Tag: writing

Non-fiction June 18, 2018June 18, 2018

Writer’s Block

As a personal note to my readers:

I have had plenty of time to write over the last six months. No excuse, my discipline fell apart, my interests diverted away, and I am still struggling to return. I feel I should give you the anatomy of my writer’s block so you will understand. Your trust in my ideas begins with trusting me.

Beginning in November I sank into the rabbit hole known as Q-anon. If you know what that is, I need say no more, and if you don’t, there is no point trying to explain. It’s something you need to discover for yourself. I can only speak to those who know.

As we watched the week of BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM unfold, I feel I spent the time well following all things Q instead of writing. After all, my writing is about this Earth, so I must pay attention to what is happening now, as much as to what may have shaped the Earth long (or not so long) ago. It is all connected.

Every night I look at Saturn. It’s especially bright in the sky, at opposition to the Sun. I can see a moon, it must be Titan, clearly with the naked eye. It’s orbit brings it between the five o’clock and seven o’clock position every night, like the pendulum of a clock: Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock.

As I write, I listen to AG Jeff Sessions announce a zero tolerance policy on illegal immigration. Hardly a minor thing, but ignored by mainstream media. It’s the law of the nation, and is finally being respected and enforced. That is the job of the chief executive office. Thank God someone is doing their job. If you lived near the border that I do, you would too.

The world is changing NOW. As I write, a little bit of world peace is being restored in Singapore. As I write, a war is being waged and won, by the good guys. Corruption is being routed, and dishonesty is being exposed.

The balance between good and evil just shifted beneath our feet. The materialism and relativism of the last age is yielding to monotheism, and truth. The day the meek prevail – those of inner strength and quite ways – has come, led by the biggest bombast (and most sincere person) of the century. How ironic, yet appropriate.

I’ve been focused on the events unfolding, because they will lead to many true things coming to light. The awakening will eventually get to science.

This last week, Anthony Bourdain died. I do not believe it was suicide. I do not believe anyone, let alone a dozen, or so celebrities, can hang themselves from doorknobs. I don’t pay much attention to celebrities, but Bourdain was an honest man. Honest to himself, which was evident in his writing. His life needn’t have finished. I think he died for the truth. In that way, he reminds me of my brother Don.

In February, my brother died. Don was seventy-two. He died of heart failure in his sleep. A peaceful passing, but far too soon. The effect on me was like no other. I mourned my mother, and my brother Jim, as well as my cousins, and Aunt and Uncle – all who have died in the past two years. That grief I coped with differently.

It was a shock to everyone who knew him. Don was a person who respected everyone, and that respect reflected on him with the amplified effect of our own distorted lenses. We all have faults Don didn’t have. He was something of an archetype to the family and those who knew him. The square-jawed Marine pilot. The confident Airline Captain. The person who would stop to give you aid if you were stranded on the roadside. I’ve seen him do that many times. Unlike many, he could be depended on.

Not that he was Jesus, but he was certainly different. This is not a eulogy for Don, however. I cannot yet bring myself to write one. Don’s influence on me, and the influence of his death, is all part of the change. One can’t be “red pilled” by externalities only. One must red-pill yourself inside. Don’s passing laid bare my dependence on him. It laid bare the contrast between us. The consequence is to recognize my own faults and manipulations, moral turpitude, and callous cowardice in the process.

I’m not sure I’ll be a better person, but I’m more aware of when I’m a shit. Maybe it will help.

As it relates to the Electric Universe, my stall-out writing Trailer Park Cosmology, Thunderblogs, climbing triangular buttresses, hunting Bigfoot and answering the many comments and emails from readers, I hope you will stay with me and understand I have much, much more to say. My hiatus was a needed black-out to get my own house in order – literally, since I’ve had to physically move residence.

Now that the dam is breaking. Now that change has begun, I feel so much better. I’ve been growing my hair for five months. It’s time for a ridiculous haircut. Look forward to more posts soon.

Thank you.

Electric Earth September 13, 2017October 3, 2017

Trailer Park Cosmology – 7

Chapter Ten – Seeing Is Believing

Uncle Smith taught me it’s okay to live unconventionally. My father taught me to question the wisdom of convention. Their influence, to my thinking, has kept me open-minded and aware. The events I’m about to relate, however, cracked my skull open. They made me realize ‘conventional wisdom’ isn’t wisdom at all.

The first event occurred in 2004, when I ran into something that isn’t supposed to exist. In the coastal mountains of California, I saw the scary, hairy man-ape of the forest – Bigfoot.

SAM_0559 (2) — The trail head at the Wilderness boundary

I didn’t glimpse a distant patch of fur that might have been a bear, or any creature found in textbooks. In broad daylight, at close range, I saw a naked, hairy, bipedal creature run past me faster than any human can move. If you want the full account and exact location in the Sespe Wilderness, it’s in my blog titled, My Encounter.

Skeptics say people don’t remember things well and their mind fills in the blanks with what they invent. Confirmation bias, they call it. Confirmation bias is something that scientists are prone to, because they often find the results they seek even when they aren’t there, and ignore the things that don’t fit. Surveys have shown that results in some areas of science, especially sociology and medicine, which rely heavily on statistical analysis, can’t be replicated for a majority of published papers. They attribute this fault not to themselves, but to anyone else they choose not to believe.

Skeptics also like to attribute Bigfoot sightings to hoaxes. A hoax is a lie – a fraud on unsuspecting people. It may be funny, but it’s as despicable as any lie. People don’t generally invent elaborate lies for no reason. It seems the main reason they do, besides just to be mean, is to get attention, or make money.

Few credible reports of Bigfoot sightings have a financial, or need-to-be-noticed motive behind them. Quite the opposite. Descent people are discouraged from reporting sightings for fear of ridicule. If you listen to witnesses, especially the older accounts, you will note similar behaviors.

They will say, “I don’t know what I saw”, because it does not fit anything in their experience. They often won’t volunteer their tale unless pressed, or in the company of others who have also experienced it. And many times, they don’t want to be identified. It’s changing now as people become more open about encounters, but fifteen years ago that wasn’t the case.

My reaction was to not believe what I saw.

I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t acknowledge it to myself. At first, I believed it had to be a human. I only saw its legs as it ran past – tree branches obscured my view of the upper body. But what I saw were naked, hairy legs in full sunlight, less than a stone toss away. There were no shoes and no pants. I could see calf and thigh muscles bulging, covered in grey hair, with ankles as big as my thigh. It’s steps thudded the ground like pile drivers.

The old campsite by an abandoned water catchment – Sespe Wilderness

Sasquatch field researchers call this a bluff charge. At the time I didn’t know anything of Bigfoot behavior. It apparently hid in the brush watching me for about fifteen minutes as I poked around an old campsite, totally unaware of it’s presence.

I suppose I got too close to it’s hiding place, or it got tired of waiting for me to leave. It suddenly broke cover from dense brush a few feet away, snapping branches as loud as gunshots, and thundered past, scaring the crap out of me. I was completely alone, hadn’t seen another person all morning, and couldn’t imagine what just happened. One moment was peace, calm, and I thought, solitude. The next moment, a monster thundered past.

DSCI0031 — The brush it charged from, taken from the old campsite

DSCI0032 — It ran up-slope to the left through this clearing, taken from where I stood when it happened

I didn’t stick around to investigate. I was shaken and scared and left immediately. By the time I got home I’d convinced myself I must have seen a very big, half naked guy farming pot in the mountains. I imagined he thought I was a Ranger and ran. It was the only explanation I could come up with. The idea it was a Bigfoot did cross my mind, but I reacted with conventional wisdom, telling myself, “No way!”

The incident made me curious (or maybe larcenous) enough to return the next week and look for the pot farm, though. Like I said, confirmation bias. Had I put everything into context, I might not have. Years before, a good friend, and experienced outdoors-man who grew up near the Sespe, told me with all seriousness they were in there. I thought he was pulling my leg.

I went back to the place where this thing ran and found a path. The path wasn’t marked on the map. So, thinking it might lead to some illicit farming activities, I followed it. Three miles up a canyon to a ridge, I looked down the other side into a peaceful, wooded canyon. It was way off any marked trails. Forgetting about what happened the prior week, I set down the slope. I got about a hundred yards into the canyon when something screamed at me.

It was screaming at me, no mistaking it. The sound didn’t echo from the distance – it hit me like a brick in the face. The volume and nature of the harsh, screeching scream made me think of a dinosaur. Afterwards, there was total silence. Birds stopped flying. Bees stopped buzzing. A still heat swallowed me and my knees buckled. A thought entered my mind that I swear wasn’t mine. It said, “You don’t belong here – LEAVE NOW.”

I did, retracing my steps to the ridge as fast as I could up the steep slope. Lower down the slope I heard heavy steps pacing me.

Once I reached the ridge, I ran. I’ve been in the woods alone many times and seen bears and menacing wildlife of all kinds. More than once, I’ve even had bullets zing past my head from the most dangerous creature of all – human idiots with guns. But I’ve never felt the need to run. Whatever screamed sounded like T-Rex, and it was following me.

I hurried in a cold sweat six miles to my truck and locked the doors. By the time I reached home, I convinced myself what I’d heard was machinery. There was simply no thing living that could have made that sound. The footsteps I heard must have been my own heartbeat. But six miles into a Federally protected Wilderness Area, in a remote canyon with no roads, I knew machinery was forbidden by law. Cognitive dissonance and denial set in, and I simply stopped thinking about it and abandoned hiking that trail for the rest of the time I lived in California.

Years later, I happened upon a YouTube channel that played recordings of purported Bigfoot vocalizations. Suddenly, the whole experience came flooding back. The recording I heard was the same scream. Since then I’ve obsessed over Bigfoot, and the truth of what I saw. Like many people who have an encounter – it won’t let go.

In Arizona, I’ve found places where they live. I’ve not seen one again, but I’ve smelled them, heard wood knocks, rock knocks, distant screams and whoops. I’ve seen what they do with trees. I’ve followed their trails, found their hollows, and their big, fibrous, tubular poops and footprints. I now believe my lying eyes and the hell with conventional wisdom.

I’ve returned twice to the Sespe wilderness, to the old campsite where I saw it, and the canyon where it screamed. I even took my youngest daughter backpacking there, hoping to show her some evidence. There is nothing like Bigfoot hunting for family fun.

DSCI0033 — Bailey and Ginger at the campsite in Sespe Wilderness

DSCI0034 — Uncaring father who used his daughter as Bigfoot bait

Knowing what to look for, I found many signs they’re still there. I fear them, but I have the dangerous curiosity of a cat. I want to see one again. I also believe they have no inherent fear of us, or mean us any harm. They just don’t want us in their woods.

This has nothing to do with Electric Universe, but everything to do with no longer accepting what consensus authorities want us to believe. The Forest Service knows about these creatures. It can’t be otherwise, because they are not a rare thing. Forest Rangers, game wardens, Search and Rescue and rural law enforcement get reports and no doubt have their own encounters. But they aren’t talking about it, at least not on the record.

The other event was seeing a UFO. I’m agnostic about alien visitations, and seeing an unknown craft in the sky isn’t cause to jump to that conclusion. It just confirms what we all know – the government keeps secrets.

This happened five years ago, on a moonless summer night. I happened to be looking at the stars directly overhead. Just past midnight, Cygnus dominated the sky and I was studying it, leaned back in a lawn chair. Directly into my sight came a flying triangle, at what appeared to be no more than a few thousand feet above me. I stretched out my arm and my hand barely covered it, so it was either very low, or very big. There was nothing to provide perspective in the night sky.

It flew in total silence, with no lights. There was a dull orange glow from round features on the underside, which I took to be the reflection of city lights on some kind of reflective orbs, or apertures. It flew straight and level, about the speed of a small aircraft – I’d guess about two hundred miles per hour. I stood-up and watched it fly into the distance, incredulous at what I was seeing.

Near our home is an Air Force base, and an Army base. This craft flew Southeast, in the general direction of these military facilities, so I assumed it was heading to one, or the other. It was not a B-2, or F-117, or any acknowledged aircraft. Having a degree in Aerospace and Mechanical Engineering, I’m familiar with aircraft. This was a flat triangle, shaped like a Dorito chip. It’s known among UFO enthusiasts as the TR3b.

21f7724a690f263796f149750f64b4f4--football-field-crop-circles According to many who claim to know, it is a nuclear powered craft that uses a fluid-mercury ring-current to disrupt gravity and reduce it’s mass. I don’t claim to know if this is true. Since I do think we live in an Electric Universe, however, I find this explanation quite plausible. Regardless of it’s lift and propulsion means, it’s evidence to me that we are not being told everything there is to know.

Which brings me once again to doubt anything the consensus authorities tell us to believe. If such a craft is what they say, our government knows gravity is electric. The Big Bang religion they teach is for the masses to believe, and the deep state, military industrial complex that needs money for war, like a vampire needs blood, is lying to us. Or perhaps there really are alien visitors, and we are being lied to about that. Either way, big lies are hiding the truth.

Chapter Eleven – The Problem With Science

I said before I think consensus scientists are honest, smart, well meaning people who believe what they are taught, like the rest of us are expected to do. The average scientist is blind beyond the confines of their accepted secular belief system, just as religious zealots disbelieve anything outside of their dogma.

The simple principle behind Trailer Park Cosmology is that the universe we live in is what we see, not hidden away in make-believe dimensions. Time and space are simply measurements, not the fabric of the universe. The workings of Nature are exposed for us to understand. We just need to pay attention.

Nature shows it’s form in what I call fractal symmetry. It’s not a symmetry of mirror images, but symmetry of forms that repeat themselves in every physical process across all scales of the Universe.

universe2 So let’s look at the Universe. It’s a web of plasma filaments connecting galaxies together. It’s like a tangled web of Christmas lights when you remove them from storage and plug them in to see if they still work, before untangling the mess to string around the tree.

You might assume the Universe is a web of electricity powering the galaxies because that’s what it looks like. If they were powered by gravity for 13 billion years, as we are told to believe, wouldn’t they all pull together to form one big blob?

Consensus science has avoided this issue by inventing a new force called “expansion”. They don’t know how it works and never will because it’s something they just made-up, like extra dimensions and a host of other baloney. Trailer Park Cosmology is opposed to making things up, so assumes it is what it looks like – electricity.

Now look at spiral galaxies. The filaments can be seen shooting through the galactic center. The galaxy is a pinwheel of stars rotating on the axis of the filament. One hundred and fifty years ago, Michael Faraday invented a motor that does pretty much the same thing. Therefore, it’s apparent electricity might be involved.

hubble_survey_black_holes_052820152 — Birkeland current at a galaxy’s axis

Our own Milky Way has electric current flowing through it’s axis, too. Consensus science calls the current axis in our galaxy “Fermi Bubbles”, because naming something to immortalize themselves is more important than understanding it. Consensus science admits they don’t know what they are, except they suspect they are caused by shock waves, and that magnetic fields in them accelerate cosmic rays even though they don’t know how the magnetic fields got there. They have never quite come to terms with the fact magnetic fields are made by electric current. It seems to be a chicken-and-egg problem for them. Electric current – the flow of cosmic rays – generate the magnetic field and the shock waves, not the other way around.

GRbubbles_still1_1024x576-800x450 — Gamma ray emissions portray “Fermi Bubbles” aligned through the center of the Milky Way

754349main_butterfly_nebula_full_full — Stellar Birkeland Currents – Courtesy of NASA

Now let’s step down in scale and look at the stars inside the galaxy. They also rotate on the axis of a flow of current.

This image shows the hourglass shape of currents pinching to form a star. The effect is called a “Z pinch”, where current flow is squeezed by it’s own magnetic field. The dielectric matter in the center of the pinch is being squeezed into a ball of plasma to form a star. A disk of matter will form around the star, like a little spiral galaxy, where planets, comets and asteroids circle.

Shelios2008_ByJCCasadoAndDLopez_UnderCCBYNCND3.0 — Solar Birkeland Current

Our sun has current flowing through it’s poles, too. And of course, there is a solar disk of planets, comets and asteroids revolving around the equator of the sun. It’s the neighborhood we live in. We should take a closer look to see what’s there.

earthmagneticfield — Planetary Birkeland Currents and Magnetosphere

Oh my, some planets have big magnetic fields surrounding them, and current flowing into the poles, too. Jupiter does. Saturn does. Neptune and Uranus do. Even Earth. In fact if it didn’t, we wouldn’t be here. The current can be seen creating aurora at the poles.

southern-lights-from-space — Aurora Australus

The currents are called Birkeland currents, because they were discovered by a Norwegian scientist who studied the polar aurora, named Kristian Birkeland.

They are coaxial tubes of plasma current. Electrons and negative ions flow one way in the center, and positive ions and protons flow the other way in the outer circuit. Concentric magnetic fields caused by the currents wrap in a double helix around the current flow, isolating the circuits from each other and cocooning it into a tubular plasma conduit. The magnetic field accelerates the current, and accelerating current strengthens the magnetic field – it’s a feedback process.

They can’t always be seen, because in a force-free environment like space, the electrons don’t collide and emit photons. When they get accelerated, or become turbulent, they begin to glow like a neon light. When they really get excited they arc and emit light across the spectrum, like the Sun does.

Birkeland even produced these currents in the lab, using apparatus he called a terrella. He did this in 1908 and proposed these currents came from the Sun. He was the first Electric Universe proponent, although some think Nicola Tesla deserves that honor.

Tesla did understand the electrical nature of Nature. He used that insight to almost single-handedly jump-start the modern world. Birkeland made the discovery of electricity in space, though. In fact he’s known as the first true “space scientist”, because unlike astronomers before him, he turned out to be correct. They were contemporaries, and I suspect Tesla was aware of Birkeland, just as Birkeland would have known about Tesla.

Of course, consensus science at the time didn’t listen to Birkeland, and they stole everything Tesla invented. Consensus scientists today still don’t recognize Birkeland, preferring to call these currents magnetic ropes, flux tubes, or anything except Birkeland currents, because they are loathe to acknowledge something discovered a century ago, and admit they missed the memo.

