The Boar's Tusk

Sometimes things have to be done out of order. Like my next few posts. I'm skipping back to our excursion to Boar's Tusk, a very unique feature near Rock Springs, Wyoming.

I've been interested in this strange landmark since my research of name meanings, way back at the beginning of the chase. One of Eric Sloane's names literally means "boar," and I've felt that a piece of Eric went into the poem as Forrest wrote it.

Forrest seems to have reinforced it with his scrapbook titled "Not Just a Pig," which was about some wild boars he raised. Then, there was a featured question where "blaze" was spelled "blase." A meaning of "blase" is boring. Bore sounds like boar.

The isolated Boar's Tusk rises above the Killpecker Creek (what does saltpeter do to young military cadets? Lol) plain at an altitude of 6808 feet above sea level. The ancient extinct volcano is an impressive sight from miles away. Boar's Tusk has one twin in the US--Devil's Tower, in Northwest Wyoming.

It was something I had to see and experience first hand. The volcanic remnant of the distant past is composed of the uncommon mineral, lamprolite, which sounds like a blaze in itself. Lamprolite and bananas have something in common--lots of potassium.

So, I plugged the location into my navigation, and soon James was driving our rental Kia SUV along a dirt road north of Rock Springs.

 Here we are just before the trip, ready for adventure:

The road was easy peasy at first, but as we grew closer and Boar's Tusk became visible in the distance, the road became less smooth, and more like a swampy, muddy mess with potholes a'plenty.

At one point, activity on the road ahead drew our attention. It appeared to be two large vultures feasting on roadkill, but as we neared the scene, the two gigantic birds took flight.

"Oh my God, oh my God!" I yelled, fumbling for my phone to get pictures like a teenage girl fumbles for her car keys when being pursued by an ax murderer.

They weren't vultures--they were eagles.  And as the majestic rapters took flight and we passed the roadkill, I looked back and one eagle was flying low toward the car on my side, approaching fast. And I was still clumsily fumbling to get the video feature on my phone going. It was like my fingertips were marshmallows or something.

The eagle was so close I could see the sharp point of her beak and the glint in her dark eyes. I still don't know if I got it on video, but as she climbed the sky and gracefully turned to join her mate, I got one nice picture.

I was beginning to think we wouldn't make it to our destination--so close and yet so far--as James had to leave the road entirely and drive over some sagebrush and a shallow ditch to avoid a huge pothole filled with muddy water of unknown depth.

That was where some fawn-colored cows were hanging out, and when I exited the car to guide James over the tricky terrain, they mooed at me with a vengeance. A calf was about ten feet or so away from me, and it lowed, calling out for it's momma. The momma was behind me, about thrirty feet away, and answered the baby. I imagine she said, "Agnes, get your little brown butt over here, now! Humans are dangerous and they'll poke your eye out!"

So, Agnes booked it on over to her momma, and James inched past the ditch to safe road.

Finally, we arrived at the giant rock, and with very little imagination, I could see the resemblance to a boar's tusk.

 
I gazed up at the ancient sentinel of the desert with awe, and wondered what the Indians who lived there in the distant past thought about the strange looking monolith. Did the dark, volcanic core have any spiritual significance? Did they fear or revere it? Was it somehow sacred to them? I don't know, but I'd love to find out. Discovering how the ancient peoples lived their lives and what philosophies, superstitions, and individual stories they held close to their hearts is one of my passions.  In moments of romantic reflection, those thoughts fill me with an unquenchable curiosity. 

When we got out of the car to look around, about five million or so starving mosquitoes mobbed us in a fierce black cloud of nasty. I hate those things, and I could imagine the horror-filled stares that would await us when we showed up at Fennboree looking like the victims of smallpox.

Here's a pic of a rock formation near the base of the tusk that looks like the stony profile of a man's face. He appears to be staring out over the Killpecker plain with a watchful, stoic satisfaction.

And although the scenery was beautiful in a raw, wild, and earthy way, I couldn't see Forrest hiding the treasure chest there. To me, it wasn't a specific enough location, and walking up the sloped side of the base of the formation would've been tough for us, and nearly impossible for an 80 year old man. So when James said, "Let's get out of here," I enthusiastically agreed, smacking the life out of a blood-filled mosquito on my arm.

As James drove away, I glanced back once more at the old boar of the desert. Silently, I thanked him for hanging around long enough for me to visit him, and in my mind, offered a reverent "goodbye."

Tomorrow, I'll post about our exciting adventure to nearby White Mountain, with it's smoky rock shelters and prolific petroglyphs.