A Close Encounter at Area 51

I was birthed into the world when humanity was still an Earth bound species. The planets were a dream and the stars a mystery, but a few short months after I took my first breaths and cried my first complaints, Yuri Gagarin rode Vostok 1 into orbit and gazed down on a sight no man had seen before. Less than a month later, Alan Shepard strapped himself into a Mercury capsule and became the first American in space with his 15 minute sub-orbital flight. The Space Race was on. It would capture the world's attention as it built to its lunar climax, and I spent my childhood with news of it all around me.

I also spent my childhood surrounded by news of body counts in Southeast Asia and Mobile, Alabama. Presidents and civil rights leaders were being shot dead, and riots were breaking out in Watts, Memphis, and Chicago. The whole world was watching those stories, too. Rocketships and spacemen meant more to me than martyrs and massacres, though, and the ugliness of the times were just background noise as I assembled plastic model spaceships and dreamed of becoming an astronaut.

I never did become an astronaut. Some would say that instead, through chemically assisted journeys that used Pink Floyd, Alan Parsons, and the Grateful Dead as a soundtrack, I became a spaceman of a different sort. Okay, no real argument there. I just became a pshyconaut and explored a different kind of space is all. The childhood fascinations have stayed, though. I watch and read with wonder as automated rovers send back reports from the surface of Mars and as unmanned spacecraft take flyby video of distant planets, moons, and asteroids. I also lean toward science fiction in movies and literature as entertainment, and my imagination is captured by thoughts of what could be out there when I look into the night sky.

By the time I moved to Las Vegas in the late 80's, science fiction was trying hard to merge with reality. Whitley Strieber had published Communion, and the UFO's of my youth turned into small humanoids with large heads and anal probes. It turns out that they were also leaving fancy designs in wheat fields and mutilating cattle. Late night radio host Art Bell, realizing that sensationalism sells, dropped his current events and politics format and started having guests related to these stories of alien transgression instead. Eventually Bell had a guest named John Lear, and John told the world that these pesky aliens (or at least some of their craft) were the guests of the U.S. government and that they were tucked away at a secret desert base out in the middle of absolutely nowhere. The place was called Area 51, and he even had a scientist friend that had worked there.

The friend turned out to be Bob Lazar. First in silhouetted anonymous interviews with a local newsman, and then later in the open, Lazar began to spill the beans. His story was of back engineering the propulsion system of an alien craft, discovering it was fueled by the previously unknown "element 115", and created a gravity bubble that allowed it to bend space and time. Fascinating, as Mr. Spock would say. I was intrigued. I didn't necessarily believe the stories were true, but I knew there was a part of me that wanted them to be true. Besides, what inner child wouldn't be interested in stories of secret bases with UFO's and maybe even real live aliens? Area 51, Groom Lake, Dreamland... what enticing names, and it was just up the road a piece from me. So, quite naturally...

I worked a graveyard shift, and it wasn't uncommon to sign out early and leave when business was slow. One could remove their little clip on tie, unsnap their dealer's apron, walk out of the casino and head to the parking lot while dawn broke over the mountain range to the east. The whole day would lie ahead while snarling poker players huddled about the tables and stayed behind. It was on such an occasion that I found myself inspired to make the 120 or so mile drive across the desert and experiencing Area 51 for myself.

First I had to stop at home, change my clothes, and do a little prep work. This involved breaking up a bud, wrapping a rolling paper around it, and twisting up a nice fat joint. That, along with a little styrofoam cooler filled with water, soda, and ice, and I was ready to go. All I needed to do was stop and fill up my gas tank, catch I-15 heading out of the valley, and begin my jaunt across the desert and into the realms of secrecy.

Twenty miles of Interstate took me past Nellis Air Force Base, then up out of the Las Vegas valley and eventually to the intersection of US 93. Making the turn, I left behind the multiple lanes of an Interstate full of tractor-trailers and cars with out of state plates headed away from the money left behind in the local casinos. Before me lay a mostly empty two lane stretch of asphalt that headed north across a brown and uninviting (to most folks) landscape. Reaching into my tobacco pouch (I roll my own), I removed something that wasn't a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply. No Bill Clinton here... if you're going to do something, you may as well do it correctly. I exhaled, coughed, and inhaled again.

