A report on the 2016 expedition to Utah
Sacramento Leo, Southern Comfort Leo, Smooth-in-the-Groove Leo and Geology Leo – dragon hunters armed with compasses, four-wheel drives and field books to confirm that myth is actually fact. I’m Desert Rat Leo, with my dog – Rat Dog Leo.
The purpose of the expedition was to find evidence about mountains and the physics of their creation coherent with the theory of Electric Universe. Not an easy task, but the theories are our own, which allows some flexibility – not in the science, of course, but in the methods of discovery.
We were using an entirely unconventional method called ‘Looking’. It’s a practice out of favor in academia. Most scientists now use computers to mimic reality – modelling reality to understand it. Like studying clay sculpture of people to understand life – it looks right, but doesn’t say much about the human heart. We took the approach of actually looking.
The trip began for Rat and I two days early. One day, so I could stay the night in Flagstaff and break-up the drive. Another day because I didn’t look at the calendar. I’m more attuned to phase of the moon than day of the week. It was coming up full, so I had to go.
Actually, leaving early allowed independent investigation of a fascinating land form near Kayenta, Arizona, called Comb Ridge.
Comb Ridge is a smaller version of Capitol Reef, the primary objective for the Utah expedition. A stop at Comb Ridge was like the trailer to a movie – a preview of things to come.
The Comb is known as a single-sided monocline. You can look-up the mainstream theory here, but it’s pretty boring. By my theory it’s a pressure ridge, made by searing supersonic winds and shock waves. The theory is called Arc Blast. It’s really hypothesis, not theory, but that word has too many syllables. Most people know what I mean – it’s a concept that still requires proof.
Arc Blast is the literal breath of the mythical dragon – one of the archetypes from mythology that describes hydra-headed serpents launching from the depths of the sea, exposing the basement of Earth, arcing across the land, and dragging a tsunami of ocean behind that flooded to the height of mountain tops.
Arc Blast is caused by electrical discharge – arcs of current – lightning bolts in other words. Only this is lightning from inside Earth. When Earth amps-up from an external cause, like a big comet, or Solar flare, current internal to Earth blast out. The havoc that follows makes weather like Jupiter’s, with winds and lightning of enormous proportion.
Comb Ridge is a perfect example of an arc blast feature, because it exhibits triangular buttresses. These I contend can only be explained by supersonic winds and sonic shock waves. Mainstream theorizes these triangular forms are made by water erosion, which is entirely inadequate, and I can show that.
The reason is coherency in the forms. Their explanations lack it. Mine don’t. Examining Comb Ridge gave confidence to my claim.
It’s also easily accessible. A graded road runs behind the ridge and cuts through a canyon between buttresses. Rat Dog and I parked the Rover in the sandy wash, and simply climbed up. They lay at a shallow angle of about 20 degrees.
Structurally, everything we examined fit our theory. The buttresses are layered sandstone, no evidence water erosion created the shape of the triangles, and every indication they were deposited by winds.
But we also found things I hadn’t expected.
U.S. Route 163 passes through Comb Ridge, north into Monument Valley. As the road falls away from the Ridge, there is a stark, ugly blister on the land. It’s called Agathla Peak, and pokes 1,500 feet out of the desert floor. It’s dark brown, to black, like it’s made of burnt mud.
It’s where a huge lightning bolt struck, and left this raised blister. Using the preferred scientific instrument, our eyes, Rat and I detected lots of them in the area.
These pinnacles are considered by convention to be diatreme of ancient volcanoes. A plug of magma that stuck in the volcano’s throat, now exposed by time and erosion. The mainstream theory requires all of the surrounding land to have eroded away, leaving these ‘volcanic plugs’ behind.
But how severe erosive forces, capable of scouring away thousands of feet of land, could leave behind these crumbling chunks of sandstone is a bit perplexing to me.
Another feature of these pinnacles are dikes – walls of crumbling, darkened material called minette, also believed to be formed by volcanic process. But minette is like sandstone that has been altered electrically. It’s not like what spews from volcanoes at all.
Rat Dog and I found the same kind of dikes embedded in the buttresses, and radiating across the desert plains. They are too unconsolidated and crumbly to withstand forces that washed everything around them away. It seems more likely they are the remains of electrically charged shock waves from the same lightning that created the pinnacles.
Having collected this key intelligence, Rat was hot and needed a nap. Of course, she took my lap, which meant I wore a hot dog in my lap. The temperature on the Comb was around 100ºF.
We drove on through Monument Valley. The place is is astonishing. Many trips back are in order, but on this day we rushed through on our way to Moab. We needed to set camp before dark.
