by Tony Peluso
“That’s an impressive vehicle,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s a Polaris Ranger Crew. Not quite top of the line. It’s a reasonable compromise for my purposes. It has sixty horses, excellent clearance, fantastic traction, and flexibility. It gets me out of a lot of trouble,” Fleet said, as he admired his toy.
“How bad is the track up to Schnebly Tank?” Eddie asked.
“Not bad. This baby can negotiate much worse. Your ride won’t be uncomfortable. It’s long, though. It’ll take a little less than two hours to get to where we rope down,” Fleet said, as he loaded a bag filled with climbing equipment and a big five-gallon can of water.
“Where do we stow our stuff?” Eddie asked.
“What do you have?” Fleet asked.
“Packs, poles, and weapons,” Eddie said.
“What weapons are you carrying?”
“I have an M14. Tony has a shotgun.”
“You expect to run into Attila the Hun?” Fleet asked.
“I was an Eagle Scout,” Eddie said. “Always prepared.”
Fleet thought about Eddie’s answer for a long moment before he responded.
“You lifers love your weapons. Be careful. There’s no hunting. I didn’t sign up to watch you shoot your guns at rocks or trees. If you carry that stuff down to the tank, you will be responsible. When we rope down, all weapons will be safe. If you agree, let’s proceed. Otherwise, I’ll refund your money and take you home.”
Eddie didn’t reveal that we had concealed pistols. I kept the secret.
“That’s fine.” Eddie agreed. “Safety first.”
“Good. If it’s any comfort, I always pack a Dan Wesson .357 magnum. If we encounter any hostiles, I’ll deal with them. If carrying that heavy hardware floats your boat, have at it. But don’t ask me to hump if for you.”
The trip from 89A west along the logging road and the power line cuts in the Coconino National Forrest was quite pleasant. Although it was August, we were 7,200 feet above sea level, so it never got above 85 degrees. Most often, we drove along the rim and marveled at the stunning views. Other times, we traversed trails in deep pine forests or tracks over alpine meadows. By 8:30, a weather front from California moved in and the overcast sky cut the temperature another five degrees.
Even though the engine made a lot of noise, we carried on a conversation of sorts. Fleet wasn’t shy. He told us a lot about his life as a Coconino detective. About an hour into the trip, Eddie mentioned that I worked for the local Sheriff in Florida.
“I heard,” Fleet said. “You’re a lawyer not a deputy, right?”
“That’s right. I was a Special Deputy U.S. Marshal for five years. Does that count?”
“Maybe. Depends on what you did. What do you do now?”
“I represent the Sheriff in state and federal court. I go to bat for guys like you who get sued for use of excessive force.”
Fleet took his eye off the road and looked back at me.
“We need to talk. I need a good lawyer. Greedy assholes want to sue me.”
“Why?” Father Pat asked.
“’Cause I shot their boys in the head! They tried to kill me during a drug bust.”
“Oh.” Father Pat said.
“Don’t you have a lawyer?” I asked.
“Nope. Might have waited too long. I don’t like lawyers. No offense, Counselor.”
“None taken,” I said, “especially if you’re going to belay me down the canyon.”
“If it helps with the rappelling, I hate lawyers too.” Eddie said, smiling.
We continued our banter for another hour. As the discussion waned, we traversed a deep and wooded stand of tall ponderosa pines. The path was good, but narrow. We turned a bend and came to a fork in the trail. The route to the right bent north and was a bit wider than the track we had navigated. I noticed deep ruts in the path. They continued north out of sight.
“Must be some big logging trucks come through here,” Eddie said.
“There’s no logging in this part of the forest. Not for years. It’s too dry now anyway,” Dave said, as he stopped the ATV.
Without warning, a Jeep with two men came over the rise to the north, heading for our ATV. Seeing us, they sped up. Their demeanor seemed menacing. I had a bad feeling.
You realize that my association with the military and law enforcement has made me suspicious. Knowing that Dan Ostergaard had disappeared generated the tiniest paranoia. Claire claimed my soul could be forfeit, if I continued the quest. I wanted to be careful.
