Energy manipulation and discipline

Jack wrote this in February, 2005:

Manipulation of energy involves sub-microscopic forces of intent.  It’s the chaos-butterfly, aimed and fired in a studiously planned surgical procedure.

Once released, the energy is opportunistic.  It follows the target along every path in much the way a heat-seeking missile trails a heat-source, but acting more in particle form than as a single object, or event.  It’s surprisingly opportunistic.  The reason for the planning (and far deeper discipline) is to make sure it finds the ‘heat source’ and doesn’t go down an innocent smoke-stack on a locomotive.

This is the reason discipline and careful planning are required for every energy manipulation project, such as healing.  The course of the least resistance, the greatest bang for the buck must be the path and the target.

During the pre-Y2K days a pamphlet was circulated to demonstrate the vulnerability of complex society to something as seemingly tiny as the ‘Y2K Bug’.  The object of focus was the simple lead pencil.

The pamphlet examined the 97 or so processes, the 178 sources of materials required to manufacture a pencil with an eraser.  Any one of those paths being interrupted would stop pencil manufacturing dead.

In energy work those critical paths are the target…. one easy, vulnerable place in the matrix where not a lot of energy is required to change things.  Replacing one sort of material with another at that stage can do the trick.  I know a nurse who administers the energy equivalent of a specific medication to patients by distance.   This is one of the processes we can use to heal all manner of ills.

Peaceful Warrior mentioned a migraine I ‘fixed’ for him a few days ago, him one where, me a thousand miles away, in a comment on another entry.  It took about thirty minutes to end his ordeal.

Because I’ve had a lot of experience with migraines, I happened to know the critical point in his anatomy.  I reduced the blood flow to his brain by shrinking the capillaries in his brain-stem.  The headache died.

Knowledge, discipline, precision, maximum bang for the energy buck.

That’s how it all works.

Jack

Ask Old Jules: Attributes of great philosophers, Can science explain everything, People making a difference, Does time travel exist?

Mandala Back Up CD2 238

Old Jules, what attributes do great philosophers have in general?

They do their own thinking. They don’t allow common knowledge and conventional wisdom to establish boundaries around what they examine They select their own priorities and have the courage not to surrender and don’t offer up any apologies. During various phases of history they’ve been disparaged, punished, scorned and vilified. Some thrown in prison for their work. But mostly they persevered.

Old Jules, science can explain everything…can’t it?

Science can’t explain a microscopic piece of what’s going on at our own fingertips, big or small. What science knows about the workings of the universe outside our touch isn’t even worth mentioning. A few years ago science discovered the magnetic polarity of the sun reverses every eleven years, but nobody has a clue why. Nobody has a clue why the north magnetic pole of our planet is drifting a few miles a year. Nobody has a clue what’s behind the upper atmospheric phenomena discovered a few years ago called Blue Jets, Elves and Sprites. Technology is providing a tsunami of data to be observed, but humanity and science is miles behind on providing explanations for what’s observed.

Old Jules, how many people actually make a difference in their lifetimes?

Probably the same percentage of people as you remember today from the 1960s. Celebrities, a few engineers, a few politicians and a wealthy person or two most likely. The reason is that not many people do anything of lasting value and a lot of what lasts 50 years isn’t even of lasting value.

Old Jules if there is nothing after death and we won’t know when we die does it mean the final moment will never end?

Yep. Be careful not to die listening to Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.

Old Jules, is there such thing as time travel? and can someone tell me how?

I used to know a guy during the 1990s named Steve Gibbs who believed he time traveled. He had a dozen or more designs for machines and was constantly designing more. In the late 1990s he fell off the radar. I don’t know what became of him, but for a while he was being interviewed on various radio programs and written up in the fringe science publications. You might do a web search on his name and time travel and come up with someone who has his plans if you want to mess around with it. I used to have a complete set of the drawings and handbooks, but they’ve gotten misplaced over the years.

