The first outbreak of the Corona virus has hit a nursing home in Kirkland, Washington. This is my industry, yet none of us were overly concerned at the time. I should have listened to my inner voice more closely to the warning it was trying to heed.

Instead I became wrapped up in “end of the world” scenarios. I head out into the desert searching for lost civilizations to find clues that may have led to their own demise. History can hold the mysterious key to the present.

The Queen Valley is most notably known as a place for gun enthusiasts to have target practice with their weapons of choice. A remote RV resort community is somewhere out here as well, with a population of about 900 people. Past the gun toters and those that want to just live a quiet life on their own terms, the road continues deep into the seemingly barren landscape.

Unable to find the trail that supposedly would lead me to ancient Indian ruins, I settle on a sign for the Woodbury trail. The name has significance as the Woodbury fire scorched this area less than a year ago. It seems to be the perfect place to just disappear. The virus won’t find me out here.

My mind wanders towards death, not in some existential form, but my own. I could fall to the earth here and not be found, with no one being the wiser to my whereabouts. I find comfort in that, as it would be a more fitting end than dying in my own bed.

Clouds slowly cast shadows over the expansive valley in front of me, the wind is wickedly strong, the dust erasing the trail I am on. I must rely on the markers in the earth to help me not become truly lost.

The voices of the Ancient spirits start to whisper to me, guiding me back to my truck. They let me know that today is not my day go to the next life.

I still have a purpose to fulfill in this one.

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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