September 24, 2010
Skinwalker Ranch came and went. It's a fenced off area on a dirt road deep in an Indian Reservation in the Uintah Basin. There are cameras and lights posted in the trees and wire all around, prohibiting trespassing to the casual viewer. I arrived in the mid-afternoon, so sneaking in was out of the question, especially with the local tribal police surveying the area cautiously, ready to prosecute anyone willing to break federal regulations.
I saw it though. I stood there for a few moments, taking in the atmosphere of solitude. Of silence. Knowing the kind of strangeness that partakes there caused an eerie feeling to slither up my spine. It made me want to relieve myself, so I marked my territory on a bush and left.
On the way out a pit bull lunged out from a local's house. He snapped at my arm just as I removed it and rolled up the window. Then he proceeded to tail the vehicle as I drove off, away from the downtrodden town. It's worse than a trailer park in Southern Illinois out in the Uintah Basin. Supposedly, the Indians are a blight on the land, sucking in federal funds and living a lazy, unclean lifestyle suckling the tit of hardworking Americans. At least, this is the sentiment conveyed by the local caucasians, and they corroborate this sentiment by pointing to the unkept trailers, rusting and littered with junk. The lawns are overgrown. The shutters are lying on the ground. Some glass windows are broken, taped over with duct tape. However, the natives all own brand new vehicles (SUVs and trucks of utmost quality - at least that's what the advertisements would have us believe).
This ugliness is one many would have white-washed from the area, but it persists. Ironically, Wal-Marts are allowed and saved from said white-washing.
Speaking of Wal-Mart, I had to stop at one earlier in the day in Rock Springs, Wyoming. I had to relieve my bladder, and Wal-Mart was my only option. After defecating and leaving, I saw a homeless man just on the turn out of the parking lot. He had a sign that read: "Food, money, anything. God bless." My father was with me, and as I was the closest to the man, my dad slipped me a fin. I rolled down my window and handed the bill.
"Thank you. God bless," the homeless said gratefully.
I would have it known that being from Chicago, a land where strangers cuss out others and show anger and apathy toward one another, learning how to be polite, nice, and quick-thinking is hard to do. I'm great at improv comedy. It's a specialty of mine if I had one, but I cannot improv politeness and kindness. I need to script it like a movie, lest I make myself look like a fucking idiot. Which is exactly what I did.
"Thank you," I said. My mind was running a mile a minute. I didn't know what to say. My corporate, fast food restaurant and front desk etiquette training kicked in. "Have a nice day."
What a fucking stupid comment to make. He's homeless. If I said, "Try to have a nice day" or "I wish you the best of luck," that might have been better, but I had to utter the same fucking comment the polite clerks at department stores are witnessed to whisper every now and then.
I still can't get over myself for such sheer stupidity, which only compiled on as I tried to shoot clay pigeons with a shotgun this evening. I hit nothing but the air. Granted, it was my first time firing a shotgun, but I need to improve quickly, as I'm expected to hunt pheasant tomorrow. I sorely hope I don't pull a Dick Cheney and plug somebody in the face.
I've never hunted, obviously, so this will be a new experience. Supposedly, we will eat what we catch. I'm excited as I have a vast interest in animal anatomy. I've always loved dissecting dead creatures, and cleaning a pheasant seems to be the most anticipatory moment for me tomorrow.
The blood. The organs. The flesh.
(I'm kidding).
However, I am excited to eat a kill I hopefully will earn. However, with my shooting thus far, trees are going to be the only living things to fear me. Poor trees.
These people in my hunting party are a strange people. They are warm, welcoming, and friendly, but they have their silly rules they frown on - two of which I broke. I drank a couple of beers, and I had a couple cups of tea. Wait. No. I broke three. I swore a few times out of habit. Maybe four. I bashed spectating sports. I don't know. They still show warmth, and the women here are plentiful in number for those in my age group; they are beautiful. However, they may be too stuck in their silly rules to engage in passion.
That's another thing about this area. The warmth. The people here are well-mannered and friendly, as I've mentioned previously. At Wendy's today, the woman at the drive-thru window referred to me as "sir". "Thank you, sir," she said pleasantly.
.....The Hell?
These people are so economically depressed in comparison to many suburbs I've been known to haunt back home, but they are so much more friendly and....... human. Human. That's a word. Something seen less and less in my world. Perhaps I need to change this - move elsewhere. However, I'm still an outcast in this community. Weird. Different. Maybe intimidating by my immense height and size.
I need to convey a loving nature to gain entrance into this festival, so long as they can deal with my booze indulgences, teas, and herbal smokes.