A letter to Julia, age 6, from the Great Divide (pre-Y2K)

Jack wrote this long letter to my daughter. My family had already met Jack a couple of times in New Mexico. It’s long for a blog post, but an enjoyable read:

6:30 am
Sunday, Nov. 7, 1999
The Great Divide

Good morning, Julia.

I’m sitting here in the cool dawn, sipping a cup off coffee, listening to the chickens crow and being heckled unmercifully by the blacks for favors. The two polish roosters, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, are beginning to try their hands at crowing without notable success. They tend to be off on their time and they cut the crowing short of the ur-ur-urrrrr of the more mature birds.

The silkies are bullying the blacks away from the tidbits of apple and the two potatoes I’ve thrown to them, while the guineas are dominating one of the potatoes entirely, gathered around it with focus. Lady MacBeth and the well-coifed little red Cornish hen are struggling to establish their rightful place in chicken society, coming closer now and competing with some enthusiasm for bits of food.
Most of the roosters are telling me sotto voce that in the usual chicken flock, only a rooster or two is needed and all others, because they don’t lay eggs, eventually find their way to the cook pot. Naturally they are each referring to the roosters they see as extras. Mainly those other than themselves.

While the culling policy isn’t in force in this particular flock (I figure the flying and creeping predators will thin the rooster population in time) I have done my best not to convey that idiosyncrasy of mine to the roosters in hopes of keeping them on their best behavior. Without notable success, however. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern have sorely tried my patience on that issue repeatedly, I promise you.
Incidentally, the eggs in the hen house you brother found have been the source of a serious battle of wills between the pig-headed Aracauna hens and me. The leader hen (she’s a beauty, but clearly a communist) evidently enjoyed popularity, success, and respect of the other new layers, who quite naturally tried to move their laying activities inside the henhouse where retrieving their eggs is difficult, at best.

But enough of this chicken news. I began writing this to discuss the subject of fly swatting with you (certainly a more worthy focus of discourse when watching the birds in their activities reminded me how gratified I was by your interest in the various flock members. So I’ll finish the chicken component of this letter by saying you are right to be interested in them.

The importance of chickens in human life, now and in the past, cannot be over-stated. Even the great human philosopher, Plato, in the Socrates dialogues, put mention of a chicken in the final words of Socrates, prior to his death. Socrates, pacing, reflecting and finally on the verge of succumbing to the hemlock he’d taken, spoke abruptly; almost as an afterthought, to Crito, (one of his yes-men): “Crito, we owe a cock to Asclepius. Please pay without fail.”

So there you are. In fact, one of the deeper philosophical questions of this and earlier times contemplated by wise men everywhere is, “Why did the chicken cross the road?”

Why, indeed. However, as I’ve said, the subject of this letter was intended to be fly swatting, not chickens, and I’ll not have it compromised by endless meanderings on lesser matters. The prowess with flyswatter you demonstrated during your visit demands nothing less.

I’ll begin by saying that when I was a youngster back when the 20th century had only begun its interminable mid-life crisis, it was widely, almost universally recognized that children are far more adept at killing flies than are adults. Probably because of their lightning reflexes and sharper eye. This wisdom has suffered neglect partly because of screen doors, refrigeration, air conditioning, indoor plumbing, and other curses of modern life.

In my day anytime there was a gathering of adults for dominoes or canasta, picnics or outdoor parties, even if there was only one child present, he would quickly be given a fly swatter and put to the task. When more than one child was present, usually it was thought that the rowdiest, most rambunctious child, the one most likely to lead the others to acts of courage, bravado, or cunning, would be the best suited to ridding the affair of the fly nuisance.

I can promise you that in those days my fly swatting skills were second to none. However, over the years I’ve lost my razor edge. My reflexes are no longer as sharp, and the keenness of eye is largely gone, as the case with most adults.

Of course, the proper tools are also the victims of disuse. There were giants in the earth for fly swatting tools back then. For a dime you could purchase a fly swatter with a limber wooden handle and a flap of heavy rubber or leather that was equal to the most severe fly nuisance. My granddad had one he’d made himself of tooled leather that could sometimes send three or four flies at once off to the hereafter.

