This is a true story about a resourceful donkey escape artist that I hung out with, named Canto.

I met Canto when I was a caretaker on a 400-acre ranch in Wyoming for 6 months. He was originally a “wild” donkey from California... a descendant of animals brought over by Spanish explorers or miners during the Gold Rush.

Over time, I would discover that Canto could spread his legs out real wide and belly-crawl under fence lines.

​The ranch in Wyoming had six consecutive sections of fence, and Canto could belly cralwl under all six fences and roam the prairie at will. He would go hang out on the main dirt road just to watch the neighbors drive by.

​And then at some point he would come back on his own, and would crawl back under all those fences again, and he could do it really fast.

Crazy Neighbor Lady

​Several times one of the rancher neighbors called me and said, “Your donkey’s in the road.”

​The dirt road and driveways were really long, and so it took the neighbor a while to get home. So in between them seeing Canto and them calling me about it, Canto would make it all the way back home and be standing in the yard in front of the window.

​So this lady would call me up and she’d say, “I just saw your donkey, it’s out in the road.” And I would look out the window, and Canto was standing right there. I said, “Couldn’t be my donkey, I’m looking at my donkey right now.”

​And at that time, we didn’t know about Canto getting under the fences... we had no idea. And so she would say, “I don’t think your donkey is in your yard... your donkey’s out in the road.” And I would say, “I’m looking right at my donkey,” and she’d say, “I don’t think you are, I just saw the donkey on the road.”

​We went back and forth like this several times.

She absolutely refused to believe that I was looking at my donkey. And I absolutely could not understand how she could not believe me. I mean I’m looking directly at my donkey, about 25 feet away, contently munching grass like nothing was up. And in my mind, I’m talking to this “crazy neighbor lady” on the phone. This happened daily, for a few weeks, and then I finally figured out what was going on.

I got her phone call one day like usual... “crazy lady calling”... here we go... and she says “your donkey’s out in the road again”. And I tell her, “my donkey’s right here in the yard”. She goes, “I don’t think so, I just drove by, and I saw your donkey standing in the road”.

And I look out at Canto and start to respond and I’m like wait what...wait... what the... there’s no Canto... and I start to sweat, cause there ain’t no way I’m telling crazy lady that canto’s not in my yard. That would be reinforcing her crazy Im thinking, and she’d never be able to hide her crazy after that, I’m thinking... and I’m thinking... my brain’s scrambling. Canto’s just off to the side then, I’m thinking. He’s in the side yard, I’m hoping. Motherf... better be in the backyard, I’m praying. But oh my Lord, when I look in the backyard... Canto’s not in the backyard! And when I look again, I whisper to myself, “Canto’s not in the backyard”.

Canto is Gone

“Oh shit.” I say to myself. “I’m not the crazy person... am I”. I mean, he was there all those other times... “wasn’t he”... I whisper to myself. And I hear the neighbor lady on the phone say, “you know I can hear you, right”.

I scream and drop the phone. And then I casually pick it up, and I’m like, “no seriously, he was there”. And neighbor lady is like, “I don’t think so, I just saw your donkey in the road”.

And I start to giggle like a crazy person. “This can’t be happening”... I say to myself in my head. And I wonder if the neighbor lady can still hear me anyway. I start to wonder if there is a neighbor lady. I start to wonder if there even is a god damn donkey. I need some fresh air. And so I speak to this possibly imaginary “neighbor lady” about this potentially hypothetical “donkey”. I say, “let me look around, I’ll call you back”.

I’ll call you back? This is like an episode of the Twilight Zone, I’m thinking. My hand is over my mouth. I hang up the phone. “i” go look for “canto”.

​The fresh air was good. The fences were old barbed wire fences. But they were there goddammit. The ranch was a big property that had been around since the 1800’s. And the barbed wire fences were probably from the 1950s, perhaps even remnants from the earliest times there.

​Part of my job watching the place was to walk the fence lines and make sure that they were standing and there were no gaps where the horses could get out. The fences were sufficient to keep the horses in, but, come to find out, the bottom wire was high enough and loose enough to let Canto belly crawl under the wire. Motherf. Deep breathes.

The owners didn’t mention Canto’s ability.... and I’m wondering if maybe he learned this when I was there, because it seems the neighbors would have known about his skills already. Unless of course... if they were having some fun with me. Motherf. Deep breathes.

And I didn’t fully understand it until there was snow on the ground, and I could see Canto’s tracks and follow them through the snow. But yes, to my horror, that Motherf... he was out in the god damn road.

​You could actually see where he would approach the fence, and then slide his feet out in opposite directions, really wide, and then he would shimmy back and forth and belly-crawl under the fence. And there was a total of six consecutive fence lines like this, ringing the property, and Canto could belly crawl under all of them very quickly. He’d go out to watch neighbors drive by, and then make it back in time to be innocently standing in the yard, where he knew I could see him. It was... something Canto just loved to do. Motherf. Deep breathes. True story.

And I can’t tell you how much I’d come to love that donkey. And this wouldn’t be the only time I grabbed his little tack off the barn wall, hanging there next to the horses larger bridles and bits. Not the only time I would wander off into the prairie, looking for Canto.

I’d eventually mention Canto’s “skills” to the owners... and they claimed to know nothing about it... they “seemed” genuinely “surprised”. But I thought I detected the slightest twinkle in their eyes... And I’ll tell you a secret... I never did call neighbor lady back! (giggles and looks around suspiciously).

​A Note on the Visuals

Interestingly, the way Canto belly crawled looked exactly like this little clay donkey I had made for my Mom years before meeting Canto. She used to collect little clay animals, so I’d make them for her for holidays and birthdays. I made this clay donkey nearly twenty years before I ever met Canto, yet it captures his spirit and that unique “splayed leg” belly crawl perfectly. That makes my memories of Canto, and this little clay donkey, even more special to me.

A note on Canto’s origins as a wild donkey from California.

The California Roundup & The Bureau of Land Management (BLM)

Since the 1971, after the creation of the “Wild Free-Roaming Horses and Burros Act”, the BLM has been legally responsible for managing these populations on public lands.

​The Process: When herds get too large for the land to support (especially in dry states like California), the BLM conducts “gathers” or roundups.

​Adoption & Auctions.