Moab is a pretty patch of green in Canyon Country, where tributary creeks feed the Colorado. We gassed the Rover, ate and restocked the coolers with ice. Then ventured along the river to the campsite where the other Leo’s intended to meet us. That campsite was full. So was the next. And the next. And the next.
Down river we drove, surveying each campsite along the way. Here, the river cuts through a deep walled chasm favored by rock climbers. So the camps were full of these spider people; a strange, underfed and insular cult, festooned with colorful webbing.
Rat Dog felt it was best to keep our distance from the strange beings. Finally, we came to the last campsite available. It was empty.
We took the finest, shady spot at the bank of the river. While I unloaded gear, pitched the tent and collected firewood, Rat Dog sniffed flowers.
She didn’t sniff flowers for long – she wandered away instead. I hated to leash her since there was no-one else around, but couldn’t keep my eyes on her either. She seemed reluctant to stay in camp. The reason became apparent when I pulled branches from a pile of driftwood by the river-bank. Clouds of mosquitoes billowed out.
And so began a relentless night of misery. The Rat found mosquitoes in the flowers. Her hair sprouted clumps where bites raised her skin. She looked pitiful in a funny way, but I was alarmed at how many bites she had. She’s not a big dog and can’t take much poison. So, I zipped her inside the tent.
Meanwhile, the mosquitoes began to consume me. Constant movement was the only relief. I found if I moved fast enough to generate wind, I could outrun them. So I ran around, grabbing sticks and branches for the fire. Every piece of wood I picked-up swarmed more mosquitoes.
I frantically lit the fire to get smoke in the air. It was the only form of repellent available. I’m not used to dealing with mosquitoes because I live in a dry region. I don’t use bug repellent on my skin either. I had to resort to the only other form of relief at my disposal. A bottle of vodka.
I watched the sun angle below canyon walls, wondering how long until it cooled inside the tent to be bearable. I paced back and forth in smoke to foil the mosquitoes, my skin cooking from fire, my insides cooking in vodka, and fever in my brain from both.
When I bent over to tend the fire, mosquitoes attacked my backside. They bit through the seat of my pants. I ate naked crackers for dinner with vodka. It was too hot for cheese. As soon as the temperature dipped I joined Rat in the tent.
When morning sun steamed me awake, a dozen of the insolent bugs lounged on the tent walls. Fat with our blood, they were too sluggish to escape my wrath. I turned them into bloody blotches, and then regretted the stains.
I left Rat sleeping while packing everything, none of which I used. Then collected her and the tent, let her pee, and left for Moab to find coffee.
Once mental cognizance was reestablished with a large, dark roast, the Rat and I took stock. There was no way we were camping along the river again. I had to break down and buy a map.
This was a smart move. We’d been going solely on instinct, as dragon hunters are wont to do, eschewing navigational aides. I noted several campsites high on Dead Horse Mesa, between the Green and Colorado Rivers.
The Mesa had no mosquitoes, and was also out of the oppressive, brooding canyon. Here, there was big sky, clouds and a breeze. It’s called Dead Horse, because some dumb-ass rustlers thought the narrow tip of the Mesa would make a good corral to capture a stolen herd. I’ll let you figure out the rest.
W chose a campsite with trees and pitched the tent and a surplus parachute for extra shade. I strung it between Junipers, and when the wind blew right, it billowed and made an awesome clam shell awning.
The Leo’s arrived early afternoon. Finally, someone to talk with besides Rat. Tents went up, beers came out, along with chairs, ice chests and gadgets. There was also one luxurious, padded cot. I noticed the Rat eyeing it jealously. So did I. “Don’t you dare!” I said, and I gave her a look that meant business.
It belonged to Geology Leo. He laid on it immediately and began snoring, and that’s where he stayed for the rest of the trip.
The rest of us sat at the fire, talking and drinking beer. It was fun and we soon succumbed to disorientation, unbalance and expansive creativity. It wasn’t long before, one by one, they all drifted away to nap. Envy towards Geology Leo, snoring away on that damn cot began to burn inside, so I sat and grumbled to myself.
A couple things of note occurred then. We had our first wildlife encounter as a group. Rat and I met the mosquitoes, of course – my butt still itched from that. But this ‘National Geographic’ moment was more engaging. A fox approached Smooth-in-the-Groove while he napped on the ground, and sniffed his face. It was cute, in spite of the risk of fleas and rabies.
Then the camp host paid a visit and berated us for pitching tents, leaving dogs off-leash, and parking vehicles in the wrong places. Once we made adjustment according to orders, however, he relaxed and talked about the fox. Apparently it was a little rascal who stole campers clothes and food on a regular basis.
