by Tony Peluso
I got back to L’Auberge in time to meet Gretchen. The spa experience had been so soothing and fulfilling that after being massaged, washed, wrapped, and waxed into submission, she fell asleep while I showered. She slept like baby through the night.
The next morning, August 23rd, as part of our Sedona Adventure, we got up early to hike the Broken Arrow Trail. This trail begins about a mile south of Uptown Sedona.
Sedona is too small, even today, to have a downtown. They have to call the main tourist area something, ergo: Uptown Sedona.
From the east end of Morgan Road, the trail winds south through a narrow valley between the Mogollon Rim and a couple of high, magnificent, crimson sandstone structures known as the Twin Buttes. About a half-mile from the trailhead, you encounter an ancient sinkhole called the Devil’s Dining Room.
I don’t know why the locals named this place the Devil’s Dining Room. I asked a few experts and got different answers. It’s like asking 12 Brits what Boxing Day is. Other than the 26th of December, you’ll get a dozen different reasons why the Commonwealth celebrates the day after Christmas as a holiday. Same for the Devil’s Dining Room.
I’ll note that the Devil had a dining room in Sedona, a kitchen across the valley near Soldier’s Pass, and a bridge on the other side of Capitol Butte. This part of the Verde Valley was sacred to the Native American inhabitants. To compete with the Holy Spirit, the Devil must have been very active here.
When Gretchen and I got to the Devil’s Dining Room, my smug demeanor evaporated. I had a powerful feeling of déjà vu, though I’m certain that I’d never been to this geological feature. My arms broke out in goose bumps and a cold chill made me shiver in the 80-degree morning air.
“Tony, what’s the matter?” Gretchen asked.
“I don’t know,” I said as I wiped my forehead. I was sweating and shivering at the same time. This was a first for me.
Wise environmental managers have placed a barbed wire fence around the sinkhole on the Broken Arrow Trail. You have to be stupid, inconsiderate, and a scofflaw to go inside the wire. The ground around the edge of the sinkhole is unstable. In time, it will fracture and fall into the hole. Standing on the edge is a slow-motion death wish.
Bats hibernate in this dining room. Bats perform a critical service for the ecosystem because they eat tons of insects every night. They hang upside down from the ceiling of the sinkhole during the day while they sleep.
Signs inform the hikers that stupid and inconsiderate humans can disturb the baby bats, causing them to lose their grip and fall to floor of the sinkhole. The sign warns that the baby bats, known as pups, can be injured or killed as a result.
Falling head first to the bottom of the sinkhole causes the babies to flounder around in the accumulated guano deposited over decades. Plummeting headfirst into 30 years of shit makes the pups question the whole bat lifestyle. Entire species of bats are thus endangered by the mental trauma that bats endure, not as a result of insensitive humans, but because of their own gastrointestinal extravagance.
Believe me, I respect the environment. I didn’t want to contribute to mass bat extinction. But something other than disdain for the law and the ecosystem compelled me to squeeze under that fence. I stood at the edge of the sinkhole for five minutes. The whole time, I shivered as sweat poured from my head and chest.
The sinkhole is 90 feet deep. Broken limestone rocks covered the bottom. I noticed trash, but not in a large volume. I had a flashback to the Chapel Incident in 1966, when our beer cans and chicken bones ended up on the rocks below the retaining wall.
I didn’t see anything extraordinary. I didn’t observe a single bat or other flying mammal. No bats were injured or traumatized during the research, writing, editing, or publishing of this story.
Gretchen and I spent 20 minutes at the Devil’s Dining Room. During my déjà vu experience, Gretchen had become bored. She tried to use her cell phone, but the reception sucks south of Marg’s Draw, east of the Twin Buttes. My bride’s patience, short during the best of times, evaporated.
Gretchen settled down as we headed south along the Broken Arrow Trail. This hike is different from the West Fork Trail. West Fork tracks a small tributary of Oak Creek through narrow canyons south and east of the Mogollon Rim. Broken Arrow is a path to the east of Twin Buttes. It’s open, airy, dry, sunny, and breathtaking. Be careful. Carry lots of water on Broken Arrow.
