Green Farm

I have long searched through this world for ruins.  Even as a child exploring abandoned places was of primary interest.  Shadow strewn construction sites, haunted burnt-out old buildings, and creepy derelict expanses were both church and school to me.  Lonely places, empty places.  Through my miserable life I have followed this impulse all the way down the rabbit hole.  I have explored the ruins of modern civilizations and ancient ones alike.  I used to dream of the whole world in ruins, would pray for it.  I would lay in bed and imagine exploring the wastelands of a post-apocalyptic earth.  Ruins are a historical slap in the face.  They speak to you, show you things, wake you up.  They are haunting and beautiful in their own right, but for me they are a form of memento mori.  A reminder that nations fall, empires crumble, and that I too am going to die.  I have identified with tragic heroes, rooted for doomed characters, and related to the damned in literature and movies alike.  I remember reading Heart of Darkness for the first time in High School and wanting to be Kurtz.  The prose was beautiful, a man abandoned to the wilds, himself becoming that to which he abandoned himself.  I remember learning for the first time about soldiers coming home from WWI – read their poetry, viewed their art, heard their words.  I remember thinking that they were like burnt out buildings – men in ruins.  I sought out those ruins as well.  Not in a juvenile act of reckless abandon or any pathological masochism, I wanted simply to ruin myself, debauch myself, abandon my soul… and then explore the ruins.

“I tried to break the spell–the heavy, mute spell of the wilderness–that seemed to draw him to its pitiless breast by the awakening of forgotten and brutal instincts, by the memory of gratified and monstrous passions. This alone, I was convinced, had driven him out to the edge of the forest, to the bush, towards the gleam of fires, the throb of drums, the drone of weird incantations; this alone had beguiled his unlawful soul beyond the bounds of permitted aspirations.”

- Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness, Part 3

Sadly something has continually pulled me from completely embracing the fire that would burn me out.  Aside from a few scars on my soul I have remained for the most part unscathed in my ruination, but the hunger still drives me.  Like a moth to a flame, like a child, I still crave exploration.  Exploration is the abandon of convention, exploration is the questioning of existence, exploration is the purest celebration of life.  The hunger is king.   The throne upon which that hunger now sits is called ‘Urban Exploration’, a cheap idiom of our time, and yet I am its devoted supplicant.

“My thought is me: that’s why I can’t stop. I exist because I think… and I can’t stop myself from thinking. At this very moment – it’s frightful – if I exist, it is because I am horrified at existing. I am the one who pulls myself from the nothingness to which I aspire.”

- Sartre

In the spirit of both a world in ruins and the exploration of abandonia my latest quest took form.  I heard rumors of abandoned nuclear missile silos just outside of town.  Now let me be perfectly clear, I don’t want there to be any confusion or misunderstanding in what I’m about to say.  Exploring abandoned nuclear missile silos is my fucking destiny!  Deep in the northern reaches of Miramar Marine Corps Air Station there lie two locations of unparalleled cold war glory.  There is an Atlas & Centaur missile test area called the “Sycamore Canyon Test Site” and an electromagnetic gun test area known as “Green Farm”.  Green Farm… the name itself almost has a strange and eerie connotation.  Abandoned weapons testing labs, ancient vestiges of the cold war, abandonia pure and true.

The first site that begged exploration was Green Farm.  The idea of exploring weapons testing labs where some crazy cold war electromagnetic gun was developed was just too much to resist.  Green Farm is slowly being buried by progress and time.  Much of the main buildings have been demolished to make space for a new shooting range, the most recent addition to an area that has seen a substantial history.

From 1961 until the late 80′s the area was used by General Dynamics under contract of the Defense Nuclear Agency.  Using various explosives General Dynamics conducted tests on instrumentation for nuclear weapon diagnostics.  One of the test areas housed a small photographic laboratory until 1974. Essentially they would photograph the shape and nature of the detonation of different charges and their effect.

From 1986 – 1999 Maxwell Technologies operated an Electric Gun Research & Development Facility (a.k.a. DNA 32-MJ Green Farm Test Facility), under the direction of the Defense Special Warfare Agency, where they tested a high-tech electromagnetic rail gun that shot a large, specially designed projectile at extremely high velocities. The weapon was developed at Maxwell’s Kearny Mesa facility.

The barrel of the rail gun was 8 meters long, and used a quick blast of nitrogen to begin a series of electromagnetic pulses that would move a 90mm projectile through the barrel at speeds greater than 2 km/sec known as “hypervelocity” which upon impact could penetrate tank armor.  It was additionally being developed as a space-deployed satellite mounted weapon that could shoot down airborne objects such as aircraft/missiles.