The animals are taken to off-range corrals. High-profile programs in California (like those near Ridgecrest or the Litchfield corrals) hold regular auctions and adoption events where the public can purchase “wild burros” for a small fee (often starting at $125).

​The “Escaped” Heritage

​Most “wild” donkeys in California are descendants of animals brought over by Spanish explorers or miners during the Gold Rush. When mines closed or cars replaced pack animals, many were simply turned loose. Over generations, they became a hardy, wild population.

Interesting fact

​Ear Anatomy: Donkeys have large, thin ears with a lot of surface area... Perfect for dissipating heat in the California desert, but very dangerous in a Wyoming winter.

​The “Frostbite Notch”: It’s very common for donkeys brought from the southwest to Wyoming to lose the tips of their ears to frostbite during their first severe winter. Once they “acclimatize,” they grow a much denser, shaggier winter coat, which helps them survive temperatures that would have been lethal to them in California.

Canto experienced this, and he had the classic signs... the “Frostbite Notch”, confirmed by his owners. They had tried to keep him warm in the barn, for his first winter. But they found Canto was an escape artist, and had figured out how to open the barn door and get into the yard, where he loved to play in the snow... Motherf. Deep breathes...

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In Human Factors Engineering, Ergonomics, and Cognitive Psychology, we talk a lot about the Man-Machine Interface. We study how to design systems that don’t overwhelm the user’s cognitive load. I’ve been applying those same principles to my personal life.

​For the last 3 years I have lived in an off-grid cabin in the remote wilderness. One of the reasons I did this, other than it’s really fun, is because of my background in Human Factors Engineering & Applied Cognitive Psychology. From this perspective, living as I do results in a noticeable optimization of cognitive resources.

​Social Noise

​In my research on face recognition and viewpoint-invariant properties, it became clear how much of our neural machinery is specialized for social processing. When another human is in the room, your brain automatically allocates massive chunks of processing power to track social cues, intent, and proximity.

Our brain has a limited capacity for processing, and this social-based cognitive processing uses a lot of these limited resources. Your ability to detect, out of the corner of your eye, that someone is looking at you, your ability to empathize with people, and your ability to socially interact with people and read cues... these are all automatic cognitive processes that continuously run in the background in social situations.

These processes use up some of your available resources for controlled, effortful, conscious processing. They affect your ability to think, in other words. Probably the best example of this is stage fright or public speaking, where social cues can trigger anxiety, cloud your thinking, and affect your behavior. But even at less extreme levels this unconscious processing influences your thinking and behavior in ways you’re not aware of.

​By isolating on my remote property, I am effectively shutting down these background processes. I am lowering the “noise floor” of my consciousness. This isn’t about being a hermit to avoid people; it’s about freeing up those cognitive resources so I can focus & concentrate easier. A kind of focus that requires calmness and clarity. And personally, I do have issues with social anxiety, so the sense of remoteness & isolation is an additional benefit that I truly enjoy.

Since moving into my cabin, my average resting heart rate has decreased from 70 beats a minute to 59 beats a minute. And since moving from the congested city to the remote wilderness, my blood oxygen level has increased from an average 94% to 98%. It might not seem like a lot, but every bit helps. I remember going to the emergency room with pneumonia one time, years ago, and my blood-oxygen level was at 60%. The nurse who admitted me said she couldn’t understand how I was even able to walk in. I was in the emergency room for 4 hours, and I was in the hospital for a week recovering. They wouldn’t let me leave until my blood oxygen level was in the ninety percentile range. After that experience, I’ve always been consciously aware of my blood-oxygen level and the effect it has on my ability to function optimally.

​And so by isolating on my remote property, I am effectively lowering the noise surrounding and interfering with my consciousness, and I’m freeing up cognitive resources so I can focus & concentrate easier. Over the last 40 years I’ve continued to journal my observations and I developed a Zettelkasten... a physical collection of research note cards that now contains over 12,000 cards. And I have filing cabinets full of handwritten notes on legal pads and hard copies of papers written on the computer.

My plan was to accumulate these observations, thoughts, and insights and then investigate the patterns I find after a lifetime of work. And that’s where I am now, tucked away in my off-grid cabin on my 40 acres in the remote wilderness.

I think of my 12,000-card Zettelkasten and filing cabinets as a knowledge structure designed for branching. Memory is fallible and subject to interference. Thoughts and memories can be like a jumble of photos in a box or they can be an organized photo album. They can be fleeting glimpses that are damaged or lost over time, or they can be organized and curated. To see the unwavering structure of life that the memories represent, you must preserve the individual snapshots. My system is my way of acknowledging the value of experience by curating it properly. Ensuring the memories aren’t just a jumble of thoughts in a box, but active components in a generative system.

We’ve got limited cognitive resources and a thought can be so labor intensive that it leaves no extra effort available for describing it or writing it down.

You have a thought, or a memory, and its interconnections are there in your mind’s eye, but you lose them in the attempt to capture it all in words and write it down.

I have to read what I wrote, and then compare that to what I see in my mind. See if it matches. Then I refine the mismatch, shaping the written words so they more closely resemble what Im trying to communicate. And through several iterations like that, I shape the writing until it matches the thought in my mind’s eye. Getting thoughts and feelings out of your head is hard.

I like speech to text or just recording the audio while I talk to myself. I can spew and info-dump a stream-of-consciousness and then go back and find my ideas in it. That gets some form of the idea down so that I can use it to remind myself later what I was really thinking about, and I can see the constellation of facts and related ideas that form the idea cloud, instead of the cloud simply dispersing into the wind as I attempt to write it down manually. The strategy really helps me overcome my cognitive processing limitations.

​The Goal: Finding the Unwavering Structure

​What I am looking for in my thoughts & feelings, in science, philosophy, spirituality, and off-grid living, is the unwavering structure underneath the fleeting images of daily life. Sharing these insights on Substack is the Testing Phase of the experiment, and here I can connect with people, read their thoughts and feelings, and get feedback on mine from a like-minded community of writers. I’ve always loved sharing anecdotes and ideas, and Substack is a great place to do that.

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In the modern world, we navigate by satellites. A blue dot pulses on a glass screen, telling us to turn left in 200 yards. But for centuries, another kind of navigation existed. One that didn’t require a signal, only a keen eye and a deep understanding of the natural world.