After several more puffs I had burned away a goodly portion of the joint. Wetting my thumb and forefinger, I snuffed out the cherry and put the healthy roach away for safe keeping. Grabbing a pinch of tobacco, I twisted up a cigarette and continued on my drive accompanied by the warm muzziness of a good stoning. Barren hills, outcroppings of rock, and clumps of sagebrush whipped past as the road stretched out before me. Tires hummed and the motor purred. The breeze from open windows whipped about the cab of the truck and grabbed at my hair, trying its best to make up for the ancient Ford Bronco's lack of proper air conditioning. Two-Seventy air, two windows down at seventy miles per hour.

US 93 makes its way through the heart of Nevada, eventually crossing the border into Idaho and points north. Along the way, it is mostly barren and delivers a true understanding of the phrase, "The middle of nowhere." Whatever it may be, if you didn't bring it with you then you're going to have a hard time finding it. This applies especially to such trivial items like water and gasoline. Eventually the highway goes through the neighboring towns of Alamo and Ash Springs. "Town" is a generous term for these two little burghs that amount to little more than wide spots in the road, but some services are available. Available at a premium, that is. If you ever want to pay more than you ever have for a gallon of gasoline, just make a pit stop in the middle of the stinkin' desert at the only gas pump for 50+ miles in any direction. I promise that you'll get to pay about 30% more than you're accustomed to. In fairness, though, the gas station in Ash Springs also boasts a mexican restaurant where you can get a surprisingly good plate of beans and rice, thus filling up on a different kind of gas.

Having had the foresight to gas up in Vegas, I stopped only for a small bag of potato chips... some salty-crunchy to sate the marijuana munchies that were coming my way. Perhaps I would stop for rice and frijoles on my way back home. Yes, a plate full of food and a glass full of beer while contemplating a head full of secrets that I was bound to discover during my pilgrimage to America's favorite Top Secret military base. In the meantime, it was back to the truck to dig into the cooler for a bottle of water and then continue my journey. Ash Springs faded in my rear view mirror as I sped forward towards mysteries unknown.

A few miles up the road, 93 comes to an intersection. There is US 93, and US 93 Alternate. That's right, alternate, an even more desolate stretch of road than the desolate one it leaves behind. Shortly after turning onto 93 Alternate, there's another intersection with a length of pavement that makes the previous desolation seem downright suburban. Dubbed the Extra-Terresrtial Highway in a marketing scheme that accomplished pretty much nothing, it is state highway 375 and it eventually leads to Tonopah after crossing miles and miles of miles and miles... leaving only the no man's land of a hard scrabble desert in its wake.

It becomes readily apparent that this part of the world is a perfect place to hide something in plain sight because there simply isn't anybody around to look at it. The landscape looks capable of supporting only rocks and scrubby, sparse vegetation. Animal life consists of small creatures that either scurry or slither about the ground while birds float overhead, gliding on thermals and waiting for lunch to expose itself below. Not far away, just a couple of mountain ranges to the west, the desert floor sits pock marked with giant craters where the ground once hosted thermo-nuclear devices and mushroom clouds rose into the sky. It is, indeed, an apocalyptic and uninviting place. Only a madman would want to be out here. A madman, or stoned Desert Rat intrigued by government secrets and rumors of E.T. I dug through my tobacco pouch for the hidden roach and lit it. I refreshed my glow with a couple of puffs, then snubbed it out and drove on.

After twenty or thirty miles, 375 crests a range of hills and drops down into an expansive valley. To the south lay another range of hills, and beyond those hills sits the dry bed of Groom Lake, the home of Area 51. After 375 reaches the valley floor, it curves to the north-east. Near the curve, a well maintained dirt road leads south toward those mysterious hills. There is a turnout where the dirt road intersects with 375, and at the edge of that turnout sits a large mailbox atop a post. Once painted black, it serves as guidepost to many a UFO hunter. Now painted white and covered with "so-and-so was here" graffiti (something I'm sure the local rancher that owns it must find annoying), it sits at the headwaters of what has become known as Mail Box road, the road to Area 51 and hallowed ground for Ufologists and conspiritorialists world wide.

After a brief pause by the mail box (no, I didn't leave my name on it), I started down the dirt road. It stretched out before me, eventually climbing into and vanishing amidst the distant hills. Occasionally a little grey box with small solar panel could be seen on the side of the road. Further removed from the road there were half hidden glimpses of antennae atop short poles. They were most certainly devices intended to detect and monitor traffic, and, combined with the giant dust plume rising behind my truck, my arrival would not be unannounced.

