I’m sick of this shit happening to me.

It was 8:15 a.m., and I was making good time heading home after having just left the radio station at eight. As I pulled to a stop at the underpass at Rock and the off-ramp from I-80 eastbound, I saw a Black man crossing the intersection and walking east.

We made eye contact, and I smiled, nodding a hello while he remained stone-faced. It was my first indication that something was not right.

Suddenly he started calling me slurs as he rushed the side of my truck, and realizing I was about to be robbed, assaulted, or worse, I started rolling my window up. I was not fast enough as he slammed his meaty right fist into the upper left side of my head.

Fortunately, his knuckles caught the upper edge of my truck’s window frame, slowing the punch considerably. In the meantime, I continued rolling my window up.

The punch caused me to lose contact with the brake pedal, and I rolled back about five feet, nearly backing into the car behind me. My assailant was standing in front of my truck when I popped the clutch, and it jumped forward violently.

Stepping on the gas pedal so I didn’t end up stalled and further assaulted, I hit the man with the left front bumper, bouncing him into the intersection. Then I gunned it against the red light.

Pulling into the nearby fire station, I rolled down my window and asked one of the firefighters I saw to call the police. The woman behind me in the car followed me into the driveway, got out, and accused me of hit and run.

I ignored her by rolling up my window while waiting for a police officer.

It took only a minute or two, and a cruiser pulled in behind the woman still blustering on about me having committed hit and run. Still, I waited for the officer to come to my truck.

He sent the woman back to her car to sit and wait, then spoke to the firefighter who called before finally coming to my window, asking what was happening. I explained how the man had punched me in the head, and I had popped the clutch in a panic and hit him before driving straight to the fire department to get help.

He asked, “What did he look like?”

I gave my description, and he said, “Wait, while I make a call.”

I was feeling the swelled lump on my head when he came back.

“We have everyone looking for this guy right now. Do you need an ambulance.”

“No, I’m fine, just a little bit shaken is all.”

I’ll be right back. I need to talk to this woman behind you.”

I could see he was trying to explain the situation to her, but she was arguing, insisting that she saw what had happened.

Finally, she left, and the officer returned to me.

“We got a couple of 9-1-1 calls about what happened. They corraberate your story.”

He had me fill out a report as they took photos of my head while waiting to see if they could find my assailant. Some 15 minutes later, the man still hadn’t been found, so I asked if I could head home.

“Sure, and maybe get an ice pack on that knot,” he said. “You know, it’s too bad you were sitting at one of the only stoplights in town without a surveillance camera.”

They still haven’t caught the mother fucker.

The two-hundred-mile-long Klamath River empties south of the old Klamath townsite, and some 50-plus miles above is the town of Johnson. Between these two points that in 1975 the Klamath River Salmon War began.

Real bullets crisscrossed the Klamath at times, Indians firing at the white man, Indians at Indians, cops at violators. In the summer of 1978, a White canoeist was shot in the back far upriver, and downriver a volunteer fire department, ironically named Yurok VDF, had a rescue truck damaged beyond repair because of gunfire.

And like the Vietnam War, this one had no out-and-out bad guys unless it was “the U.S. government.”

On one side were the sportsman, resort owners, local law enforcement, and much of the 3,800-member Yurok tribe of the lower 50 miles of the Klamath. On the other side were 20 “commercial” gill-netters, mostly Yuroks, and their backer, the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA.) In the middle were 1,400 Hoopa Indians who occupied a 12-mile-square reservation upriver from the Yuroks and another 500 Karuk Indians still further upstream.

Many believed that without a solution, and before the 1979 salmon run started, fishing on the Klamath was at an end. The reason was that since 1975, in an exercise of “traditional Indian fishing rights,” a small group of Indians and non-Indians had been gill netting the river so heavily that the salmon may have reached the point of no return.

The netters weren’t fishing for “subsistence,” a term that would seem to mean home consumption, but for money. They have been selling their catches for prices up to $6 a pound, in defiance of a 1933 California state law that forbids commercial salmon fishing in any of the states’ once salmon-thick rivers, and with the approval of the Bureau of Indian Affairs.

The origin of the problem dates back to about 1891 when some five northern California Indian tribes were given the Hoopa Reservation on the Klamath. But it was not until 1969, when California Fish and Game officers busted Raymond Mattz for gill netting on the Klamath, that things came to a head.