This pattern of electrical process in Nature that repeats in multiple scales embedded within one another is what I call fractal symmetry. Cosmos to galaxy, galaxy to stars, and stars to the very planet we live on, all have a similar electric morphology. They aren’t exact clones of each other, because many factors are different. Current densities are different, potentials are different, magnetic fields are different, and the amount and type of dielectric matter they interact with are different. But it’s obvious the electric circuitry is very similar. See how easy this is?

But if it’s so easy, why doesn’t consensus science recognize it? For one thing, they say the math isn’t there to prove it. That’s a load of crap. Michael Faraday, James Clerk Maxwell, Oliver Heaviside, Hannes Alfven and a host of other credible non-consensus scientists worked out the math long ago.

The problem with physicists is they think of electricity as something that powers their telescopes, not what they’re seeing through them. Electrical circuitry isn’t included in their curriculum. That’s the province of engineers, and engineers are supposed to design the equipment, not make theories about the cosmos. Processes like feedback, induction and capacitance are too mundane for physicists to learn about in school.

The other problem is that relying on applied science doesn’t require a lot of money. They need to invent new theories to make them Nobel Prize winning discoverers of new science, which requires a lot of money. That’s why they claim things that can’t be proven, or even explained, like space-time, black holes, multiverses and ten different dimensions. Show me another dimension and I’ll eat my words. They get this stuff from the creative people who write science fiction.

If you have any doubt of this, take a hard look at the Anthropogenic Global Warming crowd. It’s not only a lucrative industry, but a political racket. Anyone who denies their hoax has to be punished. Just like Lenin, Stalin, Mao and fat little Kim Jong-un, they want to destroy anyone who disagrees with them. After all, polar bears are dying.

There is overwhelming evidence correlating climate with the cycles of the Sun, yet they refuse to consider the evidence. Their minds are made-up, their grants are approved, and their five star room at the next IPCC convention is already booked. Who dare deny them their chance to clink goblets with Al Gore.

Okay, enough vitriol against the consensus. I will move on to show how fractal symmetries are electric and pervasive in Nature. Since I can’t prove anything about galaxies with my little four-inch Schmidt-Cassegrain, I’ll return to Earth and talk about things that are tangible and meaningful in our everyday lives. To get wise requires watching trees whipped by winds as the rain pelts your face under the flash and crack of a thunderstorm. No textbook conveys the power, or shape of an electric field that rips electrons from atoms to avalanche across miles of thin air.

DSCI0046 — Sasquatch Tree Structure – Do Not Enter

Electric Earth August 10, 2017October 3, 2017

Trailer Park Cosmology – 6

[Note to the reader… Sorry for the long hiatus. Family matters took me away on a long trip, and then I had to prepare for my presentation at the upcoming Electric Universe Conference. I’ll excuse it as research, because the long road trip allowed me to see things that not only confirmed some hypothesis, they also brought new things to light. Preparing for the conference helped focus ideas. The benefit will come out in later chapters.]

Chapter Eight – When I was Young

My Father liked cars that had a sense of style. The chicken ranch he built, and dairy route he owned, never produced income for lots of shiny, new things, so he bought salvageable luxury models.

The first I remember was a mid-fifties Cadillac Coupe DeVille. White, with blue vinyl interior, small fins and titty-bumpers. It carried an air of panache and comfort that newer models didn’t have, and a chrome superman on the hood that I couldn’t keep my grimy young hands from touching. A classic car hoarder would pay dearly for it at auction today.

The air conditioning blasted from variable azimuth, round louvered vents, precisely fitted to the little shelf behind the rear seats. I used to climb onto that shelf and lay, letting the louvered vent blow up my shorts. It felt good after skittering out of the intense heat of a summer day.

Only for a minute though, because the fucker blew ice. It was the coldest air conditioning ever made. The nylon seats wouldn’t hold heat for anything, so long trips became a battle against exposure in my Mother’s lap, snuggled into her sweater. Dad kept the air cranked full – always. Mom wore a sweater in the car on 110 degree days.

Later, he bought a baby blue ’61 Lincoln Continental with suicide doors. The seats were beautifully woven, silky fabric, bordered in blue leather. I longed to touch that delicate fabric, but never got the chance. It was covered with clear, diamond patterned, plastic sheeting, which remained until it was towed away, peeling and curling after decades of intense UV bombardment.

Sunday drives were the ultimate relaxation for Mom and Dad. After Mom took us to church, Dad would be waiting – he had no use for church except funerals and weddings. A long Sunday drive was a time for them to get away from the constant toil of caring for kids and chickens; washing, grading and crating eggs, cooking meals and pulling weeds. Invariably, because of where we lived, those drives brought us to the mountains.

I’ve always been fascinated by mountain shapes. There is a harmony in them that pushes through the jaggedness. Something that draws my attention and never let’s go. Those post-church, Sunday drives bent my mind to their cactus studded slopes and sharp cliffs. Something ghostly seemed to resonate there, the peaks and hoodoos conveyed a presence, like tombstones in a cemetery of bare, windy slopes. I’d lay my head against the window and fly in my mind across the landscape, the car’s vibration embedding the scene in my brain.

We were never poor by any means. We had those classy, slightly used cars and the biggest home on the block, but what we had was a result of my parent’s backbreaking work more than profitable business. I didn’t notice, except for the rare cuss words at the end of the month when Dad paid bills, cranking the handle on the old Burroughs adding machine. It seemed we lived a perfectly fine life. It wasn’t until I made friends from other neighborhoods at school that I realized how low we stood on the economic scale.

I can still remember Sunday dinners that began with Mom and Grandma cutting the heads off chickens and hanging them by their feet on the clothes line to bleed. The smell of scalded chicken feathers is forever en-trained in my brain.

Looking back, I know I was extremely privileged. I wish children today could experience such adventure and fun growing up. There is no way an anodized video game world compares. Besides, in today’s world, social workers would intervene.

We spent our days riding go-carts powered with lawn mower engines, or playing hide and seek among manure, rusty nails and frayed wiring in the chicken house. There were miles of deserts to explore just down our unpaved street, where we caught lizards in loops of string, shot pellet guns and raced minibikes.

Swords and blow guns came from pieces of cut bamboo, shields from the lids of old chicken feed bins. Forts were constructed from milk crates and discarded plywood, and battles were waged with dirt clods and dried chicken manure.

It was a treat to go to the library. There, my brother learned how to make gunpowder. Back then, one could buy sulfur and salt-peter at the drug store, and mixed with pulverized charcoal bricks, we made enough incendiary material to fry every anthill on the property.

It’s not that Mom and Dad didn’t care about our safety and well being. Dad kept our ears and nose clean with his handkerchief, Mom kept us fed and dressed in T-shirts and jeans that hung, fashionably, an inch above the ankle. Every time we’d play in the old junk pile of two-by-fours and rusty tin behind the chicken house, Mom warned us to watch for Black Widow spiders and snakes.

There were a few minor injuries, like the rusted ten-penny nail that stabbed through my foot and kept me out of school for two weeks, or the slingshot I nearly put my brothers eye out with, but all-in-all, we came through a wild youth mostly unscathed. What was special was, we had to exercise our imaginations. Except for the water rockets, balsa wood airplanes, and squirt guns we bought with weed-pulling money at the five-and-dime, most of our fun required some ingenuity.

When it was too hot to go outside, there were books. The American Standard Encyclopaedia answered any question, with type charts for mammals, fish and reptiles and pages of transparent overlays that showed the assembly of the human body. The Book of Knowledge had classic black and white photos of sphinxes, Buddhas, pyramids and people in far away places who wore giant ornaments that deformed their dark, naked skin. The one and only constant subscription we ever had was to National Geographic. Fascinating stuff to explore under the cool blast of the coolers when the Sun was so hot it blistered our skin.

Dad fueled a deep curiosity in me when he pondered questions like: what happened to the Maya, the Olmec and the Anasazi. He was fascinated by these enigmatic societies who vanished from their vast empires leaving pyramid cities and creepy cliff dwellings. He knew there was more mystery to our past than we were being led to believe.

Sunday school taught me of impossible events my burgeoning rationality couldn’t quite accept. Societies of good and evil, cataclysmic floods, pillars of fire and prophecies ascribed to dreams and voices from heaven. I couldn’t understand why the Bible told stories of things that can’t actually happen, but they captured my imagination.

Life in a raw environment forced a kind of situational awareness that I don’t see in kids today. Forced to look up from their smart phones, they exhibit a dull wasteland behind the eyes. They imagine they know what space-time is, but how could they? Science has yet to figure it out.

The virtual reality of video, the witless humor and vapid, phony portrayals on TV, the idiotic pursuit of celebrity endorsed tennis shoes; the self important culture we live in is so far removed from a life actually lived, I have trouble relating.

So I’ve returned to the property where I grew-up. I live in the tiny house my Grandmother lived, in the trailer park Dad built where the chicken house once stood. It’s the place I sat with her on the cool cement steps while she traced lines on my palm to foretell what a long life I’d live. It’s the house where she’d give me a piece of dough from the biscuit batter to play with. Where she’d sit with my Mom and pick ticks from the dog and crush them in napkins on top of the old gas heater, talking the afternoon away.

Now I live on little income and no bills. Instead I have time to think, read, write and explore. I keep my old Range Rover loaded with gear, ready at a whim to go camping any day I can afford gas. I prefer this to the Marin County, high salaried slavery I lived a few years ago. I couldn’t go back if I tried. I miss eating sushi three times a week, and roaring my Ducati through wine country on weekends, but that’s about all I really miss.

After shelter, food and sex, there isn’t anything I need except joy. Joy from made stuff simply isn’t sustainable. Buying a new thing brings fleeting satisfaction that requires constant feeding. I find it’s better not to trigger the appetite, and find true joy in more lasting pursuits. Fortunately, my childhood taught me how to find it.

It may sound like pure laziness, but instead of spending time chasing dollars to pay someone for something I don’t need, I prefer to spend time paying attention. It isn’t that I seek return to a simpler, less technological time when people scrubbed clothes clean on rocks, or bled chickens on the clothes-line for a Sunday meal, but I do think we have lost an appreciation for reality. We are no longer grounded to Earth. We have become a culture of dependents, depending on the scientists and politicians to figure things out, and people of no better means to dig our ditches and farm, cook and package our food. It’s a big mistake.

Technology is fabulous and has raised lives out of the mud, but without any mud between our toes, we forget we are animals of the Earth. We live the fallacy we are somehow above it, immunized against it, and on the brink of controlling it. We have no need for God, because there is an illusion we are Gods.

Attempts to recapture Nature buying overpriced organic produce at a farmer’s market fails to bring us in contact with the dirt it grew in. Actually doing something worthwhile has been replaced by virtue signalling concern, satisfied with a small percent of tax deductible, disposable income. Real adventure has been replaced by Disneyland, or, at best, a guard-railed weekend in a National Park. Watching nature at a safe distance is not truly experiencing it. It just displays how disconnected we are from it, and dependent on the those economically enslaved to bend their backs.

I believe it is a form of illness. We are removed from Nature so far we can no longer recognize what it is. Reality has drifted away and we are losing the thing that makes humanity special – the ability to comprehend. The scientific minds we depend on for our technological culture are the least comprehending of all.

Science has all but given-up on experiment, depending instead on mathematical models. The problem is that numbers can be made to do anything, whether true, or imagined. Powerful computers allow inhuman calculations that purportedly simulate Nature, yet scientists don’t have a clue why mathematics works to model Nature in the first place.

That is, consensus science doesn’t have a clue. There are a handful of people rediscovering the principles of the Universe. I say rediscovering, because it’s quite apparent mankind once did comprehend. They left markers for us to read, but science without any philosophical wisdom has led us to believe these are the relics of ignorant superstitious societies with too much time on their hands and nothing better to do. Yet we couldn’t recreate their feats if we tried.

Pyramids and megaliths encode lost knowledge and great universal principles our science is too ignorant to interpret. Seriously stupid scientists are the greatest criminals we face, because they mislead us at every turn with their critical, but not creative thinking, and profoundly naive hubris.

Rediscovered principles go by the name of Vortex Mathematics. Vortex Math describes vibration. The universal energy of the atom, of sound, of light, and life itself, is encoded in a math the ancient “stone age” people understood. It’s the math of electricity and harmonics – the unifying force of the entire cosmos. It’s the encoded ether of information that governs fractal form and function; the algorithm for the Grand Simulation.

The first modern person to perceive this was Nicola Tesla. In his words: “If you only knew the magnificence of the 3, 6 and 9, then you would have the key to the universe.”

Within his mind alone, with no calculator, or particle accelerator, he discovered alternating current and transformed all of society. Through his insight, our lives were electrified. He turned darkness to light, which we have used unerringly to plunge our souls back into darkness. How ironic is that?

Of modern science, Tesla said this: “Today’s scientists have substituted mathematics for experiments, and they wander off through equation after equation, and eventually build a structure which has no relation to reality. ”

Contemporary with Tesla, was Kristian Birkeland. He translated the findings of pioneers in real science; Faraday, Maxwell, Franklin and Tesla, to name a few, into an understanding of the Solar System itself. He discovered the electrical link between the Sun and the Earth. Though few believed him, his work was verified when mankind fired satellites into space and found his theories of magnetic fields and aurora were real after-all.

Immanuel Velikovsky came next. Though his approach and reason for discovery were motivated differently, his insight was more profound. As a psychologist who studied under Freud, he ignored the arrogant scientists to seek understanding of Social pathology through an examination of our past. Unlike most of science, he didn’t relegate ancient mythology to superstitious ignorance, he assumed credence in myth and legend.

Earth has been through many cataclysmic episodes. Anyone bright enough and brave enough not to live in the paradigm knows this. Velikovsky was perhaps the first person to take the Red Pill, and break with the paradigm enforced by the less inventive minions who followed his good friend Einstein.

He compared mythologies from all corners of the world and across millennia to observe they all said the same thing. Once this observation was made, he concluded what any dummy would: terrible things occurred that nearly wiped mankind from the face of the Earth.

Beyond that he had a brilliant grasp of Nature to the extent his predictions have far exceeded those of modern astrophysicists – who are still seeking validation for whatever the fuck Einstein was talking about.

Space-time? I guess it’s a cool idea, but it doesn’t really fly. Space is just space we can measure with a stick. There is only one time and that is now. Past and future are concepts to describe what was and will be. These aren’t things that can be modified and never have been in any experiment. Velikovsky predicted, among many things, the heat on Venus and the radio emissions of Jupiter. Tangible things we have since verified with true measurements, not abstract, engineered simulations.

Many now recognize this, It’s become an industry to itself. From scientific realists like those in the Electric Universe community, to bumbling wannabe theorists like the “Ancient Alien” crowd, millions of people have come to realize we have been misled. I hate to say we are lied to because I prefer to think of modern theoretical science as simply well meaning but unwise, rather than evil. Science counts things and catalogs them, like an accountant of Nature who can sort things into columns but hasn’t a clue what they mean.

The stories of the Bible, I’ve come to realize, actually contain more truth and wisdom than any University textbook. I don’t take this upon faith, though. I am not religious, nor do I believe in God – at least not some bearded man in the clouds. The impossible stories I learned in Sunday School have a basis in physics. The ghostly remnants of that understanding are still jealously guarded by secret societies, architects and religions. Whether they know what they mean is a puzzle to me, yet they show-up in architecture and symbols everywhere.

We’ll continue this discussion, but first let’s return to the fractal exhibits of Nature. We can finish with weather by examining the most horrific expression we can witness in today’s world of calm ignorance – the Whirwind.

Chapter Nine – Cold Dusty Plasma

Previously, in Nature’s Electrode, we looked at an Electric Earth model for lightning genesis driven by a plasma corona formed from condensing and freezing water vapor in the central updraft of thunderstorms. We also looked at the thunderstorm itself, and an electrical model for the circuit that drives it, called a thermopile. Now let’s consider the most dramatic weather event of all, the tornado, and how these massively destructive whirlwinds are also formed by a plasma corona.

Discharge from a corona is predominately dark current, invisible to the eye. Cloud-to-ground lightning arcs come from high current density regions of the corona, primarily surrounding the central updraft where current from the updraft intensifies the electrical tension. Higher voltage focuses discharging electrons the way a lens focuses light, into a continuous plasma channel. When the channel connects with ground and discharges a hot current, it’s wrapped tightly in it’s own magnetic field, in what is called a “Z” pinch.

Moving away from the high electric field region of the corona, free electrons still spit at the ground, but lack the energy and focus to avalanche all the way, leaving instead ionized gas that is said to drift, yet the electric field still shapes the drifting ions into a dark current channel.

Above, the center of the coronal discharge is focused and imparts more energy to cascading electrons, creating the potential for arcs (see the current density distribution at the bottom of the diagram). Closer to the edge of the corona, or ionization region, weaker reactions manifest in transfer of momentum and heat with ions and neutrals. Downdraft and down-burst winds are the common result.

Momentum transfer manifests as downdraft winds by the process of electrokinesis, which is when neutral species follow the moving charged particles, creating an ‘electric wind’ that moves the bulk fluid along the electric field gradient.

If the ionization rate exceeds the rate of recombination, the plasma will build a streamer, a tendril of plasma from cloud to earth, pushing the ionization region ahead of it, and drawing behind it a cloud of cold plasma. When this plasma hits ground, a cathode spot is produced, and the electric field redistributes along the plasma channel.

The cathode spot on the ground draws positive charge to it, dragging neutrals, again, by electrokinesis, and creating a ground vortex. This is the moment of tornado touchdown, as charged air and dust flow in and spiral upwards around the invisible plasma tendril.

The action is analogous to the lightning bolt leader and positive ground streamer that meet to create a channel for arc discharge – two separated events, organized into one coherent structure by the electric field.

The plasma current thus created is a complete circuit to ground, only it’s partially ionized, diffused with predominately neutral species. Its energy and charge densities are too low to make an arc, so it forms a complex plasma channel called Marklund Convection.

400px-marklund-convection — Marklund convection, showing diffusion of neutral air away from current tendril (blue arrows) creating low pressure. Plasma drift (green arrows) draw positive ions at ground level, creating inflowing winds to the point of contact with the plate electrode.