In those times the fly problem was probably worse than it is today. I’ve never seen it happen, but I was told many times by adults who had themselves seen it, of incidents where a child lapsed in the task he’d been assigned, fell behind, and was actually carried away by swarms of the angry insects.

Anyway, I’m sitting here, a burned-out has-been in the fly swatting arena, hoping to give you a few tips – the old worn out champ passing on a few tricks to a future talent who is yet a novice. Even with the fly swatting tools available in stores today, I firmly believe you can hone the skills with diligence and patience to become, as Marlon Brando coined the phrase in, “On the Waterfront”, a contender.

First off, it’s important to recognize that flies frequently jump backward or drop downward in their efforts to elude the slap. If you anticipate this and lead them a little, you’ll find what would otherwise have been a useless swing that did little more than knock over a lamp or a porcelain knick-knack, will result in the satisfying trophy of a fly in the dishwater or in a large bowl of coleslaw underneath the target area.

Secondly, you need to always keep in mind that while fly killing is a high priority to adults when they put you to the task, the priority invariably changes when they see a dead fly dropping into their drink. So, unless you do it unobserved, I’d suggest you’ll be more widely acclaimed for your skills if you steer well clear of anything but the most subtle or inadvertent trajectory of a defunct fly into any food or drink which is in view of an adult or older child who can’t be trusted to remain silent in the shared joy of secret knowledge. Most can’t, I myself learned in the hard school of experience.

Thirdly, the swing, or swings. Usually the fly swatter, (the tool, not the child wielding it) works best with short abrupt flicks of the wrist from an area only a foot or so above the insect. Wither lighter tools of today’s world, the swing probably needs to be handled with vigor and with little attention to the follow-through. On a window or other surface where the flies are thickly gathered, sometimes a series of rat-tat-tat slaps can net a goodly pile of carcasses and numbers for your growing record book.

Keep in mind that even on days when you are approaching previous records, adults are unlikely to be impressed when a previous record broken is accompanied by fly remains smeared across the front of the refrigerator or permanently embedded in a window screen. Fly killing is a matter involving politics, philosophy, and judgment, as well as the keenness of eye and lightening reflexes mentioned earlier.

I suppose the thing that got me started thinking of writing you about flies is the abundance of them in this house the last couple of days. I don’t know why. Usually they are attracted to areas where there’s livestock. But here there is no livestock. Just the three cats, the chickens, and myself.

You might tell your mom and dad I’ve been using my wood stove the last couple of days. It’s enough to roast a human out of the house with a single large log burning on a cold night. But getting it hot enough to cook food requires a lot of smaller wood. With large logs inside it won’t boil water between now and the day you, Julia, become the bride of some fortunate suitor.

Your dad will want to know the thing I went through the wall with did fine with normal fires, but when I determined to stoke it full of small wood for a breakfast fire and coffee this morning it charred the paper front on the insulation around the outer pipe. Of course, the stovepipe was glowing red through that episode, which is to be avoided.

You might also mention that trying to erect a stovepipe along a wall by one’s self is a thing you haven’t really lived until you’ve done. Cartoons used to show shanty houses with zigzagging stovepipe. I never knew why until now.

Hanging the kitchen cabinets alone was also one of those experiences which, like the man who decided to carry a cat home by the tail, will most likely remain burned in memory for a while.

I’m not inclined to regret anything in my recent past and hope I never will. The person I now am differs from the person I was at your age as a result of cumulative lessons I’ve learned from choices I’ve made between that time and this. However, there’s nevertheless a temptation to gnash my teeth a little for not having taken advantage of your dad’s kind offer to help with the electrical wiring from the windmill, solar panels, inverter, and batteries, into the house. I’m reminded of that offer each time I fiddle with the connections and the hidden short somewhere shuts down the inverter.

Hmmm this letter has gone on and on. There’s nothing particularly personal or confidential about it, except the tips on fly killing, so feel free to share it with your family. Or keep it until you are able to read better and read it yourself.