From the highway, the hills don't look that far away. Distance can be hard to judge in a wide open landscape, though, and what I thought would be only a couple of miles turned into fifteen or twenty of them. That gave me a lot of time to think about where I was headed and what I was doing. I certainly wasn't the first casual explorer to kick up a cloud of dust out here, and I was still on public land. I had passed no signs telling me to stay away or suffer the consequences, though the road side sensors and what they inferred could be considered somewhat ominous. It was no secret that this was a Top Secret area, but governments tend to take these things very seriously. They don't really cotton to unauthorized folks sniffing about the periphery of classified matters, and I knew that a Las Vegas poker dealer that grew up on Star Trek and the Apollo program wouldn't be very high on their list of approved personnel. I drove on.
Eventually the road began to climb into the hills. As it rose above the valley floor and began to snake about the terrain, my once expansive vista became more confined. I had yet to come across any signs warning of restricted access and informing that the use of deadly force was authorized, but I knew that they couldn't be far... maybe just around the next bend or two. That's when my paranoia got the best of me. Well, either my paranoia, or a timely dose of common sense. I was simply galavanting about on a whimsical adventure, but anybody I encountered out here would be playing hardball for keepsies. I pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. This was far enough.

I shut off the motor and got out of the truck to stretch my legs and look about. The sky was a clear, pale blue with only hints of cloud, and the midday sun washed away what little color there may have been in the rolling brown hills that surrounded me. The air was still, and the smell of sun baked rock and roasted dirt lingered in my nostrils. The setting was typical of so many roadside rest stops that I had taken on lazy desert afternoons, and at first glance you wouldn't know that I stood near the edge of Authorized Deadly Force. Yet I was keenly aware that just on the other side of the hills nestled about me sat a place that was deemed so important in terms of national security that the United States government wouldn't even acknowledged its existence.

That Area 51 existed was beyond question. The out -of-this-world claims of Bob Lazar and John Lear had cast a brilliant (and unwelcome) light upon it in the eye of a public that craved sensationalism. We may never know who killed JFK, but at least now we knew where the aliens were sequestered. The little town of Rachel, nothing more than a collection of mobile homes with a few permanent buildings dotted about a wide spot in the road about forty miles distant, saw opportunity to capitalize on the trade of adventuresome sightseers. Rachel (pop. 35 inc. dogs) was home to a little cafe and bar that had been awkwardly rechristened the Little Ale-E-Inn. It was the only cold beer and the only greasy cheeseburger for miles in any direction, and it was there to capture stray dollars from tourists that had traveled across the globe in hopes of glimpsing a flying saucer on maneuvers. Okay, it's more likely they had crossed oceans to visit Las Vegas, but since they were in the area and had heard the stories... well, why not investigate? Paid tours had sprung up, and for a reasonable fee you could board a bus in Vegas, sit in it for two and a half hours, get out and stand in the middle of the desert while taking pictures of distant brown hills, and perhaps catch sight of a watchful helicopter (full of MIB's, naturally). Then it was off to Rachel and the Little Ale-E-Inn for trinkets and t-shirts. The barmaid would sell over priced beers while locals regaled eager ears with stories about the various alien races. There were the Greys, the Small Headed Greys, the Reptilians, and the Nordics. Some were evil, some were benevolent, and all were being held by the government in that secret facility just over yonder hills. Meanwhile a dog laying in the corner stretches, yawns, then breaks wind.

Rachel was also home to a fellow named Glen Campbell (not that one, a different one) and his Area 51 Research Facility. Campbell wasn't one off the standard loons spouting sensationalism about captured alien spacecraft and secret government agreements with extra terrestrial beings. Instead he concentrated on unearthing the history of the base, and on documenting what few clues that could be gathered about what goes on there. His website, The Groom Lake Desert Rat, chronicled these efforts. Among his stories are those of the Groom Lake Interceptors and Freedom Ridge. Freedom Ridge was a hill top that still lay within the bounds of publicly accessible land but provided a distant view of the base next to the dry lake bed. The Groom Lake Interceptors were a group of people armed with cameras, massive telephoto lenses, and lawn chairs. From their perch atop Freedom Ridge, they would observe both aircraft and ground vehicles and document their arrivals and departures from the base. Occasionally a helicopter would buzz them threateningly, providing fodder for camcorders. Though the Interceptors neither penetrated the base nor unearthed its heavily guarded secrets, they provided incontrovertible proof that the place did indeed exist.

