I guess you never know what you find...

Post by **count** » Mon May 20, 2002 4:03 pm

While casually researching the LDM, I found this odd "account". The most obvious question is: is there a real Phil Allen (common name, huh?)? Subject: The Superstition Mountains And The Dracos. Jan. 16, 2001. Gather round ye hearties and I will spin a little tale about the Superstiion Mountains. I've been there and didn't get a good vibration from it, so I left. I wouldn't recommend you going there unless you have some connections. This material is scary and will bring fear into some people's hearts but then to others it will bring in the spirit of adventure. ..................................................................... ..................................................................... From: D Subject: TRUE SA-GA OF DRACO HUMAN SACRIFICE AND RETALIATION BY A PRIVATE HUMAN MILITIA <a href="http://www.wiolawa.com">www.wiolawa.com</a> I am submitting to all Dragonslayers a multipart true life adventure as told to me by one of our members as he experienced it 24 years ago. Some of you know him for who he is; a retired, at the age of 22, highly decorated Vietnam war veteran who was Special Forces trained and who served three tours fighting communists, rescuing POW's and working special missions for Air America. It cost him his right leg, yet he was still well equipped to meet this next period of his life. Keep in mind that the Soldier had no knowledge of Dracs at the time. When we met, and he began his new education to what is going on around him, and I could see curious recognition from time to time coupled with a deep fear that he quickly hid. It was three months later that he told me of his 18 month ordeal in the Superstition Mountains in May of 1975 . The story came grudgingly at first; obviously with much mental pain, and with occasional reluctance and reservation. But because of what he knows now, taught by myself and others on DS, he knew he couldn't keep hidden what he now recognized as a Draco base camp. He desires to use for the present a fictitious name for his boss.... we will call "Phil Allen". Here is the beginning of his story.... of his life for two years among the Dracos and Pteradons with their little ( 5 foot) Pets!! In May of that year, I was asked to join a group of men who were bringing gold out of the Superstitions. The leader, Phil Allen, spent 20 years of his life researching Me-ican archives, Spanish landgrants and Mexi-an Go-ernment do[beep]ents. He discovered what he believed to be routes to 9 of the 12 Peralta family mines. Phil enlisted the aid of several others and together they found all 9. Using pack mules and horses, they moved in electric generators, hand held drills, food and supplies and set up a base camp 15 miles in. Others would keep this camp supplied and alternating teams of men would keep the mining camp supplied....well supplied, especially with ice, lots of ice as they liked to drink cold beverages, the one pleasure of the long hot day. Since the last of the mines, No.'s 7, 8, & 9 were the most productive, they started there, core mining much in the ways the old timers had 150 yrs prior. The operation was covert. It was illegal for civilians to own bulk gold in those days. It was processed and flown out of the country. At 18 to 25 ounces per ton, it was a lucrative business at best. The mining camp was very small. It was at the top of a small arroyo or 'holler' and measured about 60' square.. flaked on two walls by cliffs going up...on one by a sheer 90' drop-off and open on the arroyo side which looked downhill of the 1/4 mile long arroyo. The mines were in the sides of the arroyo walls... so was the Draco entrance to their lair. Two-thirds of the way down from the mini-camp was a small stand of pinion pine trees ..about 400 yards away and downhill. Phil Allen knew. He had known of their existence for over 20 years. He had read of them in the old archives. He knew what they were ...but not why-they were. Phil had spent his life in these mountains running down leads to the gold he was searching for. He saw them from time to time, following him, pacing his movements. Terrified at first, he soon came to the conclusion that if he simply ignored them nothing would happen and nothing ever did. It was different at the little camp, for in the arroyo walls was a fourth entrance, hidden behind brush as were all of the others. At first the group would set up a night guard for themselves. But it soon became evident that they could not continue mining by day and guarding by night. It was decided that they would hire a full time night guard. They lost five men in the first three months. One simply ran-never to be heard of again. Two returned via the base camp, not even stopping for water or supplies, they rode their horses clear out to U.S. 60 and on home! Two were found shredded, some parts missing but obviously quite de-d. They were found down toward the end of the arroyo near a small stand of pinion pine trees, about two hundred yards from the camp. This was where the Dracs congregated and fed at night. This was were the Soldier's year and a half nightmare began. Let's digress for a moment and set some background to this epic. Phil and I met years ago shortly after I had retired from Vietnam. We both had an affinity for guns and through the heat of a summer afternoon we drank be-r at a bar in Apache Junction while discussing ballistics and