The electromagnetic gun was so powerful that a 1/5 scale test of the prototype shot through all of the sandbags and phone books placed as backing and shot straight into the foundation of the Maxwell building.  The first test of the full-scale version ionized the air to such a degree that radar went down as far away as Lindbergh Field (yeah, all the way in downtown San Diego).  Testing of the electromagnetic rail gun was subsequently moved to a remote New Mexico location after being temporarily housed at the Aberdeen Proving Grounds in Maryland.

The infiltration of this site was pretty easy.  After determining its rough position by cross referencing historical information with google maps it was decided that mountain bikes would provide the optimal insertion platform.  This would be a two man operation, always use the buddy system, and for this mission a mega-powerful computer buried deep under Washington DC decided that my g/f codenamed “Lara Croft” would act as my teammate for this mission.  Lady Croft had already proved her worth on several other urban infiltrations and after rumors of her exploits spawned a highly successful video game franchise she seemed the obvious choice.  I wonder sometimes what dark river runs through my subconscious that would take my g/f into the wilds, but a damn good partner she makes.

A crude gear list was compiled for the assault;

-         Maps

-          Vitamin Water

-          GPS

-          Flashlight

-          Headlamp

-          Digital Camera

-          Leatherman Tool

-          Hoodie Sweatshirts

-          Sunglasses

-          Extra Bike Tire (deflated)

-          Beef Jerkey

-          Mixed Nuts

I stuffed all the crap into my badass tactical backpack and we drove to the insertion point.  As luck would have it the inevitable spreading of the human virus like a sickening plague across planet earth had left a paved and easily accessible track home construction site available just to the north of the target.  We parked and mounted bikes.  After a quick ride up a somewhat steep hill we walked our bikes around the flimsy chain-link gate and entered the military base.  The ride to the target was completely uneventful.  We disregarded the many warning signs believing that they were only intended to keep the tourists away.  “Explosives contaminated area”, “live fire area”, and “laser operating” are just old wives tales brewed up by the military to scare dairy farmers and illegal aliens.  Besides, without risk there can be no reward.

Upon entering the Green Farm target area we were initially confused by the presence of a shooting range.  Nothing in our research indicated anything about an active shooting range located essentially right on top of the site.  This confusion was quickly put to rest after we skirted the range along its northern boundary.  We passed by a burnt out shack that at one time was a remnant of the facility and down a crumbling old road that foretold of the grim future of all mankind until we discovered the first of several structures that still remained from Green Farm.

How many times have I traveled crumbling roads.  Afghanistan, Iraq, Palestine, and here in America.  Literally, roads are the means by which people travel from place to place within society, but these roads, these dead roads, are the means by which I travel away from society.  I equate the crumbling deteriorated road with a coiled snake, a symbol of danger; it lies in wait, ready to strike.  My journey down these roads has been very time-consuming and arduous just as the journey into oneself is both a slow and difficult task.

The bunker/control room was awesome.  Upon first finding the target we were assaulted by a brood of crows that had taken residence inside one of the bunker structures.  They raced past us out of the darkness and circled angrily overhead, crowing their mellifluous discord into our cautious ears.  The bunker was amazing.  Passing through the small opening in a huge steel ‘automatic door’ I realized that the testing must have taken place somewhere very close by to require this level of protection.  Faded warnings and old worn stencils sat like epitaphs upon the derelict structure.  The inside of the bunker was dark and musty, entombed within were the last few dirty relics of electromagnetic glory.  The place smelled like junta virus.  A dry, feces-covered, hell-box.  Long black electrical cables hung down like vines in a primordial swamp, defunct computers and switches and indicator lights all lay dormant beneath an ever increasing layer of dust.  Ducts hung broken away from the ceiling, their yellow and brown insulation now forming the nesting material to bugs and rats.  A desiccated rabbit lied flattened amongst the rat shit, the pulverizing effects of time and gravity slowly crushing its corpse into a smelly brown pancake.  Circular portholes with thick reinforced glass allow light to slowly ooze into the death-box.  Through the windows the wilderness peers in with yellow, bug-covered eyes to watch an infinitesimal segment of man’s achievement slowly decay.  Wires like dirty snakes slither out of every hole as the shadows in the room dance freakishly to the feverish movement of my headlamp.  History oozes from every broken machine.  Here in this tomb of technology, in this ruined shrine of anti-communism, this is the final resting place of American ascendency.  Manifest destiny left mummified here under animal feces and perpetual darkness.

