Sedona AZ (October 8, 2014) – The following has been taken from Collins Rhōg’s private journal and reproduced exactly as it was written by his own hand. The date has been omitted, at his request, but Collins view is always captivatingly honest, full of depth and color, heart and perseverance in times of struggle. Collins spills his soul and captures his feelings with vivid imagery and heart felt emotion that oozes from the pages of this historic text.

The following is but a portholes view, from across the room of “The Life and Times of Collins Rhōg“:

If you are new to the story, it all begins at this link (click here). In previous weeks, our readers were introduced to Rhog’s story as written in his journal. Join us as we return to the Life and Times of Collins Rhōg, now 38, while he surveys the gates of Hell:

– Cambire, The Story Part 2 –

Morning dawned slowly and then my world came to life as the forest awoke. The truck was obscured beneath the thick canopy of trees in my lay up point, waiting patiently for the day’s travels. Getting up, I could see the condensation from my night’s rest covering everything inside the old land cruiser. The seats were damp with moisture and cold to the touch. It’s funny how daylight brings a whole new dimension to a world you only visited in the dark, hence the phrase “seeing things in a whole new light.”

My LUP was well secure. I was glad to have punched in the additional 300 yards, better safe than sorry. I could hear a Stellar Jay screeching outside, bloody noisy fellow that jay, though it was nice to have company of his sort, the kind that paid no mind to what you were up to.

Less than five miles away was the border. I needed to hump up the nearest peak to recon the Vehicle Check Point for a plausible escape route, should things go bad. I would note the guards, patrols, security measures and obstructions that must be defeated to escape. It’s the old line, failure to plan is planning to fail.

The forest was extremely thick with underbrush and thin dead snags, no bigger than a man’s forearm. As a child, being raised in the woods, I knew to stay clear of dead trees, a simple bump could snap a top off, killing one instantly. It was impossible to walk quietly.

I didn’t worry about any noise as I was well alone in the woods. Stopping halfway up the hill, I reached into the rucksack and pulled out dry salami and a loaf of French bread. Squatting and peeling back the wrappings, I cut off three inches from each staple. On the hike up, I had been thoroughly thinking what lay ahead, knowing that the risk of being captured was great. Should I be captured and not wanting to give up any more of my possessions than necessary, I severed a double ration of food, carefully recovering the remainder before putting it back into the pack.

The first bite is always the best. I briefly stopped chewing to savor the flavor of the meat. For a few seconds my only thoughts were of the salami and bread, and how good it tasted to have food in my mouth. Chasing the first course down with a large gulp of water, at that moment, I felt I was sitting in the finest restaurant in the world instead of squatting beneath a thick canopy of trees.

While eating the remainder of my breakfast, I noticed a large squirrel, peeking around a tree, staring right at me nearly at eye level, with his pitch black eyes. He was firmly planted to the trunk of a tree, head facing down and his tail flicking and pausing, flicking and pausing.

“Here you go old mate,” I said softly and tossed out a bit of French bread, thinking that my generosity might somehow help me get across the border. The squirrel paused a bit and then scurried down to the bread, promptly chewing it and dividing it into equal parts which he stored on either side of his cheeks.

I watched him streak off to God knows where and wondered if this would be my last breakfast as a free man. If it was, I couldn’t have asked for better food or a better setting.

Looking up, I saw the black eyed squirrel returning with empty cheeks and thought I wouldn’t change the company either. I anted up more bread.

Chewing, I tried hard to make out the Land Cruiser parked several hundred feet below which, to my delight, could not be seen – even knowing precisely where it was. Breakfast ended with the last morsel of bread going to my furry partner, who was only too happy to take it off of my hands.

Little did Squirrel know that had it been a different day, finding me not so flush with food, he would have been my meal.

– Collins Rhōg

Cambire, The Story continues in the SedonaEye.com.

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