Aliens - http://maxpages.com/unknowngalaxy/Middle_of_the_Fuckn_Desert

The Middle of the Fucking Desert
Return to Groom Lake
By Dave Schmitz, Den Soltis
Formatted By Maverick
01-07-2000

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yes, another trip. My second. For those of you who accidentally missed my
first story let me give you a little background along with a few lame
reasons why I do this to myself. There lies an area out in southwestern
Nevada, about 125-150 mile north of Las Vegas (translation: the middle of the
fucking dessert) which was used for above ground nuclear testing back
in the 50's and 60's. This section of land is called the Nevada Test Site.
Adjacent to this land is another area of desert called the Nellis Bombing
and Gunnery Range. This land is used for military exercises and
flight testing. Within this area, which is all controlled by the federal
government, lies an smaller area know as Area51. This is a secret military
(Air Force?) installation totally unacknowledged by the government. It's
hangers, radar dishes, buildings and 7 mile long runway are built right next
to a dry lake bed which is called Groom Lake (dry). It is at this secret
(unacknowledged) base where the newest aircraft are developed and
tested. History shows that the high altitude U-2 reconnaissance plane, the
supersonic SR-71 and the new F-117 stealth fighter where all developed here.
It is rumored that the successor to the SR-71 is being flown here today. This
plane is called the Aurora and rumors abound about its technologies and
capabilities..

There is also a second area southwest of the Groom Lake complex (about 10 to
15 miles) called Papoose Lake. For years it has been rumored that a section
(dubbed Area S-4) is the official government parking lot for UFOs that
the government has found over the years. The saucer base is believed to built
into the side of the Papoose Range which runs parallel to the nearby Groom
Range. There has be testimony from S-4 workers, including a public
acknowledgment by Mr. Robert Lazar, that the government's goal is to reverse
engineer the craft with hope of reproducing the technology with materials
found here on earth. Although only stories and rumors identify the Papoose
Lake Facility, the Groom Lake complex, its employees and security forces are
real and active today. However, all activity remains untouchable by state and
local laws (including tax laws) along with all environmental monitoring by the
Environmental Protection Agency. Anything could happen here and there is no
one on the outside who has the right to know about it.

My first trip to this desolate section of desert was quite the adventure.
Although many 'locals' would deem this trip as boring and blown out of
proportion. I tried to convey my feelings, anxieties and emotions
which were happening at the time. I will try to do the same here as I tell
of my return to Groom Lake. This trip starts off about 450 miles away from
Groom Lake, in the smog filled valleys of Los Angeles.

I flew down to visit one of my best friends who was coming to Los Angeles for
business reasons. After telling him of my first trip to Groom he was
intrigued and wanted to go see for himself what strange things lurk in the
middle of the fucking desert. I of course, wanted to return and finish off
what I started two and a half months earlier. I arrived in Los Angeles at
around 8:00am and was greeted by my friend the art director (a.k.a.
'The Den-man'). We wandered over to the Alamo rental car Agency and picked up
our reserved, white colored (paid extra for that) 4 wheel drive, Mitsubishi
Montero. This brand spankin' new Montero (about 9000 miles on it) was one of
the nicest cars I've ever drove. It made my little white rental car from the
first trip look like an old, 76' Ford Pinto. After initialing all the
insurance acceptance blanks and signing all the proper visa credit slips we
decided to pick up a few snacks and hit the road. (Snacks included: a nice
barrel of Copenhagen chew, a pack of cloves, a bag of Scoop Fritios and some
road sodas)

Interstate 15 from L.A. to Vegas was the road of choice. Actually, it was the
only choice that would get up near the Nellis Range before sunset. We drove
at 75 to 85 mile per hour (heading towards the highest priced gasoline station
in America). We hoped to have extra time to ride the newly opened Stateline
roller-coaster and do a little gaming before heading out into the vast and
empty desert. In a way, we were already gambling. Our competitors, however,
were not the slot machines or blackjack decks of the Las Vegas casino. Our
first competitor was the California State Highway patrol. We continued
cruising (stealth-like). After we were about a half hour outside of L.A.,
I started the newly bought, voice activated, 29 U.S.dollar, Sony microcassette
recorder. This handy little piece of available technology would keep track of
mile markers, interesting stories and screams if we were to be shot by the
now annoyed government or abducted by our little grey (or green, your choice)
alien friends (or enemies, again, your choice). This little device has
also been extremely handy while writing this story. As expected, the drive
was long and filled with only desert landscape and our insane, nutcase
behavior which most people who have taken road trips will understand. The
temperature outside at around ten in the morning was 99. The temperature
inside the plush Montero was a cool 65.