I start to feel claustrophobic, the rotting walls are closing in, the stench becomes pure abomination.  We move back outside, patrol the exterior of the bunker and find a small vault-like box – its contents long forgotten while its heavy door lays agape into infinity letting out its last and endless gasp.  There is a section of vertical conduit with an attached ladder laying under a pile of dead branches.  The sight forcing me to wonder whether there is an entire underground element to the ruins that has yet to be discovered.  We make our way toward what looks like the functional section of the bunker building, a large concrete cul-de-sac wreathed in rusting metal and patrolled by a hive of angry bees.  We move forward but the wilds have overtaken this place.  Swarming madness infects my brain but we press through the insanely buzzing cloud with desperate curiosity.  There, in the apex of the swarm, a new goal emerges into my consciousness.  I remove the leatherman tool from my backpack and slowly unscrew the hardware attaching my prize to a power box.  Despite the aggressive advances of the swarm I was able to warily unscrew bit by bit the unit from its housing and pull it away from the power box.  The bees forced me to retreat several times, but in the end victory was mine.  A few snips with my wire cutters and the power lines were severed, the function buttons to the utility area fell away free.

We continue our exhaustive investigation, all the while documenting our discoveries with the digital camera.  There was little threat of military police discovering us as the ruins were completely out of sight and behind a small fence.  There would be absolutely no reason for casual or accidental detection.

After clearing the bunker we continued down the broken road to the next structure, a proper underground bunker.  Constructed out of conex containers and dug into the edge of a hillside it lies completely undetectable from overhead imagery.  There is no record of it whatsoever when viewing the site through google satellite but just 50 feet from the control room there it sits.  A quick recon uncovered some chewed up 50′s era furniture and more animal stink but nothing significant.  The entry was peppered with old bullet holes, thrown recklessly into the metal walls by negligent soldiers.  Near the hatch there was an old announcement speaker that probably relayed a thousand countdowns and all-clears from the control room.

We followed the broken road all the way to where it terminated into the hillside.  After taking a quick look around to make sure we weren’t missing anything vital we backtrack to the burnt out building and proceeded towards the structures on the other side of a small hill.  The mountain bikes were a perfect choice for this terrain because they were able to cover the ground quickly and effectively,  saving a lot of energy that would have been wasted walking.

Approaching the rail gun test building I had a definite sense that this place was something ominous.  We checked out the warning sirens and speakers that sat idly dissolving into rust about 100 meters from the structure itself.  At one time they harkened the imminence of new weapons technology, now they merely mark the crumbling path towards to rotting buildings.  As we approached, a giant mass of bees lay nested on a bush just off the road and upon arriving at the test building itself it was immediately apparent that there was a very active nest of bees just inside the steel vault entry door.  The test building was constructed of concrete, its thick walls wearing water stains and other blemishes as testament to the duration of its idleness.  Other building materials did not fare as well over the past decades.  Metal turning red and brown, bubbling up, melting away, leaving only a brittle skeleton and a red stain where it used to be.  Paint fading with time, bleached by the relentless sun, flaking away into pale dust just below the spot where its vibrancy once was.

We cautiously entered the test structure.  The bees are screaming at us, their wings vibrating loose metal parts surrounding their boiling nest.   All potential explorers need to take warning at this point.  Now there are some warnings that are written in pencil and there are others that are written in blood – but this warning is written in shit.  Beware of the creatures in the wilds.

We were eagerly creeping through brush and cobwebs to snap off photos and see what relics lay abandoned in the deserted depths of the rail gun test facility.  Much of the old computer equipment was trashed, dust-covered, buried in weather and time.  The place was filled with the dried feces of many wayward beasts piled up in the stacks of old machines and wires.  The eviscerated corpses of old computers lay buried under the musty stink of rat piss and bird shit.  Large military bases are often refuge to all the animals pushed from their native habitats by an ever expanding suburbia spreading out like a pre-fabricated cookie-cutter rash over the natural wonders of the wild earth.  Hippies and environmentalist faggots are always bitching about how demolitions ranges and land navigation courses are over the nests and burrows of some useless little endangered creature.  They picket and petition to save the things, fouling up good training and making a giant mess of what would be otherwise simple and harmless activities.  What they don’t realize is that the animals seek the wilds of the military bases because every other square inch of earth has been bulldozed, paved, and had condos built on top of it.  If there had been endangered shit where the new shopping mall was planned it would be that simplest of modern solutions.  Money would change hands, a wink, a nod, and the mall would be built.  No amount of hippie faggotry can stop that machine – only the military as an expression of our nations spiral down the toilet of political correctness and trying to make everyone happy would bow to pressure from a pack of lazy, unshaven, jobless fags.

