Decided at the last moment (the very last moment as in boat in water, bunting ablaze) he'd rather go on holiday with his family. Now why do I like that?

Thing is, he'd done it before in the 70's, rowed the Atlantic that is.

He knew more or less what to expect and chose not to repeat himself.

Because, you see, it wasn't a true adventure. Or on the other hand, perhaps it would have been. 

Maybe what blinded him was the idea that it was going to be the same.

Had the same thing happen to me at Pyramid Lake, Nevada desert.

There I was, or rather; there we were, Simon Larbalestier and yours truly…

Two years back I'd accompanied Jack Fulton and his photography Class from the San Francisco Art Institute on a trip to the Nevada desert. I was feeling pretty low and vulnerable at the time and felt the best thing to do was expose myself to the group situation and do a bit of exploring in lands unknown. It worked a treat for we were propelled into extraordinary situations.

To name but two…

One of the students in the group happened to have a thing going at the time with a crewmember from "The Spirit of America" world speed record team. So we linked up with them for a two-day jamboree opposite the British camp with their 'Thrust'. For free board and a ringside view of the, as it happened, successful land speed record we were volunteered to walk the two miles of the run looking for and picking up tiny bits of stone, called 'fods". Another reward was to sleep out in the open desert under a massive canopy of stars in minus 15 temps. Lovely!

Second situation was at Pyramid Lake itself. The entire area around the lake and including the Lake itself is Native American Indian reservation and special permission had to be obtained to camp there, and camp we did. One a year and at this time of year (it was October) the entire Lake does a sort of topsy turvy, the bottom of the lake, which is some 1000 feet deep, comes up to the surface and the top part sinks to the bottom. This process provides food for the rare species of primeval fish, which inhabits the bottom part, and ditto for those on top. So, there we were standing by a crackling campfire, roasting the fronts of our bodies whilst our backs were being frozen rigid and then I gazed across the lake to see it shuddering almost pulsating. No! I don't think there is a word for it. If you can picture hitting a huge barrel of water with a hammer, and getting those rapid vibrations across the surface. It was like that, the entire Lake surface vibrating. Awesome! As the Americans would say.

Now if that wasn't enough, as I looked back into the group I saw heading towards us with his eyes fixed on me; mad eyes, blue eyes set in a raw and racked face, a man I thought immediately to be one of the local fisherman shipwrecked from the Lake. He was wrapped in a blanket and shivered as he approached. Then I quickly saw that he wasn't Native American but European. He walked into the group and began talking as if he were just joining a shopping queue.

To cut a long story short, turned out that he was originally from England, brought over as a kid from Stoke on Trent of all places. Was living up in the caves above the lake until recently but currently in a converted camper van once owned by the son of Kahlil Gibran (an amazing machine we were to discover the next morning which had a plexi glass see-through roof).

His name was Zeg and he said he'd been waiting for me because I had a message to give him.

Scary stuff eh?

Well enough to say the message was an address he'd been trying to locate of a community in Northern Italy where a friend of mine had recently taken up working residence.

So there you are! I've told you about just two of many amazing happenings on that trip only by way of explaining the intensity of my expectations.

Instead, this is what happened (i.e. Forget about pre-conceived notions!)

This time we were a party of four, Bruce, Judy, Simon and myself, the former two of whom much preferred to stay in a cosy motel rather than be exposed to the elements (first mistake! In group situations I have found, you're either all in or there's trouble afoot) Unfortunately the Motel was some 70 miles around the lake's edge from the pyramid Simon and i wanted to get to. So it meant dropping us off! Now Bruce had the brilliant idea of asking in the reservation store bar if any fisherman would be so kind as to drop us two across to the other side of the lake (second mistake! dont advertise your vulnerability in the American Wilderness).

We encamped on the lake edge, I lit the fire, (summoning up visions of Zeg and the vibrating lake) and Simon putting up his tent and all. I dug out some biscuits and dry meat; he put up his tent. I went out on two wood forays; he put up his tent. Did he want a hand? No!

An hour later (the lake was now as calm as a mill pond) S decided to fetch some wood as well but got sidetracked half way up one of the gigantic Tufas (mountainous ancient mineral deposits).

Turns out he'd discovered an Indian burial ground and would I come and look at this skeleton inside a cave? Well 'No!' but curiosity got the better of me as it often does. Turned out to be a full skeleton and sure enough in other little caves as we searched, we found other remains too. Didn't take us too long to realise this was a Native American Indian burial ground. Oh Oh!

I manage to prise S away because it seems he wants to spend the night searching the burial grounds and already I have that 'Let's get out here feeling'.

Just at that moment we are hit by a massive wind squall, a sort of dust devil, centered, as I look back, over our camping spot. It's now almost completely dark, red embers from the fire are flying angrily everywhere and we rush back to find a scene of devastation.

To quote from Insurance claim form:

'We got back to find we'd been cursed by spirits form the burial ground. My new sleeping bag in which I'd carefully nestled my expensive digital camera had been whisked up into the air and both (including accessories) were dumped into the Lake. Total loss $1900'.

And as if this were not bad enough…

Zigzagging down the hill, a fast car, headlights lighting up the lake, the Tufas, the beach on which we were perched. Thought perhaps it was the rangers checking on our camping permits. If only! Turned out to be a carload of local people. They drove right up to us and reversed as soon as we approached then repeated this some half-hour later. Each time they yelled out something in what was obviously local language, then skidded back to the lake edge and diappeared some mile away, waiting, engine ticking over, lights across the lake.

Now what would you do in a situation like this?

The full moon was ten minutes from rising over the mountain to the east. Currently we were in semi darkness and with the fire now stamped out, pretty well hidden. But, I tell you, in a situation like that; you get invaded by primitive fears, probably irrational, but powerful nonetheless.

So this is what we did. We moved camp in the minutes left before the whole lake was lit up. This meant climbing to the top of a tufa, three trips in complete darkness so as to not betray our whereabouts. Scared? You bet! But of what? Hard to say. Being murdered I suppose, robbed for sure but who will ever know? Then the moon popped her head over the mountain.

(And we watched this from the top of a 100 foot tufa). We could see the carload of robber murderers parked on the lake edge and each of us kept vigil in turn throughout the night. And in the morning? We were awakened by the departure of the murderer robbers at 7a.m. We rushed to what we'd left at the campsite i.e. tent expecting it to be what? Shredded? But found nothing amiss and from then on began to wonder about the depths of our trepidations.

Friends turned up with cold coffee and bagles, sun was up, lake calm and innocent. Rescued camera contained more water than Pyramid lake itself, sleeping bag had developed an odd shape.

Is there a moral to this story?

How about: 'Don't repeat yourself unless you are adequately insured'.

Mice, October 1999

quests@physikgarden.com