Mile marker number 1. We crossed the Nevada border early in the afternoon,
(accidentally passing the highest priced gasoline station in America.) I
believe we arrived around 1:00. Our first stop was to relax and stretch not
only our legs but hopefully our wallets also. Our first stop was Jean,
Nevada - better know as Stateline. Here we played some slots and blackjack.
We road the newest tourist attraction to this barren land, the brand spankin'
new Buffalo Bills roller-coaster. A bargain at half the price. In our case,
the price was 3 U.S. dollars each, although the cost was, thoughtfully, paid
for by the slots and craps tables at Buffalo Bills Casino. It was here that
our microcassette recorder was temporarily confiscated. You see, we attempted
to bring it aboard the coaster to bring our fans live coverage. However,
soon after settling in to the molded plastic seats our cover was blown.
We were asked to relinquish the recorder by a highly qualified, well trained
in roller-coaster safety procedure, teenage attendant. So, much of the
excitement and memories of the coaster-O-fun (and banged up and bleeding
kneecaps) has be lost due to lack of tape - please forgive me. After several
Cape Cod-ers, the disappearance of 10 U.S. dollars (to the slot machines)
and several hands of blackjack, we were ready to drive on to Vegas.
(Gaming summary: Dave +35, Den +16 U.S. Dollars)

A quick half an hour drive brings us to Las Vegas. You gotta like this town.
If not for the gaming, free drinks and legal prostitution (For the record,
I take part in the first two but not the third.), then just for the fact that
people lead real lives out here. Here in the middle of the fucking desert
lies the city. It's a city built from one law. A law that says, it's O.K. to
give your money away if you want. Four hours east from Los Angeles is where
it resides, for those of you who have never been here. Out in the middle of
nowhere if you can imagine, for those of you who live in the crowded cities
of America. If you wonder what this land looked like before Las Vegas was
built, you can get a real life picture by heading 20 miles, in any direction,
away from the city. There is nothing around. Vegas is, to some, the arm pit
of America. To me, it's a town of extremes. Anything goes here.

We stopped in Vegas only to eat and pick up things would need for our one night

stay in the middle of nowhere (a.k.a. the Tikaboo valley - the valley adjacent
to the Groom range and the Nellis restricted area). Our plan, once up there,
was to go from the closest highway (U.S. 375) off onto the local dirt road
(a.k.a. Groom Lake Road). Then off the dirt road, onto a 4 wheel drive track
where we would climb, in our plush Montero, to the top of a ridge. Here,
if we weren't arrested in the process or too scared by then, we would get our
very own look at the top secret (and non-existent) military installation.
We hoped, we would see something amazing. Whether it be a supercool stealth
prototype or a hovering alien spacecraft, we didn't really care. So, anyway
back to Vegas. Our stop was, once again, for supplies. Our supplier was the
Fabulous (everything is Fabulous in Las Vegas) AM/PM Mini Market. We stopped,
somehow managed to fill up the bottomless Montero gas tank and bought
other desert essentials. (Essentials included: A fabulous AM/PM styrofoam
cooler, 12-pack of MGD, a quart of orange juice, a 750ml bottle of vodka, gum,
and a 1 pound bag of ice.) Onward!

Back on the highway, heading out of Vegas. I must say at this point both of
us became kinda grouchy. Our eyes were tired of looking at the color brown.
Our energy levels were just about empty. Any energy we did seem to find we
used to peer into the practically stationary cars we sailed past on the highway.
I think we both thought, numerous times but especially now, about whether it
was all worth it. Was it worth it to drive all this way (about 300 miles so
far). I think it was a natural feeling to have. A feeling induced by the now
5 hours of driving in the desert, several mouth fulls of chew, a half a
pack of cloves, numerous cape cod-ers (cranberry juice and vodka - for those
of you who haven't figured it out quite yet.) and an over stuffed stomach.
(Filled with assorted condiments associated with the many Jr. Bacon
Cheeseburgers we purchased from Wendy's fabulous Las Vegas franchise.) We were
bound to feel a little less than chipper. The Montero grew silent for first
time. The Montero, the WHITE Montero. Still powering on, through the desert
landscape. It wasn't tired. 80 miles per hour for five hours didn't mean
anything to it. You could tell it wasn't even trying, although it sure was
damn thirsty.