In 1972 Mattz took Arnett vs. Five Gill Nets et al. to the U.S. Supreme Court, and though saying nothing about Indians fishing in violation of state law, it did rule that the lower Klamath, the 50 miles below the so-called Hoopa Square was part of the reservation. That same year, a Washington state decision clarified the rights of “treaty” Indians living along the Columbia River drainage to fish for salmon without regulation.

In 1975 the U.S. Court of Appeals ruled that the state had no power to interfere with Indian fishing rights on the reservation unless such regulations were needed to conserve the resource. Then in May 1979, a U.S. District Court in Grand Rapids ruled similarly in a case involving Chippewa Indian gill netters, upholding the rights granted by treaties signed in 1836 and 1855.

However, an executive order created the Hoopa Reservation, not a treaty process.

Nonetheless, Mattz and the other “commercial” fishermen on the Klamath argued that until that time, no one had interfered with gill netting. During the summer salmon run of 1975, Mattz and a few dozen of his fellow Indians began fishing “commercially,” with the BIA doing nothing to stop them.

The government’s reason for not interfering came from questionable data claiming Yuroks traded salmon for deerskins and other items with other tribes before the White man arrived. The policy led to outrage among sports fishermen and the resort owners and who, under the leadership of former San Francisco 49er Ed Henke, formed “The Klamath/Trinity River Coalition, Inc.”

Then there was the Jessie Short case.

In the early 1950s, the BIA decided that the midriver Hoopa Square was one reservation and that the “Yurok Extension,” the 50 miles of river below the square, were separate reservations. The bureaucrat-made dictum deprived 3,800 Yuroks of timber valued at $200 million.

White man and former Eureka, Cal. police detective Allan Morris married a Yurok woman named Fawn Williams. He took on the role of adviser to the Yuroks and sued the BIA.

In 1973 the U.S. Court of Appeals ruled in favor of Morris’ advisee, a woman named Jessie Short, and 3,300 other claimants, who were not all full-blooded Yuroks but residents of the extension. The court said that the two reservations were one and that the Yuroks had at least $16 million coming to them.

But then the Court of Appeals could not decide which of the 3,300 litigants was a true Yurok. Meanwhile, Morris and his wife, and many other Yuroks refused to set up a tribal organization until they could do so in tandem with the Hoopa council.

Meanwhile, Bob and Jenny Bostick, the owners of Kamp Klamath, an RV park on the lower river catering to the fishing trade, along with other resort owners, sued U.S. Secretary of the Interior Cecil Andrus, the Department of the Interior, and the BIA for failing to correctly prepare an environmental impact statement before the BIA authorized “commercial” gill netting in August 1977. In addition, the coalition filed a claim asking for $1.25 million in damages.

What damaged resort owners most was a compromise between the BIA and California. In August 1978, with the concurrence of the Fish and Wildlife Service, the agency, without consulting the resort owners, imposed a moratorium on all fishing, commercial, and sports, except for “traditional” Indian subsistence netting.

Then on Tue., Sep. 5, 1978, while working on a drug case, Del Norte County Sheriff deputies stopped a truck on Highway 101 carrying 650 salmon and one steelhead worth some $60,000 to $70,000. The fish, they learned, were being sold illegally as far away as New York City.

As for the Yurok Volunteer Fire Department rescue truck, I was seated in the front passenger seat when the vehicle’s engine compartment was struck 11 times by a high-powered rifle fired from across the river. My father, then the department’s fire chief, was behind the wheel.

Though shaken up, either one of us was hurt.

The day came with a drizzling rain that left his spirit empty. It had been 24 moonrises since leaving the village to prove he was still vital to the people, not just another meweemor, eating, sleeping, and for little else than sitting around.

Nighttime could not come soon enough as he found a spot off the deer path next to a giant tree. Here Elk Heart built a small fire and wrapped himself in the deerskin that kept him warm and dry.

In the 24 days, he had hoped to rediscover his connection with the Great One. He had dreamed that this was what he was supposed to do, leave his people with nothing more than the deerskin and seek out that place where the Ancient Spirit led him and would speak into his heart.

So far, he had not found the spot, and nearing exhaustion and desiring to surrender himself to nature, he lay beside the small blaze, thinking of the Great One, before falling into a deep sleep.

That night and morning, his sleep became plagued by dreams of war and famine. The scenes left him turning and twisting until he was no longer near the fire, not glowing embers, but on the deer’s path.

Still asleep and terrorized by his dreams, Elk Heart failed to awaken when the first footfall of another man came to his ear. It was not until the man tripped over him, kicking him in the lower back before falling on his knees.