It was called the Patteran (or Patrin). To the uninitiated “Gorgio” (non-Romany) traveler, it looked like a pile of rocks, a stray branch or a handful of discarded grass. But to the Romany families traveling the roads of Europe and the UK, it was a silent telegraph. A survival manual etched into the dust.

The Leaf and the Pattern

There is a common misconception that the word patteran is simply a Romany corruption of the English word pattern. While they share a poetic resonance, their histories are worlds apart.

“Pattern” comes from the Latin patronus, meaning a model or protector. But patteran traces its lineage back to the Sanskrit pattra, meaning leaf. It is a literal description of the medium: the earliest signs were made of leaves and twigs. While the “Gorgio” world looked for stone monuments, the Romany people found their way through the ephemeral.

The Grammar of the Road

The patteran was not a static symbol; it was a flexible language. If a lead wagon (vardo) reached a fork in the road, the driver would leave a sign for those following hours or even days behind.

• The V-Shape: Two twigs laid in a “V” pointed the direction of travel.

• The Cleft Stick: A stick jammed into a hedge with a branch pointing like an arrow was a “high-visibility” marker for dusk.

• The Grass Trail: Handfuls of grass dropped at intervals acted as a breadcrumb trail. If the grass was tied in a knot, it signaled a “hurry”... the lead group was moving fast and the followers needed to catch up.

• Protection: Beyond the Physical

The road was not always friendly. In the 19th century, when folklorists like George Borrow and Charles Leland began documenting these signs, they discovered that the patteran was also used for “conduction”... guiding the community safely through hostile territory.

Protective markings were often left on gateposts or fences to warn of what lay ahead:

• The Warning: Jagged lines or parallel scratches warned of a biting dog or an aggressive landowner.

• The Welcome: A simple cross or a circle with a dot indicated a “good house”—one where a traveler might find work, water, or a fair trade.

But protection also took a spiritual form. To ward off the Jakhendar (the Evil Eye), the Roma didn’t just rely on wood and stone; they used color and ritual. The Indralori, a red ribbon tied to a horse’s bridle or a child’s wrist, served as a “visual lightning rod,” catching and neutralizing the gaze of those who wished them ill.

The Architecture of the Vardo

If the patteran was the language of the road, the vardo (the living wagon) was the fortress. Every carving on a traditional wagon served a purpose. Horseshoes were nailed to the door to repel spirits, while intricate carvings of lions, birds, and flowers weren’t just decoration... they were symbols of vitality and strength.

Even the most famous Romany symbol, the 16-spoked Chakra (wheel), is a symbol of conduction. It represents the eternal journey, the link to the ancestral home in India, and the protective cycle of a life lived in motion.

While twigs and leaves were the most common materials for temporary directions (because they were “biodegradable” and hidden in plain sight), stone piles or cairns played a very specific role in the Romany navigation system.

​The “Atchin Tan” Markers

​In the Romany language, a traditional stopping place or campsite is called an atchin tan. Because these locations were used by generations of travelers, they needed a more permanent marker than a handful of grass.

• ​Permanent Signposts: Stone piles were often used to mark the entrance to a safe atchin tan. These piles would be tucked slightly off the main road, perhaps under a specific tree or near a stream.

• ​The Rule of Three: A common stone patteran involved three stones piled on top of each other.

  • ​If the top stone was tilted in a certain direction, it indicated where the water source was.

  • ​If a larger stone was placed at the base, it might signal how many families the site could accommodate.

• ​Safety Status: In some regions, stones were used to communicate the safety of an area. A specific arrangement of stones could warn a family that the local “Gorgio” (non-Romany) population was hostile or that the police had recently cleared the camp

Why the Patteran Matters Today

In an age of total surveillance and digital footprints, there is something profoundly beautiful about the patteran. It was a form of communication that was entirely “offline.” It was biodegradable, leaving no trace for the authorities but remaining perfectly legible to the “traveling people.”

The patteran reminds us that “knowing the way” isn’t just about coordinates. It’s about paying attention to the small things. A broken twig, a pile of stones, a red ribbon in the wind. It’s about a community staying connected through the very earth they walk upon.

The next time you’re hiking and see a strange arrangement of stones that looks just a bit too “placed” to be accidental, take a second look. You might be standing on the site of an ancient conversation.

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The Wild West of Childhood: When BB Guns, Bottle Rockets, and Mud Grenades Ruled the 70s

If you were a kid in the 1970s, chances are your childhood wasn’t exactly curated by safety standards. Forget helicopter parents and padded playgrounds; our adventures unfolded in a world where the lines between “toy” and “weapon” were blissfully blurred, and the primary rule was often just “be home by dinner.” We were pioneers of unsupervised play, and our suburban jungles were ripe for epic, if entirely unhinged, battles.

My own memories are packed with the kind of antics that would land a modern parent in jail. BB gun fights were a staple, pellet guns were an upgrade, and homemade explosives were just another Tuesday. It was a time when a motorcycle helmet was considered adequate protection against a .177 caliber projectile, and a good sting from a BB was merely a badge of honor. And things like knives machetes, and guns were a right of passage.

My first sword

When I was 11 years old, shortly before my Mom would trade her target pistol for my first 22 rifle, my stepdad gave me an awesome machete that he claimed came from vietnam. I was mesmerized... I had my first sword! Living out in the country, I would run through the woods, slicing the tops off of mayflowers as I ran. My best friend... our german shepherd Fritz, running behind me. I never cut my self once with that machete... except the one time when I was sharpening it and a burr on the steel caught the sharpener, pulling it from my hand and the blade split my thumbnail, slicing into the meat. I look back on this as a fond memory of how I learned to correctly sharpen a blade. I still have the machete today, while the scar on my thumb has long since faded.

The Sniper, the Pellet, and My Missing Tooth

One particularly memorable skirmish involved me, a trusty BB gun, and a tree. We’d decided that leather jackets and motorcycle helmets offered sufficient protection, which in hindsight, was optimistic at best. I’d climbed into a tree, envisioning myself as a tactical sniper, waiting for the perfect shot. My motorcycle helmet visor, however, had other plans and fogged up completely. In a tactical error I’ll never forget, I popped the visor open just as I got a crystal-clear view of my friend. He was sighting me with his pellet gun.

Bang.