Rotation is a natural consequence for two reasons. Neutral air is diffused away from the Marklund current creating low pressure. But positive ions near the ground drag air, dust and debris to the ground contact and create in-flowing winds and a sudden change in direction up, and around the tendril. The meeting of these opposing winds is, by definition, a vortex.

But current in plasma will itself rotate, taking a helical path as it interacts with the magnetic field around it. The appearance of a tornado is precisely what one would expect from such a current. Increasing current flow “spins up” the tornado. It forms an inner spiraling negative current to ground and an outer spiral of positive ionic wind flowing up to the source of coronal discharge.

Because the tornado is a cold, partial plasma carrying a significant mass of neutral air and dust, the corona driving it can be pushed by winds to create a slanted, or even kinked path, and travel away from it’s point of origin.

classicsupercell

Evidence…

If tornadoes are caused by coronal discharge generating a Marklund convection current from cloud-to-ground, what are some tell-tale signs?

Wall clouds…

One evidence is the wall cloud. Wall clouds form before a tornado in typical super-cell evolution. It will develop rotation and sometimes its clouds can be seen to rise and fall in an agitated manner. Puffs of low level clouds are drawn to it below the main cloud base. It creates a vertical wall of cloud inconsistent to the general slant of the storm and winds in-flowing to it.

This is evidence of the vertical orientation of the electric field created by the coronal discharge. The electric field doesn’t pay attention to the wind.

lakeview The funnel cloud doesn’t always emerge from the center of the wall cloud. The funnel often appears along the edges of the wall cloud, or from the surrounding clouds.

This is because the tendrils of current are mobile on the negative electrode and can wander. They can also multiply, creating multiple tornadoes.

Characteristic of parallel currents, multiple tornadoes stand off from each other as if repulsed like two parallel wires flowing current in the same direction. Rare occasions when tornadoes seem to merge, one simply dies as the other steals it’s current.

The sudden disappearance and reappearance of tornadoes, and the skipping, or lifting they portray, is inconsistent with simple fluid momentum, but is consistent with a pulsating current from an unstable coronal discharge. Recombination steals the current, and then revives when the rate of ionization reestablishes to complete the circuit to ground.

Tornadoes and lightning…

When a tornado forms, it’s been noted that cloud-to-ground lightning frequency diminishes until the tornado dies, and then picks-up again to the baseline level. This is evidence the electric field has re-aligned along the Marklund convection in the non-ionizing plasma region, sapping energy from the ionizing plasma that manifests lightning and migrating it to the drift region of the corona.

It’s also been noted by observers that positive lightning originating from the anvil cloud is more common in tornadic thunderstorms. This implies a strong positive corona in the anvil plays a role in causing tornadoes, amplifying the electric field.

Sights, smells and sounds…

Tornadoes are formed by cold, dark current, so light emissions aren’t evident, at least below the clouds. Storms that produce tornadoes are often said to have a greenish tint in the clouds, however. The green tint is excused by many scientists as a reflection of city lights, and their search for green city lights continues. The glow of ionization internal to the cloud formation explains the green tint.

Luminosity in the clouds and the funnel are also reported. Consensus science blames this on misidentified sources of light from lightning, city lights, or flashes from downed power lines. Some of it no doubt is, but more likely it is the effect of coronal discharge. Lightning flashes don’t make a continuous glow.

Ionized oxygen can recombine to produce ozone, which has a distinctive chlorine-like smell. This is commonly noted by witnesses.

220px-tornado_infrasound_sources They also report hissing sounds from tendrils at the base of funnels. Funnel clouds and tornadoes are known to produce harmonic sounds of whistling, whining, humming, or buzzing bees. As ozone is liberated it produces such a hissing sound.

Energized transmission lines subject to over-voltage conditions produce all of these effects: faint luminescent glow, ozone production and it’s accompanying hiss and smell. It’s cause is coronal discharge.

Tornadoes also produce identifiable infra-sound. It’s inaudible to the human ear, but it can be felt. It can produce nausea, agitation and body heat… not that a tornado really needs infra-sound to do that.

Tornadoes have an inner and outer column. The inner column is seen if the outer dusty sheath has little dust to obscure it. This is consistent with the double wall formed in Marklund convection.

cordell — *Double wall – an inner tube with an outer sheath of dust can be seen.*

There goes Aunt Em…

A good friend who had the misfortune of being in a tornado, said he was momentarily lifted from the bathtub he was hiding in because he was weightless. He swears no wind was lifting him – he was simply weightless. Stories from other survivors also report the sensation of momentary weightlessness, floating as if no wind was pushing. This is likely because of electrokinesis.

At ground level, the accumulation of positive charge beneath the influence of the electric field from the storm may be charging items, including people and lending them an attraction to the electrode overhead.

Perhaps this explains other odd events reported. For instance a house demolished, yet a table sits with a glass of water in the middle of the carnage untouched. Maybe if you don’t want to get picked up and carried away, give yourself a negative charge. Of course, too much of that will kill you, too.

Tornadoes emit on the electromagnetic spectrum as measured by researchers. Electric fields are detected and tornadoes emit sferics, the same type of broadband radio noise a lightning discharge produces.

Non-super-cell tornadoes…

220px-great_lakes_waterspouts So what if there is no super-cell? How do all the other vortex phenomena form – landspouts, waterspouts, gustnadoes and dust devils, and how are they related.

By the same mechanism proposed here for the super-cell tornado, only in lower energy form.

Funnel clouds, which never result in touchdown are a tendril of Marklund convection current that begins to recombine faster than it generates ions, and it dies.

Landspouts, gustnadoes and waterspouts all begin with a surface disturbance – a vortex without a cloud, or at least not one showing a wall cloud, or rotation. These are instances of stronger ionic accumulation at ground level, creating a strong ground vortex first, whereas the corona above is diffuse and invisible.

This is consistent with the observations of twisters of all kinds, including dust devils and spouts which are seen to begin on the ground. Or water – in the case of a waterspout – where documented evolution begins with a mysterious “dark spot” on the water.

The tornado is a fractal form generated by an intense electric field and current looping between cloud and ground. The ground charge is as much a part of the circuit as the cloud. There is feedback in the system, oscillations of electric field and charge density that originates with the Earth’s magnetic field, which does not stop at Earth’s surface. The Earth’s internal structure harbors electric currents induced from the Solar Wind. Kristian Birkeland and Nicola Tesla tried to tell us this, but arrogant men intrigued with science fiction didn’t listen.

Electric Earth May 15, 2017October 3, 2017

Trailer Park Cosmology – 5

Chapter Seven – Nature’s Electrode

Have you ever wondered what causes lightning? There’s no wire in the sky, no battery terminal, so where do those giant sparks come from? What’s going on up there?

Don’t expect an answer if you ask. Science seems to avoid the issue. In fact, you won’t find a real explanation outside of the Electric Universe.

The following image is from NOAA, and portrays the consensus theory. As you can see, it shows electrons collecting into a funnel, like marbles in a sink, accelerating down a slippery slope into what looks like a drain. Apparently gravity is hard at work, as usual in the consensus world.

This came from a popular science blog, authored by a physicist, no less. The article did point out that a bolt of lightning needs a billion-trillion electrons, or electron marbles as they like to portray them. But it didn’t even try to explain this drainpipe business. Where do we see electricity act like that?

Ummmm… Nowhere.

The consensus notion (it shouldn’t be considered a theory) is that charge builds in thunderstorms because of static electricity. Hail stones and rain colliding in the updraft generates the static charge, like when you rub a balloon against your hair, or shuffle your feet on the carpet. We’ve all seen five-mile long sparks come out of our fingertips when we reach in the clothes dryer, right?

Positive and negative, statically generated charged particles separate into layers according to the consensus notion – it’s never talked about how this happens. The layers where they are found “pooling” are at distinct thermal boundaries. So it’s thought these thermal boundary layers somehow keep the pools of charge apart, except when they fall into the drainpipe.

It’s a non-answer answer. No one has generated lightning by stirring hot and cold air around and rubbing hailstones together. Generating arcs even a fraction of the size of a lightning bolt generally requires lots of large gauge copper wire, big generators, and courage.

Nor has anyone stratified layers of arcing static charge in atmosphere using wind and humidity. The consensus explanations are scientifically inadequate. Considering lightning was first studied by one of the pioneers of modern science, Ben Franklin, over two hundred and fifty years ago, it’s absurd that science still can’t explain what is going on.

One of the problems is depicted in the above NOAA image of a super-cell, where layers of charge are shown stratified inside the cloud. To acquire enough charge for a single lightning bolt – a billion-trillion electrons worth – the charge density required implies a plasma is involved.

You can call this simple, deductive reasoning. It only takes 1% of neutral air to be ionized for it to behave as a plasma. A billion-trillion electrons has to be concentrated in the cloud more than that before it can spit a thirty-thousand amp, sixty-thousand degree, five kilometer long column of fire. Lightning genesis requires a plasma, because that is what forms the “electrode” in the sky. But you’ll never hear that from NOAA.

So forget them and let’s consider how, why and where plasma forms to play a role in making lightning.

Electric Sky

Earth’s atmosphere is an electric circuit. It carries charge, current and voltage. The air is a weak conductor with a variable, vertical current between the ground and the ionosphere of 1 – 3 pico-amps per square meter. The resistance of the atmosphere is 200 ohms. The “clear sky” voltage potential averages 200-thousand volts between Earth and sky.

At any given moment, there are about 2,000 lightning storms occurring worldwide. To create lightning, the electric field potential must overcome the dielectric breakdown of air at 3 million volts per meter. It can do this because the electric field in a thunderstorm jumps to 300-million volts. A typical lightning bolt momentarily delivers about 30,000 amps to ground. The collective current from a typical storm delivers an average current from .5 to 1 amp.

Therefore, the circuit is completed – Earth to sky, and sky to ground. Only it isn’t, because there is also an exchange from atmosphere to space, and space to atmosphere. This has yet to be accurately measured, or understood. The existence of plasma discharges from thunderstorms to space, called Sprites, Elves and Gnomes for their brief and ethereal appearance, is a relatively recent discovery. Their power and frequency is still an immature study.

Cosmic rays enter the atmosphere, adding charge continuously. The rate Earth is exposed to solar wind fluctuates widely, both because the Solar current fluctuates and so does the strength of the Earth’s magnetic field. Sometimes the shield it provides moves around, letting more cosmic rays enter through “holes”.

Because of this variability, we really can’t say we understand how much current is entering, or leaving Earth’s atmospheric system from space.

The ground also carries potential that varies. Except for the monochrome view of seismic returns, we can’t even see what is below the Earth’s crust to comprehend the flow of current there. Nor whether, how, or where Earth’s current might enter the atmosphere. For electricity, boundary layers like the Earth’s crust isn’t an impermeable barrier, it’s an electrode.

There is a “cavity” defined by the surface of the Earth and the inner edge of the ionosphere. It’s been calculated that at any moment, the total charge residing in this cavity is 500,000 coulombs. The 2,000 concurrent lightning storms, each about an amp-and-a-half, means this worldwide charge is flowing at about 3000 amps between the ground and sky.

Electromagnetic waves reflect from the boundary of the cavity – the ground and ionosphere – and establish quasi-standing electromagnetic waves at resonant frequencies. W. O. Schumann predicted the resonant properties of the cavity in 1952, and they were first detected in 1954. They are called Schumann’s resonances and are measured as broadband electromagnetic impulses at frequencies in the range of 5 to 50 Hz.

The atmosphere is undeniably electric. It’s not a few ions benignly floating around in the air, but a globally active and coherent current flow. What should that tell us about lightning? Mustn’t it also be part of this coherent resonant system. Doesn’t it beg for a better model than marbles in a drainpipe?

Fortunately, there is a model to look to. It’s called electronics.

Atmospheric arcs created in a circuit are generally recognized to occur by thermionic emission. Everyone has seen a hot cathode arcing, as in a welding arc, where electrons are freed from the metal surface of the electrode by heat. The metal is heated by its own resistance to current, and begins emitting electrons above a certain temperature threshold specific to the electrode material. The temperature for many materials is thousands of degrees.

Another form of discharge less well recognized is field emission, or cold cathode emissions. They do not generate electrons by thermionics. The electrode warms, but not appreciably because heat is not what frees the electrons. It’s the electric field strength – a high voltage potential, that strips electrons from whatever material is present, including the air itself.

When this happens, the field forms ionic matter into a plasma structure, called a corona. Corona is the electrode in the sky that discharges lightning.

Coronal discharge is used in a variety of ways in modern technology. It requires a high voltage, which is precisely what is present in a thunderstorm – 300 million volts, or three orders of magnitude stronger than in clear weather. One would think that for an electrical storm that spits five mile long arcs, this factor would be considered in the structure and actions of the storm.

Not so, say the consensus. It’s caused by layers of cold, dry air and hot, humid air colliding, convection to stir it up, some hail to rub together, and viola… there be electricity.

Corona is truly the only known electrical phenomena that can result in a non-thermionic discharge under atmospheric conditions. The electric field rips the air into a plasma and the plasma forms a corona. It’s an integral part of the thermoelectric current and the generator of lightning.

Corona occurs in a layer perpendicular to the electric field, where the field strips electrons from atoms, sending them downward at near the speed of light along the field gradient, to collide inevitably with another atom.

The collision strips more electrons free to follow the electric field and leave behind ions. The region where electrons are stripped, leaving ionic matter, is a cold plasma, which self organizes into a corona, because that is what an excited, discharging plasma does.

Free electrons continue the process of collision in what is called an avalanche. Avalanche is portrayed in the step-leader process depicted in the image, and is a witnessed precursor to a lightning bolt.

The avalanche is one half of the picture, however. Lightning comes from below, as much as from above. The electric field also pools positive ions on the ground below the storm, which itself becomes a cold, partial-plasma corona. Ionic streamers, filaments of positively charged air from this corona, stretch up the electric field towards the clouds. A lightning bolt occurs when the cascading step leader and streamer meet, completing a plasma channel.

None of this is seen with the naked eye. It’s all dark current up to this point.

The lightning channel is complete when the avalanche connects with a ground streamer. The connection allows a dump of electrons from the corona to ground. Then, heavier, and significantly slower ions, carry up the channel in a return stroke.

The return stroke can be seen in the image as the bright flash that occurs the moment the first tendril of the avalanche current strikes Earth, leaving only one path glowing after the flash.

Corona provides the reservoir of charge and the dark current mechanism for avalanche required to make an arc. This is what is missing in the consensus notions.

It’s also worth noting – when you see a news report about lightning killing a herd of cows, elk, or reindeer, they are always found piled together. The reporter will say, they were huddled together for warmth in the storm, or some such. The reason is they were all part of the positive coronal return stroke – as charged bodies, they got pulled into a pile by the lightning.

Water is self-ionizing. Water in its liquid state undergoes auto-ionization when water molecules combine – as in condensation – to form one hydroxide anion (OH-) and one hydronium cation (H3O+). Water can further be ionized by impurity, such as carbon dioxide to form carbonic acid. Therefore, water condensing into clouds in a monster electric field provides an ionization event. The E-field strips the ions apart as they form.

Water in a thunderstorm goes through all of it’s phases. From water vapor, to cloud condensate, to rain droplet, to ice. The structure of a thunderstorm is oriented vertically around a large central updraft. The phase changes occur in layered strata of increasingly colder temperatures.

Water can become supersaturated – rising above 100% relative humidity if air is rapidly cooled, for example, by rising suddenly in an updraft. The supersaturation instability provides another opportunity for ionization.

Ice is typically a positive charge carrier, meaning that current flows over its surface in streams of positive ions. Flash freezing water onto ice, as hail stones grow, provides another opportunity for ionization.

Each layer of air in a storm has different temperature, humidity, pressure and velocity, transporting different phases of water at different partial pressures, which means the conductivity of the air is changing too. This effect we discussed already as the cause of the thermoelectric engine in the thunderstorm.

If you know any commercial, or military pilots who have flown through the heart of thunderstorms, ask them if they saw the corona themselves, glowing on parts of the airplane.

This is still only part of the matrix of cause and effect that makes thunderstorms. The storm clouds are a corona – the interior of the clouds contain cold plasma. Corona are the result of current in the updraft driven by the thermoelectric effect, and water condensing and freezing. All of the effects of lightning, tornado, rain and downburst wind is a form of electrical discharge from the corona.

The specifics of a tornado will come next in the discussion. There is more to discuss about lightning and winds, also. There are different types of lightning which come from different corona, but we’ll pick-up on that when we get into geology.

Electric Earth April 25, 2017October 3, 2017

Trailer Park Cosmology – 2

Chapter Three – Uncle Smith

If rolling stones gather no moss, my Uncle Smith was a rock-slide. Not kinetically – he always seemed very calm – but emotionally, living the moment in a state of pure joy.

When I was a child in the sixties, Smith lived and traveled the National Parks in a Streamline travel-trailer towed behind a Dodge pick-up. He took his wife, Mildred, and a small dog.

He was a seventy-plus year-old, free-spirit, when the Beatles wore matching page-boy haircuts and suits – in other words, even when ‘rebels’ helplessly conformed more obviously than normal, Smith was authentically weird.

He was old and retired, living on a pension from the time I could remember. I physically outgrew him before I reached puberty. Built like a wiry elf, he weighed about ninety pounds, with more hair in his ears than anywhere else.

He was blind in one eye. His wire-rimmed glasses had the bad eye fogged, but were so dirty and scratched you couldn’t tell. The eye was poked-out by a tree branch, he claimed, while chasing a bear from camp one night in the woods. He had only aspirin and cotton-balls to catch the draining fluid, while he slept in a tent until daylight. He said he slept – I don’t know how – the bear alone would have kept me up.

Smith was actually my great uncle, my Grandmother’s brother on Dad’s side. Dad was born in 1910, and I in ‘57, so there’s some generation gap at play. Lord knows when Smith was born, but he grew up at a time when pipe-organs outnumbered cars, sometime after the ‘War between the States’.

On the subject of pipe organs, that was his occupation back in the day – organ tuner. Not a cleanse-your-colon, fitness guru you’ll find if you ‘Google’ that term today, but a pipe-organ tuner.