Whether one believed Area 51 was home to Marvin The Martian, Mr. Spock, and the Millenniem Falcon, or that it was merely an innocent testing ground for experiments with new tools of espionage and warfare, one knew that it was there. Signs that read "This Way To Secret Base" and had little arrows pointing to the hills appeared at strategic spots along the highway and the entrance to Mail Box road. Bright orange placards that read "SENSOR" found their way to the mysterious little boxes on the side of the dirt road. Naturally these signs were quickly disappeared, but the cat was out of the bag and everyone seemed to be in on the secret.

Despite all of this, the United States government still would not acknowledge the base's existence. Instead, they pulled a land grab and annexed a chunk of desert that lay just outside the current boundaries. It wasn't a large chunk of rocks and dirt, but it was enough to include Freedom Ridge. Campbell and his Interceptors screamed foul at the move and questioned (perhaps rightly) its legality, but it didn't matter. Freedom Ridge was now in the forbidden zone, and officialdom just sat back like a child with its hand over its eyes saying, "Can't see me!" Out of sight, out of mind. Well, not exactly... but the point had been made.

So there I stood, little ol' me, just outside the boundaries of what was supposedly one of the world's most secret government facilities. It bordered on the surreal. Though I hadn't gone far enough to encounter the actual warning signs, I knew they had to be close. I gazed down the road to where it vanished into the hills about 100 yards distant. Though still within the bounds of legality, I was somewhere that a very powerful entity didn't want me to be. I wanted to see the actual border, but was unsure about just how far I wanted to push this particular envelope. There wasn't much room for error, and the consequences of a misstep could be drastic. Nobody was going to write out a citation and tell me to be on my way. No, at the very least I would be detained until I was given the opportunity to stand before an unsympathetic judge.

As I stood there wondering just how much farther I could comfortably go, my eyes were drawn to a couple of bright spots at the top of a not too distant hill. As I focused in on them, I realized that I was looking at two windshields reflecting the sunlight. Two pickup trucks were parked up there, maybe a quarter of a mile away, and they were facing directly towards me. I was being watched. It should have come as no surprise. Between all the roadside sensors I had passed and the giant plume of dust I had created on my way in, my arrival had most certainly been noted. Otherwise the place wouldn't have been much of a Top Secret installation, would it? Still, actually seeing my watchers was a bit unnerving. I could imagine them sitting up there, staring me down through high powered binoculars while the radio chatter flew back and forth. "Subject is a Caucasian male, approximately five foot seven..."

Moments like that are a cue to a nicotine addict, and I heard my tobacco calling to me, saying, "You need a cigarette right about now!" I reached into the cab of my truck, grabbed my tobacco pouch, and rolled a cigarette. I tossed the pouch back into the truck, then lit up and took a long soothing drag while looking up at the guardians of officialdom and its state secrets. It was all a bit creepy, and my mouth began to feel dry. I walked around to the passenger side of the truck where my little styrofoam cooler was sitting on the floorboard, and began to dig through the ice for a bottle of water. Having found the water, I took a healthy swallow, then decided I needed to piss. Using the truck to provide a modicum of privacy from very watchful eyes, I unzipped and went about my business. Finishing up, I collected and secured myself. I walked back around to the other side of the truck, took a drag off my cigarette, and looked back up at the hill top. It was abandoned, not a truck in sight. They had left.

For the briefest of moments, I thought that they had lost interest in me and were moving on to more pressing duties. The thought made absolutely no sense, however, and I quickly got over it. Watching people like me was their job, and they knew I was here... so why had they left? Then I saw the dust plumes, two of them rising up from behind a different hill. I couldn't see the actual trucks, but I could see evidence of their movement. Judging by the size of the plumes, they were moving at a goodly clip as well. Another couple of seconds and I was able to tell that they were not only moving quickly, they were also moving closer. It wouldn't be long before I had visitors instead of observers.

I didn't want any visitors, especially visitors with badges and guns. Still, I was within my rights, standing on what was both literally and figuratively legal ground. All they could do was talk to me, question me, perhaps put the fear of authority into me, and suggest I be on my way, right? After all, I had done nothing illegal, and I was just another nuisance of a curiosity seeker that, annoying though I may be, warranted nothing more than an entry in somebody's classified log book. So what was the big deal? Why had they left their cozy little hilltop perch and were now busy making good time in my direction? I took another drag off of my cigarette, and realized that I was holding the answer between two of my fingers.