Best wishes to your brothers and your mom and dad.

Affectionately,
Jack

Musings and a poem: Desert Water Wars

Jack wrote this in February, 2006:

Good evening blogsters.
Lessssseee.

Ah.  Ate lunch over at San Felipe Pueblo again today.  Got to watch a bit of TV while I ate.  Sound was turned off, but it was still middling interesting watching it.

Saw a fat guy in a cowboy hat apparently trying to decide whether he could get his mouth around a microphone to suck it.  Took him a while to decide not to do it.

Saw a movie must have been a piece of a Tarzan flick.  Two white guys shaving in a river using a cut-throat razor with apes doing what apes do in the background.  An occasional noble savage running through the jungle, bad white guys in a boat shooting black tigers, crocodiles and this and that.  Didn’t see Jane around.

Middling interesting.  Especially that fat cowboy and the microphone.  Someone said his name was Barth somebody-or-other.  Crazy the things a person will do to get on TV.
Doggerel to smile by – Desert Water Wars

 

Flooding on the Zuni land

Tribal chairman calls

Upstream Ramah Din’e band

Over grazing galls

 

Ancient ruins I travel past

Forgotten tribes of old

And finally arrive at last

On Zuni land as told:

 

Tribal council meets, he chants

A time warp history

I listen long the raves and rants

And river mystery

 

“Navajo must have his sheep

To have his wealth, it’s plain.

Too many kids, too many sheep

Too little grass and rain.”

 

Forgotten white man wrongs and deeds

The raids of Navajo

Corn that didn’t sprout the seeds

And stumbled Shalako

 

“More sheep graze than in the past

Arroyos grew wide and deep

Siltation settled hard and fast

In riverbed to sleep.”

 

Navajo siltation choked

An ancient channel bed

Water rose above the banks

200 cattle dead

 

“Houses flooded, ruined cars

Fields of grain were lost

A playground field a channel mars

And who should bear the cost?”

 

The Chapter Prez of Ramah band

Listened to my tale

Stony silence, steady hand

Informed me I would fail

 

“If those Zunis don’t like floods

Tell them to reduce the chances;

We’ll hold back our streams of muds

If they’ll call off their damned rain dances”

 

What’s wrong with zealotry?

Jack wrote this in September, 2006:

Probably no human trait has caused more misery, bloodshed, pain and general deviltry in history than political, or religious zealotry.

Political, or religious zealotry.  The deadly twins.  They aren’t two separate traits.  Political, or religious zealotry are just one trait following two different paths to create ugly.

Think about it.  One of the reasons political and religious zealots tend to be found in the same human being lies in the fact that religious zealots have already graduated with honors from the school of blind faith.

Communism?  3/4 century of human misery caused by political zealotry.  Cambodia?  The Inquisition?  The Mormons having to flee to Utah?  The 3rd Reich?  Jim Jones?  Wossname Christian/Patriot bossman wanting to assassinate wossnamisimo prez of Venezuela?  The Kennedy bros. ordering the assassination of Prez Diem, was it, our ally, South Vietnam?  The Kennedy bros., themselves getting assassinated?

Political, or religious zealotry.

Today it isn’t getting better, as a person might have expected, because of the collapse of Communism world-wide.  It’s gotten a lot worse.  We’ve got Muslim zealots, Christian zealots, Prez step-two Bush Dynasty and ex-prez BlowJob wives all in the game of zealous one-upsmanship.  Zionist zealots wanting to snag every piece of real estate in the Middle East they can drum up an excuse to play for US support, which doesn’t take much.  Hispanic zealots in the US southwest wanting to take it away from the white zealots who took it away from them.  Environmentalist zealots trying to spike trees to injure the workmen cutting down trees while they listen to Joseph Rush Goebbels on the radio to help them remember what to think about rad-libs, Arabs, and whomever it is we’re bombing the bejesus out of this week.

This ain’t cutting it.  It’s not making your lives happier, and it’s sure as hell not making them better.