The pellet hit me squarely in the face, splitting my lip and breaking off a good portion of my bottom tooth, leaving just a stub. The impact knocked me clean out of the tree, and I landed flat on my back, swallowing everything. The immediate concern wasn’t the pain, but the looming wrath of my mother.

I managed to hide the missing tooth for several years, a silent testament to my commitment to the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy of our childhood. It wasn’t until I was a young adult that I finally got the dental work done, and to this day, a cap stands where a pellet once reigned supreme.

A BB Between the Eyes and a Future Sheriff

Another classic scenario took us indoors, specifically into a neighbor’s house. It was us downstairs against my friend’s brother and his buddy upstairs. As we planned our brave assault on the staircase, I swung around the corner, BB gun at the ready, only to be immediately greeted by a BB right between the eyes. No lasting damage, just a temporary dent that faded after a while. The kicker? The friend’s brother who delivered that perfect headshot eventually went on to become the sheriff of a small town in Arizona. Perhaps those early “training exercises” paid off.

These weren’t isolated incidents. For many of us, the BB gun was our first “adult” tool, immortalized in films like A Christmas Story, though our reality often involved far more direct target practice. The shift from “toy” to “weapon” was fluid, and cultural researchers often refer to this as “The Golden Age of Unsupervised Play”. Games passed down by kids, not adults, often involving makeshift inventions.

The Mud Grenade Incident and the Cost of DIY Warfare

Our arsenal wasn’t limited to air-powered projectiles. Firework wars were legendary, featuring bottle rockets launched from PVC pipes or for the brave... right out of your hand. And, of course, the infamous “mud ball grenade”. A firecracker lovingly embedded in a ball of mud. And don’t forget the wonderful potato cannon. What dreams were made of.

I recall a particularly illuminating moment of brilliance during one of these battles. I had a mud grenade in one hand, and was in the process of lighting a bottle rocket. In a moment of pure genius, I adjusted the bottle rocket’s position with my grenade hand just as I heard the fuse light.

I instinctively stepped back, bracing for the rocket’s launch, only to realize, with dawning horror, that I had actually lit the fuse on the mud grenade still clutched in my hand. As I frantically tried to throw it, it exploded, covering me in mud and leaving my fingers numb for half a day. A small price to pay for such an innovative engineering feat, or so I told myself at the time.

The End of an Era: Safety, Liability, and The Rise of the Regulated Fun

So, what happened to the wild west of our childhoods? The truth is, times changed. The formation of the U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission (CPSC) in 1973 marked the beginning of the end for truly wild fireworks. High-powder explosives like M-80s were banned by 1976, and standard firecrackers were limited to a mere 50 milligrams of powder. A far cry from the explosive punch needed for a proper mud grenade. Fuses became regulated, designed to prevent unintended hand explosions (like that’s going to happen...).

BB guns also saw a shift. While not firearms, increasing power led to local ordinances, and the “orange tip” rule for toy guns (after the 80s) blurred the lines further. The 90s ushered in Airsoft, offering a “safer” version of our battles with plastic pellets and mandatory safety gear, effectively moving the skirmishes from our backyards to organized, commercial fields.

But perhaps the biggest change was the rise of liability concerns. What was once “character-building” became “child endangerment.” Our grit-filled, risk-taking play was replaced by organized sports and curated activities. The engineering spirit that led to mud grenades now finds its outlet in video games like Call of Duty, where the high-fidelity violence is virtual, and the only injury is to your screen time.

For those of us who grew up with the sting of a BB, the smell of gunpowder, and the taste of dirt, these stories aren’t just anecdotes; they’re a testament to a bygone era of childhood. A time when danger was an unspoken companion, ingenuity was born of necessity, and every scrape, bruise, or broken tooth was just part of the game.

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Casper, Wyoming... 1973. The city embodied the romantic ideal of a secure, oil-boom community. The vast, raw beauty of the wilderness was a backdrop for quiet American life, where people knew their neighbors and danger felt a world away. But on September 24th, that innocence was shattered by a calculated act of evil.

At approximately 9 p.m., 18-year-old Rebecca “Becky” Thomson and her 11-year-old half-sister, Amy Burridge, set out on a routine errand: a trip to a convenience store to buy groceries. They were sisters, best friends, and wholly unprepared for what awaited them.

Two men slashed a tire on the girls’ car while they were inside the store. When the sisters emerged to find the flat, the men materialized, feigning an offer of assistance and a lift home.

Amy used the phone booth outside the store to call their mother, Toni Case. Amy assured her mom that two “nice men” were helping and giving them a ride. They never arrived.

As they drove, the “help” turned into a nightmare when Kennedy shoved a knife against Becky’s rib cage. The abduction was complete.

The men responsible... Ronald Leroy Kennedy and Jerry Lee Jenkins, both in their late 20s, were not strangers to the criminal justice system. They were described in reports as “wild-eyed hoodlums.”

The 112-Foot Plunge

The men drove the sisters 35 miles southwest of Casper, deeper into the isolated, rugged landscape, following the winding, hilly roads to Fremont Canyon. Here, the North Platte River carves a spectacular, deep gorge through the red rock walls.

Spanning this chasm is the Fremont Canyon Bridge, a one-lane, steel-beamed structure that rises 112 feet above the rocks and water below. The bridge is unforgiving; it was here that their attackers committed their final, horrifying acts.

Rebecca was raped and beaten. She begged the men to not rape her little sister. They agreed they would not, and then they picked up Amy and threw her over the side of the bridge. Amy Burridge, just 11 years old, fell 112 feet straight down, hitting a rock near the river bank. Her brief life was brutally extinguished; she died instantly from a broken neck and massive head trauma..

Then they picked up Rebecca, carried her to the waist high railing and threw her off the bridge. She disappeared into the darkness, falling 112 feet onto the rocks and into water below. She was left for dead like her sister.

Rebecca Thomson, however, did not die.

Her fall was broken in a violent, desperate miracle: her hips slammed into a protruding rock ledge and ricocheted her body into deeper water, which cushioned the final impact. She sustained devastating, crushing injuries, including a hip fractured in five separate places, but she was alive.

In the terrifying blackness, driven by a primal will, the 18-year-old managed to swim to the shore. Naked from the waist down, she crawled to the space between two boulders and hid, using her long brown hair and sagebrush to cover herself. Through the cold night, she heard the chilling, disembodied voices of the men echoing from the bridge above her.