At first, Elk Heart arose angry, ready to fight his supposed attacker. But his mind soon changed when he finally focused on the man who had tripped over his sleeping body.

Astonished, Elk Heart could only speak one word, “Muencherh.” He repeated himself as he listened to the voice and unfamiliar words the man was saying.

The man was young, with brown hair and green eyes. His pale skin had a light fur covering, but his face was a thick hairy pile.

The man, wearing dirty and stained blue cloth britches, suddenly turned and walked down the path from where Elk Heart had traveled the night before. The man faded into the dark undergrowth and shadows of the forest.

Realizing his vision had arrived, Elk Heart restoked his fire, wrapped himself in this deerskin, and sat down to wait for the man to return. The sun was beginning to show between the trees by the time he decided he should be following the young man.

Rolling up the deerskin as he raced down the trail, Elk Heart hoped to find the man near the creek. But after searching up one side of the stream and the other, he could find no sign of his trail.

Disappointed but still excited, he wasted no time heading south to his village, where he could not wait to tell the people that he had seen a vision of a fabled “Muencherh.” A man whiter than the Lo’ogenew who had arrived years before in large dugout canoes set in motion by clouds, men Elk Heart had once seen as a child.

It would be another 53 full seasons before Elk Heart’s vision would come to pass, and he would long be dead by the time Jedediah Smith and party walked through the region in 1828.

While in a computer blackout because of lightning storms, and since not connected to the power, I picked up my cell phone and began perusing Twitter. From there, I started getting myself in trouble.

After quickly reading a column written by a guy I call Sillybus, I responded by calling him an idiot. I know not nice at all, but those who think it is okay to violate the U.S. Constitution are not the smartest in the world.

Sillybus’ column unhinged itself on the idea that it is okay to interpret the Constitution rather than following it to the letter. He claimed that creating laws, like taking away a 21-year-old’s right to own a firearm, does not violate the Second Amendment.

He also pointed out how a late Supreme Court Judge said the same thing. He took it even further by referencing a UCLA professor.

To further get under Sillybus’ skin, I called him a RINO (Republican in Name Only,) knowing he is not a Republican. Once he pointed it out, I continued my treatment by stating a RINO and a Democrat are the same.

Then I carried it to the nth degree by calling him a Socialist and later a Communist. By the way, I believe that he is those two things.

Me doth thinketh that the same would have occurred if I had labeled him a DINO (Democrat in Name Only.)

In this, he alluded to the readership of the two newspapers I write for and attacked me for being whatever sort of reporter he thinks I am. I never brought up anyone that reads his stuff.

By the time I laid my head on my pillow, I had forgotten about this little man. But he or one of his lackey minions reported me to Twitter, and Big Brother ruled I had violated Community Standards and tossed me off the platform for 24 hours.

Maybe it was my final shot across the bow of a man who thinks much of himself, has no wit, and has zero ability to come back with anything other than self-serving bloviations that did the trick. It was a return to his offer of what the judge and professor said, so it must be correct because this reporter was not as educated as the pair of learned scholars.

“So, do you Snope much?” I asked.

It surprises me that no one called my employer to complain and make me quit picking on this steadfast voice of Communism, but then the day remains young. But, then again, that is what Twitter is for.

My friend, Bill, sat at the bar in the Red Dog Saloon drinking a cold beer, where I left him as I had visited the restroom. As I returned, I saw a rough-looking woman standing near him.

She ordered a Bloody Mary, then looked his way and asked, “Are you a real miner?”

“Yes, I spend nearly every day dry-panning for gold,” he answered.

“That’s pretty cool,” she said.

“What about you?” Bill asked.

“I’m just a lesbian passing through,” she said. “And I tend to spend all day thinking about naked women and titties.”

She paid for her drink and left for a table in the back of the room. I could tell Bill was puzzling over why anyone would say such an odd thing to a stranger, or at least that is what I thought he was thinking.

Having overheard their brief conversation and being a smartass, I tried to lighten the mood by straddling the stool on his opposite side and asking, “So, are you a real miner?”

“Always thought I was,” Bill answered. “But I just found out I’m a lesbian.”

Ending my newspaper deliveries at about two in the afternoon on Friday at the Tahoe House, Paul asked if I wanted a beer. Being 88 degrees and a bit warmish without a Zephyr to cool things down, I did not hesitate to respond in the affirmative.

It wasn’t until about ten in the evening that I finally stopped drinking, but by then, it was too late. And yes, it was all my fault.