There were not many of them even fifty years ago – Smith may have been the last. In any case, he never voluntarily retired. Pipe-organs did.

Pipe organs are the only musical instrument that can’t be taken to the shop for tuning. They need a building to hold them up, so, Smith got used to travel. Eventually, the number of vaudeville, bawdy houses and churches with pipe organs dwindled as the century ticked away. Smith got a travel-trailer and kept driving with Mildred and the dog.

He’d take the job of Camp Host in National Parks where they’d stay the season, then visit kin in the weeks between odd-jobs at the handful of Mormon temples still using pipe organs. He was always on a continuous roam, Mildred and the dog with him, or not. At some point in my youth, the dog quit showing up.

He followed the seasons through a circle of his favorite haunts that ranged the entire west. Oak Creek, Sedona and Apache Junction were favorite camps on the Arizona leg of his loop. There is a cluster of family in Tucson, a good VA hospital, and our trailer park for a place to stay, so we were on his route.

Most of his waking hours he spent at a workshop in the back of the Dodge beneath a camper shell. It was a complex and messy workshop from his days roaming the country tuning organs. Besides the carpentry and machining tools required for pipe organ maintenance, there were automotive tools, and everything for the Streamline RV. Except for food, Smith carried everything he needed with him.

Because it was what he liked to do, he spent most of his time tinkering in the workshop. One thing he made was a bellows from wood, leatherette and brass tacks, with a rolled sheet-metal nozzle and marble for a check valve. He originally made them for tuning pipe organs, because he needed a way to blow air through the pipes to get sound.

The bellows also worked marvelous with a fireplace, and he continued to make them long after the last pipe organ wheezed. We got several for those chilly, sub-100 degree days we lit the fire-place in Tucson.

While Smith worked at the narrow workbench on the tailgate of his truck, work piece in a vise bolted to the bumper, I helped him. At that time in my life, adults were generally telling me to shut-up, or go away. Smith asked for my thoughts, encouraging me to join him in whatever he was doing and talk. He was always interested to listen, and interesting to listen to.

Smith’s pipe organ days must have been something. He took my Father to Chicago with him in the later days of Prohibition. Drinking establishments bloomed in Chicago like nowhere else on Earth back then, because they were illegal. Nothing makes business boom better than making it illegal, and Chicago was ground zero for illegal booze. Dad was about twenty, and while Smith tuned bawdy house organs, Dad got a job helping manage an A&P store.

I asked my Father about those days once – I mean Speakeasy’s and Al Capone – he was right there – I wanted his ‘Forest Gump’ account.

I learned more than I wanted about A&P’s. Capone and the gangsters he only remembered reading about in the papers. All he said about Speakeasy’s was, “We called them clubs”.

That’s as much as I got. But Dad had a butterfly tattooed to the inside of his right arm he never spoke about. Something so out-of-place with the straight-up Father I knew, it had to be from those days of his youth in the Chicago “clubs”.

And I think it strange it was a butterfly, given my own obsession with them now.

Smith told stories about the war. And I mean – The War: World War I. The best I heard involved him and a driver, he said, inadvertently crossing enemy lines. They were in France carrying some communication, or moving from one place to another for a reason I don’t recall, and suddenly they realized the uniforms around them were different.

He said they turned around and hauled out of there before anyone noticed their uniforms were different too.

I try to picture such a scene. It has a ‘Three Stooges’ element to it that, along with Smith’s mischief, makes the story less credible. But then, stranger things have happened.

I can’t picture Smith holding a gun in anger. Perhaps he never did, but he surely witnessed the darkest side of man. Though he never told me anything gruesome about the war, I imagine he saw things that would curdle blood. He only spoke about funny things, like the French he learned to parlez local girls. He probably didn’t want to remember the other parts. That’s sometimes how people are who have seen the darkest – they only want light shining through.

I remember most talking about the outdoors with Smith. He was the first adult who shared that passion with me; alp-en-glow in a mountain valley, bears at night, panning for gold… the adventure of wild places been, or to go.

One adventure of Smith’s nearly killed him. I was about thirteen and Smith was edging towards eighty. An older brother suggested we take a family hike. There was a miscalculation, or misread map involved somehow – I don’t remember, but the trail was well over twenty miles of rugged, steep terrain. In the mountains around here, that’s a hike better suited for two days, not one. Smith, of course, insisted on going.

The hike began beautifully. Crisp, chilly air at nine thousand feet on a bright spring morning. The creek was still sheathed in ice. As we crossed the stream on icy rocks, Smith slipped and broke through. He twisted his ankle and soaked his pants. He wouldn’t turn back though, said he was fine, just had a little limp to make him take it slow.

Of course, the pain and inflammation took awhile to build, and in the meantime we kept going. As he slowed down more and more, the older ones stayed back with him and the younger of us went ahead. Smith seemed to be managing, so there was no reason to hold the young gun’s back. My brother and I separated from the group descending fast down switchbacks. I still remember how it burned my legs.

The sun went down miles before we reached the end of the trail. There was a fortunate full moon, because we had no flashlight. The moonlight gave an ethereal beauty to the canyon grasses shifting in the breeze. The trail from this point was easy ground, but it wound in hairpin turns through side canyons such that it took a mile of walking to advance a hundred yards.

Walking a mile to arrive at a point where you can throw a rock to the place you started is demoralizing. Mile after mile, every canyon looked the same, until we joked that we’d entered a nightmare.

“Imagine, if you will, a trail that never ends. Under a silver moon of surreal beauty, these unfortunate souls find it leads forever nowhere, because they have entered … The Twilight Zone.” That was the nature of our talk.

The final section of trail required a push over a ridge, then a long corkscrew of winding switchbacks to the end of the park road. It was such a relief to get down. Our feet were hot-irons, but my brother Rich also suffered toe-jam. It happens going downhill if your nails aren’t trimmed short. The pain is like bamboo shoots and will cause the affected toenail to turn green and eventually fall out.

Our glee at trail’s end was suddenly clouded by the realization there was no phone at the end of the road, and the Park gate was locked until morning. I think it was another four pain-filled miles to the gate and a telephone.

Sometime three, or four hours later my older brothers and sister-in-law came down, and Dad went to pick them up while I soaked in a hot shower. Smith wasn’t with them.

Still high on the mountain, he decided he needed to rest his leg, so he sat down and lit a fire. Then he decided the fire was warm and his leg was not working, and insisted on staying the night. My brothers were unsure about leaving him, but it was at a point of leave him, or spend the night with him. They gave him extra sweaters and came down.

In the morning we were at the gate when it opened and immediately set up the trail. Smith met us at the top of the switchbacks – almost down already. He was a little stiff, black-faced and dirty from crawling into the campfire coals to keep warm, but remarkably cheery.

It was below freezing that night. Not many octogenarians would have made it, or even attempted the hike. In spite of his fall, Smith knew his own capabilities and how to deal with the situation. The experience to him was of so little drama, he was embarrassed he put anyone to worry.

Had anyone suggested the following week to do the same hike again, Smith would have been the first to go. Probably by himself, because no one was making that suggestion.

Smith was unconventional. It’s the most endearing and memorable aspect of him. He lived on the fringe; happy, law-abiding and respectable, no man’s but his own. His example resonates through the family.

My take on life included a “Smithsonian” perspective forever-more. Uncle Smith’s alternative lifestyle seemed more agreeable than convention offered. Doing things mattered more than having things, to Smith. If given a mansion, I don’t think he would have known what to do with it. Anything more than what fit in his pick-up was too much.

Lifestyle isn’t the issue, though. A curious mind, empathy for the ways of others, minding ones own business and getting on with life in the fashion best suited for you is the point. Smith was a great example of those qualities.

We all have unique perspectives. From a trailer park, the perspective is closer to the edge of the lens, so to speak, and there is less distortion to reality. Layers and layers of social obligation and expectation are stripped away in a trailer park. So long as you keep the weeds down around the place, you’re socially acceptable.

Once that hurdle is met, one can do as they please. It’s classic Smithsonian. The night sky is brighter, more vivid and detailed from the top of a mountain than it is from a city. Such is the view of reality from the trailer park.

I’m actually a neoclassic Smithsonian. I lack the rigor for his austere simplicity, but ideologically I’m on the same page. It allows me a fresh take on Nature. Let’s now examine some notions about Nature from the trailer park perspective.

Chapter Four – The Chicken Hath No Egg

Everything being electric, phenomena scale infinitely, repeating fractal patterns within fractal patterns. The universe is a Mandelbrot Set of embedded repetitions. It has little to do with fancy mathematics. It’s cellular automata progression of self-same order over infinite magnitudes, producing similar effects at different scales.

The fractal forms are never exact reflections because they are modified by charge density and phase changes. Whether a hot plasma is at work, or a cold plasma we can’t see, the degree of ionization, relative polarity, charge density, electric field strength and field geometry are the things that influence most. Phase of material, whether liquid, gas, solid, or airborne water and dust; the mediums response to electromagnetic forces has relevance to the effect.

Proof of the concept is in the fractal forms that repeat over orders of magnitude in scale. To recognize the patterns becomes easy if the consensus brainwashing is ignored and a correct perspective is used.

Trailer Park Cosmology requires a change in how Earth is viewed in the first place. Our sight is limited, and therefore our perception. The “blue marble” of astonishing beauty we see in spacecraft photos only shows the reflection of visible light. Earth is much bigger, reaching all the way to the Moon with its electromagnetic sheath.

The Geomagnetic field should rightly be viewed as the boundary of the Earth. Looking at only the blue marble is like seeing the nucleus of an atom without electrons. The picture, and therefore perception of it, is incomplete.

The Earth is a torus of electromagnetic energy orbiting in waves of solar wind. The blue marble spins inside, shielded from life threatening radiation by shells of magnetic field. Those shells induce current from the solar wind that emit coronal light at the poles – the aurora is a physical tell about the electricity in the Solar System that science has completely missed the significance of until recently.

The Earth is like the electromagnet inside a generator. It must be excited by current to manifest a magnetic field.

Magnetism is a consequence of electric current, it cannot come into existence on its own. It is the product of electricity flowing through dielectric matter. Mathematically, flowing a given quantity of current through a given dielectric barrier yields a given magnetic field. It’s like flowing water through a chiller to freeze it to ice. It’s phase change of energy – electricity to magnetism, like phase change of matter – water to ice, with the dielectric being the chiller that takes away heat.

That’s a simple analogy, but helps to define the relation of electricity to magnetism – that they are two sides of the same coin.

Magnetized rock and man-made magnets are the result of current that aligned the atomic dipoles of the matter into coherency, lining them up in the same direction so they are magnetically focused. The magnet keeps this focus as static, or Remanent magnetism until another electrical force changes the dipole orientation.

Man-made magnets are created by exposing ceramics to high voltage current. Natural magnetism, found in magnetite and load stones, are the result of past lightning strikes, or some similar exposure to current. Magnetic remnants of meteors were exposed to current at some point as well, perhaps as they entered Earth’s influence.

The problem with consensus scientific theory on the Earth’s magnetic field is that it’s predicated on the Earth’s core being a magnet whose spin creates the Geomagnetic field. The idea is like pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. To mix metaphors, it’s not a chicken-and-egg problem, but a chicken without an egg.

For the last hundred years they’ve said the Earth’s core is like a bar magnet, yet they can’t explain how the core of the Earth became a magnet. Their models also can’t explain why, if Earth’s core is an electrically static magnet, it’s magnetic field varies so much. It acts like an electromagnet, and that requires current. Without an internal current, Earth would be a dead hulk like Mars.

This fact is only recently being contemplated and beginning to be verified by surveys. Fast streams of magma below Earth’s crust have been detected that betray the electric current. It should be intuitively obvious, but that isn’t the way of science. Reduction before deduction is the name of their game, which means trees before forests, dumb before wisdom, etc. It’s an echo chamber of bad ideas.

Current has to be flowing through the interior of the Earth from the poles. There is no verifiable physical explanation for the Geomagnetic field without accepting, as fact, there is an excitation current internal to the blue marble that causes it to act as an electromagnet.

With current internal to the blue marble, and current in the ionosphere that surrounds the atmosphere, the layers in between are like plates in a capacitor with charge on either side. These plates, the atmosphere, and crust of the blue marble, are in charge equilibrium with the internal and external flows of energy.

Because the plates are charge neutral – the atmosphere and crust of the Earth always carry charge, but the vast predominance of matter in these regions is neutral – we live in an equi-potential layer that causes us to perceive equi-potential as the norm.

It’s not. The universe is filled with charged plasma and electric current. The ‘Goldilocks zone’ we occupy is a very special place. It’s special because it’s charge neutral, and balanced, or otherwise things would fly apart. Even so, it’s not without electrical drama. We live inside an electrical circuit.

Thunderstorms and hurricanes race through the atmosphere in the tropics, discharging accumulated atmospheric charge. Volcanoes and seismic zones stripe between the poles like the spiraling seams of a baseball, betraying the flow of current beneath the crust, and discharging to surface on occasion.

Given some change in the Solar System’s electrical environment, these layers become the most energetic. A change in electric field between internal and external currents stresses the equilibrium of the dielectric plates in between. We see it in the atmosphere every day.

In the course of understanding Earth’s crust, it becomes apparent the surface of the Earth was formed by winds and arcs of electricity more closely associated with the planet Jupiter than the Earth we know today. There is evidence for atmospheric coronal discharges causing gargantuan lightning bolts, surface conductive arcs, dielectric barrier discharges, sputtering discharges and global, uni-polar winds of supersonic velocity that fed vortex storms of immense size and energy. In proportion to Earth’s size, the storms were similar to the giant storm on Jupiter known as The Great Red Spot.

It also becomes evident those same forces are at work today in Earth’s atmosphere and lithosphere, creating the same effects only far milder. Whatever events caused the continents to form was an external influence to the Earth. The Earth’s response was no different then, from how it responds to external influence now, only the magnitude has changed.

This is how Earth looks from the trailer park. It’s because I watch a lot of thunderstorms – can’t help but notice since the roof leaks. Thunderstorms are the result of Earth’s electrical currents. They are themselves coronal loops.

Thunderstorms are a consequence of the dielectric breakdown of the atmosphere as it is subjected to an intensified electric field. Since we know more about them than we know about the Great Red Spot on Jupiter, or coronal storms on the Sun, they are the best place to begin understanding coronal dynamics on Earth.

Electric Earth July 3, 2016October 3, 2017

After Dark at EU2016

This was to be my first EU conference. As I left Tucson on I-10, the temperature was hot. Arizona in June is like Venus. Temperatures always hover above 100ºF, but when it exceeds 110ºF, it’s life threatening.

First, you seem to stop sweating. You still release sweat, but it evaporates immediately and you remain dry as a bone. There is no moisture in the air. No matter how much water is consumed, lips chap, pee turns orange and scratchy salt crusts form in armpits.

It got hotter and dustier as I traveled north into the Phoenix basin. When I arrived in Mesa at noon, it was 120ºF in the shade.

Since I was a speaker and a last minute addition to the roster, I went straight to the auditorium to get checked out on the A/V system. I needed to know how it worked right away, because I didn’t have my presentation committed to memory. I needed to know if I could read my notes on the screen at the podium, or if I’d need to carry a sheaf of papers, or simply stand up there and look foolish. The last time I gave a presentation, flip charts were the state of the art.

Before I could do that, I found Susan Schirott. She took me under wing, stray cat that I was, and gave me the low-down on the conference.

Susan introduced me to the EU. I found Thunderbolts while surfing the web, became convinced for reasons too numerous to get into now and contacted Susan to pitch a guest blog. Susan gave me that opportunity and made everything else happen. I simply had to write what I learned and she handled the rest. Susan is the engine of Thunderbolts, but made time to make sure I was taken care of.

We’d had a bit of drama over adding my presentation at the last minute, including my own moments of high anxiety. Susan let me know the current status and that things were okay. She got me settled in and at ease.

The A/V system turned out to be a piece of cake and gave me all the capability to present that I could hope for, if I could just remember which buttons to push. So, unable to stand there forever pushing buttons to get used to the mechanism, I retired to the bar to relax and trust to fate.

Conference bars are where the action is, in my humble opinion. You have to see the presentations, of course. At least most of them. And you have to socialize in the halls and workshops, but the bar is where people let down their shields. I was to be here for three days, followed by the geology tour for another two days. I hardly knew anyone in the EU community. This seemed the best place to be.

My first encounter was with a young couple from the Phoenix area. Since I wore a speaker ribbon on my name tag, but few people had heard of me, I had a brief advantage. It rose people’s interest, which I need since I’m an introvert. But they didn’t know what to ask since they didn’t know what I was there to talk about. It allowed me attention and still a comfortable anonymity.

I was vague about my presentation, simply saying it had to do with geology and some electrical features. This raised the mystery. They assured me they would watch me speak. So far things were working well – two attentive listeners would be at my talk and I hardly had to do anything. They even bought my beer.

Then a bloke bounded up to our table and began hugging everyone around. I’ll call him Leo. In fact, I’m going to call everyone in this story Leo. I have to protect the innocent. More importantly, I have to protect myself.

Every Leo was different. Every Leo was interesting. Every Leo is my brother and sister, now, but that is getting ahead of the story. Leo came from British Columbia, Montreal, New Brunswick, Colorado, California, UK, Australia, Belarus, Germany, Tibet and at least one from another planet. Leo wore tattoos and buzz cuts; tie-dyeds and chinos; safari hats and bandanas; piercings and goatees; or in one case, a beaded, braided fu-manchu. All points on the globe, all types of people, representing a common interest in our Electric Universe.

This Leo was from the UK. UK Leo sat down and immediately ordered a beer, and I ordered a second. Little did I know at the time, UK Leo would be at the bar every time I went there. UK Leo, I recognized eventually, was a professional beer drinker.

As we got acquainted, a certain cadence set into our discussion. His thick accent was impossible to understand. So I would say, “uh huh”, when I thought he’d made a point. He would reply, “eehah, mate?” because he couldn’t understand me either. In other words, we were perfect drinking partners – the burden of making sense wasn’t on us.