One of the things I like best about the teachings of the Buddha is the emphasis on moderation, the cautions against zealotry.

Religious moderates have never burned one another at the stake.  Political moderates have never dragged out the guillotine to punish the opposition.  They never built any gas chambers and ovens.  No political or religious moderate ever pulled the trigger on anyone, ever dropped a bomb on anyone except in self-defense.

Political, or religious zealotry.  Human traits worth hating, but they usually only hate one another.  Moderates never bother to hate anyone.

Moderates.  Nice, easy living sort of term.

Jack

More musings- Ted Turner

Jack wrote this in August, 2005.

I mentioned Ted Turner in my last musings entry.  Most of you probably know who he is.  Famous rich guy, inherited wealth…. richer than 18 inches up a bull’s behind.  Owns more land in New Mexico than the US Government…. I’m lying a bit there, but he owns an enormous amount of real estate …. some stupendous beautiful places.

Anyway, this guy, Turner, used to be married to Phony Joanie (Baez), or Hanoi Jane (Fonda).  Probably the Fonda woman, though I might be wrong.  I recall thinking at the time he picked the opposite one to the one I’d have picked if I had to be married to one of them…. he went for pretty, while I would have gone for the birdlike singing voice.  That voice would have provided some consolation for having to be in close proximity with such a person.

But, when his marriage with one of the other of them disassembled I saw an interview with him somewhere.  He was whining about his hard life, actually said that during that post-divorce time when he was also losing control of AOL, which he evidently owned, that he thought he had the ‘trials of Job’.  Said he gave serious thought to suicide.

Wow.

So any of you bloggers who think winning the lottery will solve any of your serious mental problems, think again.

Jack

John Wayne sums up

Jack wrote this in September, 2006:

A brief summary:

I don’t harbor any illusions that anyone’s going to read that entire article (previously posted long article from a historian that I am not re-posting here-J.) about how the American Southwest came to need a fence at the particular location where it’s thought to be needed.  Instead, I’ll give you a brief quote by a great American to summarize the US foreign policy that got us here.

After the filming of The Comancheros, great  American John Wayne was asked during an interview whether he had any problem with the fact we’d taken all the land away from the Indians by force of arms, then ‘given’ tiny pieces of it back to them.

When Europeans got here,” Wayne answered, “the Indians were selfishly hoarding the entire continent.”

Europeans took care of that little problem.

Then Mexico attempted to selfishly hoard the entire (now) southwestern US.  Which rightfully weeded-off the good Amercuns, forcing them to take it away from Mexico by armed force.

Now the former selfish hoarders of the Amercun southwest are breaking US laws by re-entering the country they had to have taken from them because of their selfishness.

A lot of Amercuns don’t like that.  So the US government has to do something to try to convince them they’re doing something.

A fence.

Meaningless gestures have always worked well, thus far.

Meanwhile, the US has discovered Muslim people are selfishly hoarding land that has a lot of petroleum beneath it.  Question is whether to send them somewhere else when we have to punish them for selfishly hoarding that land, or just figure out a justification for killing them all.

Just my rad-lib viewpoint, supported by actual history, rather than patriotic myth.

Jack

Ask Old Jules: What’s more important, Philosophical arguments for the afterlife, Shamelessness vs. Pride/Dignity, Why people are dull or smart

Harper, TX 2010 123

Old Jules, what is more important: (1)good health (2)being loved (3)have lots of money?

When a need gets satisfied we rapidly put it on the back burner and shift the priorities to those left unsatisfied. Left to its own devices without conscious intervention life tends to be an unexamined race to satisfy a series of needs of diminishing necessity, but each as important as the one just satisfied. Those we take for granted don’t regain importance until we lose them.

Old Jules, are there any good philosophical arguments why an afterlife should exist?

Atheists and their preoccupation with the issue might be the best evidence and argument in favor of an afterlife existing. It’s understandable that people who believe in an afterlife would be allow their thoughts to range over the concept, maybe even be evangelical. But the fact such a huge population of people who don’t believe in an afterlife become so animated and bellicose over it seems to me to offer a strong indirect argument along the lines of the bard, “Methinks the lady protests too much.” IMO

Old Jules, why do so many people in this society get shamelessness confused for pride/dignity?