When we got to the cutoff for Submarine Rock, Gretchen loosened up. I suggested that we head east to explore the rock, but my wife declined. She wanted to press on to Chicken Point. Since I’d exhausted my exemptions at the Devil’s Dining Room, I didn’t disagree. Her behavior surprised me because she’s always pushing me to do more.
We stayed on the trail and trekked up to Chicken Point. When we arrived, a platoon of mountain bikers, hikers, and pink Jeep tourists had beaten us to the goal.
Gretchen and I spent ten minutes resting, hydrating, and watching deranged mountain bikers do wheelies along the rocky cliff around Chicken Point. Their suicidal behavior made my episode on the lip of the Devil’s Dining Room seem tame.
When my wife was ready to resume our hike, I convinced her that we should head west on the Little Horse Trail. I wanted to see the Chapel of the Holy Cross again.
Little Horse Trail intersects with the Chapel Trail on the west side of the Twin Buttes. Once on the Chapel Trail, you pass megaliths named the Two Sisters, as in Nuns. They are large, ponderous, menacing, and unmoving, like the BVMs who taught at St. Francis.
Once beyond the sisters, it’s an easy trek north along a narrow ridgeline to the Chapel of the Holy Cross in the shadow of Elephant Rock.
Gretchen and I had been walking for two miles from Chicken Point when we made the parking lot of the chapel. The lot was not as crowded as two days earlier, but scores of tourists meandered all over the property. In the old days, the chapel was renowned, but not so popular. You could find peace and solitude there.
Gretchen loved the chapel. She thought it struck the right balance of architectural beauty, compatibility with the stunning environment, and responsible use of fragile resources.
“The view is spectacular,” she said as we stood in the northern courtyard and sipped on our water. “This is where you saw the aliens, right?”
“Gretch, I never said the lights were aliens. I don’t know what they were.”
“Right, Tony. Nothing in this world operates like that.”
“Then you believe that I saw something.”
“Sweetie, I’ve lived with you for thirty years. You’re a handful, but you’ve never been delusional. You believe that you saw something. If it wasn’t aliens, what could it be?”
“Gretch, I don’t know what those lights were. You could get similar performance from modern jet-propelled drones. The humans operating them wouldn’t experience the crushing G forces that those right-angle turns generate. The pilots would be safe in some Air Force computer center playing with their joysticks while hammering back shots of Jeremiah Weed. Honey, I’m not here about lights,” I said. “I’m here about the Christus.”
“I think the two are connected somehow,” Gretchen said.
“Until the McMannes’ article, I never saw a correlation. After the original incident, I experienced the Christus here twice, once in 1968 and once in 1971, with no unexplained phenomena during either of those trips.”
“You don’t like this place anymore, do you?” My wife asked.
“I still think it’s impressive. It’s not as spiritual.”
“You’re upset because it’s different. They want to attract a broader base of people who can appreciate this beauty.”
“You said, ‘they want to attract.’ Who is the they?”
“The Catholic Church, smart ass,” Gretchen shot back.
“The Catholic Church stopped having religious services here. They opened an emporium. They do a brisk business. A unique spiritual symbol is now a sophisticate
d scenic overlook with a religious theme and a lucrative gift shop.”
“Speaking of the gift shop, I told Mom that I’d get her something. Let’s go down and look around.”
When we went down to the shop in the old priest’s quarters, Gretchen set out to examine the various religious items that could pass for jewelry. Linda, the pretty sales clerk, spotted me right away and came over to talk.
“Tony, we hoped that you’d come back. Jim told me that if you wandered back in the shop that I should ask you wait. He has something to tell you about the Christus.”
“Super. Where is he?
“Jim’s in the back,” Linda said, looking over her shoulder toward the rear of the shop. “There he is now.” She waved until he noticed, then motioned him over.
“Hey Tony,” Jim said, as he gave me a cheerful greeting.