The young couple left. I don’t think they understood UK Leo either. He and I talked nonsense through our beers and then I left to circulate. At the bar I spotted Southern Comfort Leo. Southern Comfort Leo was someone I wanted to get to know, because I’d seen him present in a video of the previous year’s EU conference. His topic had direct bearing on mine. He held court at the corner of the bar, a place only a talkative person would take.

I sidled up beside him to see if I could start a conversation (it’s not something I’m very good at). I call him Southern Comfort Leo, because when I asked where he was from, he listed every southern State he’d ever lived – which was all of them. He said he’d “been around.” Much to my surprise, starting this conversation was easy, and he bought my beer.

I still had the advantage of anonymity, so the talk centered around him and his work. I simply listened to the fascinating work he did and the kind of information he got from it. Others joined us. We held court like Norm Petersen and Cliff Claven at the corner of the bar. But as the evening wore on, the crowd dwindled until there were just four of us left. Room Mate Leo, Boorish Leo, Southern Comfort Leo and me.

As I found with all EU conference participants, they are fiercely independent thinkers who fear no topic. In this case, our conversation turned to God and the relative merits of belief in HIS existence. Dangerous ground for a late night at the bar.

Leo held a belief in God’s existence, while the other Leo disagreed. As it became heated, Southern Comfort Leo wisely took his leave, begging the need to rest for his morning presentation. I was to speak in the afternoon, so I stayed.

Having been raised by a devout Christian mother, I have a respect for most beliefs provided it doesn’t involve hacking heads off. So I attempted to mediate the rougher edges in the conversation, but to no avail. Boorish Leo launched into a devastating destruction of Room Mate Leo’s character flaws, which the younger Leo had guilelessly laid bare for our examination.

We finally agreed to disagree around four AM. Leo and I, being room mates dragged ourselves, shirttails hanging, to the room. The emotions scraped bare at the bar were still bleeding however. Leo and I continued to talk in the room, he giving me intimate glimpses into his troubled yet valuable life. Valuable because he’s brilliant, curious and courageous – the earmarks of an EU scholar. Troubled because he carries baggage – we all do.

I noticed the sun was shining through a gap in the curtain. I sealed the gap before we finally gave up talking and went to sleep. I woke in time to catch Southern Leo’s talk mid-morning.

The conference room was a comfortable place. Dark, with a casual and attentive audience and the most interesting subjects to hear about, delivered by some of the most knowledgeable people in the world. What could be better. I lost myself in the ambience, surprisingly relaxed, without any building apprehension for my own talk that afternoon.

In fact, my talk went well. I think. Except the lights were blinding my sensitive eyes, which were only closed for an hour and a half that morning. Remember that when you watch the replays on Thunderbolts.

I did almost electrocute myself trying to drink some water with the microphone at my lips. It could have been a great display of Arc Blast – the subject of my talk, had I thought of it. I didn’t trip at the podium, or say anything stupid as far as I can remember.

Following the talks, I and my brother Richard, who was attending the conference to graciously provide moral support, and even more gratifying to me – learn more about our Electric Universe, met-up with Susan. Our timing was perfect, because she and David were heading to dinner with another speaker and an attendee who seemed to have a long association with the EU.

It was a delightful dinner. My brother, a former PR and public affairs professional, enjoyed trading anecdotes about conference organization with Dave and Susan while I stuffed my face with baked grouper. Dave Talbott is a sincere and gentle-hearted man who kept the conversation light and engaging. He suffered a dozen questions about Velikovsky and EU that he must have answered a zillion times before, but he spoke with absolute enthusiasm about the things he champions.

After dinner, of course, Rich and I retired to the bar, while the sensible people went about other business, like sleep. After one drink, my brother left to meet his son in Scottsdale, leaving me with the Leo’s again. It was pretty much the same crew, UK Leo, Southern Comfort Leo, Roommate Leo and me. Many other Leos were there, too.

This night was less talk and more drinking. Those of us who were speakers had finished our talks and were ready to unwind. Everyone else was just ready. Michael Claridge-Leo strode in with an electric bicycle to show off. The evening was a hoot, everyone in cheery little clusters around the bar and outside at the pool..

The day had been hot and it began to take its toll. People drifted away to bed, leaving only dead-enders. You know us by now. Leo and I had both shifted from beer to vodka at this point, so my recollection may be out of sequence. What I recall is that Leo began speaking gibberish.

We were having a perfectly rational conversation when he suddenly became agitated, and in perfectly articulated English said something that made absolutely no sense. It was as if Neil DeGrasse Tyson had entered his body. I hadn’t the foggiest notion what he was talking about, but it seemed urgent. Then he simply walked away.

The remainder of us carried the night to a quiet conclusion after the waiters stacking chairs refused us any more post closing drinks. We retired to our rooms, confident that, except for the hotel staff, we were the last people standing and our duty had been satisfied – to be the last people standing – somewhat stooped, but standing.

When I arrived in the room, I found Leo. Leo was passed out in the bathroom, undressed, pants around his ankles. This was not the behavior I expected from Leo. I immediately became suspicious. There was a pool of fluid on the floor. I shook him by the shoulder and called his name. He slid to the floor like a greasy snake, taking the toilet seat with him.

I won’t go into any more detail. It took a good two hours to get him to bed. There was a period of time he simply stood, incapable of moving. Dehydration, heat stroke and vodka don’t mix. I gave him water.

Leo was only the first of the heat casualties. The sun was peaking through the blinds again when I finally laid down. The damn thing wouldn’t stay down. It was already up and blazing people into an ultraviolet-brain cooked stupor and I hadn’t had a wink of sleep yet.

Eight AM came , literally, in the blink of an eye. I met my brother and we enjoyed the talks, seeing almost every one. Incredibly, I never felt tired even though that auditorium could lure a meth addict to sleep. All of the talks were good.

After the banquet there was a gathering at the bar. I happened to join in. Imagine that… Leo was there, too. All of the Leos, in fact. This was the big finale. It wound down as the sun rose and it was too late, or perhaps too early…whatever, to buy beer at the Circle K. I spent my time engrossed in conversation with a charming Leo from UK, this one a female, about documentary film making.

There wasn’t much point in sleep now, since the Geology tour was leaving in less than two hours. UK Leo said he’d just wait-up. I slept until the vans were running downstairs. I had time to simply bundle my kit in a wad and run downstairs and throw it in the StRange Rover. The vans were just loading, so I ran back inside to Starbucks. I wanted to kill the person in front of me ordering a triple mocha hoopla-drip machiacappucinoamericano hand-blended smoothy with sprinkles. After what seemed like a month, I ordered my BIG coffee (I refuse to say Grande) and shuffled out to the StRange Rover and fired her up. I pulled into last place in the caravan and waited.

There is a mathematical rule that relates the number of people in a party to the time it takes that party to actually do anything. It is called the ‘milling factor’. The more people there are, the larger the milling factor becomes by logarithmic scale. If there are enough people, the milling factor will prevent anything from happening and the situation devolves to chaos. With well over twenty people the milling factor was enormous.

As I watched light refract through heat blistering off the hood, the StRange Rover’s vinyl dashboard disintegrated before my very eyes in the UV, X-ray and gamma radiation from the Sun. The organizer and leader of our caravan, Herr Leo, was circling the vans attempting to get people inside and strapped in.

Some folks refer to this as ‘herding cats’. I disagree. Cats tend to scatter and move. High milling factor creates a kind of paralysis where people just stand and stare at each other, waiting for someone else to make a move. Milling has a more bovine nature to it. My BIG coffee was almost finished when the vans actually started rolling. Now I had to pee. I held on because I wasn’t about to run inside when everyone else was finally ready, so we took off on the Geology tour.

Southern Comfort Leo joined me in the StRange Rover at the first stop. It was my first chance to pee and survey the group I was with – in that order. I noticed all of the essential Leo’s, meaning the drinking ones, were on the geology tour. We must run in crowds, I thought, mutually attracted by intense heat, miles of driving, lack of sleep and an excuse to party every night.

As I focused my bleary eyes (I don’t think Leo would have climbed in with me if he knew how much sleep I’d had in the past three days) I saw geologic features I’d written about. I was going to point them out to Southern Comfort Leo, when Leo pointed out to me what he’d been noticing. Leo in the car ahead was swerving off the road occasionally.

Why would Leo do that, I wondered. We found out a few miles later, when on a steeply diving switchback road with no shoulder, Leo in-the-car-ahead, swerved off road and punctured his tire. As it happened, he was passing-out from dehydration and heat. Apparently he came from a place where air conditioning is not a life support system.

He was bundled in the back of a van to re-hydrate and sleep, while someone else took over command of his car, now driving on a spare. We spent a couple of hours getting a new tire for Leo in-the-car-ahead and ended up split into two groups somewhere in Verde Valley because of lunch preferences. We regrouped in Oak Creek Canyon, just past Sedona. Here, everyone cooled their feet in the water under the shade of cottonwoods at Oak Creek’s shore.

The heat, the fact we hadn’t made it to Meteor Crater that day, Leo in-the-car-ahead’s travails, all melted away as the group laughed and splashed in the creek. It was a fine moment. All of the Leo’s felt better. We were all Leo now. Regrouped and refreshed, the caravan drove on to Flagstaff.

As the group checked-in to the motel and got settled, Southern Comfort Leo and I walked to the bar/restaurant across the parking lot to have a cold one. UK Leo joined us next, then others drifted in. I hadn’t paid much attention, but did notice an older gentleman sitting alone drinking beer at a table in the back.

The Leos and I stood at the bar, while all the other Leo’s congregated at a table behind us. I heard a commotion and turned around to see the distinguished looking gentleman sprawled on his back. Several of our Leo’s were attending to him.

I said, “who’s that guy?” to our little group at the bar, but they paid me no attention, struggling as they were to understand each other – Southern drawl vs. UK soccer slang. I sipped my beer and surveyed the situation. The man was still prostate, being given wet towels and water. Someone was calling 911. What else could I do. I sipped my beer. “Do you guys see what’s happening behind us?” I asked. This time I broke through and they turned to look. “Why that’s Seattle Leo,” said Southern Comfort Leo.

I vaguely knew we were to meet Seattle Leo in Flagstaff. I didn’t know details though, so hadn’t connected the distinguished man at the back table with being a Leo. As the paramedics wheeled him away, I said something lame like “take care” and laid my hands over his. They were cold as ice. Our third victim of heat stroke.

One part of our group driven by Colorado Leo, or as I thought of him: the spitting image of Jeff Bridges, were eclectic Leo’s from around the world. They decided to camp-out in the National Forest instead of staying at the motel. They were a lively and entertaining bunch, so some of the motel Leo’s and I decided we’d visit their camp for a few beers.

They were camped somewhere in Coconino National Forest. Since Coconino National Forest covers approximately 1.8 million acres, I thought our prospects of finding them dubious. Nevertheless, we took two cars, bought some beer and departed Flag for the ‘campground’ they were supposedly at. They weren’t. The location was the Forest Service headquarters. No campground in sight.

This called for an unmanly admission that we didn’t know where we were going and needed directions. A cell phone was produced. I’m not sure if it was a bad connection, or if UK Leo was doing the talking. In any case the directions seemed uncertain.

We tried, but eventually gave up and parked in a dense, dark forest of Ponderosa and Spruce. I kept my eye out for bears and Sasquatch. At least we had beer and other essentials among us, and we stood in the dark and talked about magnetism, mountains and made a toast to Michael Steinbacher. A freight train roared past within a hundred yards of where we stood. It must have been a mile long and it left us feeling pumped from the noise and vibration.

I was driving, so only sipped on my beer. Still, lack of sleep had me seeing pinpoints of light in the corners of my eyes as we drove back to the motel. I followed Room mate Leo as he missed the exit and drove around the longest way conceivable to get back on track. I was almost beside myself thinking we’d entered a never ending road somewhere in the twilight zone. The Leo’s in my car had turned into bobble-heads and didn’t seem to notice we were being sucked back to Sedona, no doubt by the vortex.

I got a solid night’s sleep, rooming with Sacramento Leo. It’s usually a little strange to sleep in a room with a stranger, but in this case my head hit the pillow and didn’t lift until Leo belatedly advised me the vans were ready to roll in five minutes.

No time to shower – day three. I was beginning to stink. Well, not really. I stunk. You either stink or you don’t, there’s really no ‘beginning to’. I felt some pity for my StRange Rover-mate, Southern Comfort Leo.

After that first devastating day of heat, others began to notice – in addition to how bad I smelled – how I always parked in shade if I could find it, or aim the car away from the sun so the seats didn’t blister my ass when I got back in. At 120ºF, a car’s interior surfaces exposed to sun can reach 195ºF. By comparison, pork is considered safe to eat at 145ºF. I don’t comb my hair either, otherwise I’ll get a sunburned part. Tricks of the desert rat.

Our intrepid leader, Herr Leo, stepped up to a major feat of organization at meteor crater, advising us of the time to regroup. Things went smoothly until I had the sudden urge to (once again) use the bathroom at the last minute, hence I was the one who held up the group. It’s no fun walking out of a restroom, zipping up your fly, while thirty people sit in a parking lot staring at you.

I learned a lot about Michael Steinbacher on the trip. What a vagabond life he led, and how many loyal friends he had who gave him a couch, or bed, and traveled with him to rocky, windswept corners of the southwest, looking at evidence of the vast catastrophic forces that shaped our planet.

It gave me a tremendous morale boost. I recognized in the stories about Michael something I’ve found to be true for me. To truly clear the eyes of mud… to see things clearly for what they are, demands a rejection of convention.

I gave up income, home and stability to find the Electric Universe. Hanging on to what people expect of you will keep you locked into their paradigm forever. All notion that theoretical science explains anything at all had to be discarded and understood as a gross misinterpretation of the physics that govern our universe. I had to disconnect to see that.

Michael understood and looked at landscape in a way no one else had really captured. His inspirations inspired many more. We came to spread his ashes at the Southern Rim of the Grand Canyon. Herr Leo had selected Geology Point as an appropriate place. It was.

Being a generally agnostic group to begin with, and knowing Michael was too, there was not much in the way of spiritual context. Herr Leo and a couple of the female Leo’s took a moment to reflect on Michael’s influence in their lives and his appreciation for truth.

Truth does exist. We could see it with our own eyes in the canyon. The obvious carving of scalloped edges in the ninety degree, boxed side canyon we stood above spoke more to the validity of Michael’s interpretation of geology than anything anyone could have said.

I spoke with Michael’s friends about the formation of the Grand Canyon. I agree with Michael’s assessment, in general. The canyon was carved by an explosive current locked to the river’s channel. I’d looked into, and written about breccia pipes; karst-like formations of broken rock that fill vertical tunnels emanating from a limestone formation above the inner gorge. These breccia pipes emerge from the ground all over the south rim, concentrated along the rim and even split open in places along the canyon wall.

My belief is these were the result of current flows from the inner gorge that blasted out the stubby, 90 degree angled side canyons by coursing through the limestone aquifer and up through the crust, forming the breccia pipes. Everything I saw standing over Geology Point confirmed my intuition, and Michael’s hypothesis, which I think conforms with mine. It made me feel good we laid his ashes there.

The canyon left me uplifted, but feeling small, knowing how few are the people who even fathom what we could see.

Herr Leo took the caravan speeding down an empty two lane road to Utah, past miles of open country I wanted to walk through. Shallow canyon fingers dipped right away from the roadside, to disappear into dark cavernous gorges that led a mile deep to the Colorado. How were they formed – not by water erosion. There is no evidence of water erosion on the walls of the Grand Canyon – anywhere, except the very lowest reaches of the inner gorge – the only place the river has ever flowed.

The only evidence given for water erosion creating the canyon is that there is a canyon there. Ergo, typical mainstream circular logic says it must have been carved by water. It ain’t evident in the rocks though. A fact neatly and blithely ignored by geologists.

We crossed the Little Colorado and skirted the Navajo Nation, heading north. At Cameron, Arizona we stopped for lunch. It made sense, since one of our Leo’s was named Cameran-Leo; wrong spelling, but close enough to earn a sandwich. This was also where I departed, leaving to drive home to Tucson through the best part of Arizona, Highway 191. I’ll tell about that in a moment.

I hate goodbyes. This one didn’t hurt though. I knew I would be seeing these Leo’s again.

Every Leo hugged me. There wasn’t a single hand shake, or fist bump. Just hugs. It was a striking moment for me, when Sacramento Leo gave me a memento from Michael. Something Michael raised on his own, infused with his love of life and our world. I fired it up as I drove alone to Kayenta.

As the StRange Rover hummed along, the sun began to set on a landscape I could only imagine had been etched. Magnificent undulating, layered and cap-rocked dunes scalloped and gouged around the edges. A different electrical scarring than I’d been studying. Something to look into in the future.

Near Kayenta is where Dave Talbott’s photo of a petroglyph was taken. The one Tony Perratt identified as a plasma instability – rock hard evidence of an aurora in the ancient sky that our ancestors witnessed. I marveled to myself that his paper had been published over a decade ago and so few people had even noticed. Yet it gave up so much truth. It was the very thing that had brought me to look into EU.

As I drove through Tsegi, I looked into the canyon. Tsegi Canyon holds deep mystery for me. This is where the Kayenta Anasazi – the Pueblo people of Northern Arizona spent their final days in cliff dwellings, before, in sudden diaspora they fled to Mexico. Something like the Exodus.

What happened? Why did they live in the cliffs? Mainstream theories of drought and infertile crops is simply a weak and unintelligent answer to the true plight of the Pueblo people of the Four Corners area. Scientists blame everything on climate change now – that’s the paradigm. Something else happened to the Pueblo in 1100 to 1300 AD, when after living in the open for centuries, they turned to living under rocks before simply leaving the area, en masse.

They were either hiding from something from above, or below – lightning perhaps, or a swarm of hungry bigfoot (cannibal demons in the native Hopi) come down from the San Juan’s. I don’t know which yet, but I’m going to Tsegi some day to figure it out and write a novel about it.

As I looked into the deep reaches of the canyon, the setting sun shone through, framed by the vertical, black canyon walls and sheets of illuminated virga hanging from the clouds above.