I turned to Eddie, who was in the back with me. I didn’t have to say a word. He had the M14 in his lap, the business end pointing out. Fleet dismounted the ATV, walked around the front, and positioned himself between the oncoming Jeep and the ATV. I looked at Eddie. He nodded.
We dismounted the ATV. I walked over to a tree to the northeast, as if I were going to take a leak. Eddie went the other way. He’d slung his rifle, but his hand rested on the semi-concealed butt of his Kimber 1911. I reached into the hidden pouch of my 5-11 hiking vest and felt for my Glock. I switched the laser sight on. I pretended to pee.
“Morning, Gentlemen,” Fleet said to the two white men in the Jeep as they drew near our vehicle. I scanned the forest. I could see no discernable movement.
“Morning,” said the driver—a well-built man in his 30s. He scanned our party taking account of every one of us. “What’s your business here?”
“It’s a national forest chum,” Fleet said. “It’s a free country. Our purpose here is not your concern.”
The passenger, a smaller balding man, became anxious. The driver said something that seemed to calm his companion down. I made a point of scanning the forest north, east, and south. I trusted that Eddie had the west. I saw nothing unusual.
“We got a lease to log and mine this section,” the driver said. “We’re about to post no-trespassing signs. We don’t want no trouble. We can’t allow you to go north up this road. It’s for your own safety. We can’t be liable for anything that happens to you.”
“Thanks for your concern. It’s touching,” Fleet said.
“Oh, we don’t give a fuck about you,” the rider said. “We got these lawyer sons of bitches that insist that we keep you folks out.”
“Yeah, lawyers fuck it up for everybody, don’t they?” Fleet asked.
“They sure do,” the rider said. “I had a lawyer. I’d like to meet him again. He was a real motherfucker.”
“Sold you out, did he?” Fleet asked.
“Fuck, yeah.”
“So how long did you have to spend in Florence?” Fleet asked.
“I did over four …” the passenger started before the driver of the Jeep cut him off.
“We don’t need to go into the sad tale of your life,” the driver said.
“Gents,” he said, turning to us. “You can’t go farther north. If you want to go west, there ain’t nothing out there but rim and canyon. You can go back the way you came. It’s your choice.”
“We’ll go west; thanks,” Fleet said, as he motioned us back into the ATV.
After I got seated, I kept my hand on my Glock and my eye on the Jeep, as we sped away down the left fork of the trail.
As soon as we got out of sight, Eddie started singing a version of “Dueling Banjos” from Deliverance. Fleet and I broke up.
Father Pat looked disturbed. He had no idea why the crazy old Army officer in the back seat sang “da da da da dant,” then laughed hysterically.
“What’s so damn funny?” Father Pat asked, peeved that he didn’t get the joke.
“Ever see Deliverance, Father?” Fleet asked.
“It that a movie?”
“It was Burt Reynolds’ break out performance,” I pointed out.
“Who’s Burt Reynolds?” Father asked.
“Father, the movie is about four guys who go on a canoe trip down a river in Georgia that’s about to be destroyed by a gover
nment dam project. They get crossways with some inbred rednecks. Sodomy and homicide ensue,” I explained.
“I presume that Eddie is singing music from the movie,” Father said.
“That’s right,” Eddie said, breaking into another rendition and laughing again.
“If those guys are loggers or miners, I’m the fucking Dali Lama,” Fleet said. “The passenger looked familiar. Can’t place him, but he did time in the State Prison in Pinal County. Might be he and his pal are cultivating in the National Forest.”
“What would they grow?” Father Pat asked.
“Marijuana, Father. It’s too high and cool up here to grow the powerful stuff, but it’s remote. A drug dealer’s life is full of tradeoffs. Don’t worry. As long as we stay away from their crop, they’ll leave us alone. I’ll report it after we get back.”
A half hour later, we arrived at the rappel point, where a dramatic vista unfolded for 80 miles to the south and west. We shared a magnificent tableau: rolling mountains, purple in the western distance, merging into blue grey where the storm clouds poured heavy rain; bright red and orange rock formations to the south, covered in speckled sunlight; brown and green timbered canyon lands hidden in deep shadows below us.