The Longest Crawl

Hours later, as the sun finally began to rise, bathing the red rock canyon walls in light, Rebecca began the next terrifying phase of her ordeal. With her hip fractured in five places, she inched her broken body up the steep, rock-covered bank, groping hand over hand to reach the roadside near the river.

An elderly couple driving toward the river to go fishing spotted her: bruised, bloody, and slumped along the side of the road. Her survival was not just a miracle... it was the indispensable key to justice.

Natrona County Sheriff Dave Dovala would arrest the two men the day after Rebecca crawled out of the river.

The Courtroom Terror and the Endless Battle

Despite her shattered body and immense psychological trauma, Becky bravely identified her assailants. The trials that followed gripped the state of Wyoming.

The terror she experienced in the canyon followed her directly into the courtroom. As she testified against Kennedy and Jenkins, Kennedy taunted her: grinning maniacally while sliding his finger across his throat. It was a chilling promise that the ordeal was not over.

In 1974, both men were convicted of first-degree murder, forcible rape, and assault with intent to commit murder. They were sentenced to death. However, that sentence was reduced to consecutive life terms in 1977 when the Wyoming Supreme Court overturned the state’s mandatory death penalty statute.

For Rebecca, that single act of judicial review turned a tragedy into a never-ending ordeal. That courtroom menace... the finger-across-the-throat gesture, cemented her conviction that the men would eventually be released and would return to finish the job.

Her Struggle

Her life became defined by her struggle for justice, or rather, for safety. She spent the next 15 years as a tireless advocate, dedicating herself to ensuring the men were never paroled. She collected boxes upon boxes of petition signatures and attended every single parole hearing.

This mission was shared by her family. Her sisters, Kelly Burridge and Blythe Johnson, went door-to-door to gather signatures for the petition drive opposing parole.

Becky’s life, even in the midst of this fight, was marked by extraordinary love. She maintained a friendly, outgoing persona, loved to play practical jokes, and never forgot a friend’s birthday. Her ex-husband, Russell Brown, would later note that she always hugged friends goodbye and told them she loved them. Becky worked at a job she loved, selling advertising for a local radio station.

The Trauma That Remained

But beneath the friendly mask, Rebecca was constantly plagued by the trauma and guilt. She carried Amy’s picture in her wallet, a constant physical reminder of the sister who did not survive.

“Part of her died when her sister died,” her mother said.

This unbearable burden manifested as endless nightmares about her sister and the pervasive, paralyzing fear that her abductors would either escape or be paroled.

She had nightmares every day that they would get out, nightmares about her sister, her mother would tell reporters. For years Becky tried to cope as best she could. But eventually, she struggled with substance abuse, occasionally turning to drugs and alcohol.

Her emotional state was further destabilized by the continuous legal fight. One of her attackers began appealing for a retrial... an effort that deeply troubled and frightened her.

The Final Hours

In a heartbreaking and devastating symmetry, Becky Thomson’s tragic journey came full circle.

On Friday, July 31, 1992, at the age of 37, she returned to the scene she had avoided since that pitch-black night 19 years prior: the Fremont Canyon Bridge.

On that very afternoon, the word came down that Kennedy’s appeal for a retrial had finally been denied. David Lewis, the prosecutor who had sent the men to prison, was looking for her number to share the news. He couldnt find her number and figured he’d try again on Monday.

But Monday was too late.

That evening, despite her boyfriend’s pleading, she drove along the winding road, back to Freemont Canyon Bridge.

Rebecca, her boyfriend, and her 2-year-old daughter from her failed marriage got out of the car. The sky was clear, the sun setting and casting long shadows across the rocky hillside.

They walked beside the waist-high railing. Rebecca, crying, pointed to the specific locations of her trauma: where the men had raped her, where they had thrown her over, where she hit the protruding rock ledge, and where she spent the night shivering. She recalled begging the men not to rape Amy.

Days before this return, Rebecca had watched the movie “Ode to Billy Joe” four times. It’s a story about a boy who commits suicide by jumping off a bridge after being molested. She cried each time.

According to reports, while standing at the railing, Rebecca told her boyfriend, “I love you,” and ran her hands through his hair. He told her the baby shouldn’t see her cry, and started walking back to the car with her daughter (ASSOCIATED PRESS Casper, Wyo.).

That’s when he heard it: the unbearable crash of Rebecca’s body hitting the water. He ran back to the bridge with her daughter in his arms, yelling, “Rebecca, Rebecca, answer me!” He told reporters “I just couldn’t find her. I just couldn’t find her. I was screaming and crying and the baby was screaming and crying.”

But it was too late.

Police ruled out foul play and pulled Rebecca’s body out of the water about an hour later, from the same area where Amy had been found 19 years earlier. She had landed near the bank in about three feet of water, and tragically, she had suffered a broken neck and massive head injuries, mirroring her sister’s brutal fate.

While no one will ever know exactly what led to her final plunge, the prevailing belief among those who loved her was that the emotional toll had finally become too heavy.

Becky carried Amy’s picture in her wallet. Although she hadn’t had a drink for years, she recently had started drinking again. The night she died, she and her boyfriend shared two pitchers of beer.

Her mother thinks the alcohol gave her a false sense of courage to face her fears.

The boyfriend, who agreed to be interviewed by the Associated Press on the condition that his name not be used, said Rebecca wouldn’t tell him why she wanted to return to the bridge.

“She just said she had to go there,” he said. “The more I told her not to go out there, the faster she went. When she hit 70 m.p.h., that’s when I shut up.”

Her stepfather, Jack Case, clung to the hope that she simply lost her balance. Her former husband offered a different, more poignant perspective. He thinks the reason she went back to the bridge was because of her sister... to be with Amy.

“She was raped and murdered 19 years ago, but she just died Friday,” said Natrona County Sheriff Dave Dovala, who had arrested the two men the day after Rebecca crawled out of the gorge. He had stayed close to Rebecca and had given her away at her wedding three years before her death. (ASSOCIATED PRESS, CASPER, Wyo.).

The men who threw Rebecca and her sister Amy off the bridge, Ronald Leroy Kennedy and Jerry Lee Jenkins, are still in prison as of 2025. Kennedy in particular has spent decades filing numerous appeals and habeas corpus petitions, often challenging the validity and consecutive nature of his sentences, but all have been denied.