It was damned ominous looking, but spectacular. A few miles beyond Kayenta, there is a mountain feature visible from the road I had used an image of in my presentation. I knew it was there and hoped to see it under the full moon. I couldn’t see it though, because storm clouds blocked the light. Too bad.

I continued non-stop through Navajo lands because I had to. There are no Motel 6’s on the Res. Nor is there any alcohol. Two reasons to keep driving. As I drove South from Four Corners past Canyon De Chelly, the StRange Rover rolled over giant fingers of the Chuska mountains that stretched across the desert. In the sky, the clouds made giant feathered strokes of lichtenberg figures. I knew the land under my feet looked the same, and it was no coincidence.

After a night in a cheap motel along I-40, where I closed thick drapes and slept late, I departed on my final day. This I knew would be an epic drive. Highway 191 (renamed because Highway 666 seemed to disturb some people) runs down the eastern edge of the State. It is an age-old corridor for migration and trade. The Anasazi traded with the Aztecs along this route. It led to the region’s giant center of trade, Chaco Canyon. The Puebloans retreated on this route during the diaspora.

It was used by Coronado and the conquistadors, when they came as the first tourists to the Grand Canyon. Renegades and outlaws used this trail in the days of Apache wars and stage coach robberies.

It climbs into the White Mountains through lava fields and hills that appear like huge, low windblown dunes. Near St. John there is a lake right off of the highway, named Lyman Lake. I turned in to look at the State Park campsites and take a break. As I drove in a sign pointed to a road that said “Petroglyph Trail.” I made the turn and parked at the trail head.

It led into some small hills on a peninsula in the lake. The hills have a cap rock that is black with patina on the top surface. Broken blocks of it are scattered down the hillsides. On these I found a perfect ‘squatter man’ pecked into a flat, patina covered block.

I also noticed the patina appeared to be burnt onto the rock’s surface. There were marks of hot ablation, as if a sheet of flame had seared the cap rock from above. I wondered if it was a thing people had witnessed. Perhaps that is why they chose this place to commemorate the auroras that surely would have preceded such a flash.

A few miles further up the road, I passed volcanic cinder cones and rode over vast lava flows. On the lava flows, lightning began to strike. It flashed with an almost constant frequency, close enough to hear the peel of thunder, but far enough to enjoy the show. I pulled to the side on a hill and lowered my tailgate to watch – the reason I drive the StRange Rover is it has a classic drop-down tailgate – essential for such moments. I also celebrated Michael’s green thumb again as I watched the lightning strike and listened to the thunder. It was a fitting spectacle to end the journey and my formal introduction to the Electric Universe.

Thanks to Leo’s gift of Michael’s homegrown, I missed my turn in Springerville, and drove fifteen miles into New Mexico on Highway 60 before I realized I was going downhill when I should be going up. Things were going too well, I suppose. Where I turned around was a dirt road to Luna, New Mexico. I was in a curious feature of land I had spotted on Google Earth before. The dramatic sweep of land before me was a shallow valley, closed in by windswept dunes of sandstone. The name Luna was appropriate. This trip just kept giving surprises. I didn’t take the road, but committed to coming back, to Luna, to the Leo’s and to uncovering the simple majesty of our Electric Universe.

StRange Rover Leo.

Update: Leo is now engaged to Leo. I have confirmation, so feel free to announce it. And I thought I was having fun…apparently not as much as those two.

Non-fiction February 20, 2016September 30, 2017

Willie Jo Hall

December 27, 1914 – February 16, 2016

Willie Jo Hughes’ life began on a farm in Amity Arkansas, running barefoot and riding buckboards before there were cars.

Hardened by dust bowl, depression, poverty and war, she grew strength and resilience no modern man knows… and a smokey, dark-eyed beauty, one never sees anymore…

She didn’t smile much, but boy, did she love sombreros…

She married a dashing man, who liked cool cars – James Weldon Hall, October 30, 1937…

From Dallas to Tucson, they came in 1938, to raise family – five boys, with mixed results – four retards and one prince…can you tell which is which?

With her husband and sons, she traveled the world…

But nothing in life was more important than blood. Brothers Vern and Harold, and young sister Faye…

And grandchildren and their children…. who love her, so, so very much, today…

We thought she was ours always – our matriarch, our compass and cause of our being…

But she’s gone to her Lord. Rest in peace, Mom. We love you and will always miss you…

IMG_NEW

Updates to The Daily Plasma and “Leviathan – Part Two” will publish in a week, or two.

Dyatlov Pass November 25, 2015October 3, 2017

The Haunting Mystery of Dyatlov Pass – Part Three

Part Two ended with the group split-up, and beginning to die.

Zina followed Slabodin’s footprints, but veered away in the clearing. She could see her destination – the tent above. She never saw Slabodin’s body, struck to the ground only meters away. She passed him oblivious to what waited ahead.

Igor followed, but could not stay on his frostbitten feet. He fell and crawled, trying to stay with Zina. The mental energy he’d expended to keep everyone together, thinking through the limited options to survive in circumstances he couldn’t comprehend. The strain of being the responsible leader. That burden kept him on edge, and now he was exhausted. Lethargy took over – even faster with stress, injury and shock. Like Yuri and Gyorgyi at the cedar tree, his energy expended. The heat in his life ebbed away. He couldn’t see Zina anymore.

Semen led Lyudmila down a slope to the bottom of a ravine. Aleksi and Niclolai helped him dig into a snowbank and lay branches for a floor. They made several trips up and down the ravine bank until they made a platform large enough for all of them to sit on. Then they sat on scraps of cloth to insulate themselves from the cold. The shallow cave in the snowbank shielded the wind and the view. They had no idea where the others were, now. They could only hope they would return with supplies.

“Semen, why are they bothering us?” asked Aleksi.

“They will leave when it’s light. Maybe they already left. I don’t hear them now,” he said.

“I heard some kind of snort just a minute ago,” said Lyudmila. “Do you think they will let Igor get back to the tent? I need my boots.”

“We just have to wait and see,” said Semen.

“Can we build a fire?” asked Nicolai.

“No, I think we lay low,” said Semen. “Bunch together and get warm. Put your feet in my lap, Luda. they won’t even know we’re here.”

“You think they will come here for us, Sascha? They’ve chased us from the tent. What do they want?” asked Nicolai.

“I saw one this morning before we left the pass. I told you. I took a picture. But I don’t think they live over there. I think they live over here, and that is why they want us to leave.”

“Is that why you talked Igor into setting camp on the mountain?” asked Aleksi.

“I didn’t know. It was my instinct. I was afraid we would see it again. I know what they can do. You didn’t believe me.”

“Did you really take a picture? Did you do something to anger them?”

“Anger them? I stabbed my knife in one up at the tent. If you stayed and helped me we could have chased them away.”

“You what? You stabbed a Snowman? No wonder they won’t leave us. They’ll kill us.”

“Not if they don’t find us. Shut up.”

“You let Igor and Zina go up there. You let Slabodin go, and they think they can walk past them to the tent like it’s Sunday morning,” said Aleksi.

“I don’t think they’ll make it,” said Semen.

“No thanks to you. Why didn’t you stop them?”

“They were beyond reason. When the cold has you, it is over. You’re going to be that way soon.”

“I’m going to build a fire. You said they are afraid of fire,” said Aleksi.

“I’m just guessing. We should not alert them to where we are.”

“We need a fire,” said Aleksi, as he climbed up the slope of the ravine. He came back immediately.

“I saw one,” he whispered. “It is a baby, I swear. Come see.”

Semen watched Aleksi’s feet climbing the slope again, and saw them just keep going into the air. “Oh no!” – he could barley whisper.

Aleksi came down from the sky and crumpled in front of Semen, trying to regain his breathing. He seemed to be choking. Semen saw a hairy foot take the slope in a step. He looked up into shining eyes. Lyudmila screamed.

The end.

The final days of journey for the Dyatlov party were strenuous. They complained of wet snow in the pass that made the work exhausting.

“Today the weather is a bit worse – the wind (west), snow (probably from pines) because the sky is perfectly clear. Came out relatively early (around 10am). Took the same beaten Mansi trail. So far we walked along the Mansi trail, which was passed by a deer hunter not long ago. We met his resting stop yesterday, apparently.

Today was surprisingly good accommodations for the tent, air is warm and dry, despite the low temperature of -18C to -24C. The walking is especially hard today. Visibility is very low. We walk for 1.52 km (1 mile) per hour. We are forced to find new methods of clearing the path for the skis. The first member leaves his bag on the ground and walks forward, then he returns, rests for 10- 15 minutes with the group. Thus we have a non- stop paving of the trail. It is especially hard for the second to move down the new trail with full gear on the back.

We gradually leave the Auspii valley, the rise is continuous, but quiet smooth. We spend a night at the forest boundary. Wind is western, warm, penetrating. Snow- free spaces. We can’t leave any of our provision to ease the ascend to the mountains.

About 4pm. We must choose the place for the tent. Wind, some snow. Snow cover is 1.22 meters thick. Tired and exhausted we started to prepare the platform for the tent. Firewood is not enough. We didn’t dig a hole for a fire. Too tired for that. We had supper right in the tent.

It is hard to imagine such a comfort somewhere on the ridge, with a piercing wind, hundreds of kilometers away from human settlements.”

Igor Dyatlov. January 31, 1959.

The final sentence is curious. Is that a voice of reluctance, knowing the following night will be spent above the tree-line? Or is that a voice of someone who has no intention of spending the night above the tree-line?

one-of-the-last-shots-of-the-hikers — The final climb to the tent site.

On February 1, the group cached some of their spare gear and supplies on a platform known as a “labaz,” and traveled 2.5 miles from the pass to the final campsite on the flanks of Kholat Syakhl. It’s estimated setting the camp took an hour, from four, to five P.M. The sun set just after five.

Reports say the party veered off-course to camp on the slopes of the mountain, instead of descending from the pass into the trees. Speculation is they may have lost their way in the wind-blown snow and camped when they realized they were above the pass and losing daylight.

Photo’s from their film don’t indicate blinding conditions, however. More likely, they knew where they were, and chose to camp there. They could have come down-hill quickly – they were on skis. Did something compel them to stay far above the tree-line? There seemed to be some fascination with the tree-line in a series of photographs.

???? ??????????? 1959?

A separate entry, in the trek “newspaper,” where they typically “reported” humorous events, was this:

“From now on we know the Snowmen exist. They can be found in the Northern Urals, next to Mount Otorten.”

zina-writing-in-her-diary-by-the-auspia-river — Zina with journal.

What brought up that subject? Theorists of the avalanche, infra-sound, espionage and UFO camps agree, this must be a humorous reference to the local Yeti legends.

At least it acknowledges the legends. It can be debated if this is humor, or a concise statement of facts – when, who, what and where.

We don’t know what the Mansi may have said about the Menk, or if they brought the subject up. If they did, and the group was making fun of it, it is even more pertinent that the Mansi mentioned the Menk. Perhaps they were warned.

Or did one of the party see something the others teased about, not having seen it themselves – something prompted the entry.

The injuries.

Much is made of the condition of Lyudmia Dubinina’s corpse, as it was found with damage far exceeding others of the group. Since her condition bears the most controversy, and complexity, this is the place to begin.

The examiner reported her death to be caused by impact from a large force that caused multiple, bilateral rib fractures that impinged on her heart and caused internal bleeding. Her chest cavity contained one and a half liters of blood.

Her tongue, eyes and parts of the soft tissues of her mouth were missing.

The missing tongue is one of the most often exaggerated facts of the case. It has been reported as cut out, torn out, or bitten off. Yet the medical examiner clearly stated in his report the tongue and soft tissues resulted from post mortem decay and decomposition.

She was found face down in water. Investigators believe the snow began to melt at least a week, or two before she was found, and she’d lain there for months.

The missing eyes and tongue are a red herring, but the violent impact that crushed her chest is not. The breaks were on either side of her chest and each rib had two fractures. The #2, 3, 4, and 5 ribs broken on the right side with two fracture lines visible and the #2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7 ribs broken on the left side with two fracture lines visible. No external injury to tissue associated with her chest wound was found.

Zolotorev, found in the ravine, also had his chest caved in. His eyes and some flesh had decomposed. He was found to wear several tattoos.

His death was caused by multiple rib fractures on the right side and internal bleeding into the chest cavity. His ribs had detached from the chest wall as a result of a heavy blow.

Like Dubinina, the #2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 ribs had two fracture lines and he exhibited no outward tissue damage associated with the mortal chest wound.

The autopsy also noted that the injuries to Zolotorev and Dubinina did not come from a single event, meaning they each received blows independently, with very similar results, but not from a common explosion, or other concussive blast. The blows were targeted to the sides of the chest.

Thibault-Brignolle’s death was caused by impact of a large force to the roof and base of the skull. It created a multi-splintered fracture, but no exterior tissue damage, although decomposition was evident.

These three individuals died a violent death from blunt impact. All of the others died of hypothermia.

Thibault-Brignolle would have been knocked unconscious by his wounds, so could not have received them at the tent and still walked a mile to the trees. Nor is it likely Zolotorev, or Dubinina could have walked anywhere with their wounds. The mortal wounds happened in the ravine.

Slabodin suffered a severe head injury, also. His body was found making his way back to the tent. The head injury didn’t kill him, however. He died from exposure, aggravated by the injury.

The injury was severe, but not immediately life threatening. It most likely put him into shock when it happened, and caused a loss of coordination. There was internal bleeding, indicating he lived with the injury for some time before freezing to death.

Other injuries included abrasions and bruising on the face and forehead, torn epidermis on the arms and bruises on the knuckles of his hands. Ice formed under his body, indicating he fell on the snow while alive and still warm.

Kolmegarova’s death was by exposure. Her fingers were frostbitten. She had a broad bruise encircling one side of her abdomen. The bruise was thought to be a result of a fall sometime after leaving the tent.

Dyatlov’s death was by exposure. His fingers were frostbitten. He had bruising and abrasion to the knuckles of his hands. A variety of abrasions and bruises also were found on his forehead, eyebrow, arms, legs and ankles. Examiners also speculated the bruising to be the result of a fall or blunt impact.

Dorovoshenko’s death was by exposure. His face and ears were frostbitten. His hair was burned. He had bruising and abrasions on his arms, elbow, shoulder and thighs. Torn flesh on his hands. The skin wounds were noted to be consistent with a fall, or impact. Pine needles and moss were found in his hair. A foamy grey fluid found on his cheek caused examiners to speculate he had been squashed, or taken a high fall.

Krivonishenko’s death was by exposure. His ears were frosbitten. His injuries included bruises on his forehead and around the left temporal bone, bruises on the right side of his chest, bruises on his hands, detached skin on the back of the left hand and a portion of the epidermis from the right hand was found in his mouth. He also had bruises and minor scratches on the thighs, a bruise on the left buttock and bruises and burns on the left leg.

Kolevatov was found in the ravine with the severely injured parties. Examination indicates he froze to death, likely the last of the group to die. There was a small open wound behind his ear and his neck was found to be deformed, long and thin in the area of the thyroid cartilage. He also suffered decomposition to soft tissues.

The final conclusion of the autopsies:

“As there was no evidence of a guilty party the reasons for the actions of the ski-team and their subsequent injuries is unknown. All that can be said is that they were the victims of a “Compelling Force”.

Zolotorev and Dubinina would have had to belly-flop onto rocks to receive their injuries – sharp enough to break bones, but not tear skin. There were no fractures to the extremities, which in a fall is typically the case, as one tends to break knees, collarbones, legs and outstretched arms.

Thibault-Brignolle could have hit his head in a fall, but it is still odd there was no external injury, and the impact seemed to be from the base, side of the skull, with fractures propagating upward. The probability of all three of them falling ten, to fifteen feet, and dying as a result of injuries so specific to certain areas without collateral damage to extremities, or external tissue, is very low. A fall from that height rarely causes lethal injury, let alone three in a row. By every appearance, the wounds were not the result of a fall, but of being hit by something that targeted the torsos and head.

dyatlov_pass_the_flight — Path to the trees from the tent- superimposed photos.

Slobodin also got hit in the head, hard. Everyone of them had bruising and injuries to head and hands. Slobodin and Dyatlov had abrasions to their knuckles consistent with hand-to-hand fighting injuries.

Many cuts and scrapes can be expected on an expedition ski trek. More cuts and scrapes would be expected from stumbling on frozen feet in the dark, as they made their way to the cedar tree and built a fire. Yet they looked like they were beat to shit. That is why investigators looked first for foul play. The Mansi were cleared and no other parties were in the area to anyone’s knowledge.

The idea people chased them from the tent, whether CIA, or KGB, or anyone else, and then waited hours in the freezing night for most of them to die of exposure – and then got impatient, let them scatter, and punched rifle butts into the remaining survivors, is hard to imagine. Why not just shoot, or strangle them and have done with it. They were alive for hours under the tree. The charred remains of wood attested to a fire burning for one, to two hours.

The fear of impending avalanche, or lightning could have made them leave the tent, whether the threat was real, or perceived. But it leaves the only explanation for injuries a fall, unless the lightning chased them to the ravine. Lightning is a more likely candidate for the type of injuries they suffered, at least the major ones.

Some burn marks were noted on trees nearby the cedar, but that could have come from a fire, or lightning at any time before the tragedy. Forest trees often bear such scars. And it’s still seventy-five yards from where the worst injuries were found. Aside from the burns on hands, feet and hair that apparently came from sitting nearly on top of the coals – not unlikely at near 20-below – it is hard to correlate their behavior with a lightning event.

Why would lightning keep them huddled around a fire in the trees for hours. Even in a storm, the risk of climbing to the tent to get boots and clothing would be less than just freezing in your socks. People experience lightning in the mountains all the time, and the percentages are still in favor of not being hit. Lightning storms don’t usually persist with great intensity for long in one area.

A lightning strike that could kill all of them – one blow – could have hit the ravine and killed the others at the tree, perhaps even blowing Zina halfway to the tent. It’s possible, I don’t think we recognize how powerful lightning can be, but such an event would blow the forest apart. Sorry, no evidence.

