Fear and Wonder in Arizona (Patreon)

"99% of success is just showing up"

-"Showing Up," FDR

2/23/2023 witnessed my return to Arizona.  It was a fitting date as death seems to stalk me in this state. Some of it came from my research and investigations. Isaac Kappy met his end here. Tracy Twyman's demise is also linked to the state as well. Last time I flew into Tucson, an older gentleman collapsed and passed away as I was making my way out of the airport.

And now, I was flying in on the date in which one of my two significant ex's passed away on ten years to the day. Part of my reason for being in Arizona was to interview a former Sovereign Order of Saint John member. I found out he had passed away shortly before my departure date. Last time I was in Arizona in 2021, it was to visit my two oldest fans. One of them has since passed on. The other picked me up at the airport on the afternoon of the 23rd. Thankfully, no one died, though a dear friend of ours was then in the hospital with serious issues. 

Despite the circumstances, there's few people on Earth I'd rather spend time with than my research partner, Keith Allen Dennis. We last encountered one another in the Bay area during our exploration of the Hoover/Stanford archives (more on our San Fran adventures can be found here, here, here and here). It was then that plans for my Arizona venture were laid.

This time around, there wouldn't be any such grand undertakings, or so we thought. For me at least, it turned into quite a time of self exploration. I'd already started getting deep before the flight took off, in the midst of the chaos. I got to Dulles late and got to do a mad dash through an airport bigger than many towns. I was literally the last person on my flight to Dallas.

The scramble to change planes wasn't quite as frantic, but still a little close for comfort. By the time I landed in Tucson around 2 pm PST, I'd been up since 4:30 am EST. And, I had a concert to attend at 7 PST. No doubt my mettle would be further tested before the day was done.

I've spent a good deal of time exploring the United States these past few years. I've been to some truly magical places. But I don't know if I've fallen in love with anywhere quite the way I have with Bisbee. When Keith first brought me downtown, I noted signs proclaiming it to be Paris in the desert. I confess to finding it a bit silly, but not by the time I left.

Old Town Bisbee is an enchanted stretch of saloons and hotels that have changed little since the days of the Wild West interspersed with a series of incredible galleries, coffee shops, novelty & antique stores, and even fortune tellers. In other words, it had everything I could ever possibly ask of a downtown. And certainly, I uncovered some treasures.

Fittingly, the top painting was purchased at The Quarry. If you've gone through the lyrics of "Wikiup" (a Keith Allen Dennis original and The Farm's theme song), you may have noted Keith worked there at one point. As for the object in the bottom photo, that's an Order of the White Eagle badge. What's more, having been issued in 1982 (and not being made of gold or other precious metals), it clearly originates not from an authentic Order of the White Eagle (which was essentially defunct after the Russian Revolution), but from one of the pretender orders that proliferated in these United States during the 20th century.

If you've been following The Farm for a while now, you know these pseudo-White Eagles are of great importance to me. As far as back as the post-WWI era, they began to become entwined with what became a vast network of equally spurious Sovereign Orders of Saint John. At the forefront of these efforts was "Colonel" Charles Pichel, one of the great confidence men of the 20th century. Pichel and his "Shickshinny Knights of Malta"  would later become an integral part of the American Gladio network, as we have been exploring in recent podcasts. By the 90s, there were rumblings that an especially militant branch, using the White Eagle name, was active an interstate trafficking network that tied into the JonBenet Ramsey murder. George from Cavdef.com and I did an epic show on this a few years. Many of you will be delighted to know the complete show will soon be uploaded.

Stumbling upon the White Eagle badge was one of many incredible synchronicities that cropped up during my visit. Especially in light of the initial plan to interview a former SOSJ member.

Old Town Bisbee yielded a lot to me, including a Western-style jacket nearly a dozen strangers stopped to tell me I was born to wear. Granted, I didn't see a record store. But I suspect a really cool one was hiding somewhere. And best of all, the coffee was amazing and the shops were open till at least 9 pm. This was a refreshing change of pace from DC and the broader area, where finding a decent cup of coffee after 4 pm is nearly impossible. Actually, finding a decent cup of coffee in DC at all is a bit of challenge. In Bisbee, even the gas stations serve great, local java. If that isn't a slice of heaven, I don't know what is.

On the topic of heaven, the same could be said of Bisbee's vibrant live music scene. It has a reputation at the national level and justifiably so. The historic salons that makeup Old Town are some of the best venues I've encountered, and I've seen a band or two live in my day. Bisbee is located not far off of the storied I-10, which runs through, or nearby, such areas as Los Angeles, Phoenix, Houston, and New Orleans. In other words, it's a major route for travelling bands, ensuring many big acts detour to Bisbee in the midst of national tours. And Bisbee being literally right next to the border provides easy access to Mexico as well (or as easy as you can get along the militarized wall).

But I wasn't in town to see a name act. I came for the Honeydon'ts, a band Mr. Dennis has spent some time assembling. I'd made a special point of leaving for Bisbee on Thursday rather than the following day just to see them live. Neither I, or anyone else in the audience, was disappointed. Granted, I'm biased. But the Honeydon'ts rocked the venue so hard the crowd demanded three separate encores!