It was the cigarette. They had seen me rolling my cigarette, and thought I was rolling a joint! Well, it wouldn't be the first time. I'd been rolling my own cigarettes for years, and it wasn't uncommon for somebody to do a double take when they saw me do it. Of course they quickly realize what I'm actually doing, and usually follow up with a lame joke (Whatcha' smokin' there? Yuk-yuk."). I then reply with a polite but insincere chuckle. It's a routine I'd grown weary of, but comes with the price of smoking tailor-mades. This time might be more interesting, though. This time two security trucks were going to come racing up and excited men were going to jump out, only to find that, much to their embarrassment and much to my amusement, their big drug bust was no more than a bag of tobacco. It might be kind of fun in a twisted sort of way.

Then I remembered the roach left over from the Hindenburg sized joint I had rolled back in Las Vegas. It was tucked away in the pouch with my tobacco, and it definitely smelled like weed. Depending upon how serious these people were, they could very well wind up finding what they were looking for. Considering where I was and my proximity to Above Top Secret, I had to assume that they would be very serious people indeed. Never mind my legal right. Who knew how these folks would react to being duped (however unintentionally) by a curious desert rat, and who knew what they could wind up justifying as "reasonable cause"? The answers that came to mind were, "not well" and "pretty much whatever they want." Curiosity turned into concern, then discomfort, and eventually paranoia. It was time to get out of Dodge.

I climbed into my truck, fired up it's motor, and did so with haste and purpose. I cranked the wheel, did a tight 180, and spit gravel from under the rear tires as I accelerated back the way I had come. As I did so, I dug through my pouch and found the roach. At first I was just going to toss it out the window, but then figured that I didn't want to be seen throwing something out of the truck. Yeah, I know... it's just a tiny object laying by the side of the road in a very big desert, but what if they found it? What if they brought in the dogs and the helicopters and the infrared and the satellite imagery and actually found that damning little chunk of evidence? Did I mention that I was paranoid? Instead, I field stripped the roach and held my hand casually out the window to let the wind scatter the remains among the sagebrush.

Onward I sped, eventually winding my way out of the hills and down onto the desert floor. Having disposed of the evidence (though my fingers surely stank of field stripped roach), my paranoia level dropped from red to orange and I began to relax a bit. The road straightened out and after another mile or so I began to slow down. Doing so reduced the size of the dust plume behind me, and I was able to look at my mirrors to determine if there were any dust tails chasing after me. There were none, and the paranoia scale fell to yellow, indicating mere concern. Eventually I reached the highway and found sanctuary on its pavement. I stopped next to the rancher's mail box, and looked back at the dirt road and the hills I had left behind. No sign of pursuit, and finally I was able to breath easily. I pulled away and started heading down 375 and back to Vegas, my adventure concluded. It wasn't long before I regretted tossing the roach, though. A long drive lay before me, and I could sure use a puff or two.

That was almost twenty years ago, and though curiosity remains high I have yet to return. I've been out that way a few times since, travelling 375 on my to somewhere else and stopping at the Little Ale-E-Inn for refreshment and a look at their collection of alien themed plastic trinkets and gewgaws, but I've yet to turn down Mail Box road a second time. I got close, had my adventure, and attracted some unwelcome attention. There may have been no log book to sign, but I'm sure my license plate was recorded and cross checked against DMV records, and that my name has been duly recorded. Besides, there's really nothing to see out there. If you get close enough to actually see anything, you're going to have much bigger concerns very quickly.

I don't really believe that other worldly beings are or have been kept out at Area 51, though I do acknowledge the possibility, however remote it may be. I've followed the stories, tales of amazing claims coming out of Roswell, Socorro, and Groom Lake, and viewed them with a eye full of skepticism. Most are outrageous and easily dismissed, some are curious, and some leave me wondering what truths they may have been based upon before succumbing to the distortions of time, sensationalism, and profiteering. It would be so cool if even the tiniest shred of them were true. I can't accept that, in the vastness of the universe, life is unique to Earth. Microbial, bacterial, plant, animal, sentient and even intelligent, it must be out there and scattered among the stars. I firmly believe that. As for whether or not somebody or something has figured out how to cross interstellar distances and has taken an interest in our little blue speck of cosmic dust, I really can't say. I will admit my curiosities about intelligent life often turn my eyes up to the night skies. When I cast them upon the Earth I see what amounts to a bunch of angry monkeys with growing pains and machine guns, leaving me to wonder if we might not survive our own sentience. The hope that we do lay out amongst the stars.