After nearly being swarmed to death by bees while removing the control buttons at the previous site I was already very wary of the dangers of bees hiding in power boxes.  Whenever I approached the entrance of this structure I could hear clearly the insane buzzing of a thousand angry insects thrashing against the walls of a metal prison.  At this point Lady Croft and I both activated “reaper-mode”.  This is where I pull the hood of my hoodie over my head, zip the zipper up all the way, and retract my hands into the sleeves so that only my fingers emerge like evil bones.  “Reaper-mode” provides maximum protection against weather and beast alike – and the last thing I wanted was to get a million goddamn bee stings just exploring some old cold-war ruins.  I crept through the darkness, my headlamp torching  a flickering path through the black.  Shadows rise and creep away as I skulk deeper and deeper into the unknown.  Excitement and disgust coalesce with my curiosity as I slither over dead bugs and old power cables that lay across the floor like rubbery black tentacles.  I hear a violent rustling overhead.

Lara Croft, “Dude, there is some kind of big animal on the roof of the building.”

Me, “Damn, yeah.  I hear it fucking around up there.”

We continue our infiltration of the dark space.  The place is lifeless and still, old computers and machines, radios, telephones, tools, and circa 1950′s engineering reports lay about like evidence at a crime scene.  The place feels like a tomb, technology lies dead in every direction.  At one time this place was a state-of-the-art, cutting edge, military research facility – now it’s just a musty cage for lost and wild creatures.  I hear another rustling overhead, but it is immediately disregarded – the wealth of potential treasure is too palpable to be ignored at this point – I am completely target fixated.  Another violent rustling.  My headlamp frantically darts back and forth trying to figure out what is going on.  Time slows down and speeds up, the way it does at the moment of every crisis.  I look up.  I hear a screech.  Claws are tearing at my hood.  My headlamp is knocked away.  I feel a large soft and downy belly frantically assaulting my face.  I scream.  Shit squirts out all over my face and mouth.  I hunch down…  I have been owned.

Lara Croft, “Fuck! Did you see the size of that fucking thing!?”

I stay frozen there, awaiting the next attack, while a second creature hisses at me in the dark.

Lara Croft, “Hey, are you OK?”

I reach down, pick up my headlamp, and walk towards the door.  I emerge from the testing room.  The sunlight hurts my eyes.  I feel abused.

Lara Croft, “Did you see that fucking thing!? It was fucking HUGE!! It was the size of a fucking pterodactyl.  It was like bigger that a fucking pelican!!”

Me, “Yep, I saw it alright.”

Lara Croft, “Oh SHIT! Hey, wipe off your face! SHIT! Wipe off your mouth RIGHT NOW!”

Me, “No need to hurry, it’s already too late.”

Yes, it’s true.  It’s true, and horrible, and true.

An owl shit on my face.

A snowy owl shit in my mouth.

I was face-fucked by a snowy owl.

I was pwned.

I now know what snowy owl shit tastes like.

A snowy owl shit into my screaming mouth and I screamed and it shit in my mouth and on my face and in my fucking mouth.

I use what remained of the vitamin water and washed off my face and mouth.  The combo of vitamins and half-digested rats was not half as delicious as it may sound, but at least it was no longer exclusively digested rat.  I used my hoodie to completely wipe myself off.  It took me a few moments to calm down from the experience, I mean, it’s not every day that an owl rapes your face.  There were other artifacts inside that I would have wanted to prize from the room but at this point I had no interest in returning inside.  Possibly if I ever return I will unscrew and snag the red light that illuminated the space when weapons tests were being conducted, the idea of that light burning deep red like a dying sun over my head as I get wasted drunk in my apartment seems almost fitting, but that is for another day.

We explored the exterior of the building and found the backing plate that took hits from the hypervelocity projectiles.  There were some other poles and winches back further away from the road but it didn’t look like much and there was nothing to support the idea of additional structures on the imagery, not to mention that the ground was super swampy and the last thing I wanted after being face-fucked by a snowy owl was a pair of wet boots.

Mounting bikes again we patrolled down to the abandoned magazine where explosives and ammo were housed.  There was nothing significant of note here either so we got back on our bikes and headed out.  I quickly mark the site with a splash tag of the same image I spray painted in the abandoned subway tunnel in Los Angeles (back to the future article / subway photo gallery).  One must always mark one’s territory, if only with spray paint and piss.

As we rode back towards our vehicle I thought back to when I was a kid.  I remembered how I would watch ww2 movies and imagined exploring the bombed out cities for treasures.   Somehow this has manifested itself into my adult life by imprisoning countless thousands of hours digging through thrift shops and exploring urban decay.  Traveling to strange destinations, conducting strange acts, taking savage occupations, and thinking savage thoughts.

