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SALVATION MOUNTAIN II
The campfire, learning to golf with flaming toilet paper (basketball is also possible), and the tank graveyard the next day.
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The campfire, with me on the left in my usual braids. From there, clockwise and Romper-Room style, we have Bob from Silver Lake, Chris and Walt (and their tent complete with guard doggie), Daryl, Vanessa (in the hat), Mark (the local) and Karen. I think we were minutes from being serenaded by a dijeridoo and concertina played by Ley (RV owner and our fearless driver) and Walt. |
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Me, Walt, Cristina and Bob around the fire sharing loving tales of Our Heavenly Father and getting trashed. |
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A pathetic attempt to play flaming t.p. golf, a sophisticated game utilizing several packages of toilet paper, lighter fluid and a golf club. Target or shallow golf hole filled with lighter fluid optional (the far flames are the target hole, still flaming from the last roll of t.p. putted there). After abour 10 failed attempts to hit the damn thing (keep in mind I was sober), I put down the club and kicked the roll 30 feet down the gravel. Eric is giving pointers as Bob looks on in disgust: Women golfers. |
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John extolling the virtues of Ocean Spray. He won a place in my heart by bringing the 100 rolls of toilet paper. |
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Off to the Army tank graveyard that Mark told us about: The car that the guys rented for $30 outside the mini-mart at the edge of town. As the red paint on the sides say, the piece of crap can be yours for $300 (which Daryl had to put down as a deposit), but I'd advise against it. The moment we got it to the site (with about nine of us sitting on batteries in the flatbed), it started smoking like a crack addict lottery winner and leaking transmission fluid... |
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... We all hopped out and ran (toward the safety of the tanks and grounded bombs, of course). Fortunately, there was a bottle of transmission fluid in the truck and we were able to jump start it. It would have been a long ride back in John's cadillac --which followed us, but was packed to the ceiling save the passenger seat -- which was filled by a boy known as Mister Outerspace, who slept and mumbled about three words the whole weekend. |
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There were dozens and dozens of tanks scattered from the dirt road to the mountains in the distance. |
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This is one of dozens and dozens of tanks that were left here for target practice (which we'd heard and seen as flashes the night before). The ground was littered with practice and real empty bombs of all sizes, pieces of tank, empty bullets, etc. I had just come up from lying on what is apparently called the "gun tube" like a pin-up girl. For some reason, this photo intimidates all the boys. |
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Daryl is dangerously unaware of my sharp Ninja moves. |
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We all crawled all over and in the tanks. I think this is Daryl's third attempt (failure) to step out onto the phallic end of the tank. First mistake: putting his foot waaaay too close to my ass. Second mistake: trying to step over me onto the teeny tube. I'm not THAT small. |
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D-man in mid-"Doh!" |
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... His bod makes a nice "X" for the pilots to find. The blue thing between his leg and the tank is a Practice Bomb, or so it's labeled. If I had brought a tape recorder with me, you'd be hearing the soundtrack of me laughing my ass off right now. I'd even have it as a downloadable .wav file. Ahhh, next time... we still owe Leonard some paintin' time, so we shall return someday. |
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Ley and local Mark, who tipped us off to the tank graveyard. I suppose we can blame him for never making it back to Leonard's. If we hadn't gone... |
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