As of recent public records:

Ronald Leroy Kennedy is still alive and incarcerated within the Wyoming prison system (according to the last available record). Now 79 years old, he remains an inmate at the Wyoming Medium Correctional Institution, serving his sentences with a projected discharge date of “N/A” (Not Applicable).

Jerry Lee Jenkins was convicted and sentenced under the same consecutive life terms. While his current specific status is not detailed in the same public offender records as Kennedy’s, all legal records confirm he also received life imprisonment and has never been released on parole.

Becky Thomson survived a fall that should have killed her, only to be consumed years later by the traumatic shadow cast by her attackers. Her story stands as a heartbreaking testament to the fact that for some survivors, justice in the courtroom is only the beginning of a lifetime of unbearable pain.

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Minnesota. December 1980. With her car stuck in a snowdrift, 19-year-old Jean Hilliard walked through the brutal -22 F (-30 C) cold toward her friend’s house. She collapsed on the porch just feet from the door, unable to go on. She lay there, exposed and unconscious, for six hours in the freezing cold. The next morning, when the door was finally opened, they didn’t find an injured girl-they found a body, frozen solid.

Doctors saw a body so frozen they couldn’t inject a needle. Yet, they followed the core medical mantra: “No one is dead until they’re warm and dead.”

Jean Hilliard’s miraculous recovery changed medicine forever.

The Block of Ice on the Porch

On December 20, 1980, Jean Hilliard was driving home from a date in the vast, unforgiving landscape of rural Lengby, Minnesota. At just 19 years old, she was young, healthy, and about to face an ordeal that would become one of the greatest medical mysteries of the 20th century.

The air was still, silent, and lethally cold. The temperature plunged to a brutal -22 F (-30 C) with the wind chill, making it feel far worse. This was the kind of cold that doesn’t just bite... it kills.

Around midnight, Jean’s car skidded off a poorly marked, icy road and got stuck in a snowdrift. She was only wearing jeans, a coat, and cowboy boots... not really prepared for a trek through the cold. But miles from any other help, and with no cellphones at that time to call for help, she decided she couldn’t stay in the car.

With her energy already flagging, she chose to walk, aiming for the nearest known light: the farmhouse of her friend, Wally Nelson, about two miles away.

Jean fought through the deep snow and the freezing wind. But the enemy was not just the environment; it was her own body. As hypothermia set in, her body temperature dropped rapidly. Her core temperature fell, leading to confusion, disorientation, and the inevitable loss of motor control.

She made it to Wally Nelson’s property, but the effort was too much. Jean collapsed just feet from the front door. She lay there, exposed and completely unconscious, for six hours as the temperature never budged from its deadly low.

When Wally opened his door the next morning, he didn’t find a girl suffering from severe cold... he found something horrifyingly different. He found Jean, frozen stiff.

Jean’s body was frozen rock-solid. Wally had to load her diagonally into his car because her limbs were so rigid they couldn’t be bent. Her skin was waxy and ashen gray. Her eyes were fixed and unseeing. He later recounted that she looked and felt “like a piece of wood.” He rushed her to Fosston Hospital, ten miles away.

A Body “Out of a Deep Freeze”

At Fosston Hospital, the medical team faced an impossible situation. The moment Jean arrived, the initial diagnosis was certain: death.

The reports from the attending staff detail the incredible scene:

* Her skin was so frozen and hard that hypodermic needles kept bending or breaking upon contact.

* Her body was so cold that standard thermometers were useless. Her core temperature was far below 80 F, the point at which most humans are definitively gone.

* Dr. George Sather, the local physician, described her state in blunt, unforgettable terms: her body was like “a piece of meat out of a deep freeze.”

Despite the consensus that she was beyond saving, the medical team adhered to the core principle of hypothermia treatment: “No one is dead until they’re warm and dead.”

They wrapped her in heated pads and warm blankets, initiating a slow, careful rewarming process. This had to be done meticulously, as rapid warming can cause blood vessels to dilate too quickly, leading to a fatal heart attack.

Then, the miracle: as her temperature slowly climbed, a faint, erratic, but unmistakable heartbeat was detected. Jean Hilliard was alive.

The Unexplained Recovery: Human Hibernation

Over the next few hours, her recovery was nothing short of astonishing. She started moving her limbs, and within a couple of days, she was talking normally. The true mystery lies not just in her survival, but in her perfect recovery.

Most victims of such extreme cold require extensive amputations or suffer catastrophic brain damage due to lack of oxygen. Jean suffered no brain damage, no organ damage, and no frostbite requiring amputation. She was discharged from the hospital after 49 days, walking out completely healthy, with only minor blistering on her toes.

The Medical Breakthrough

How did the human body defy biology? Doctors proposed that Jean benefited from a rare biological phenomenon: The Cold Preservation Effect.

The sudden, intense cold caused her body to dramatically depress its metabolic rate. The theory suggests that her heart rate and cell activity slowed down so drastically that her body entered a state akin to human hibernation.

This deep metabolic suppression meant her vital organs, most crucially, her brain, required far less oxygen and energy to survive, preserving her until she could be warmed.

Jean Hilliard’s case became a crucial, high-profile example in medical literature, reinforcing the modern protocol to relentlessly treat all hypothermia victims until they are warm.

From National News to Normal Life

Though she spent time on national shows like the Today Show and earned the moniker “The Miracle Girl from Lengby, Minnesota,” Jean Hilliard’s life quickly returned to one of quiet normalcy.

She has stated that she retains no memory of the six hours she spent frozen in the snow; she only remembers driving and then waking up in the hospital, finding the whole experience “kind of disappointing” because she didn’t have a near-death vision.

She got married, had children, and later divorced. In a 2018 report, it was confirmed that she lives in Cambridge, Minnesota, and works at Walmart, a life far removed from the headlines.

She doesn’t dwell on that night, but she acknowledges its profound impact. Her lasting habit: she is meticulous about bundling up and avoiding driving on icy back roads late at night. Her story remains a powerful, living testament to the sheer, sometimes inexplicable, resilience of the human body.

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Ever felt that prickly sensation on the back of your neck, only to turn around and catch someone staring?

It’s not psychic. It’s evolution

And it’s the science of two nervous systems trying to sync up.

