With the Durango and horse trailer covered under camouflage tarps, we mounted the horses and disappeared into the woods with Jasmine and her horse leading the way. My horse’s name was Snow because of his mostly white coloring, but I called him Beacon because you could see me riding him a mile away. At least Jasmine had a brown horse; she was the one that needed to stay out of site. What could the government do to me at this point that it hadn’t already done? Jail would be less humiliating than being in my forties and living with my mom.
The elevation when we started was somewhere around 6,000 feet. This region was an extension of the Rocky Mountains, a wooded area, unlike the high desert and Joshua Tree Cacti of Area 51. We would be traveling to higher elevations, but Jasmine said she plotted our course to stay in valleys and cross divides at their lowest point. Otherwise the high altitudes would make our trek on foot difficult, if not impossible.
Utah has about nine million acres of National Forest, and in 2001, with White House backing, the National Forest Service initiated a Roadless Plan that prohibited the building of new roads, and in turn limited access, development and logging of remote areas — perfect timing for those developing a secret military installation and using the remote land as a buffer.
Jasmine and I were not violating any laws at this point as we road the horses deep into primeval aspen and spruce forests, rich with deer and high-altitude lakes. So although hunting, fishing and camping were allowed, the chance of us seeing someone was about as remote as the land we were on. (Please take note that in the description above I’m talking about the North American quaking aspen with coarse toothed leaves that tremble in the slightest wind — a little fact I learned while reading one of Jasmine’s travel guides on Utah, and I wanted to mention so if you’re struggling to comprehend the discussions of mind control or moon missions, you can at least finish this story believing at least one fact.)
We camped the first night with pup tents and a roaring fire, luxury conditions we could only enjoy on the national forest land. Jasmine woke me at dawn and we saddled up. She used a GPS to guide us, and we blazed our own trail, pushing the horses hard, with only enough rest to keep them going. Our journey was dusk to dawn and traversed a path of nearly thirty-four miles up and down mountainsides, across plains and through streams and small rivers.
We slept in past dawn the second day, not needing as many hours to reach our next destination. I made sure the horses were securely tied to ropes that allowed them to roam far enough to eat grass and sip from a stream. Our larger duffels we hung from a tree to keep them out of reach of curious animals.
Jasmine and I set out on foot, each of us toting a small pack with minimal provisions. We carried canteens, but packing large quantities of water wasn’t an issue because there were ample amounts available along the way that we could purify with tablets. We brought food in the form of freeze-dried meals, sleeping bags and a camouflage tarp to sleep or hide under, and we each had a camouflage poncho. The plan was to walk part of the day and lay up until nightfall as we neared the perimeter of the military property.
I don’t know how far we hiked, but let’s say it was a hundred miles because that is what it felt like. I certainly wasn’t in shape to be doing what we were doing. I started off sore from riding the horse and the pain only got worse as my feet ached, blistered and begged me to stop. In reality, we had hiked about seven miles by mid-afternoon. We setup a makeshift camp and rested until dark.
Jasmine said we were about a mile from what she suspected was the base perimeter. As I stated before, we were headed to a government facility, but it wasn’t noted in land records or maps as military property the way other bases and installations were. This was government-controlled land, but managed in part through third party corporations and trusts, which held the titles.
Shortly after sunset, with little rest, we gathered our belongings and started hiking again. There were no signs or fences marking our transition from the national forest land to private land, but Jasmine was watching her GPS device closely, tracking our coordinates, and soon became more critical of our surroundings. She was starting and stopping with greater frequency, continually telling me to wait, stop, and be still, while she scanned ahead and peered through the various sets of binoculars and monitoring equipment she had stowed in her pack and hunting vest.
Jasmine figured we would walk through the night and spend the next day sleeping under our tarp. Hiding was much easier in the forest compared to her ordeal sneaking around the desert at Groom Lake, but we had to get through the night first before we could worry about keeping ourselves hidden during the day. Her intention was to make it out of the valley we were currently in by climbing to a ridge before sunrise and setup camp with a view to the next valley.
I decided it was time to have some fun with Jasmine and began talking so she could hear me up ahead. “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.”
Immediately she turned with a crazed look on her face. “What are you doing?” she hissed in a harsh whisper. “Be quiet!”
I knew precisely what I was doing, and exactly where we were. I hadn’t been there before, but studied it on a map. I knew the names of the valleys and mountains we were surrounded by. I knew the base was beyond the next valley, and I knew what was on top of the ridge in front of us.
I smiled and said, “Keep going, we’re almost to the top.”
She was a bit confused by my remarks, but shrugged it off and kept hiking. We stopped atop the ridge, which flattened out and sprawled several hundred yards before it dipped into the next valley.
“What were you saying back there?” Jasmine asked between sips from a water bottle.
I didn’t reply. Instead I just stood in silence — waiting.
A branch broke to our right. Jasmine dropped to her knees and pulled me down with her, fumbling for her night vision glasses.
“Beijing,” I said, “we have a problem.”
A radio squawked to our left. In the distance up ahead, a light beamed upwards from the valley below. Then a helicopter could be heard rumbling, the source of the light.
Jasmine punched my chest in anger. “I rescued you,” she said with a betrayed look on her face.
A red laser appeared on her chest, then two, five, ten, bushes rattled and feet scuffed in every direction as soldiers emerged from their ambush positions and methodically closed in around us. Jasmine could do nothing but sit still.
Obviously I haven’t presented certain facts to you in linear sequence, but I think I have made it quite clear my mind hasn’t worked in a linear fashion in over a decade, and I am certified by the government as an imbecile if I may be so direct as to ignore politically correct jargon. My point is that Jasmine was a little more successful in accessing my memories than I let her, or you, know. One memory she triggered is what a devout patriot I was.
The helicopter landed in the distance ahead, its lights illuminating a cloud of dust from its rotors that rolled in like a bank of fog. From the haze, two silhouettes emerged, one man, one woman, but not in battle fatigues like the soldiers; their uniforms were dark suits.
“Wormmeister,” Damien Owens said, addressing me in his patentable raspy voice, and using the subliminal codename Jasmine had given me.
“Hello, Copernicus,” I answered, eyeballing Jasmine.
I guess I failed to mention that in between visits with Jasmine, I was seeing Damien Owens. Don’t be too offended, Jasmine was equally in the dark before this moment, but the dour expression on her face revealed she was processing thoughts, realizing that I remembered a little more than I shared with her, remembered enough to discern her actions were wrong.