“Hey, you know something about the Christus?”
“Yeah. I hoped you’d come back. Your inquiry a couple of days ago caused a little stir. You went over to the parish and spoke with Father O’Malley, right?”
“Yes, I did. I didn’t offend anyone, did I?”
“No. Father O’Malley is an inquisitive Irishman. You got him excited. He called Father Ted. Father O’Malley told me that, according to the pastor, the Christus was controversial.”
“That’s right. Saw that myself. That’s what the bishop said in the article.”
“Tony, I read that article last night. It’s wild that the Christus disappeared.”
“It’s suspicious,” I said.
“I agree,” Jim said. “Father Ted thinks that Father Hansen knows about the Christus.”
“Where can I find this Catholic priest?” I asked.
“Is that Don Hansen?” Linda chimed in. “He’s the famous trail guide, New Age counselor, tantric massage therapist, and Reiki master. He’s a Catholic priest?”
“That’s the guy,” Jim said. “But he’s not Catholic. He’s not a priest anymore. He was an Episcopalian priest until about ten years ago. He quit and became a trail guide. He’s a character. He grew up around here. He knows every nook and cranny from Flagstaff to Prescott.”
“How do I contact him?” I asked.
“I’ll write down his number,” Jim said, as he grabbed a pad and pen from the counter. “I talked to him this morning. He’s interested in meeting you. He’s expecting your call. He told me that if I saw you, I should tell you that he’s free late this afternoon.”
“Jim, I grateful. I’ll call him right away,” I said, as Gretchen approached with a full bag and a long receipt from the cashier.
“Save that receipt,” I told Gretchen. “I’ll attach it to the petition I’ll have to file in the Bankruptcy Court in Tampa.”
“Very funny, sweetie. I’m doing my part for the Catholic Church.”
“But you’re not Catholic,” I said.
“My sons are Catholic. Remember, you made me go to all those masses? Besides, by not being a Catholic, that makes my generosity all the more admirable.”
“OK, but Mother Teresa, you’re not. Gretch, Jim is the manager here and Linda works the counter,” I said, gesturing to my left. “Jim gave me the number of a man who may know something about the Christus. We have to hustle back to the trailhead to get the car. I want to see the guy this afternoon. Where do you want me to take you?”
“I’m going with you this time.”
“Sure that you want to go? You’ll be enabling my obsession.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll have a couple of margaritas first.”
“Well, that’s a happy coincidence,” Jim said.
“What is?” I asked.
“Hansen wants to meet you at the Cowboy Club in Uptown Sedona. It’s near where you’re staying,” Jim said.
The manager’s words struck me like a baseball bat to the knee. “How do you know where we’re staying? I never told you that.”
“That’s right. Father O’Malley told me.”
“How did he learn about our hotel?”
“That’s parish business. Tony, Sedona is a small town. It would take me twenty minutes to track a tourist down here. We get some deadbeats and some bad paper. We’ve got to protect the financial interest of the Church. We have an excellent working relationship with the Sedona Police and the Coconino and Yavapai Sheriffs’ Offices.”
“Thanks, Jim,” I said. “I don’t merit the chapel’s bad credit treatment!”
“Oh, I see. Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. No one is impugning your integrity, Tony. In fact, you’re a kindred spirit, right? Father Pat said that you’re a lawyer who works for a Sheriff in Florida, right?”
That one floored me. I looked over at Gretchen. She shrugged it off.
“Jim, what’s going on here? Why is the parish so interested in my background?”
“I told you that you caused a stir. If you’re curious, you can ask Father Pat.”
“Believe me, I will. Is he at the parish now?”
“No, but you can ask him later. He’ll be at the meeting with Don Hansen.”
“Really?” Gretchen said. “What’s his interest in Tony’s quest?”
“That’s beyond my pay grade folks. I’m only the messenger.”
Gretchen and I took our leave. Linda and Jim smiled. They told us to have a good afternoon and pleasant stay in Sedona.