Not many do. Dignity is self-respect. Shamelessness is passive, a non-acknowledgement anything the shameless person does is worthy of shame. Maybe it sometimes includes a repudiation of those who’d attempt to inspire shame, but not necessarily. People only consider the two in a similar context when attempting to create a rhetorical environment wherein they can elevate themselves above those whom they disapprove and whom they feel appear to have dignity [positive] but in fact are shameless [negative]

Old Jules, why are some people are brilliant and some are dull?

Good question and one worth pondering. I suspect it’s something about operating systems and background software. Might be we’re running too many background programs and could improve things by looking into the activity/process viewer to see what’s taking up so much RAM. Or doing some cleanup routines and defragmenting.

A wild shot in the dark

Jack wrote this in February, 2006:

Okay, blogsterisimos:

Some of you are already accomplished healers.  Some of you want to learn to be.

Here’s a project for all of us.  Something worth doing.  Something to hone up our blades preparatory to doing something useful.

A MAJOR HEALING PROJECT, Step-by-step. 

What to do and how to do it.

The ducks and chickens will grade our papers.

Avian Flu

Although nobody much is dying of this new Avian Flu thing, America (and every other country that includes people who believe anything the US media says) is doing a bit of untimely urinating in the britches.  Mainly because they need that adrenaline fix.

Let’s all play a shabby trick on the fear mongers.  Let’s rob them of the chance to be afraid they’re gonna get the blind staggers.  They can’t worry they’ll go off puking into the bushes to die from bird flu if birds aren’t even dying of it.

Make them find something else to fret about.

No, there won’t be a tidal wave of human deaths to come out of this epizootic.  You won’t be able hug yourselves afterward with warm fuzzies because of all the humans still burning everything that comes into their paths because you saved them.

But you can be a part of something to save the lives of a lot of feathered critters mostly just minding their own business.

And you can have the satisfaction of knowing you’ll have to wait for something besides bird flu to kill you.

Interested?

Okay.  Whether you’re already a metaphysical wizard, or just someone who likes to hear a rooster crow mornings, here’s the drill:

  1. Sit back and take a deep breath.  Let your eyes droop closed.
  2. Relax yourself muscle by muscle from the tips of your toes upward, every muscle.  Fingertips inward to your stem, muscle by muscle….Torso, back, stomach, neck, jaws, forehead, ears, eyelids. Usually helps to strain each muscle individually before you relax it.
  3. All relaxed, sit a few minutes and savor how good it feels to be relaxed for once in your life.
  4. Now, allow a finger of your mind to travel inside your head to the center of your forehead, just above the brow and feel around…listen while you do it, listen to the feel of your forehead… you should feel a sort of ‘puckering’ sensation there when you do this. If you haven’t done it before, practice it a while.  Just ‘listening’ to it.
  5. What you just felt was your Third Eye.  If you didn’t know it already, you probably need to do it again, practice opening it.  Remember how it feels.
  6. Now that third eye you just felt is the most powerful metaphysical weapon in your arsenal.  If you want, load it up and fire it at something, just for kicks.  See that chain hanging down from the ceiling fan?  Stare hard at it.  Tell it to move.  Start it swinging.  Nevermind if it only moves half an inch at first.  Practice will improve you.   Sometimes it helps to visualize an arm and hand reaching out from the middle of your forehead, pushing the object you’re pushing.
  7. Now what I want you to do is visualize your third eye looking through an impossible microscope.  One that can enlarge something the size of a virus.  The virus you’re looking at is the one that’s responsible for Avian Flu.  Reach down into that microscope and feel it.  Listen to the energy coming from it.  Memorize the sound, the smell, the texture and feel of the energy of that virus.
  8. Now, I want you to visualize yourself smiling at the virus and all the kinfolks it has everywhere, and throwing a pall over it, sucking the life energy out of it.  Visualize yourself taking the life-energy from that entire species of virus, wadding it up into a shining yellow ball in your hand, crushing it, releasing it to the Universe where it can go on to better things.
  9. Visualize the light fragments of that burst ball of energy sprinkling around, dissipating, all in a joyful way, spreading around the way snow spreads in one of those glass balls you used to see.