Seriously, I've never seen anything like this before, be it a name act, an independent one, or just a local band. The audience was totally captivated. I'd been up for almost 24 hours by the time the official last set was up and there was no one way I was going to miss a moment of it. Keith and I were both wavering by then, when I was asked if I wanted a ride home.

"If he's got one more set in him, so have I," I said, nodding at Keith.

Turns out, we both had three more. The Honeydon'ts were so spent by the third encore that Keith had to do it himself with just an acoustic guitar. I could not have been more proud of him as he left the stage for good that night. And best of all, he not only played "Wikiup," but he dedicated it to me. Somehow I have reputation in Bisbee, and this generated me a little applause. I've probably seen better shows, but I doubt I'll witness one as special as this again. Thanks Keith.

More of Bisbee's charm was revealed the following evening. The town was built around the Cooper Queen Mine. Shortly after being opened, it was acquired by the Phelps Dodge Corporation. This effectively turned Bisbee into a company town. Phelps Dodge became not just the de facto government in Bisbee, but arguably the entire territory of Arizona. Fittingly, the Bisbee Mining and Historic Museum is housed in the corporation's former headquarters. Keith arranged a private tour for us after hours. It did not disappoint.

The town had a substantial amount of Polish immigrants at the turn of the last century. As the Order of the White Eagle originated in Poland, this partly explained the presence of the badge in the antique store. The WWI-era America Firstism further added to the picture.

The rocks were nice too:

Manifest destiny was a concept based upon Americans settling across the whole of North America, creating a nation that stretched from the Atlantic to Pacific. This process was theoretically completed when Arizona joined the Union. It was the last territory in the continental United States to achieve statehood. It's entry into the Union had been delayed by Phelps Dodge. As the night wound down, we took a seat at the actual table where the corporate completed negotiations over Arizona's entry into these United States. Theoretically, manifest destiny ended here:

That claim is highly debatable. What is not is that this marked the end of one of the craziest and blessed days I've ever experienced. 

"The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed”

-Stephen King, The Gunslinger

There was one other thing I was keen to do in Bisbee besides interview the SOSJ dude prior to my arrival. It was a total bucket list thing to boot: trip in the desert. As a veteran psychonaut, it was one of the glaring omissions in my psychedelic journeys. Ever since I started exploring psychedelics all those years ago, I'd always wanted to experience one in the desert, possibly the most holy of all landscapes. But having grown up in the South and lived on the East coast my entire life, an opportunity had yet to present itself. I just saw the desert for the first time in 2021, after all.

But now, the opportunity had finally arrived. And there was no one I'd rather take this journey with than Keith. We had discussed it beforehand, and had already settled on a location and procured some god's flesh.

When the day arrived, I threw on my groovy Western jacket and hat, along with some jeans and red Wrangler shirt. Glancing at myself in the mirror of my Airbnb room, I was struck by how much I resembled Roland Deschain, the protagonist of Stephen King's legendary Dark Tower series. It wasn't a conscious decision on my part. The weather was chilly and projected to get into the 20s that night. I had just been trying to dress warm, but it seemed most apt. Much of the first book in the series involves Roland's desert wanderings.

What I didn't take into account is that The Dark Tower series is thoroughly in the Rosicrucian/Discordian vein, and a work of hyperstition par excellence. Always keep such things in mind when you're about to take magic mushrooms kids.

Additional words of wisdom for tripping in the desert: Wait till arriving at your final destination before taking the 'shrooms. Taking them on the way can lead to unforeseen developments. 

The location Keith selected is amazing regardless of what condition one's condition is in. Along the way, we passed through the legendary Tombstone, where the Maltese knight I'd hoped to interview last resided. Then it was on to the vast Council Rocks Archaeological District, where our intended location awaited. 

The Dragoon Mountains are where the Apache chief Cochise held out against everything the Mexican and American governments could throw at him. The US government was finally able to convince an aging Cochise to "retire" two years prior to his death after years of futility in hunting him. It was easy to see why it was a fool's errand in such isolated and rugged terrain. 

The place Keith wanted to take me to is called Council Rocks. Located at the heart of the "Cochise Stronghold," it was here that he negotiated an end of hostilities with General Oliver Otis Howard on October 12, 1872. Hence, the name. But well before then, the site appears to have been a sacred spot for the mysterious Mogollon culture. More on that in a moment. 

We took the 'shrooms on what we thought was the road to Council Rocks. And perhaps it was. But as we made our way along the rocky, unpaved desert road, things inevitably became confused. 

When we finally stopped, Keith made what seemed like a sensible decision: lock the truck. After all, we were going to be leaving it unattended in the middle of the desert for several hours. Best safe than sorry. 

Unfortunately, Keith never locks his truck. As such, he was totally unaware that the key could not unlock either door. But this soon became evident to us after Keith realized we had actually parked several miles from our intended destination. 