We dismounted the ATV. Fleet stood at the lip of the rim. He peered toward the storm through a pair of high-powered binoculars.
“I knew that a front would come through, but the damn weather man said that we wouldn’t get much rain here. He expected the precipitation to go to the north into Nevada and Utah. Those mountains are getting soaked. They’re west of us, some seventy to eighty miles. If that storm is moving the way I think, it could be here in three or four hours. It’ll rain here by this afternoon for sure,” Fleet said.
“What’s the matter with a good rain storm?” Father Pat asked. “The forest could use a good soaking.”
“True, Padre. Dave is concerned that if it rains as hard here as out there, we could get caught in a flash flood,” Eddie said, pointing west.
“We have flash floods in Ireland. They can disrupt your life. What’s a flash flood like out here?” Father Pat asked.
“This land is rocky and dry,” I said. “If it rains a lot, the water will not soak in. It’ll run off the rocks into the channels that have carved this land over millions of years. It’s rain-driven erosion that created the beautiful scene that you see below. During a flash flood, the narrow canyons fill up quickly. If you get caught in a streambed during a flash flood, it can ruin your whole day.”
“It can kill you,” Fleet said. “A major cause of death among stupid turistas is walking or driving in streambeds during a flash flood. That thunderhead in the west worries me. We could get caught down in the canyon and not be able to climb back out today.”
“We’ve come a long way. Are you willing to risk it?” Eddie asked Fleet.
“I suppose. I’ll e-mail Hansen. He’ll get someone to cover my tourists tomorrow. I have food for overnight if we get stuck down there. We’ll have a little camping trip, sing songs, roast marshmallows, and tell ghost stories by the fire,” Fleet said, mocking us.
“You’re serious?” Father Pat asked.
“Sure, I am. I always bring extra rations. We can rope it all down. There’s plenty of water at the Tank. We can leave most of the other stuff in the ATV. I know a little spot where we can hole up if we need to stay dry. However, if I have to wet-nurse you three pilgrims overnight, the rate will be double.”
“How will you e-mail anyone? I don’t have cell service. No bars, see,” Father Pat said, as he pointed to the data frame on his cell phone.
“I have a Delorme, In Reach device. It gives my Smartphone satellite connectivity for data. I’ll send Hansen an e-mail. Then I’ll set up the ropes. The armed and dangerous, over-the-hill gang can rappel down the canyon wall to recapture a vestige of their misspent youth,” Fleet said, as he gestured to Eddie and me.
“Fair enough.” Father Pat said. “Let’s get started.”
The rappelling seemed less dangerous than the zip lining in Camp Verde. The ledge overlooking Conagua Creek hung 250 feet above the target area for our descent. At the rappel point, the cliff face was not straight down. For the first 180 feet from the ledge, it looked to be about 70 degrees. The last 80 feet appeared to be perpendicular.
As advertised, Fleet’s equipment was first-rate. He knew his business. He set up the equipment and fixed the anchors. I grew more confident.
After 30 minutes, we began. I’d go first. Eddie would follow. Father Pat was next, and then our guide would come last. I checked my weapons, backpack, and rappelling equipment for the 20th time.
I hadn’t done any rappelling in over 25 years. Fleet had to give me a five-minute tutorial on the use of the figure-eight rescue descender. I was awkward with it, but got the knack without falling to my death on the rocks below. Eddie took pictures with his old Nikon as I rappelled to the canyon floor. You won’t get to see those cute photos either.
After I landed on the creek bed, I unhooked my equipment. Eddie followed. Like Gretchen, he was far more graceful than I’d been.
Father Pat came down so fast that I thought he’d lost control. Turns out that little shit was an experienced rock climber. He’d scaled cliffs throughout Europe. When he joined Eddie and me at the bottom of the canyon, he drolly offered to give us tips for future rock climbing and rope work.
Fleet was as good as Father Pat. He made it down in 90 seconds.
Fleet stuffed the climbing gear into a bag, which he set it next to large boulder near the hanging rope. After checking our hiking equipment, we set off.