We’ve all been there. You’re waiting in line, or just walking through a busy space. Suddenly, a strange pressure builds, an undeniable instinct that you are being watched. You pivot, and bam... there’s a pair of eyeballs locked right on you.

It feels like magic, a true “sixth sense” , but it’s a hard-wired biological superpower known as Gaze Detection... And It’s a social glue that binds our species.

Gaze: The Universal Social Contract

While a direct gaze is the universal prelude to a confrontation (and a crucial biological defense), it is also the primary way we initiate connection and share reality.

* Joint Attention: Gaze is how we establish “joint attention.” When a child looks at their mother, and the mother looks in the same direction, they are creating a shared world. This simple act is the foundation for learning, language, and culture.

* Honest Signaling: The human eye, with its prominent white sclera, is unique. It’s like a massive billboard advertising the precise direction of our intent. Our brains are uniquely adapted to read this contrast, making us champions at figuring out exactly where others are looking... a necessary skill for complex cooperation.

* The Shift: A gaze is never static. When a person’s eyes shift, they are signaling a change in their internal state: “I’m done talking to you,” “I’m focused on that thing now,” or “I’m challenging you.” Your brain is exquisitely tuned to this change because it dictates how your social behavior must change next.

Gaze Through the Lens of Coordination Dynamics

Coordination Dynamics Theory (CDT), pioneered by scientist Dr. Scott Kelso, is the idea that biological systems... from heart cells to two people talking... naturally fall into stable, preferred patterns. These patterns are called attractors.

When you and another person interact, your two nervous systems are trying to coordinate. Gaze is the key ingredient that defines the entire pattern:

* The Order Parameter: The specific, measurable pattern that emerges between two people (e.g., the rhythmic timing of their conversation, or the direction of their mutual gaze).

* The Attractor State: The stable, repeating pattern the two people fall into.

* The Cooperative Attractor: A soft, mutual gaze with comfortable, rhythmic breaks. This is a stable, low-tension pattern (friendship, trust).

* The Threat Attractor: A hard, locked, direct stare. This is also a stable but high-tension pattern (challenge, dominance).

* The Phase Transition: A sudden, dramatic shift from one pattern to another... like when a friendly chat abruptly turns into a serious argument.

The “Prickle” of Being Watched: That sudden sensation is your system detecting an attempted lock-in to an attractor state. The other person’s system has suddenly signaled a powerful intent, and your system is rapidly mobilizing to either join the cooperative pattern or defend against the threat pattern.

Practical Knowledge: Gaze, Anxiety, and Therapy

Understanding gaze in terms of Coordination Dynamics Theory offers a powerful path for managing intense social reactions, particularly social anxiety and panic attacks.

Gaze as an Anxiety/Panic Trigger

For individuals with high social anxiety, the brain often interprets any perceived direct gaze as an automatic lock-in to the high-tension Threat Attractor.

The resulting panic attack or overwhelming anxiety can be viewed as a behavioral phase transition: the stable, neutral state of the individual collapses into a highly unstable, high-energy state (fight, flight, or freeze) because the control parameter (the perceived gaze intensity) crossed a critical threshold.

Practical Skills to “Destabilize the Attractor”

The goal is to gently reduce the control parameter (the intensity of the perceived stare) to stop the involuntary lock-in.

* Adjust the Focus (The Soft Gaze): Instead of fighting the need to look, train yourself to focus on the other person’s forehead or the bridge of their nose during intense moments. You maintain the appearance of eye contact (meeting the social need) without engaging the full, high-tension gaze-detection neurons. This “softens” the perceived input and destabilizes the Threat Attractor.

* Use the Exit Cue: Intentionally break and re-establish the gaze rhythm. Look away for a beat (at a water bottle, your hands, or a point just over their shoulder) before returning. This destabilizes the lock-in and forces the system back into a more neutral or cooperative, rhythmic pattern.

* Wear the Filter: When overwhelmed in a busy public place, wearing dark or tinted glasses acts as a physical filter. It reduces the visual data for the other person’s eye-direction (the order parameter), calming your over-sensitive system by making it harder to detect a precise stare.

Therapeutic Gaze: Re-Tuning the System

The CDT perspective can also be used for therapeutic benefit by intentionally guiding the system into a healthy attractor.

* Controlled Exposure: In a therapeutic setting, eye-contact exercises are designed to slowly introduce the control parameter (gaze) in a safe environment. This helps the individual’s nervous system learn that a direct gaze does not automatically equal a threat.

* Establishing Cooperation: By practicing sustained, soft, mutual gaze with a trusted person, the brain is essentially re-tuning to the Cooperative Attractor. The system learns a new, healthy, and stable pattern for interaction, reducing the likelihood of a panic phase transition in real-world scenarios.

Ultimately, your sense of being watched isn’t a flaw; it’s a testament to your deeply social, biologically programmed nature. By learning how your system locks into these gaze-defined patterns, you gain the knowledge... and the power... to choose a more constructive pattern.

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I Went fishing with my Dad when I was a kid. We had a little boat called the Timmer Two. Dad and I left from the boat docks in down town Charlevoix. I think it was called Cross Boat works.

We left Round Lake and went out on to Lake Michigan, passing under the drawbridge in Charlevoix. The boat was rocking with the waves and the swells. It was a sunny day and you could hear the seagulls. We were only a half mile off shore if that.

I got a fish on the line. I set the hook… started to reel it in… it was such a big fish, it started to pull me over the side. Dad had to grab me by my belt. He held on while I slowly reeled the big fish in. It seems like it weighed half as much as I did. I was so proud when I finally got it in the net. I pulled the fish in the boat and put it in the big red and white cooler.

We kept fishing for a while. Caught a few more, but nothing like that one. When we got home we put the cooler in the yard. Dad held up two nice fish and I held the big one I caught. Struggling to hold it up to my belt, I held it with two hands. Its tail bent on the ground. I was grinning from ear to ear when Uncle Tony took our picture. I had my 18 pound lake trout!

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We have a habit of thinking of the past as primitive. We forget how much knowledge we’ve lost from back then. Real life, everyday ways of accomplishing tasks that machines and tech do for us now.

Ever since the industrial revolution, we’ve lost a lot of skills that used to be commonplace. Like how most everyone could draw and many could paint with skill... because there were no cameras invented yet. So everyone learned drawing skills and composition skills like perspective and 3d representation, as a common everyday tool they used in their daily life. Like how now we all learn reading, writing, and math skills before we’re 10 yrs old.

