Collins Rhōg

Sedona AZ (November 5, 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 6 –

Having arrived at the emergency lay up point, it was time to tend my shoulder, which needed a good cleaning and a proper bandaging. I located the first aid kit, found my backpack, pulled out a new shirt and sat down on the canyon floor, leaning against the Cruiser’s knobby front tire.

With the first aid kit beside me in the sand, I sat there on the floor of the canyon contemplating the midday sky for several minutes. The sky seemed so beautiful. It was really nice to just sit and enjoy the peace within the protection of the canyon.

I thought back to my journey to Canada via Amtrack and Greyhound. I had caught the Coast Starlight train in Eugene, Oregon bound for Seattle, Washington using the name William Terzi. Knowing everyone would be searched going into Canada, I carried the proper identification and brought along only a backpack with some clothes and a wallet.

The train ride up was pleasant and I slept through much of it. There weren’t many passengers aboard during the entire trip so no one sat next to me which was welcome. As the train pulled into Portland, it snaked through the industrial section and I could see homeless people camped about. One elderly man behind a warehouse raised a bottle sheathed in a brown paper bag when the train passed by. He was thin, unshaven and missing some teeth. The old timer was wearing a ratty stocking cap and a thick woolen trench coat that was well worn which, undoubtedly, doubled as a sleeping blanket. He held the bottle high and was saying something while nodding his head. I felt sorry for the bloke and saluted back, pretending to hold up a cup, though there was no way he could see me through the dark tinted windows of the Coast Starlight. I watched him as the train moved along and he grew smaller and smaller, still nodding and talking to the long row of rail cars as they passed by, until finally he vanished from sight, leaving me to wonder how many trains he had saluted and who he used to be before dropping out of society…as we know it.

“Okay,” I said to myself and opened the first aid kit and tore into the alcohol wipes.

“Ahhhhhhhhh!” I moaned through gritted teeth and cleaned the bullet wound which stung bitterly, then leaned against the wheel of the Land Cruiser taking deep breaths and closing my eyes as the stinging died down. Minutes later, I found the antiseptic and caked a healthy glob onto both sides of the hole, using a couple of self adhesive bandages to patch it all up.

“That wasn’t so bad,” I murmured out loud, wishing for a Guinness. After another twenty minutes of leaning against the tire, not thinking about anything, just sitting, I finally picked myself up and pulled on the shirt rustled from the backpack.

I unbolted the shovel from the side of the roof rack and tossed it up onto the canyon shelf. Climbing up onto the front bumper and then the hood, I grabbed the upper bars to the truck’s rack and painfully pulled myself up. Standing on the Cruiser’s roof I could clearly see the cave, it was untouched and just as I had left it nearly four years prior. The floor of the canyon shelf was at chest level and with my bum shoulder it was a bit tricky climbing up onto it, but with effort I made it and picked up the shovel, basking in the presence of the cave for a solid minute.

I discovered this place years ago while searching for an ancient Pueblo style dwelling rumored to be in the area. In my search for clues about the dwellings, I scoured countless historical documents at the University of Oregon and University of Washington libraries, as well as examining aerial and satellite photography. I had also spoken with an old time prospector named Tucker Manfield, who knew the area well, on several occasions. In one of the old settlers journals found at the site of an Indian massacre, there was mention of a Pueblo style dwelling inside a hidden canyon.

Years ago, using the information from my research, I had narrowed the search area down to this part of eastern Washington and set off on several expeditions to find the ancient dwellings. I never did find the dwellings, but discovered an untouched moonshiner’s cave complete with its antique still, empty bottles, wooden crates, and even a tin full of stale smoking tobacco.

Over the last couple of decades, I spent many weeks at the cave and often wondered what happened to the moonshiner to cause him to leave his precious still behind. The cave was a sacred sanctuary for me, the very meaning of a moonshiner, an illicit distiller or smuggler of liquor, was someone cut from the same cloth as myself. I never removed the still or any of the other miscellaneous items placed about the cave, and only told one other person of its location, a close friend named Reegan, the only person whom I trusted with my life.

The cave had a narrow entrance about a foot and a half wide and twelve feet tall – this carried on for about forty feet where it opened up into a larger chamber roughly eighteen feet square with the same twelve foot ceiling. There was an old bunk in the corner and several old crates with empty bottles and clay jugs.

I went to the farthest corner of the cave and began digging. It took about five minutes of labor before the “thunk” of the shovel hit the top of the crate I had buried some years back. Another five minutes and the crate was free. I raised it out of the hole and onto the cave floor. Using the shovel to pop the top off, a rifle case wrapped in plastic and sealed with tape was exposed. Carefully unwrapping the plastic from the case, a faint smell of campfire smoke was released that must have been captured when I sealed it up.

I gazed at my beautiful 450 rifle, named Sarah, glazed in a thin film of oil and caressed by more of that pleasing campfire aroma. This rifle was manufactured in 1886 as a 45-70, but I had turned it into the 450 Alaskan it is now.

The 450 is a “wild cat cartridge” – you can’t buy it anywhere because it doesn’t exist – and has to be made yourself. Sarah, in her modified state, can drop a 2,500 pound buffalo at 400 yards with one shot, and has. That can’t be done with a 50 Browning Machine Gun round, not in one shot because its high velocity will be deflected off of a rib or something. And I had stored a box of 25 self-made rounds with Sarah after carefully sealing each primer, the lip between the brass and the bullet, with a film of fingernail clear-coat as added protection from moisture.

I grabbed the old hand towel in the gun case and began to wipe Sarah down, removing the film of oil that had protected her. Holding the 450 Alaskan in my hands, I had to feel the action and cocked the lever breech which was smooth as silk…just like I remembered. Carefully holding the hammer so as not to dry fire the gun, I pulled the trigger and let the hammer down soft as a feather. Sarah was a sweetheart sure enough, she could reach out and touch you and you’d be dead before hearing the shot.

Resting her on the bunk, I made several slow tedious trips from the cruiser to the cave, moving gear and setting up camp. It was with a heavy load of provisions in my arms that I first saw the plane flying over the canyon.

– Collins Rhōg

Cambire, The Story continues in the SedonaEye.com. Some SedonaEye.com scenes have been edited due to content. Look for the unedited Cambire, The Story, available at booksellers and retailers in the spring of 2015.

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