Another hours drive brought us to what would be our last stop for a dose of
civilization (a.k.a. the town of Alamo). The fuel gauge kept reminding me how
horrible it would be to be stuck out in the desert. 30 miles to the closest
gas station (which closed at 6:00pm) and weird, secret stuff going on right
over the mountain range you view towards your west. Not the most comforting
thought. Thirty miles to the nearest, closed gas station and the only other
car you've seen in the past hour was a rancher's dusty pickup with a full
gun rack mounted on the rear window. Also, not the most comforting thought.
It was now about 5:00 in the afternoon. The sun was continuing its
downward slide and we were starting to wonder if we'd spent a little too much
time playing in Vegas and the neighboring town of Jean. It was fairly
important that we get to our destination (the strange but legal viewpoint)
before sunset. No, if we didn't make it before dusk our Montero wasn't
going to change back into a pumpkin and no, we didn't have to arrive early to
prepare to defend ourself from the undead who would rise after sunset. No,
nothing like that, as Scorseseish and exciting as it may sound. Our worry was
not being able to clearly see the border of the restricted zone and
accidentally straying across the line. This was the line that defined our
legal rights. One side was like it was now, in the Montero. We had our rights
to free speech, our rights to bare arms. Our right to get in a rental car and
go barreling through the desert (as stupid and insane as it may sound). More
importantly however, was our right to an attorney and our right to a fair
trial. You see, on the other side of that line, you have no rights - or at
least very few. On the other side of that line they can lock you up if they
THINK you've seen something you shouldn't have. On the other side of that
line, they can hold you for as long as they'd like if you happen to tell
somebody a 'secret'. On the other side of that line, they can shoot you for
straying across and merely wandering around. The sign reads "Use Of Deadly
Force Authorized." Authorized by who? We didn't want to challenge their
authority, whoever 'they' were. We merely wanted to see what a portion of
our paychecks help pay for every two weeks. It didn't matter if it was for
materials research, propulsion systems advancement, or reverse engineering
alien technology. We just wanted a glimpse.

So, we left the last gas station in Alamo with a full tank of gas and few
bottles of hydro-florescent caffeine (a.k.a Mountain Dew). Back on the highway.
Soon we would leave the major interstate (if you could still call it that)
and head west on state route 375. This would be where traffic would thin
out to about a car every few hours. The closest town to us would be
located about 25-30 miles away. It is here in the town of Rachel, Nevada
(population about 100) where our closed gas station quietly slept. The sun
continued to fall. The had sky changed from the magnificent clear blue of the
day to a soft orange glow, then to a reddish, forewarning light. As if
trying to remind us that we may be playing with fire. We crossed the last
pass which blocked our view of the Tikaboo Valley. Then the dirt road and
the Groom range came into view. We sailed down the other side of the pass
and prepared to leave the smooth and secure path of faded asphalt.
Onto the dirt road we went (the road being very well maintained I might add).
We quickly stopped, switched drivers, reset our Montero odometer and just
absorbed the atmosphere. We sat in the open doors of the Montero realizing
that we were in a valley 125 miles from Las Vegas. In the middle of the
fucking desert. Alone! We both panned around, gazing at the horizon and the red
sky above us. In front of us we saw, the mysterious Groom Lake road leading
across the valley to the Groom Range. The road, straight as a rail. On the
other side of the range, non-existent research installations, secret aircraft
and possible recovered UFOs. We now stood outside what seemed to be the
indestructible Montero, thinking about the possibilities. Rendering the view
permanently in our minds. And again - thinking about the possibilities.
A wind, similar to that which escapes as you open the oven door, blasts us
in the face. Carrying with it, particles of once irradiated pieces of sand
and dust. A valley filled with only scrub brush, Joshua trees and.....
wait...an unmarked, white jeep cherokee?

We found the first Cherokee about 2 and a half miles away from the asphalt
(although I'm sure he found us before we ever left the asphalt). He was far
off in the distance and off to the right of the dirt road by quite a ways.
Our 40 U.S.dollar, 10x50 Binocs showed us a camouflaged cherokee guy sitting
in the drivers seat with his door open. Resting on the open door window was a
most impressive spotting scope. His scope was defiantly pined on us. Us
watching him watching us. We continued down the public dirt road with a
feeling that would not leave us as long as we were here. This was the feeling,
placed somewhere in the back of our minds, that we were being watched. Why
were we being watched? I really don't know. We haven't done anything wrong. All
tabacco products and liquids in the Montero were perfectly legal. The speed on
the Montero speedometer was about 45, which was well in tune with the posted
speed limit. It's pretty obvious that something about having the public around
this place makes the government extremely nervous. Even if the public, in this
particular case, included not a middle eastern terrorist nor a russian spy
but only an art director from Utah and a software engineer who now lives in
San Francisco. Why the surveillance on public land? Why are they not on their
side of the line. The line they feel so important to protect. What are
they doing over here (besides watching us watch them)?

We continued on, always keeping a eye on the Cherokee guy. He, always keeping

Sign Guestbook

View Guestbook

souls_of_dragons@yahoo.com

Visitors: 00665

Page Updated Thu May 17, 2001 3:41pm EDT