Okay.  Practice that, and keep doing it a while.

That might do the job.  But let’s throw everything but the kitchen sink at bird flu, drag out the heaviest artillery, the pocket nukes, the ray guns.

Let’s keep it up until the ennui of this bird flu epizootic goes out of our lives and we can find something worthwhile to be scared about.

I’ll post Step 2 in a day or so.

Jack

(Step 2 was never posted, due to lack of interest- Jeanne)

News travels fast

Jack wrote this in August, 2005:

Richard French, the treasure hunter who wrote Four Days From Fort Wingate, used to poke semi-bitter fun at me by saying, “Jack isn’t looking for gold. He’s looking for the Lost Adams Diggings. He could find a dozen glory holes while he’s looking, and if they weren’t the Adams, he’d just walk right on.”

Dick disliked this trait of mine, which he had fairly well nailed. My other partners over the years didn’t care much for it, either. If a site fit the bill as an Adams prospect I’d beat it to death trying to get it to declare itself, whether there was any gold or not. But if it had some gold, but didn’t satisfy any of the other characteristics of the Adams, I didn’t have time (from my point of view) to try to discover how much potential it had.

In those days I could afford the luxury to indulge such snobbery, though it cost me a few friends and prospecting partners.

When Dick French and I were searching together, he was roughly the age I am now, had a bad knee, was generally not in robust health and not in a great financial position. What he was looking for was the treasure hunting equivalent of a jackpot win. He wanted an easier life than he had, and he couldn’t are less whether it came from the Adams, or just some glory hole we located while we were searching for it. He needed a younger, healthier man he could trust who could get into the rough spots and do the heavy lifting to sort out what we found.

Then, if it was good, he wanted to sell the entire claim, lock, stock and banana peel, to some outfit big enough to rip a hole in a mountain and bring out what they’d bought.

Dick and I parted ways early in the 1990s. A difference in viewpoint so fundamental works fine so long as nothing’s found. But the instant anything promising comes into the picture, everything falls apart.

When I completed The Lost Adams Diggings – Myth, Mystery and Madness, things had changed a bit in my life, though I hadn’t paused to examine the implications. I wrote the book about the Adams, which is what I believed, would interest the readers. I told everything I thought I’d learned that might be important to them. I did it against the advice of every treasure-hunter-friend I had.

I didn’t anticipate a lot of fallout from that book. I had no idea I’d suddenly be getting several emails and letters a month from strangers who wanted to tell me where it is, (from studying maps, mostly) wanting me to go climb a mountain, do everything necessary, then take some miniscule percentage. I didn’t anticipate people gleaning from the book the mentions of places where the Adams isn’t, but where there was evidence of some gold.

Here’s one that came today. A follow-up from one last week from a young geologist who wanted to explain to me that the Adams is in a canyon in the Zuni Mountains precisely where I thought it was a decade and a half ago and searched thoroughly:

Hi Jack,

Do you mind telling me were you found gold in the Zuni’s? You mentioned you found some gold somewhere east of Cottonwood Canyon?

Where was this spot if you don’t mind telling me? I don’t plan on panning it, but it would help me establish more possible reference points.

I am working on a comprehensive theory of the Zuni Mtns as a possible location for the Adam’s dig. I  would be glad to share with you the

current status of my theory in the next week or so if you would like to hear it and discuss it. It has been worked out with much work and lots of time in the field.

hope to hear from you and discuss this soon, yours,

Brian

The placer he’s talking about is one I passed over because it wasn’t the Adams. I’ve never gotten back to check it out further, though lately I’ve intended to.

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I carry more than my fair share of stupid around with me. I suppose word has gotten around.

Jack