Though people kept giving drinks between the beers, I could not stop bending my elbow for fear of being a poor recipient of other people’s kindness. Aside from the eight or so beers I imbibed, I had untold numbers of whiskey, rum, gin, and vodka shots throughout the eight hours I was visiting the bar.

Amid the flowing alcohol, there were also ongoing conversations. In my years of writing and collecting stories, I have found that bars, saloons, and public houses are the best places to gather local and often time personal intel.

Throughout the afternoon and the evening, I spoke with and listened to several people share their tales, big and small. And if you are one of those persons, fear not, for my lips remain sealed.

Among the many was Kelli from Oregon, who loves Jesus and her horse ranch, chatted up by a fellow who wanted to pick my brain about politics, and a woman looking for her Sugar Daddy, of which I assured her I was not.

Maybe she thought I had money after learning I work for two newspapers and a radio station. Then again, perhaps just being employed is enough to qualify as a “Sugar Day” these days.

After the last call, I headed out the back door and down B Street on foot to Carson Street to clear my head. I did fine on the paved roadway, but after I turned onto C Street and the uneven wooden planks of the boardwalk, I found myself having trouble.

In front of the Red Dog, I tripped and nearly fell. I knew folks saw me trip as I heard the laughter from those inside enjoying the music.

So finding no love there, I crossed the street towards the Cigar Bar, but the odor wafting from the place affected my stomach, and I had to rush away before I got sick. I also passed up the Union Saloon because I knew too many people there and feared my elbow disease would relapse.

It was easy to see that the Silver Dollar and Delta Saloons were locked up tighter than a virgin’s chastity belt. And they sounded like they were having too much fun at the Bucket of Blood, whoever they were.

Tripping again, this time in front of the downstairs entrance to the Silver Dollar, I knew better than to attempt the assault. Uneven, narrow steps on a belly full of beer and other liquor are not a good combination, besides I had already bounced to the barroom floor once, and I hadn’t even taken a drink yet.

Zig-zagging from one corner to the next, I found myself near the Ponderosa Saloon, where outside was Miss Looking-For-A-Sugar-Daddy. I turned north.

As I passed the Mark Twain Saloon, I saw Sierra, who I had promised often to visit when she was on duty but hadn’t. When she saw me, we hugged, then she told me to sit down, and she began pouring me cold water to rehydrate my wobbly butt.

While sitting there, gulping down water, the guy sitting next to me was gambling. From his pocket hung several one-hundred dollar bills and I told him that they looked like they might fall out.

He grabbed them, then peeled two Ben Franklin’s and laid them down in front of me as his way of saying thanks. I declined, then watched as he won twenty-four hundred dollars.

Licking my wounds for saying no to his offer, I took a sip of water only to find my friend Denny standing by me.

“Give me your truck keys,” he said. “If you do, Paul has a room ready for you ’cause you can’t drive home like this.”

“Give me a while, and I’ll be fine,” I said.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” he said. “So give me your keys, I’ll get whatever you need from your truck, and I’ll return with a room key.”

“Okay,” I said.

A few minutes later, he returned with my briefcase and a key to room three at the Tahoe House. I took them and said goodnight, finished my water, blew a kiss at Sierra, and headed south down that blankity-blank plank walkway.

On my way there, I stopped at the Ponderosa and went inside to find Paul, his girlfriend Tatianna, and his brother Woodie enjoying karaoke. I shook his hand and thanked him for the room, reminding myself that I needed to offer to pay for it in the morning.

Heading for the door, Miss-Looking-For-A-Sugar-Daddy stopped me. She wanted me to dance and get on stage to sing with her, to which I said no because I wasn’t sure if I was too drunk or not drunk enough to make a further fool of myself.

When she turned her back for a second, I darted outside. I stood at the doors, confused, unable to remember which direction I was to walk to get to the Tahoe House.

It took me two turnarounds, looking up and down the walkway, to conclude, “Go South Old Man.”

Upstairs, I entered “Rosie’s Room,” known as room three, peeled off most of my clothes, lay on the bed, and quickly slipped into a deep sleep. And there, I remained until 4 a.m. when I woke because I was chilled.

Getting up, I took care of some bathroom business and climbed under the blankets this time. I slept until 7:30 a.m., got up, showered, redressed, and joined other guests for breakfast.

Along with three large cups of coffee, I ate a banana and five hard-boiled eggs. My hunger defeated, I would spend the next three hours talking with Gary about our military experiences before finding my truck and heading home with the sun at my back.

