Collins Rhōg

Sedona AZ (November 12, 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, love, 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 7 –

The plane flew parallel with the canyon at roughly 2,500 feet. Its engine droned out as a low pitched Buddhist chant that reverberated off the sheer walls. Breaking out the camouflage netting, I draped it over the Cruiser which now had a flat rear tire. With the aircraft directly overhead, my binoculars revealed it was a Cessna 337 Skymaster. With a push pull tandem twin configuration, it was one sweet plane but definitely a civilian bird. I felt relieved.

Beneath the camo netting, the cruiser rested on its rim. I noticed that the old truck had taken two other rounds in her bum – I assumed from the same bloke who shot up my windscreen. One round came in low and pierced the tailgate in the middle right side, penetrating my duffle bag and lodging in the cook stove. The other round came in higher, smacking her in the upper right corner of the hardtop. The bullet must have carried on within the side panel, between the inner and outer skin. I never found the round, or an exit hole.

After unloading my gear, I returned to the canyon’s keep. The moonshiner’s cave smelled old and felt haunted. I was alone, but there was a spirit observing me. I had felt its presence before, with every visit to the sanctuary, though it never unnerved me. A ray of sunlight pierced the gap to the cave entrance, while particles of dust levitated and danced from shadows in a brilliant display of the specter’s breath. Before spreading out the mummy bag as the beam of light skulked from the cave, I rolled a sleeping pad onto the old bunk. I took stock of my food and water stores while enjoying dry salami and french bread left over from yesterday. My plan was to stay until things cooled down a bit, maybe four to five days. There was enough food and water, fit for a King.

That first night I didn’t do much else and turned in early. I slept deeply and woke up seemingly dreamless the next morning. The sun was coming up, though it wasn’t visible from my subterranean hideout. A hot mug of tea sounded wonderful, before realizing my stove had been shot up. I would have to improvise.

I laid out three flat rocks about the size of a shoe into a triangle with space in the middle. Pulling out a bag of cheese puffs, I placed a small handful of the snack in the center of the stones. Striking a wooden match, the cheese puffs produced a nice flame amid a chorus of crackles and pops. “And we eat this crap?” I mused while resting a mug atop the triangle that straddled the flame. The cheese puffs burned for several minutes. I added a few more, stoking the little fire and, in no time, the water was near boiling.

With a strong cup of tea in hand, sipping from the steaming cup, I thought about the world that was waking up and starting to hum. I thought about the hustle and bustle, the traffic jams and time clocks. “No thanks, not for me,” I whispered, blowing across the tea. Eating more leftovers, I enjoyed the solitude but missed the black eyed squirrel, thankful the events of the previous day were behind me.

After breakfast, I climbed back down the shelf into the cruiser. My high-lift jack raised the old girl up off of her gimpy wheel for a look. It wasn’t a bullet hole. With a large pair of needle-nose pliers, I removed a nail, four inches long. “Where the bloody Hell did you come from?”  I asked it in disbelief, tossing it into the back of the truck.

The nail had made a large hole in the tread, any larger I would be using the spare. Luck was smiling as the sidewall was unscathed, and she hadn’t gone flat on me the day prior when I needed her most. Using the tire repair kit, I reamed the hole several times to clean it up. Threading a tire plug through the large T-handled needle, I doused the thing with rubber cement, then squirted some in the hole of the tire itself. The trick is to insert the needle, with plug into the hole and then rapidly pull out the needle, leaving the plug to seal the hole. As always it worked like a charm. Trimming the plug flush and airing up found the job completed.

Knowing that the authorities were looking for a white Toyota Land Cruiser, I thought it smart to disguise her in khaki green. I had stowed the rattle cans with some masking tape, old newspapers, sand paper and two sticky tack cloths behind the passenger seat. Failure to plan is planning to fail.

There wasn’t much I could do about the bullet holes in the windscreen or in the backside of the truck. They would definitely draw attention. My only option was to remove the glass and fold down the frame, take off the hard top, and drive topless.

“There you go, problem solved,” I thought. Having learned years ago that, amazingly enough, it’s perfectly legal to drive without a windscreen as long as you have eye protection and, of all things, windshield wipers.

With my shoulder wound, I wasn’t looking forward to lifting the heavy hardtop off of the Toyota, so removed the windscreen first. My knife made short work of its rubber seal, which came out easily. From within the cab, I gently pushed the windscreen from the frame, freeing it in one piece.

It took me fifteen minutes to remove the freestanding roof rack and hard top. The remainder of the day was spent preparing the truck for paint on the following morning, when the air would be still and free of insects.

Hoisting the jerry cans from each side, the ten gallons of diesel gurgled into the Cruisers long range safari tank. I stowed the red fuel containers with the hard top, augmenting the Cruiser’s disguise. Then, giving the entire truck a good sanding, I removed all light lenses and emblems. Any dents were no concern, I just wanted the khaki paint to stick. With everything masked off, I called it a day and re-covered the cruiser with the camouflage netting.

Everything on the canyon floor was quiet and still, then I saw the beast about a hundred yards away moving slowly in my direction. The wind from upstream prevented the K-9 from catching my scent and alerting his handler.

– Collins Rhōg

Cambire, The Story continues in the SedonaEye.com.

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