An excerpt from the writings of Francisco Bizarro and his search for the lost American dream…

I am the Raven

Hatched from Thunder Egg.

Soaring.

…nevermore?

The CB500T and me pushed on, fighting tooth and claw against the heat, the earth baking all around and something shimmering off in the distance. The Great Basin Desert encompasses nearly the whole of Nevada. It is something to behold really, this state firmly clenched in the grasp of a great searing aridity with no escape. Really, as noted before this is a land of savage beauty that is delicate in a ways but always dangerous. It is something else entirely, and totally new. Riding through it in the summer, you get the inkling that no person should ever live here.

The crowning jewel of conspiracy theory and anyone who’s anyone’s distrust in the American government lies somewhere south of the nothing town of Rachel, Nevada. To the West there is absolutely nothing for 150 miles. To the East, there is a gas station in Ash Springs some 50 miles away. In the middle there is a dirt road which stretches farther than you can see and gets lost somewhere in the mountains, cuts through to a valley and then on to an alkali flat known as Groom Lake. Area 51: well known American secret and road trip staple. This is isolation to the extreme and a Godforsaken place. It is the perfect place to hide something if you don’t want it found ever even if everyone knows where it is.

The "black" mailbox. Entrance to the underworld and demarcation of one of several access roads to top secret government base that no one knows about.

 

 

Access road to Groom Lake, Area 51

The little Ale’inn is Rachel’s number one and only business, profiting off of conspiracy buffs and weirdos because it is the only thing of structure anywhere close to Area 51. They sell burgers here, and beers, and they even have a selection of pretty good conspiracy and alternative archaeology books in the gift shop. I would have this place to myself if it wasn’t for a new breed of American asshole that I discovered. I seem to run across these types a lot on my journeys through America and was taken off guard somewhat due to the far outness of this place. I just wasn’t expecting them. They call themselves geocachers and it’s what middle class American nerds become when they have too much disposable income and too much time on their hands; hands I envisioned slicing to ribbons with a rusty blade or forcing onto a hot exhaust pipe and holding them there until the bone showed white. Know that there is absolutely nothing more offputting than a beautiful starry night being ruined by some idiot’s generator running until dawn. Geocaching is some sort of game that adults play where they drive about collecting “caches” by the side of the road while their vehicles idle close by. “Caches” are tupperware containers with pieces of paper inside which one signs in order to note that one has found it. Then one puts it back for the next “person” to “find.” There is no pluck or skill in finding these things as it’s all done by GPS. Uninquisitive and umempathetic in the lives that they were so undeservedly given and so offputting to the thoughtful lonesome adventurer, whence I finally retired to sleep I dreamt only of death.

We knew the world would not be the same. A few people laughed, a few people cried, most people were silent. I remembered the line from the Hindu scripture, the Bhagavad-Gita… “Now, I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”

 

Next Stop: Vegas 

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3 responses to “An excerpt from the writings of Francisco Bizarro and his search for the lost American dream…

  1. Oh man. Yeah, the generators at night…

  2. Oh Boy!!!! Have you heard about Extreme Geocaching!!!
    AKA: “walking in the woods.”
    It’s all the rage !!!

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