The other thing of note were two Italian girls camped across the road. The Rat made first contact. She trotted away to meet them first chance she got. She’s not overly fond of people in general, but she trusts other women.
The young ladies were from Italy, on a cross country trip through National Parks. I had no intention of bothering them, but Rat didn’t give me a choice. The girls immediately began cooing and fawning over her, so she jumped in their car and sat on the comfy seat. I had to get her back.
Smoothy immediately joined us. He wanted to flirt with the girls. So, while I mentally stumbled trying to communicate, he went-off speaking fluent Italian. This left me standing with my thumb up my butt while they conversed.
I extracted Rat from their car and threw her in the tent. She looked at me with daggers the rest of the night. I know she’d have abandoned me for those girls if I let her.
The next day the wind changed, causing the parachute awning to flap mercilessly, knocking off hats and slapping the unwary. The breeze also brought scent of the toilet to us.
I hadn’t noticed any odor when I picked the campsite. But something was different today. Not just wind direction, either. The chemical balance was off in the toilets. It smelled like shit.
We moved in slow modality all morning, shuffling about sipping instant coffee in the smelly miasma. The Italian ladies came and shared granola bars. They brought one for each of us (two for Rat) and shared their travel stories while we munched. They were very charming with their accents and animated story-telling. They spoke better English than we could at that moment, so we just listened.
Around Noon, we finally got into the Rover and Southern Comfort’s jeep for some geology field work. What follows is actual field work in action:
Desert Rat Leo, September, 2016.
![IMG_1727[1]](https://thedailyplasma.blog/wp-content/uploads/2015/06/img_17271.jpg?w=845)
Ginger and I traveled to a little known place in Arizona where the creatures are known to make an appearance now and then. I’m not saying where it is, but it’s a large mountain that looks like this one. We arrived and found a beautiful camp by the lake.
Soon after, Ginger crawled out of the sleeping bag and looked at the tent door. I thought she needed to potty, or get water, so I unzipped the tent. She immediately crouched low, dropped her ears and tail, and growled with deep, serious intent out the opening. She almost never growls and I’ve only heard her do that when fending off a mean dog, or one of the meth addicts in our neighborhood. I don’t know how she can tell a meth addict from anyone else. Same way we do, I guess, because they’re scary.
We left on the fourth of July. This was strategic on two counts. First, all the holiday campers would be leaving that day and we like our solitude. Second, all the Bigfoot should be ready to raise hell now that the firework wielding, beer soaked campers were gone. We thought the Skeezamen ( a local name) might even venture to the lake now that it was quite after the long weekend. I can’t help but think that crawdads would be one of their favorite snacks – its one of mine.
Ginger and I scouted several areas where the trees seemed arranged non-randomly. There were several areas where there were these crosses formed from broken tree trunks. They faced the road squarely with lots of other disturbance around them; a profusion of broken limbs, stumps and trunks leaning against other trees.
There are two trees still rooted and bent over in arches, another laid over in the same direction and one pressed against the trunk of the center tree like a spring. Two logs are laid over all four to hold them down. Well, it seems odd to me. Ginger wouldn’t get out of the car. She was bored with tree structures.
I suppose this could have fallen in a wind this way. If it was the only one like it I would even assume so, but there are several broken, bent or wedged in improbable positions like this in clusters. Note all the other leaning trees nearby. Here are more views of the same trees.
Ginger was getting annoyed I was looking at trees. She wanted to look for Bigfoot. She doesn’t make the connection with trees because she’s a dog. Dogs don’t look up. If it had been a turd on the ground, or something fun to pee on, she’d have been more interested.
Notice how the leaning trees are held down by the broken tree? They should not have been in the line of fall if this had been wind or snow. That’s how they always seem to fall in this particular area though.
Ginger and I are very attached. She’s a weird dog, but also the smartest, warmest dog I’ve ever known. By warm, I mean warm. Mexican aristocrats bred Chihuahuas to sleep with because they were better than hot water bottles. This is how we sleep, with her curled against my back to keep us warm.
I don’t know where she slept that night. One camper who I’d talked to flagged me down as I left the campground and asked if I’d found her. He said she had approached his camp just after I’d been by earlier and he was looking to tell me. I said, thanks she was with me now and wondered from which direction she’d come. He pointed to the opposite side of the lake from the campground.![IMG_1747[1]](https://thedailyplasma.blog/wp-content/uploads/2015/06/img_17471.jpg)
![IMG_1729[1]](https://thedailyplasma.blog/wp-content/uploads/2015/06/img_17291.jpg)
The Daily Plasma 