Bears are in hibernation in mid-winter. No injuries indicated the fangs from wolves, or the claws of a bear.

Once all the evidence and circumstances are looked at, the best fit theory is a Menk – the Russian Yeti.

There is one significant hurdle to the theory of a Yeti. We don’t know if they exist. At least the scientific community claims they don’t, and most people go along with that consensus. Yet the plausibility of the Yeti’s existence is scientifically supported. That isn’t to say it exists, but science provides proof they did at one time. It is a matter of not having current knowledge if they still live.

The hominid family tree is known to have a variety of species, many living concurrently with humans quite recently. DNA confirms romance, or rape, between beauty and the beast occurred with Denovisovan’s and Neanderthal’s, as recently as the last ice age. So creatures that meet the Yeti archetype lived in the recent past, as confirmed by science. Whether any remnant species is more ape than human, a hominid relic, or a hybrid of human and beast, is hair-splitting until one is studied.

There is really no reason to believe they do not exist. Skepticism is warranted, not a dogmatic refusal to consider. By numerous reports of witnesses, including those of the North American Bigfoot, Australian Yowie, and other regional types, they are consistently witnessed in the wilderness, mountainous regions that provide habitat. They are never seen in uncharacteristic settings, as hallucinations are known to produce.

Alien abduction is a case in point. Victims are often accused of hallucination because a number of instances occur in the bedroom, where sleep phenomena are known to create hallucinatory effects, yielding alternative explanations for the victim’s perception. That is not the case with the Menk and it’s brethren. They appear where, and when one might predict, even following seasonal climate and game migration patterns, as expected of nomadic hunter-gatherers.

They shun and hide from humans – it is possibly their essential skill for survival. The reason is too obvious for discussion. It makes them hard to find, any contact is brief, and they are more aware in their environment than any human they contact. Rarely are they caught in situations when they do not control the encounter. Human hubris prevents many people from contemplating such a thing.

Most encounters are intimidation. Evidence of tree structures, fallen trees, tree breaks and other features attributed to the Menk imply signage, signifying claimed territorial boundaries. Rock throwing, branch breaking, tree shaking, screams, grunts and growls feature in a predominance of encounters, suggesting intimidation with the intent to cause the victim to leave.

Beyond the hundreds of documented reports of encounters, there is a large unspoken number of rock throwing and similar intimidation behaviors experienced in the middle of the night by people who camp, or fish in the wild.

Human activities are extremely limited in mountainous, forested areas. The footprint of towns and cities is tiny, compared to the footprint of the woods around them, and most people, even in these rural areas do not spend a significant percentage of time in the woods. Tourists herd into established grounds, never seeing a fraction of a forested region. Even industry, which has harvested forests continuously for centuries, only works in small areas at a given time, allowing for easy avoidance and ample alternative habitat.

Setting aside instances of hoax, and wishful thinking, the only challenge to the predominance of credible encounters is misidentification with bears. This no doubt happens…some of the time. Bears cannot explain rock throwing, or other associated behavior and artifacts.

The best assessment tools available are photos and film. Many examples can be clearly distinguished from bears.

The photo above is attributed to the “Diatlov Foundation” – the repository of the Diatlov memory – by the Discovery Channel. Discovery represents it as an overlooked shot from the Diatlov camera film rolls. Discovery Channel is known for bending facts to entertain its audience. Yet they do claim its credibility with an analysis establishing the photo is real and assurance it is from the Dyatlov film rolls. Nothing suggests the film is doctored. What it is film of, is less certain.

It appears to have been taken in a hurry, since the focus is very poor.

Superimposed here, is a member of the Dyatlov party, and one of the search party, next to the unknown biped. The biped does not appear to carry a backpack, ski poles, or show any obvious hem, or cuff anywhere. The arms and legs look skinny compared to the jacketed, and sleeved extremities on the men, as if naked. The head is large and the arms seem quite long. Unfortunately, the arms are crooked at angles that don’t allow assessing their length accurately.

Researchers and witnesses claim the North American Bigfoot’s arms are significantly longer with respect their torso, hanging to near the knee, as compared to a human. Other body ratios are slightly different, more ape-like, and these have been photographed and analyzed. This photo is too indistinct to obtain body ratios. Yet it looks like a powerfully built, nearly naked and slightly pot-bellied, bipedal creature, caught in a suspicious looking pose – like a stalker.

The compendium of data suggests the Dyatlov party were harassed by Yeti, scared from their tent and then, later killed, or left to freeze by the angered beast. Several injuries indicate fighting wounds and death blows from their adversary. They noted knowing Snowmen exist on paper and took a photograph of a spooky biped on the last day of the trip.

The last act in the tent before the panic appears to have been picture taking. A camera tri-pod was left set-up and the camera on the floor of the tent. Zolotorev carried another camera around his neck – no boots, but a camera. They cut slits all over before they abandoned the tent. They were apparently looking at, or for something they were trying to photograph. Certainly not an avalanche, or team of KGB. Lightning bolts perhaps?

The lack of Yeti footprints is one thing one can question as evidence against it. The Yeti left none. But if it followed typically observed behavior, it would have intimidated with yells and rock throwing, or in this case, snow from the heights above the tent. Those tracks could have been covered, or blown away in the weeks before the search party arrived, just as most of the parties footprints vanished, except for a stretch below the tent. The Yeti may have never been close to the tent. A hit by a Yeti snowball would scare the crap out of anyone.

Only after the party left the tent, but did not leave the area, and lit a fire instead, did the Yeti approach to kill them in a struggle in the trees. Many native Indian names for Bigfoot mean cannibal, or taker of children, or refer to some other violent behavior. There are historic reports of death by the beast.

They may have approached the Yeti’s own nest near the ravine. Perhaps he was protecting his young. They may have angered it, as Zolotorev did in our fictional story. In any case, a story about a tattooed war hero – ten years older than the college kids – being chased by a Yeti, needed to be told.

Subjectivity intervenes in any analysis. Assurance waits for the body of a Yeti. The subjective senses are influenced by fear. The Menk is the actual boogeyman of our fears, whether it lives in the forests, or not. He hides behind trees – the black shadow at twilight. The thing that flits past the corner of your eye. That is the main reason the Russian Yeti fits the Dyatlov story best.

Primary sources are linked below. Please leave a “like” – if you did. Thank you for reading.

Postscript: The Daily Plasma strives for truth. The story and essay has kept to the truth as far as could be verified, and noted speculation versus fact, but there are so many versions, unhinged theories and sensationalized, falsified details that it would be easy to accumulate a piece of misinformation. If an error is found please advise in the comments. It will be corrected in future edits if it does not mess up the storytelling. This is, after all, for entertainment.

Resource 1

Resource 2

Dyatlov Pass November 19, 2015October 3, 2017

The Haunting Mystery of Diatlov Pass – Part Two

Part 1 left the group inside the tent with a screaming Yeti outside.

The growling and screaming became incessant. Semen Zolotorev composed his breathing. Instincts and experience took over the chaos in his mind. Suppress the panic. Panic wasn’t helpful.

Yeeaarghh…Yeeaarghh…Eeeaaghhh!

He peered through a slit in the tent, “Snuff the lamp, I can’t see.”

Igor doused the light. The tent went pitch black. “What do you see, Sascha?”

“Fuck-all,”

“Something is moving up slope, along the ridge. I see it from this end,” said Yuri. He had his head halfway through a cut in the tent.

Semen did the same thing. He had to see what was there – he had to see where they were. Ten years in the Great War…and he’d lived. One of the lucky to survive that bloody hell. Every comrade he fought with died. He’d held their bloody heads in his hands. The fucking Nazi’s couldn’t kill him – he wasn’t going to die on this mountain.

He gripped his knife tight. “If they attack, we fight back,” he said. He thought, these kids will panic soon. There was only one way to defend an attack like this – saved his ass every time – charge the attacker. Take his momentum away. Make him panic. “Igor…Georgyi…Nicolai…Aleksi. Arm yourselves.” Semen found a ski pole and blindly cut, trying to make a lance.

Whomp…something hit the tent. Zina screamed…bodies jostled…Whomp…Semen grabbed someone by the arm, “We go…now!”

He ripped his way through the tent wall and ran screaming. The others, confused, exposed and frightened, tore their way out and ran downhill. Igor stayed with Semen. “I don’t see anything,” he said.

“The filthy pigs are cowards. Do you smell them?”

“But where are they, Shascha? I don’t see anything,” said Igor.

Yeaarggh!

“There you are, you bastard!”

Igor watched Semen disappear in the dark, running with his knife raised. He heard a muffled grunt, then silence.

He found Semen on the snow, on his back, staring into space.

Dazed, Semen stared where a moment ago, he’d looked straight in it’s eyes. Glowing eyes. He’d felt the knife leave his hand, firm to the hilt, as the eyes blinked and vanished in the night. No matter the size of the thing and the blinding darkness, he’d put the knife between its ribs. Knife-work was like riding a bicycle.

“Semen, are you okay?” Igor helped him to his feet.

“I got it, Igor,” he said. “That will teach them to mess with a Cossack, eh?.”

“The others have run. Let’s go. We need to stay together.”

Yeeeaaaarghhhh…Yeeeaaaarghhhh…Eeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaghhhh!

“It sounds pissed-off,” said Semen. “Didn’t like the poke in the belly.”

“Sascha! We go now to the others. Now!”

“I’m with you, comrade. Lead the way. Fuck it’s cold.”

Igor picked up the trail of the party and followed it down slope. He tried to jog. His wooden feet made him stumble. He realized they were freezing. “I’m in socks, Semen. My God, I’m in my socks!”

“I have my Burkas. They’re wet. My feet are cold.”

“Shascha. What will we do?”

“Stay with me, I have nine lives.”

“Good, there are nine of us.”

“I may have used some…”

“What, Sascha?”

“Nothing.”

The grunting and growling behind them was constant, but it didn’t pursue. They walked as fast as they could, with feet like blocks of wood. The nerves were alive, though. Searing cold brought stabbing pain with every step. Igor began to think of options. He didn’t know if the others were okay. No option, but to reach them first.

Semen listened to the growls. He tried to hear individuals in the cacophony behind him. It reminded him of the Moscow zoo. The fucking monkey cage – that’s what it sounded like. A monkey cage full of freight trains. How many were there? He counted four – distinct, for sure. Maybe five.

“Igor!”

“Is that you Zina?”

“Igor, we are in the trees.”

“I’m coming. Don’t show yourself – just keep talking. I hear you.”

“We are under the trees. I see you coming, Igor. Across the field, you are coming to us.”

“Is everybody here?” he asked, as he and Semen arrived. The party huddled beneath a cedar tree. Igor hugged Zina.

“We’re cold, Igor. We don’t have shoes,” said Georgyi.

“Everybody stand on wood, or bark, or something. Get off the snow.”

“We are. It doesn’t help! My feet are wet, and…the wind.”

“What happened, Sascha? What happened just now?” said Aleksi.

“The fucking Snowmen attacked,” said Semen…”What?”

“I never saw anything.”

“You ran. Why didn’t you stay and fight…we would have chased them away. Now, we are stuck down here. You hear their screams, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what I hear,” said Aleksi. “Damn! Why are we out here. Because a snowball hit the tent?”

“A Snowman hit the tent. What are you saying?”

“Shut-up,” said Igor. “We need a fire. Luda, grab that piece of wood. Nicolai, behind you is more…everybody.”

“What if they see it?” said Yuri.

“They’re animals. They don’t like fire,” said Semen.

“How do you know anything?” Aleksi said.

“I know,” said Semen.

“Put the fire behind the tree,” said Igor. “We’ll sit around it.”

They gathered a pile of bark and needles, sticks and branches together. They huddled in a circle around the tiny clump of debris.

“Let me,” said Semen. “Give me the matches, Georgyi. We can’t fuck around.”

“I’ll do it, Sascha,” said Igor.

“Okay, first everyone get around. Let us block the wind before you strike the match, Igor.”

“I am, Sascha. Okay, I’m lighting it now.”

Igor held the match, breathless and steady beneath the pine needles watching them glow and curl. They didn’t burst into flame, though. He tried again.

He tried two matches together, and the needles erupted into bright plasma. “Okay, okay. it’s going,” he said. He blew a steady wind to make it grow.

They all adjusted positions, grabbing branches and bark to sit on around the tiny fire. They began adding wood. Georgyi and Yuri scouted for more. They couldn’t sit still and hung over the fire to warm between runs to collect wood.

The fire blew out. Igor used a box of matches relighting it. Yuri and Georgyi kept feeding it, but the wind mercilessly consumed the meager bits as fast as they could replenish them. They began breaking dead branches from trees. Green wood smoldered and made Lyudmila’s eyes sting – already dry and windblown. Tears froze on her lashes.

The growling came loud again. Barks and shrieks filled the wind.

“You see, Aleksi,” said Semen. “That isn’t wind. That’s Snowmen. At least five of them, maybe six.”

“I hear it,” said Aleksi. “Okay, I hear it. I still didn’t see anything. What if it is just wind?”

“Are you stupid?” said Semen.

“Are you? Because of you, we are freezing in our sock feet. Did anyone else see a Snowman?”

No one spoke. They stood shivering, looking at Semen in the glow of the fire. “I saw it watching us in the pass – I told you,” he said. “I took a picture.”

“I believed you,” said Yuri. “I heard it, too.”

“I thought you were joking,” said Igor.

“You saw one of the Mansi,” said Aleksi. “Snowmen are a myth, Sascha.”

“They are up there. I saw one as big as Goliath. I just…you don’t believe anything unless it comes from the Party – you can’t think for yourself. What do you think is making that noise?”

“Why are they getting louder?” Zina asked. “Are they coming?”

“They see the smoke and hear us breaking wood,” said Sascha. “They know where we are – and they are letting us know.”

“How do you know about Snowmen, Sascha. You said you know,” asked Lyudmila.

“I know what happened in the war. That’s what I know.”

“She means Snowmen,” Aleksi insisted. “What do you know?”

“A company of men I knew. I wasn’t with them – comrades up the line. We shared our meals sometimes. I know what happened to them.”

“What?”

“You were still in short pants when this happened. We died like flies in the war. Sick, frozen, starved. Stukas, machine guns, grenades…tanks. Fucking Tiger tanks. Shit, blood, puss, piss, snow, mud. That’s all we knew. No one made up scary stories. We already lived a nightmare.

“They were sent to carry messages. From the Front to the Commandant. He was way back somewhere, some village brothel no doubt, so they were gone a few days. Of course, they never returned. But they weren’t killed by the enemy. Not a human one, anyway.

“We found them in a gully. It was a kill. Fresh. Rocks, as big as…as big as an ice box were thrown on top of them. No human could do it. The feeding was the thing, though. Bones cracked and sucked dry. Heads and legs pulled from the joints…pulled like a piece of taffy.”

“Maybe it was bears, or wolves, after an earthquake.” said Nicolai. “Pulled like taffy. Wolves would do that.”

“The war made humans and animals into scavengers…and predators. Forage from the country was ravaged by the war. But meat was plentiful. I saw comrades eaten by pigs, dogs, goats, wolves, rats and foul. This wasn’t wolves. Believe me. I saw wolves eat men. It was a common thing. What happened to these comrades was different. Not even humans eat humans like that.”

“There you go again, Sascha. How would you know.”

For once, Semen stayed silent. His memory would make them shudder if he explained. The irony struck him funny – they would fear me more than the Menk.

Finally he spoke, “The other soldiers – some of them knew. They were from the Taiga. They said a Menk will follow you in the woods. At night, they take the high ground and throw rocks. They don’t want us in the forest. The Mansi told you, Igor. I heard them.”

“They just said it’s a dangerous place,” said Igor. “Gor Otorten – they call it ‘Don’t Go There,’ or something like that.”

“They said the Menk killed elk. They saw the fresh kill. Do you have any idea what a kill like that looks like? Five hundred pound animals torn apart by the bare hands of those beasts. Bones as big as your head snapped in two.”

Georgyi huddled into the fire, dropping a few sticks on the flame. He shivered uncontrollably. “I’m so cold!”

“Luda, your foot is burning. Take it out…you can’t feel the flames your feet are so frozen.”

“I can’t feel my toes.”

“We need to get to shelter,” said Semen.

“We could go to the depot,” said Rustem

“What, and play your mandolin? There’s nothing there for us and it’s way over the mountain. Look at you shiver. You can’t even walk.”

“Just trying to think of things….”

“It’s okay Rustem, we need to think of something,” said Igor.

“We need shelter from the wind. Look, we need a hole to climb into. We need to…”

“We need to go back to the tent,” said Zina.

“You don’t hear that? They’re still there,” said Semen.

“Maybe they won’t hurt us. My grandma said she knew of them. My mother told me don’t listen because it was old women talk. Grandma said they just want us to leave them alone and they take care of themselves. Let’s go back and get the blankets and our boots and skis. Let them scream all they want.”

“They hit the tent and you screamed bloody murder – that was you wasn’t it?” said Semen.

“It was just a snowball. It scared me.”

“Well, I thought it was pinching your head off. I beg your pardon.”

“I want to go to the tent,” said Zina.

“I’ll go,” said Rustem. “I have a shoe.”

“Don’t go back there. I’m finding shelter. We can survive the night. They will go away when the sun rises,” said Semen.

“Zina, let Rustem go. He can bring us supplies. Stay here and sit on my lap. Stay warm,” Igor pleaded.

Rustem Slobodin stood and walked away, before anyone could say more.

“They’re angry at us. Don’t go up there,” Semen said, then turned and walked into the trees.

The party sat in silence. Yuri climbed the tree and looked for Rustem. He broke branches to get a view. The campfire died. He looked down and saw everyone drowsing. He heard a thunk in the distance. He also thought he heard a sigh. He strained to look between the branches.

Semen came back from the trees. “I found a place.” He looked at the group. Georgyi slumped over his knees, his hand in his mouth, still. The others shivered and held each other.

Yuri yelled from the tree. “I don’t see Rustem anywhere,” he said.

Semen saw Yuri was shivering uncontrollably, hanging on the tree for dear life. “Can you see the tent?” he asked.