After a fourth cup of Joe, I’m sitting at my keyboard, sober as a Judge, writing as if nothing happened. However, I am still mourning the loss of 200 bucks.

Maybe I was partially obscured by the rose bush and why the man did not see me. Perhaps he was an asshole in waiting.

Either way, as a dog catcher, and once knowing I was present, he should have backed off, put his catch-loop away, got in his truck, and headed down the road. Instead, he insisted on capturing my dog to take him to the pound.

Had Buddy not been on private property, on my property, I would have had no leg to stand on in this case, but that was not what happened. It was my dog, my yard, his trespass, and theft.

Making myself known to the man was easy as I stood up and spoke. He looked at me, hesitating before snaring Buddy about the neck. Buddy yelped as the man pulled him from the grass and towards his truck.

In two long strides, I was next to the man who was assaulting my dog, trespassing on my property, and stealing my pet. He was not ready for the violent confrontation I laid upon his person.

In a flash of calm anger, I punched him in the nose and swept his feet from under him. The sudden pain and fall caused him to let loose of the snare, allowing me to pick it up.

Carrying Buddy to my open front door, I removed the noose and locked him inside our home. The dog catcher was on his feet by then, and when I turned to face him, he was calling for assistance.

Still pissed but frighteningly calm, I snapped the fiberglass rod over my knee and tossed it at him, which hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Then I stood on my porch, arms folded across my chest, waiting for the sheriff’s deputies to arrive.

Soon, three cruisers pulled up in front of the house. Two deputies started across my yard towards me, while a third spoke with the still-bleeding dog catcher.

“What happened?” one asked me.

“He tried to steal my dog from my yard,” I said.

“Where’s the dog?”

“None of your business.”

“It’s a simple question.”

“And it was a simple answer.”

“It was only a question…”

“And now I’m invoking.”

“You’re making a mountain out of a mole hill.”

I remained silent.

One of the two that approached me stepped back and mumbled into his microphone, and I heard a muffled “10-4.”

Minutes later, a fourth car pulled up, and a sergeant exited. He walked over to the deputy standing with the dog catcher.

“What’s going on?” I heard him ask.

The one who had spoken into his microphone walked back, and the four pow-wowed, speaking in tones too hushed to hear. Finally, the sergeant walked up my drive and stood at the base of my porch.

“He says you assaulted him.”

“He’s invoked his right to silence, Sarge,” the one who had never left said.

“Do you want to talk to me?”

“He tried to steal my dog from my yard, and I refused to let him.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to get violent.”

“Someone steals from you, in front of you, and you’d remain peaceable? I call bull shit on you!”

He scratched the inside of his right ear hole like my dirty mouth had caused him an irritating itch.

“And if you don’t believe me, my neighbor has a camera, right there pointed at my yard.”

“Okay, excuse me for a second.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He walked across the street and looked at the infrared camera mounted to the side of the house. Then he walked over to the dog catcher and asked in a voice that I could hear, “Am I going to find anything on that recording that contradicts your claim?”

There was a long pause as the dog catcher didn’t answer.

“You know that’s abuse of office and maybe even color, a felony, right?”

Still, the dog catcher didn’t answer. Then an animal control supervisor pulled onto the scene, parking in front of the catcher’s truck.

“If you want to go check on your dog, you can,” the sergeant said.

Nodding, I unlocked the front door and went inside the house. I knew Buddy was okay, but I wanted to remove myself from the three deputies who insisted on staring me down.

Less than 10 minutes later, I heard a light rapping at the front door. Checking the peephole, I saw the sergeant and the supervisor standing on my step, so I opened the door.

“Do you want to press…” the sergeant started.

“No, I don’t,” I interrupted. “But I do want to say that he is the first person I’ve ever met who is entirely unfit to be a dog catcher.”

“Okay,” he said.

Then the supervisor said, “Thank you.”

“I’m not sure for what — but your welcome.”

“Have a good day,” the sergeant said as he turned and walked from my porch.

“Stay safe, both of you,” I said as I closed the door, knowing how close I came to nearly being arrested for assault.

During the 1860s, Genoa was a town where silver and gold fever ran high.
To outsmart potential robbers, a paymaster hit upon an unconventional method of transporting a payroll shipment: conceal the gold coins within a regular nail keg and arrange for it to be sent with delivery, hoping to avoid arousing suspicion.

Unfortunately, news of this unique strategy reached the ears of the wrong individuals.

One day, robbers held up the stagecoach carrying the nail keg filled with gold coins. The thieves quickly escape, leaving behind a stunned group of stagecoach passengers and a mystery that would remain unsolved for years.

