Rachel, NV. Part II.

Groom Lake

The sky here is unreal. You can see things. You might see other things. Whatever you see, its different here. A bizarro version of the Icelandic Northern Lights. 

We did all of our shopping after breakfast. Among the magnets, stickers, mugs, and shot glasses we bought, we also picked up a few copies of a guide to the base. It’s just a single page print out. But its information makes it valuable and it’s a hell of a souvenir. All of the food is delicious by the way. 

The ‘back gate’ is about a 20 minute drive from the town, down an unmarked dirt road. After 10-15 minutes, you start doubting if you took the right way. There’s nothing out here and there seems to be even less up ahead. But a few miles more and the dirt road turns into pavement, your indication that this is the right path. Eventually, you see a few hangars and a security checkpoint in the distance. This is one of the many entrances to the facility and where your road ends. 

Technically photos are not allowed here. There’s signs all over warning you against it. But the area gets a steady flow of visitors and I’m sure the guards are used to it to some degree. Nevertheless, it is very much an active military site so use common sense. 

To be completely honest, we didn’t spend much time at the site. Just enough to admire the snow capped mountains that surrounded us. Enough to speculate about what lies beyond the gate and underneath the dry-lake bed. Long enough to appreciate how lonely it is out here. How quickly you and your friends could vanish without a trace. It’s the desert, after all. 

Speaking of which, we really, really should’ve brought back Casino.

Rachel, NV. Part I.

Little Ale Inn

Get to Vegas and drive up. Eventually, go left. It’s not hard to get here (considering it’s the closest town to Area 51 and all). I could give you better directions, but there’s many that have taken the time to write them out in detail. I’d only advise to keep a full tank of gas, fill up stations are far and few in between.

Though their website and reservation system is a bit antiquated, check in at the Little A’Le’Inn was exceptionally easy. My instructions were to go up to the diner counter and present the cashier with my information. After a few minutes of formalities and a stern warning about smoking inside the room, we had the keys to our mobile home for the night.

Unsure of what to expect, we were pleasantly surprised with the spacious lodging. There were multiple beds, restrooms, and a full kitchen; more than enough for our group. Important: cell signal is non-existent in Rachel and the rooms are not equipped with WiFi. It drove some of my friends crazy. I loved it. There’s only so many places that will give you that sort freedom. Usually, it’s by force. 

From the road, The Little A’Le’Inn looks like a regular-old American diner. But you quickly realize the truck outside is actually towing a flying saucer and the kids aren’t posing for a picture, they’re alien props welcoming you inside, and to earth.

Inside the cafe, there’s more props, along with pictures, signs, clippings, toys, stickers, posters, videos, hats, etc. All the extraterrestrial paraphernalia you can think of. Atop the bar, there are thousands of dollars (some in foreign currency) hanging from the ceiling. Each bearing a mark from the group who left it there. The bartender said that eventually the space runs out, and all the money is donated to a local charity.

To the side, there’s an entire room with a modest collection of VHS tapes that pay special attention to the paranormal and spacey. Except Casino. Did you ever watch Casino? Casino is amazing. But I voted against Casino because it wasn’t “in theme” with the trip. Goddamn it, Chris. 

We spent the majority of our night huddled around the pool table. We made small talk with a few of the locals, enjoyed our neon green drinks (appropriately named Alien Blood), and borrowed some videos from the VHS room for the night. We had plans to come back for breakfast, so the early close time of 10 didn’t affect us. 

Rachel, February ‘19

Little A’le’inn

“Take me to your dealer”

June 30th, 2018. 7:45am.

I hadn’t dreamt that night, and when I woke, I was confused. It had been months since I slept comfortably in my bed. Of course this time, I had slept at a small incline and with a neck brace. The irony.

First, I questioned reality. I wondered if this had all been a dream. Not a bad dream, just a very interesting one. A very detailed one too.

That wasn’t true. I had the scars to show for my ordeal. 

Then I thought:

What if I had brain surgery to receive an implant? What if i’ve been wiped clean and I’m one of the bad guys? Or what if I’m one of the human batteries from The Matrix and this really is a dream constructed by our robot overlords?

And the memories, were the memories real?

But in seconds, I snapped out of it. 

See, this experience has helped me accept that time is a relative thing. Save for a few distinct memories, everything else from my stay is a collection of screenshots.

Oddly, this holds true for much of my life.

June 29th, 2018. 1:30pm.

The nurses had teased me with an early discharge. They said my cranial pressure was back to normal and if my latest MRI came back looking good, I’d be released. The news were exciting as there’s little freedom in a hospital. Very little time to rest.

Outside, it was a bright and sunny day. Far too bright for my eyes to adjust. Actually, it was too much of everything: real hot, real loud, real uncomfortable, real...real. 

Jen and I had arranged for one of my closest and oldest friends to pick me up. It was important to avoid asking family for a ride back. As much as I love those people, I didn’t have the energy or mind space to entertain, I wanted to be alone.

My friend exited the car to help me get off my wheelchair. As he carefully made sure I didn’t topple over, he uttered:

“You look like shit dude.”

I can’t communicate the relief I felt. There’s no place like the real world.

June 26th, 2018. 8:30pm.

I’m not familiar with any news headlines from this day. I don’t know who the World Cup match winners were or what version of chicken I was served for dinner. But it was our wedding anniversary and Jen had surprised me with dessert. I was ecstatic.

You see, some of the medications caused my natural blood sugar to rise, which meant an additional insulin shot in my daily regimen. I’ve never had a fear of needles, but it becomes a bit much after a few days. Still, I was prepared for my sweet tooth to warrant that extra shot. I wanted it to be so delightfully bad, it would hurt a little.

Yet my excitement peaked as Jen pulled out a cinnamon roll from the paper bag.

Yes. Me. The 28 year-old in an unwashed hospital gown. The 28 year old with 52 crusty staples across the head. The guy who couldn’t move about freely.  

I still had the audacity. The fucking nerve.

An existential crisis: one of those episodes where you decide that life is inherently against you. Where a million made-up tragedies play out in your mind and there’s no substance to cling on to. You don’t know how to feel or how to act or what to do or what to think. You’re at a loss. It’s all useless anyway. 

Though an eternity to myself, the thought only lasted a second in the real world. This time, just like the rest, I managed to move on. I’m not entirely sure Jen noticed, which is a relief. It really was one of the best desserts I’ve had in my life.