shooting. It came out that Phil and some friends owned a local horse ranch and when called, worked as stuntmen for whatever Hollywood movie set that needed them. We got along famously and over the course of the next two years, I learned horses-how to ride, how to care for them, how to do stunt falls, trick mounting and dismounting and guns. They taught me how to fast draw, shooting two hundred rounds a day and reloading them in the evening. They had a quick draw holster rig that was handmade for me and periodically I would join them in the little skits doing stunt shoots and falls they put on at Rawhide. Conversely, I taught them long range shooting; being the expert and at the end of two years, all five were as deadly at 800 yard shots, as I had become at 50 feet with my Long Colt 45. We had fun. From time to time the men would disappear for a few weeks at a time to do movie stunts leaving the operation of the ranch to me. More often, Phil would go with some of the men and some others that I didn't know into the Superstition Mountains. When I would ask about it, I was told simply, "Don't ask!" - and I accepted that. In May of '75 Phil came to me and explained what they were doing. Phil had spent his entire life researching and prospecting in the Superstitions. He spent months in northern Mexico in libraries, monasteries and in family archives researching Spanish land grants looking for information on what others thought were only rumors, the mysterious Peralta gold mines. These were the mines that the Peralta family supposedly had developed between the mid 1700's and the early 1800's. Phil spent twenty years of his life being rich one-year and then dirt poor the next. He found 9 of the 12 reported mines. It was at this point that Phil decided he needed my help. After an afternoon and most of one evening explaining what he had accomplished and what he wanted me to guard, Phil offered me what appeared at the time to be an exorbitant amount of money for the job. I was to move into the mountains with them and literally live there; sleeping days and doing the guard job at nights. I would be guarding against would be claim jumpers and the occasional weekend warrior who had stumbled off the beaten path who needed guidance to forest service trails ........and against the Others. Phil then told me what he had seen over the years. Only fleeting looks and occasional glances of men who looked like lizards. Apparently the mines, No.'s 7 , 8 and 9 were nestled in the middle of a whole community of them. I had a hundred questions none of which Phil could answer. Two things came out, number 1- they did not attack the miners unless they went down to the stand of pinions near the end of the arroyo at night and--number 2- there were unspeakable horrible screams, growls and sounds that came up the arroyo for hours on end. I was to ignore them and under no cir[beep]stance leave the safety of the camp. I knew Phil Allen; and despite the disbelief running around inside my head, knew that he believed what he had just told me. I then suggested that the authorities be called in and was promptly told that the mining operation was covert at best, since owning bulk gold was illegal. Phil had worked too long and too hard all of his life for this fortune to lose it over some "anthropological throw back". I went to bed that night doubting Phil Allen for the first time since knowing him. But for $5000 a month, I'll stay up nights and listen to anything scream a little. At dawn the next morning we were on our way to the base camp with a small convoy of supply trucks, pickups pulling horse trailers and a new crew to replace those at the base camp. The operation lacked for nothing. At the main camp we had steak, b-er, water, tents with comfortable bunks and beds, generators and the fuel to run them with electric lights-there were barbecue grills, hibachi's and ice; Sweet wonderful ice. 105 temperatures were a daytime norm and 110+ were too frequent to count. We lived on ice. I was told that at least half of the supplies muled in to us every few days was ice. We arrived at the mining camp about 4pm on my first day. As we rode up the arroyo the stand of pinions was pointed out to me. I stopped to have a look around and everything appeared to be normal. There were no signs of anyone or anything having ever been there. Off to the north in the canyon wall could be seen the entrance to what Phil called their cave. It was slightly larger than 4' in diameter and was perfectly round. Nature doesn't do straight lines or round ones. That was obviously man made. As I turned to go back to my horse and continue up to the camp, something caught my eye between two clumps of scrub grass. Moving one aside I saw what immediately scared the living h--l out of me. It was a footprint ...... three toed, wide and long enough for my size 11 Cochran's to fit inside the print. This brought goosebumps up along my arms and a chill to my spine. "Lets go," I said. I suddenly didn't want to be there anymore. My mind was having a hard time absorbing what I'd just seen and making it come out normal. One part said that what you just saw cannot be, and the other part said, well, there it is. It was then too, as we rode up the arroyo, I understood the Hollywood movie term we've all heard, "I need a drink". Phil had some cold Beam at the camp.

Lost Dutchman Goldmine

I guess you never know what you find...

I guess you never know what you find...