and quiet, keeping its secrets looked under a blanket of blackness. For nearly six hours, I sit and listen. Waiting. Watching. Nothing happens. No lights, no UFOs. I don't even hear crickets chirping.

Finally, I decide to pack it up and make the long, lonely drive back down the Extraterrestrial Highway. I return to Las Vegas and the dizzying buzz of lights, sound and motion. This town has no secrets, and is an open book to anyone with a dollar to spend or dime to gamble. Area 51 seems an entire universe away, and I'm starting to think reality is caving in around me. On my way out of town in the wee hours of the morning, I pass a gigantic interstate billboard touting a hot new Vegas dance club called... Area 51.
The time for secrecy at Area 51 is long past.

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Page Updated Tue Mar 20, 2001 7:17pm EST