We did the half-mile to the ruins in ten minutes. The trail along Conaqua Creek was smooth and easy. The petroglyphs lay on the northern tip of Schnebly Tank, east of the creek. Unless you knew that the tank and the ruins were there, you could miss the site.
Until I saw the petroglyphs, the area was unimpressive. The rock faces around the tank didn’t have the dramatic red sandstone color or unique weathered features of other places of ancient human habitation.
The petroglyphs were another story. I didn’t expect to see the volume, the variety, or the quality. Eddie found the etchings of the Christus first. I’m the one who realized that the dots depicted star systems. Once I pointed them out, everyone agreed that I’d made a connection that no one else had ever recognized.
Like Fleet predicted, we dicked around the petroglyphs for two hours, looking for other evidence of inter-dimensional beings that looked like the Christus. No luck.
When Fleet suggested that we call the ball, head back to the ropes, and get ahead of the rain, it began to pour and thunder.
“Too fucking late,” Fleet swore. “Gents, I know a place with another overhang. It’s seventy yards farther up the canyon. There are no ruins there. We can set up camp, stay dry, and not offend Native American sensibilities. We’ll see how long it rains. There’s a chance we could rope up this afternoon, but I think we’re here until tomorrow.”
We took our last pictures and followed Fleet up the trail. The campsite was well situated near the ruins. Others had camped there in the recent past. Another large sandstone overhang extended over the spot for 25 feet. It was more than enough to keep us dry.
Fleet had humped four rubber mats, which we would use to sit and lay on. We might be stuck, but we’d be comfortable.
The ground beneath the overhang consisted of bare sandstone. We decided to light a fire to heat water for our freeze-dried rations. The rain had lowered the temperature 20 degrees. We all felt a chill.
We gathered wood from outside the overhang. Though it was raining, the wood was dry. We had no trouble getting it to burn.
It rained all afternoon. The level of the creek crested. An hour before sunset, a three-foot wave of water rolled through the narrow flood plain. While we remained high, dry, and warm in our cozy site, anyone downstream would be in jeopardy as the flood gained size, speed, and volume.
&nbs
p; We had nothing to do but wait out the storm. We sat near the fire and munched on freeze-dried lasagna and trail mix. We chatted until it got dark, discussing our discovery at length.
“What’s your take on the petroglyphs?” Eddie asked Father Pat.
“I don’t know what to make of them,” Father Pat admitted. “The early inhabitants carved those figures in the context of stars. I thought the beings were inter-dimensional.”
“Father, at the Cowboy Club—despite your training—you had difficulty grasping the concept of a multiverse. A Stone Age human would never be able to understand it. The ancient inhabitants could see stars in the heavens. The stars reflect an understandable misinterpretation of the origin of the supernatural aliens,” I argued.
“Tony, those rock etchings can’t depict the Christus. It was an iron sculpture that didn’t exist for another nine or ten thousand years,” Father Pat said.
“That’s right. Father. The rock drawings and Monroe’s Christus represent the same thing or the same race of being. The Paleo-Indians had a vision of an inter-dimensional being ten millennia ago, and the sculptor—or someone who influenced him—had a similar vision of the being’s descendants in our time.”
“Why descendants? If these beings are from another dimension, who is to say what their life span is?” Eddie asked. “If they’re the beings that we call angels, they could live so long that from our perspective they’re immortal.”
“If I’d known what lunatics I’d be guiding, I’d have skipped this fucking trip,” Fleet said as he plopped down on his mat, reached into his pack, and pulled out a fifth of Gentleman Jack Daniels. He opened the bottle, took a healthy swig, and passed it to Eddie.
“Those glyphs are the work of primitives, who hunted and gathered for a living. When they returned from a hunt, they gorged themselves and rested. When they weren’t doing chores, making babies, or telling stories, they passed the time carving on the walls. That’s it. You guys are crazy, if you think that inter-dimensional angels have been traveling here for thousands of years,” Fleet said.
“Have you ever seen anything that you can’t explain, Dave?” Father Pat asked.
“Sure, after half of bottle of that,” Fleet said, as he pointed to the fifth that Eddie had passed to me.