As we walked out, I didn’t spin around. There was no need. I knew they had blood red eyes and an evil intent.
Chapter Six
August 23, 2013, 5:15 PM
Cowboy Club and Silver Saddle Room
241 North State Road 89A
Uptown Sedona, Arizona
Uptown Sedona has a different character than it did in simpler times. The venue for our meeting, the Cowboy Club, sits on the property that used to be the Oak Creek Tavern.
The Tavern was the classic diamond in the rough. Located north of the fork created by State Roads 89A and 179 at the bottom of Oak Creek Canyon, it served as a watering hole and community forum for locals, ranchers, cowboys, miners, loggers, artists, and tourists who would stumble in from the road. Corporate powerbrokers rubbed elbows with grizzled old ranch hands. Artists discussed their creations with ranchers and loggers. The atmosphere was friendly, boisterous, and equalitarian.
At the Tavern, the food was good, the beer better, and the company best of all. The décor was eclectic cowboy. The owner and operator, Ms. Bird, had diverse tastes, including the stuffed eight-foot-tall polar bear that she set to one side of the tavern.
As a kid, my family and I often ate lunch there after mass at the chapel. Some of my best memories of my family are from the Tavern.
Nothing is ever the way you remember it after the passage of significant time. None of the old timers would concede an improvement. Still, everyone agrees that the Cowboy Club is a great place.
The food at the Club is fantastic. In addition to everything you’d expect in a superb restaurant, you can get buffalo, elk, and rattle snake. Try finding that in your local five-star bistro. The service is good and the prices are reasonable.
The Club was walking distance from L’Auberge. After our hike around the Twin Buttes, I’d worked up a thirst. I looked forward to a couple of beers.
As we walked up the steep grade to the restaurant, I cautioned Gretchen to be careful on this evening. Some of what transpired at the chapel seemed ominous.
“You’re paranoid,” my wife said. “You’ve been out playing intergalactic detective. You’ve implied to the local Catholic priest that the Church has covered something up. That might make them a tad defensive.”
“Why did they do a background check?” I asked.
“They didn’t do a background check. Anyone with access to the Internet can Google your name and get tons of data about you, including everything that the store manager mentioned.”
“I repeat. Why do that?”
“I can think of two reasons,” Gre
tchen said.
“Enlighten me.”
“First, it’s easy to do. Your daughter-in-law was sweet enough to set up a website for your publisher in California to showcase your great American novel. You know, the one you wrote that has made no one’s bestseller’s list. Thanks to Heather, half your history is on that site. It would take a total stranger less than thirty seconds to get access to the story of your life. Try it. You’ll see.”
I probably should have mentioned that after ten years of trying, I convinced a small, boutique military-style publishing house on the West Coast to publish a novel I’d written about the heroic adventures of the father of an Army buddy. The book seemed to be selling, but it hadn’t gone viral.
“There’s even more stuff about you on the Sheriff’s website. Remember?”
“OK. What’s the second part?” I asked.
“They want to know what kind of lunatic they’re dealing with. The Church gets accused of a lot of things. You’ve implied that the bishop and priests are hiding something nefarious about the Christus, and that—whatever they’re hiding—caused them to stop services at the chapel. That allegation might make them cautious. They want to know if they need security when they meet with you. In their place, I’d have done the same thing.”
“I think Henry Kissinger—describing Richard Nixon—said that even paranoids have enemies. So be careful,” I said.
“You know me,” Gretchen said.
“That’s why I’m worried.”
“I wouldn’t be counting on any lingerie modeling later,” Gretchen warned.
“By the way, I cancelled the credit cards while you dried your hair,” I said.
“Fuck off!”
“Hit a nerve?”
“All right, we’re almost there. Behave and I may change my mind.”
“Who says I’m interested?” I asked.
“Pleeeeese!” Gretchen said in an exasperated tone, followed by a world-class sigh and a headshake, signaling that she thought that I was the easiest, most pathetic conquest since the British burned Washington, D.C. in 1814.