It wasn’t until years later, when a dying miner’s conscience got the better of him, that the truth behind the robbery began to emerge. In a confession from his deathbed, the miner revealed that the stolen loot, totaling a considerable $20,000 in twenty-dollar gold coins, had been buried near a pine tree close to the spot where the scene of the robbery.

Word of the hidden treasure spread like wildfire, capturing the imaginations of countless treasure hunters eager to claim the elusive fortune. Residents and fortune-seekers alike flocked to the hills surrounding Genoa, digging up trees for the lost gold coins. However, their efforts proved fruitless, as the treasure remained stubbornly hidden.

Years passed, and the tale of the buried treasure became a legend, discussed around campfires and whispered in saloons. Yet, the elusive gold coins continued to evade discovery.

It wasn’t until an avalanche struck the area in 1882 that the first signs of the lost treasure emerged.

In the wake of the avalanche, a few lucky individuals stumbled upon gold coins in various locations around Genoa. These chance discoveries sparked renewed hope among treasure hunters, who redoubled their efforts to unravel the secrets hidden within the Genoa Hills.

To this day, despite the occasional discovery of lone gold coin, much of the stolen $20,000 in twenty-dollar gold pieces remains concealed, awaiting the touch of an intrepid explorer. While the exact location of the buried treasure remains a mystery, enthusiasts and adventurers alike are encouraged to approach such tales with a measured sense of skepticism.

The forest was waking up, and so was Alan Marshall. The wild noises had become his alarm clock, and he rolled over in his sleeping bag and sat up.

Once out of the bag, he unzipped his tent and crawled out. Standing up, he stretched, then grabbed his washcloth for a quick dip in the fridged water of the nearby creek.

Alan was homeless, having been honorably discharged from the U.S. Marine Corps less than five months before. He was now using his skills, which did not translate to civilian life, to survive, living off the land.

Chased from every empty doorway in town, moved from every park bench, and disallowed to sit in the bus stop shelter to avoid the rain, he had resorted to the Redwood Curtain, high above the coastal city he had come home to. Homelessness, unhoused, living in the street, had no meaning to him as he started down the familiar trail as the sun busted through the treetops behind him.

Still drenched in shadow, he did not see the body as it lay across the path. He tripped over it and fell forward, landing on the ground with his arms and hands, stopping him from hitting face first. The body jumped to life, growing into an elderly Native American man who had been fast asleep.

“Muencherh,” the man said with an intonation of amazement.

“Sorry, dude,” Alan said as he stood up, wiping mud from the knees of his jeans. “I didn’t see you. You okay?”

The man smiled broadly and repeated the word “Muencherh.”

“Okay,” Alan said, unsure of what to do next.

He had seen the embers of a campfire the man had started at the base of the tree and knew the man had been there all night. Still unsure of the situation, Alan returned to the trail, proceeding to the creek.

As he dragged the clothe across his neck, he thought about the man. He mentally noted that the man wore very little clothing and no shoes, his gray hair was straight and clean, and he was not afraid of Alan or mad at being rudely awakened.

“And what the hell does Muencherh mean I wonder?” Alan asked as he wrung his washcloth out and headed back towards his camp.

When he reached the spot where the man should have been, he was gone, and where he had been laying, the earth was undisturbed. He touched the base of the tree, where the fire glowed, less than ten minutes before, only to discover the place to be cold.

Alan had seen some strange things in Okinawa and Kadena, not to mention Camp Hanson, Foster, and Futenma. Being alone and unable to learn if anyone else had experienced what he had, he retreated to his tent to lay down, drifting into sleep again, waking after the sun had completely risen.

Crawling from his tent again, he sat near its open flap and stared down the trail that led to the creek. He hoped to see the man once more, but he never reappeared.

By that night, Alan was uncertain if he had experienced tripping over the man or if it had all been a dream. While a small campfire heated dinner, he recalled the muddy knees of his jeans.

Alan Marshall moved campsites the following morning.

A pastor found a pink envelope containing ten one-hundred dollar bills in the collection basket. It went on for weeks.

One Sunday, he watched as the offering was collected and saw an older woman put the distinctive pink envelope in the basket.

“I saw that you put a pink envelope in the collection,” he said.

“I did,” she said.

“Not to be nosy, but can you afford that?”

“My son sends me ten-thousand dollars every week from Nevada.”

“What’s he do for a living?”

“He’s a practicing feline veterinarian with three cathouses, two in Lyon County and one in Storey County.”