We attempted to crack the window and unlock the door from the inside with a dog collar and leash. Needless to say, it didn't work out. Several hours later, after we had sobered up, we finally managed this feat. But that was a long time coming.

In the meantime, we had a trek to make. I couldn't help but be reminded of the first Dark Tower book again. Keith wasn't wearing black, but I followed him into the desert, both on and off paths; through tall grass and dry valleys; and up the side of rock formations.

"In the desert, no one remembers your name"

-America, "A Horse With No Name"

Walking through the desert in winter is a strange thing. It's dry and the sun is unforgiving, just as one would expect. And if you keep moving, you may even work up a sweat. But stand in one place long enough, and a chill sets in after a few moments. And this wasn't a typical winter day, but one beset by violent winds --the kind that cut through clothing, regardless of how warm. This creates a curious state where you're both freezing cold and rapidly dehydrating at the same time. And in our case, this was on top of the mushrooms.

We were both tripping hard by the time we began our march. The tall grass seemed to be alive, swirling in circles to my eyes. I was hardly concerned when Keith mentioned how fortunate we were to be doing this in February, otherwise the grass would be swarming with rattlesnakes. 

It was when I was losing my grip while straddling the side of a bolder that an actual sense of unease set in. The drop wouldn't have been bad if I had fallen. Most likely, I would have survived. But at a minimum, it would have cost me a broken bone or a tooth or two. Luckily, Keith noticed my struggles and dragged me up. 

We had one of his dogs with us. For the most part, it was a calming presence --aside from the deer incident. As we approached a creek, one went darting off in the other direction. The dog was uncharacteristically disinterested in the fleeing creature. Keith feared this was a sign of a larger predator and retrieved a handgun from his pack. After checking the ammo, he holstered it and we pressed on. I vaguely wondered about the wisdom of having a loaded revolver in our condition, but decided it was best not to bring it up. 

Somehow, some way, we made it to Council Rocks several miles and hours later. By this time, I was peaking, and it couldn't have come at a better time. While the site is primarily associated with the Apache, it is the Mogollon who left their mark on the spot. The rocks form a natural enclosure, a quasi-cave that the Mogollon covered with red and orange pictographs. I tried to photograph myself next to them, with predictable results:

The pictographs weren't the only thing the Mogollon left. This thing is often described as a "corn grinder":

The pictographs were alive, cresting and falling back against the rocks like waves. The rock itself seemed to be dissolving at times. We retreated into an inner chamber. The Maltese knight had been a friend of Keith's. The plan had been for him to accompany us on this journey. Instead, Keith plotted a small ceremony to say goodbye to him. I wanted to say goodbye to him and several others as well. 

Like everything else, the ritual wasn't easy. Keith had assembled an offering that we would burn in the chamber. At one point, Keith dropped the offering and it was scattered by the wind. We had to start all over again and continued to struggle against the wind. Finally, the fire started. Keith burst into tears and so did I. Another great gust of wind whipped through the chamber and a sudden sense of calm set in. 

At some point, Keith departed the chamber to call his son. Someone needed to bring us the spare key. I remained in the chamber for an unknown amount of time. Finally, Keith returned and with a sense of urgency. His son was enroute, but trying to make it to us in a Toyota. This left a degree of uncertainty as to whether he could make it. Storm clouds were heading in. It was already cold and projected to get into the 20s that night. All we had were the clothes we were wearing, a few bottles of waters and some nuts to eat. 

So, we began that trek down from Council Rocks. We actually used the trail this time and arrived at the correct parking lot. It took roughly a half an hour. From there, we made our way back on to what passed for a road and began hiking in the direction of the truck. We had sobered up a bit by then, but were still freaky enough to deter any would be help. Several cars stopped and quickly departed after brief exchanges with us. An old woman cheerfully informed us it was a good thing we were walking by the side of the road because "it made the bodies easier to locate." Visions of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas danced through my head. 

And on we walked, Keith several yards ahead, me again following. It felt like the weight of everything leading up to the trip pressed against me with the desert winds. I felt every bit my forty years and the unfathomable loss I had experienced since 2020 in each gust. And still, on I walked. 

Finally, we made it to the truck. My lips were dry and bleeding, my face red. I had not sat down since Council Rocks because I wasn't sure if I could get up again. Now, I finally allowed myself to find a good spot to plop down on. After nursing a few sips of water I finally consumed a bit of the trail mix after forgoing food all afternoon. Before I could really indulge, the wind picked up again, sending most of my snack into the sand. I felt only the slightest twinge of regret. It scarcely mattered at that point. 

Miraculously, Keith's son found us. We had told him to pick us up at Council Rocks, then departed the site in search of the truck well before he arrived. Keith then struggled to explain our location to him. But somehow, he made it. The spare key failed to open the truck but we were now sober enough to catch the lock with the dog collar. 

Euphoria set in as we realized what we had just survived. Maybe it was just the weight of everything finally easing. Or maybe it was just the realization that, despite all I've lost over the last few years, there was something I gained: The best friends I've ever had. 

The family I've always wanted.