I don’t think I could even tell you if you asked which decisions led me to this place, but here I am.  Caught between two conflicting worlds, two conflicting desires.  Civilization verses wilderness, freedom verses slavery, clarity verses fog, passion verses reason, light verses darkness.  What is it that has ruled my life?  Wealth, honor, knowledge?  The business of procuring money is extremely complicated: there are well-planned strategies, alliances, behind-the-scenes deals, complex moves, and plenty of outside influences.  This is the modern world, human life is mere grist for the profit machine operated by governments and corporations.  I have been ensnared by the savages quite a few times, heard the beating of their drums, feared for my life.  One thing I have never feared is the environment; instead, I embrace it, and with this action I literally have turned my back on civilization.  I suppose this was the first indication that something profound had changed within me.

The journey down these crumbling dead roads to abandoned ruins is like a traveling backwards in time.  The deeper into the wilds I travel, the further from civilization I move.  The landscape becomes untamed, wild and feral, and the inhabitants seem savage, shooting guns and chanting like primitives, the soldiers here are almost pre-human.  Sometimes it can be almost shocking to recognize humanity in a soldier, admittedly they remind me of a wildness which resides within all men, within myself.  In essence, we are all only a step or two away from savagery at any moment.  Even though I was once the picture of modern culture, I have firmly rejected the society that produced me.  In this way a man is no longer fettered by the conventions of civilized society.

“Anyone who cannot come to terms with his life while he is alive needs one hand to ward off a little his despair over his fate… but with his other hand he can note down what he sees among the ruins.”

– Franz Kafka

Exploring these sites is like venturing into the darkness.   As a symbol darkness represents the core of our being.  It is what’s left after we throw off the illusions and comforts of civilization, a tremendous emptiness.  Darkness symbolizes the unknown; it gains its power from its ability to conceal things we are too frightened to face.  Darkness also effectively conceals certain savage acts.  Darkness is also very compelling.  Despite the fear it induces, there are plenty of men who are willing to brave it for its potential rewards.

Modern society tries to push back the darkness, if only temporarily, through their clothes, adherence to modern customs and morals, and technological advances.  But I argue that the darkness is too enveloping.  I have seen how quickly the jungle reclaims its territory.   In time America too will be reclaimed by wild.  The light of civilization will someday return to darkness.

Progress itself is a destructive, rather than constructive, force.  I don’t mean the progress of developing new weapons and technologies (which is obvious and obscure in its own meaning), but the ‘progress’ of new track homes and shopping malls that is sprawling over the earth.  I used to want to pave the earth.  For me, ‘progress’ and colonization were beacons on the road to better things.   They were centers for trade and commerce, of course, but also for humanizing, improving, and instructing.  Modernism tells of values that would wean the ignorant millions from their horrid ways.  The postmodern says something completely different, not only dissecting the conclusions but the processes as well.  Of course, the reality of modern colonization is very bleak.  The conquest of the earth is not a pretty thing.

You can see firsthand the cold truth of colonization: physically wasted workers operating in deplorable conditions, backstabbing co-workers jockeying for the most profit and recognition, and a colonized people being shackled.  It’s as if modern culture is a steamroller plowing through the winderness, flattening anything and anyone that happens to be in the way, all, of course, in the name of profit.  Freedom is gnashed up by giant teeth.  Colonization may help to maintain the surface luster of the colonist, but there are no benefits for those being colonized, only hardship, suffering, and death.  The earth becoming as bleak as a man’s heart, a sterile world of mindless zombies.

I suppose out here in the wilds I can chart just how far I have departed from my initial plans.  I can remember performing some very brutal actions to acquire my ‘success’, and perhaps, satisfy my personal needs.  Back in the city I am simply one man among many, my thoughts blotted out, my existence ignored.  Deep in the wilderness, perhaps, I am a god, to be worshiped and feared.   The grinding gears leaving my mind clear, but my soul corrupt.

The world would call me demented for these thoughts.  On the surface, the world operates under traditional principles; there is a clear hierarchy or chain of command, as well as a perceived right and wrong way to act, and men are expected to respect this approach.  I would argue that the world’s ideas of right and wrong are just as demented.  I would adopt my own methods.  I desire to work alone and want no interference from the world or its values.  Maybe this is not so much an indication of my own insanity but rather a signal that I have divested myself of all traditional and modern methods.  I choose to no longer play by “civilized” society’s rules.  Therefore this wilderness is to me not luxury but necessity, and so my journey into the darkness continues.

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