“I can’t tell what is happening up there,” he said. “I see things, but I don’t know. I can’t focus my eyes.”

“Get down then, Yuri,” Semen said.

“I’ll stay here,”he said. “Something is coming. Rustem is coming back.”

Lyudmila get up. Aleksi, Nicolai, Georgyi get up. I know where to go.”

“Coming Sascha. I’m coming,” said Nicolai.

“I’m going to the tent,” said Zina. “I’m cold and tired.”

“I’m coming.” said Igor. He was speaking to Zina. He didn’t recognize anyone else.

“Georgyi won’t move,” said Lyudmila. “He’s not moving, Sascha.”

Semen pulled Georgyi’s head back, “He’s dead. Take his clothes.”

“Huh?”

Aleksi hadn’t moved in twenty minutes, except to pull his feet from the fire when they started burning. He leaned over Georgyi and stripped the pants off with his knife. “Wrap these on your feet, Lyudmila.”

Zina and Igor stood. Zina walked away and Igor followed. He stumbled after a few steps, and started crawling.

Semen led the others into the trees. He held the hand of Lyudmila. Aleksi held her other. Nicolai followed, asking, “How’d you know Georgyi is dead, Sascha?”

“When they are like that, they are dead.”

Yuri looked below him. Everyone was gone. Where did they go?

Where did everyone go?

They left the tent. Apparently with the clothes on their backs, plus the camera Zolotorev carried on his neck. Strange thing isn’t it?

They assembled together at the cedar, then ended in three different directions. Some left the tree, some stayed and died – or died and stayed – nobody knows. Certainly they were together under the cedar for some time. The evidence is they had a fire. Clothing, removed from Krivonishenko, was found with Dubinina and Zolotorev in the ravine. Three went for the tent, four went for the ravine, and two stayed, dead already, or nearly so. How the party split has bearing on some theories, especially where there is speculation a rift occurred in the group as the cause of the entire tragedy. But there is no evidence to indicate a different sequence of events.

There is every evidence they were trying to control their fate. They built fire and sought shelter. They climbed a tree – for whatever reason. That is an extraordinary expenditure of energy under the circumstances. For what? To get firewood? To see the tent? Were they hiding from something that was after them, or just hiding from the wind? The mystery deepens.

Anomalous bits of evidence lead to dead-ends. The answer demands consistency.

A number of anomalous bits of evidence, superficial connections, hearsay, unsupported anecdotal information from various people connected to the party, or the investigation, assumptions and fabrications fog the story. Some have merit and some are red herrings.

Radioactive clothing is a case in point. Dubinina and Zolotorev wore clothing found by Geiger counter to have a surface dusting of a radioactive material. Analysis indicated Beta radiation. Lantern mantles used at the time contained Alpha radiation, so although it’s a perfectly convenient explanation, it doesn’t work. The engineering students worked in laboratories at the Ural Polytechnic Institute, however. Zolotorev didn’t, but he wore Dubinina’s contaminated coat. So it is likely a laboratory is the source of the radioactivity.

It is interesting that the bodies were even scanned with a Geiger counter. It wouldn’t be normal practice, but this was no normal case. The fact of the radiation and use of the Geiger counter has supported theories of cold war espionage, to UFO’s. The Daily Plasma thinks it is a red herring, although other aspects of these theories are more interesting.

First, a theory actually examined by the investigators. Mansi tribe retribution for trespass, or some other injustice. The Mansi became suspect when investigators found the four injured in the ravine and decided they had a murder on their hands. The Mansi however were cleared. If there were any merit to the idea Mansi were involved, surely, the on-site law enforcement investigators would have found it.

Along these same lines, the possibility escaped convicts from a nearby prison camp found them and killed them. Throw in the radiation and Zolotorev’s somewhat sketchy military past, and you have espionage, either with American spies killing them in a meeting gone wrong, where one of the party intended to pass off the radioactive materials (as evidence of nuclear tests), or where the Soviets caught the spies in the act of meeting the Americans. There were such things going on in the remote parts of the U.S.S.R. during those tense, Cold War years and distrust over nuclear developments.

No evidence of anyone approaching the tent was found. The only footprints were those of the party. Nothing appears stolen. Money, supplies and valuable camera’s and gear seemed untouched. Escaped convicts would take things, unless they were depraved killers just climbing a mountain looking for victims on a freezing night. None of the party had connections to imply espionage, except some mystery over Zolotorev’s role at times during the war, yet nothing surfaces to show he’s a spy.

Orange Fireballs

Much is made of orange fireballs seen in the sky in the weeks preceding and during the tragedy. Theories range from secret Soviet weapons testing to UFO’s that the group somehow ran afoul of. The scene and injuries were not consistent with an explosion, and no collateral blast evidence of any kind was found.

This photo, claimed to be the last on the party’s rolls of film, provides no useful information. It could be the orange fireball, but it could also be an overexposure from an accidental, unfocused shot.

Alien visitors, assumed to be far advanced technologically, could have a focused-beam weapon to cause injury to some and leave the others to die of exposure. Based on the first person reports of humans who claim a “third kind” encounter, however, alien contact never involves such violence. It typically involves an abduction. Victims often report odd lights, amnesia, loss of time, disorientation and alien harassment, including uncomfortable anal examinations, pieces of material injected into their skin and telepathic examinations. There was no evidence found related to abduction, or alien visitation. Some metal found near the site that raised suspicions of rockets, bombs and UFO’s were identified as pieces of radar equipment unrelated to any such event.

The orange lights, of course, may have been seen. Plasma events caused by atmospheric electrical phenomena could have been the “orange lights,” reportedly seen in the Dyatlov vicinity on that night by another expedition approximately 20, or 30 miles away. Similar sightings occurred for weeks prior, according to several local sources. These things happen in Siberia all the time.

The only way an electrical phenomena is understood to inflict injury is by a discharge. Common lightning can shatter tons of rock in a single strike, as recorded on mountain tops. The night was windy, and stormy and lightning could have occurred. High voltage injury, as experienced by transmission voltage workers will generally blow a limb off, or knock the victim to the ground, with death caused by the fall. Except for some unusual burns on hair, and clothing, which was likely caused trying to huddle and shield the fire from wind, there is little to suggest injuries were from a high voltage event.

Most of these theories don’t explain the scene as a whole. Why would orange fireballs cause them to leave the tent, for instance. One could imagine looking out the tent in amazement, but why leave it. The one scenario that has plausibility is if, in the wind and storm charged atmosphere, static charges built, causing their hair to rise, perhaps causing the tent to glow with St. Elmo’s fire. This could have signaled an impending lightning threat to the experienced mountaineers, and caused them to seek shelter in the trees.

But what then? Did they wait out the storm only to find they were too far exposed and frostbitten to return. Three of them dying because they fell into the ravine, or ironically, lightning struck them as they sheltered from it, killing them with rocky shrapnel. It is a chain of events that could have occurred. The heart of the matter lies with a closer examination of the injuries.

Before doing so, one final theory finding a popular following since the recent publication of “Dead Mountain” by Donnie Eichar. It is really a variation on these themes, but with an interesting causation. Infrasound caused by a known wind phenomena. A Kármán Vortex Street (named for Hungarian physicist Theodore von Kármán) can form when wind of a certain speed hits a dome-shaped mountain top, like Kolhat Syakhl. Vortices spinning off the obstructing object produce whirlwinds that could generate infrasound and an ear-splitting roar like an approaching avalanche..

Infrasound is low-frequency, lower than 20 Hz, below the audible range for most people. Infrasound will cause uncomfortable effects such as nausea, confusion, anxiety, and perhaps in particular combinations of power, resonance and frequency, even more damaging effects, essentially rattling the bones. Such direct effects to the body may have unhinged their state of mind, and the vibrations, or an audible roar caused them to believe an avalanche was approaching. It is assumed once out of the tent the sequence would be similar to the lightning scenario, including a fall into the ravine.

In part three, the focus will be on the corpus of wounds to the victims, in addition to individual cause of death, looking for patterns offering some conclusions. Further examination of the lethal wounds will be necessary. Some discussion of hypothermia and the dramatization will continue.

Postscript: At the end of Part One the reader was promised excerpts from the journals. The Daily Plasma prefers writing to cut and paste, and writing leads to unpredictable results. They simply fell out of the scope of the article as it developed. There is no clue to the mystery in them, other than notable exceptions that belong in Part Three.

Thank you.

Squatchy Encounters October 21, 2015October 3, 2017

My Encounter

Location: Sespe Wilderness Area of Los Padres National Forest; GPS coordinates 34 deg, 32’.36” North; 118 deg, 52’.42” West

Nearest Town: Fillmore, California

Time: Spring, 2004

Event: Bigfoot Encounter

The Sespe is the longest remaining undammed river in California. It’s also home to the endangered California Condor. The condor’s Sanctuary lies within the Sespe Wilderness Area, which lies within Los Padres National Forest.

Although the Wilderness lies at the edge of modern civilization – the coastal mountains it protects stretch from Los Angeles to Monterey – it is the fourth largest acreage of roadless Wilderness Area in the lower 48 states. Within the Wilderness Area, no roads, or vehicles are allowed. Within the Sanctuary, additional protections apply for the condors. It’s one of the most protected pieces of land on the planet.

Fillmore sits at the edge of the National Forest, at the mouth of Sespe Canyon. East of town, a rugged forest road leads 20 miles to a place called Doughnut Flat. At Doughnut Flat, the road ends on the edge of the Wilderness Area, and it’s the beginning of the Alder Trail. There were no other cars at the trail-head when I arrived.

At the time, I lived in Fillmore. This is an area I’d been to before, since it’s almost my old backyard. From Doughnut Flat, Alder trail follows a meandering creek at an elevation of about 4,000 feet, before it drops down a steep canyon to join with a longer trail that follows the upper reaches of the river.

A mile in, the trail passes a cluster of trees. A big oak in the center has a campsite beneath. I hiked alone this day, and didn’t intend to go far, carrying only water and a walking stick. I stopped to survey the campsite thinking I might one day bring the kids, since it’s such an easy hike from the car.

I was disappointed to find the site trashy with beer cans and broken glass – being a mile from the trail-head, it evidently got heavy use.

As I poked around beneath the oaks, I heard heavy steps, and glimpsed the knee and lower leg of a man bolting from a brush-filled ravine not twenty yards away.

The knee and leg thrust forward in a run. The foot was obscured by grass, and the body was obscured by the branches of the tree I stood beneath. The leg was a uniform, dark grey color. I saw no cuff, or sock, or other feature, and he was gone up the canyon before I could think to move.

This disturbed me. He apparently bolted because I was there. Why was he hiding? I concluded the man must have an illegal camp, or pot growing back in the canyon – up to something he didn’t want known. I immediately gathered my things and left, hiking to my truck.

I returned a week later. Again, by myself, thinking whoever lurked in that canyon ought to be gone. I wanted to survey the situation – like I said, this is a trail I used a lot, a place I wanted to bring the kids. I might add, I am always very aware in the wild, especially by myself. But on this occasion, I half expected to run into someone, so was particularly aware. That’s one reason my memory is clear.

I walked beyond the trees to where I saw the man run and found a path. The path led up the shallow canyon towards an unusual blue-gray cut in the mountain that looked like a small mining operation from a time in the past. I found an old fallen windmill near the cut, and some rusted sections of a water tank confirming my suspicion.

I found no campsite, or trash, or other evidence of recent activity. I explored the artifacts and then continued up the draw, which led to a shallow saddle on a ridge. I had to scrabble up a rocky cleft to gain the ridge.

When I topped the ridge, I looked down into a lush green pocket valley, enclosed by cliffs on the opposite side; and on my side, a sandy slope covered in Manzanita. This verdant valley looked untouched and inviting – I could see no roads, or trails. The slope into it was bowl-like and negotiable, so I continued on, skirting the hillside looking for the best way down.

The path ended at the ridge, so I continued on game trails that wove through the chaparral. The Manzanita grew five feet tall, spaced such that I could wend my way through it, but not in a straight line. I could see over the top, but I couldn’t see through. The day was calm, clear, sunny and warm. I’d worked-up a good sweat climbing the ridge, hearing nothing but the sound of my own heavy breathing.

“EEAAAAAAHHHH” – a shriek filled the valley – I stopped in my tracks. The sound came from below, and was directed right at me. So sudden, so loud, and so…unknown was this sound that it startled me witless.

It’s perplexing to hear something you can’t identify – especially in the wild, without warning, where there shouldn’t be such a sound.

No living thing I know in those woods could make that ripping scream; no lion, bobcat, or condor could have carried that volume, or pitch. What entered my mind was T-Rex … from “Jurassic Park.”

The shriek gave me chills, but I knew there had to be a rational answer. My mind ticked through possibilities and came up with the best similarity – there must be heavy equipment in the canyon. Only the screech of metal-on-metal made any sense. I imagined a giant, rusty gate hinge. Only it wasn’t quite like that.

I listened for other sounds. I looked. Nothing moved. There was no sound, or sight of anything – nothing but a pristine valley overgrown with oak and pine along the narrow stream below. There were not supposed to be machines in the Wilderness Area.

The sound didn’t waft up to me, bouncing and distorting off the canyon walls. It hit my face, so to speak, like standing in front of a loudspeaker. Nevertheless, I rationalized the sound must have come from somewhere around a dog-leg in the canyon where I could not see. If I could see down there, I was sure there would be a backhoe, or bulldozer doing heavy work.

I continued across the slope to a rise that promised a view past the dog-leg. As I topped the rise the ground became steep and sandy and I had to dig in my boots to get a stance, which occupied my attention. When I looked – I had a perfect view. I saw the entire length past the dog-leg and the slopes all around. There was nothing there.

I stood for only a moment surveying the scene. Not a fly buzzed it was so still. And then a feeling came over me – I did not belong there.

This was far more than a feeling of being watched, or a case of heebie-jeebies – I’ve had those before. Some thing didn’t want me there. I struggled with this feeling – trying to swallow it. It made no sense, but it kept building almost to a feeling of panic. I turned and retraced my steps towards the ridge.

As I neared the ridge, I heard what sounded like footfalls behind me, in time with my own. I told myself it was my imagination, until I stopped at the ridge top, where I had to climb down the cleft, and I heard one more footfall that wasn’t mine.

I hurtled down the cleft in two bounds, and ran a good fifty yards. Then I heard another sound. It came from the ridge. I turned, thinking I would see whatever was coming down the cleft. There was nothing, except one branch swaying among some brush below the cleft. Just one branch.

I turned and made double time all the way to the Land Rover, roughly three miles, got in and locked the doors. Even inside, with the doors locked, I had the willies driving down the long road.

About five miles from Doughnut Flat, outside the wilderness area at a considerably lower elevation, there is an oilfield with active drilling and production work. As I passed through this area, I thought, what I heard was oil-field equipment. They must be drilling near the Wilderness close to where I was. Convinced I’d found the answer, I forgot about the incident … for ten years.

I am not prone to apprehension in the wilderness. I generally feel quite safe and competent on my own. I’ve spent many days and nights backpacking alone in remote areas, including several trips in this Wilderness. I have experienced weird feelings, like being watched, or that a place feels spooky on occasion. It isn’t unusual in lonely, remote places where creatures roam. But I have never been scared, even confronted by bears, and I’ve never felt compelled to leave a place before, or since this experience.

I never connected the sound with Bigfoot. In my mind Bigfoot – well, if he even exists – lives in rainforests far north, not down in the coastal mountains fifty miles from LA. It wasn’t until my interest in Bigfoot got sparked by someone I admire that the connection finally came.

I’m a fan of Survivorman, and think Les Stroud is an honest, sober guy with a whole lot of back country experience. So when he started looking for Bigfoot, I took it seriously.

Intrigued by his show, I looked through You-Tube for other info, where I ran across various alleged recordings of Bigfoot vocals. That’s when I recognized the sound.

I heard the same blood curdling screech of a rusty hinge, chorused with a resonant, guttural growl. It’s been described as many voices screaming, or many dogs barking in unison. Bigfoot researchers speculate it is a warning.

That is certainly what I felt. The memory of the event is quite clear. I had to look for one more thing.

I found the place on Google Earth. I found views from the same time frame. There is no road, no nearby oil field. Not even a trail in that canyon, or anywhere for miles around. I looked up sightings for the area on the BFRO web-site. There have been several in the Sespe, going back decades.

I also discovered a wealth of information about that one credible Patterson-Gimlin film that has been enhanced and analyzed with digital technology not available at the time it was filmed. There is incredible detail of body proportion and movement that cannot be human.

Whatever drove me out of that canyon made a hell of a noise I cannot associate with anything but a Bigfoot vocalization. Now that I’ve heard it, I can’t ignore it. I’m going back to that canyon, once I find somebody who’ll go with me..

As a personal note to my readers:

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Chapter Ten – Seeing Is Believing

Chapter Eleven – The Problem With Science

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Chapter Eight – When I was Young

Chapter Nine – Cold Dusty Plasma

Evidence…

Wall clouds…

Tornadoes and lightning…

Sights, smells and sounds…

There goes Aunt Em…

Non-super-cell tornadoes…

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Chapter Seven – Nature’s Electrode

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Chapter Three – Uncle Smith

Chapter Four – The Chicken Hath No Egg

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December 27, 1914 – February 16, 2016

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Part Two ended with the group split-up, and beginning to die.

The final days of journey for the Dyatlov party were strenuous. They complained of wet snow in the pass that made the work exhausting.

The final sentence is curious. Is that a voice of reluctance, knowing the following night will be spent above the tree-line? Or is that a voice of someone who has no intention of spending the night above the tree-line?

“From now on we know the Snowmen exist. They can be found in the Northern Urals, next to Mount Otorten.”

The injuries.

“As there was no evidence of a guilty party the reasons for the actions of the ski-team and their subsequent injuries is unknown. All that can be said is that they were the victims of a “Compelling Force”.

Once all the evidence and circumstances are looked at, the best fit theory is a Menk – the Russian Yeti.

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Part 1 left the group inside the tent with a screaming Yeti outside.

Where did everyone go?

Anomalous bits of evidence lead to dead-ends. The answer demands consistency.

Orange Fireballs

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