There were no clocks as we typically think of them, for most of time. Not till recently. You would’ve used other skills to tell time. You would’ve used other tools to tell time. Other indicators of time passing, like the sun and the moon patterns. For more detailed attention to time within a day you would pay attention to the shadows in your yard or on a sundial, watch the sand drop in an hourglass, or burn a candle or an incense stick and watch its progress to know the time.

Or you might just watch water drip from one container to another, or you might sing a song. Or, you might listen for church bells, the birds at the precise coming of dawn, the rooster crow, or you might wait for the wild turkeys to shoot up into the trees like they do... like clockwork at dusk

Its really fascinating to observe the traditional methods preserved by skilled laborers in various countries... the tools, skills, and knowledge forgotten where technology and convenience has replaced them... erased them.

And some of the old ways are coming back. Re-discovered... re-invented.

There’s a guy named Wally Wallington, from Lapeer County, Michigan, here in the U.S. Wally is a retired building contractor who worked with very large blocks of stone and concrete. Through his practical need to do his everyday job, he developed the techniques to easily move monumental blocks of stone or concrete across a field... by himself. He shows you on video how he does it. No ancient aliens required.

Not to say there weren’t any ancient aliens... they’re just not necessary to do Wally’s job. Wally can show you how to do it. He can erect obelisks upright in the sand, pile massive blocks of stone on top of each other... all by himself... on camera. No illusions, no magic, just ancient principles we call physics, force, momentum, balance, pivot, levers, pulleys, and handles.

Using his methods he’s refined... on the job... he literally can put a handle on a barn and walk that barn to another place on his property... by himself. I shit you not.

Wally gained attention for his ability to move massive, multi-ton concrete and stone blocks by himself, using only simple tools and his understanding of physics.

​He proposes that his methods could explain how ancient civilizations, like those that built Stonehenge or the Egyptian pyramids, moved their giant stones without modern machinery.

​Stonehenge Replica

Wally is most famous for constructing a “Stonehenge-like” structure in his backyard using massive concrete blocks, and for moving that barn... an entire pole barn... across his property. He has demonstrated his ability to “walk” an entire pole barn across his property, by himself.

That’s not all

Wally’s shown he can single-handedly lift and stand upright concrete blocks weighing nearly 20,000 pounds. All on video.

His Technique

​Wally Wallington’s method doesn’t rely on modern, powered equipment. Instead, he uses basic principles of physics, mechanics and simple machines.

Levers & Pivots

He uses a beam lever and small stones as pivots. By placing a pivot point near the block’s center of mass, he can balance the massive object.

“Walking” Blocks

By rocking the block back and forth on the pivots and incrementally moving them, he can effectively “walk” a block forward. He has demonstrated moving a one-ton block at a rate of around 300 feet per hour by himself.

Counterweights

For lifting, he uses a system of counterweights and pivots to gradually and safely raise massive blocks into a vertical position.

​He has been featured on YouTube and on television programs, including the Discovery Channel, to demonstrate his techniques. This guy is for real. And his methods work.

Wally Wallington’s work is fascinating because it’s a practical demonstration of “experimental archaeology,” even if he’s not a formal academic. He’s essentially testing a hypothesis with his own hands.

​His methods are all about converting a small, continuous force (his own) into the movement of a massive object by applying it intelligently.

​”Walking” Blocks (Horizontal)

This is his most famous technique. It’s not just dragging.

​He uses a wooden lever to lift one edge of the block just enough to slide a small stone pivot underneath, near its center of gravity. Then he rocks the block on this single pivot, and it’s balanced, like a seesaw.

​He places a second pivot stone under one end.

​He then rotates the block around the first, central pivot. The end of the block, which is on the second pivot, rolls forward...

​He repeats this process, swiveling the block back and forth on its pivots, making it “walk” forward in a rotating motion. He can move a 1-ton block about 300 feet per hour this way.

​Lifting Blocks Vertical

​Ratcheting Up...

To get a block off the ground, he’ll rock it from side to side, adding a small piece of wood or a stone under the lifted edge each time. This “ratchets” the block higher and higher off the ground.

​Counterweight System

To stand a block on its end (like a 20,000 lb. monolith), he uses a clever counterweight system. He builds a wooden frame (like a seesaw with the block on one end) and adds smaller, manageable stones to a bucket or platform on the other end.

​By slowly adding more and more counterweight, he gradually and safely lifts the massive block into a vertical position, at which point he can tip it into a pre-dug hole.

​The Origin of His Theory

​This project didn’t start as an attempt to solve ancient mysteries. It began as a practical problem on a construction job.

​He was tasked with removing 1,200-pound concrete blocks from an existing floor, but he couldn’t get machinery into the area. The standard method would be to break them up with sledgehammers, a slow and labor-intensive process.

​Wallington decided to experiment and figured out his “walking” pivot technique to move the blocks whole to a location where a machine could reach them. He was struck by how simple and effective it was, which led him to wonder if ancient people had discovered the same principles.

​Public and Expert Reception

​Wallington’s work exists mostly outside of mainstream academic archaeology, but this gatekeeping hasn’t stopped his huge following online. The public is fascinated with his methods, his results. And academia is slowly turning its attention toward Wally. Recently, archeologists walked replica Easter Island monoliths around using variations on his techniques, providing more proof of concept.

To the general public, his work is incredibly popular. It’s a simple, visual, and common-sense solution to a puzzle that is often over-complicated by theories of “lost high technology” or aliens.

The idea that one clever person with rocks and sticks could do it is very appealing. And makes common sense. Because its not just a theory to be tested. Not just a topic to be debated. Wally had on the job experience... in real life... with real stone blocks that actually needed to be moved. It’s not his backyard hobby. Not his pet theory. Not his endless speculation. It’s his job. And yet...

​The academic View...

While archaeologists and engineers respect the ingenuity, they don’t necessarily accept it as the definitive answer. They prefer to continue the debate, continue the speculation, continue standing at the gate of knowledge, deciding who walks through. Their main arguments are:

​Scale

Wally Wallington moves one block at a time. Ancient sites moved thousands of blocks, often over great distances and up steep inclines (like the Great Pyramid). This is a problem for the academics.

What does Wally say? What does Wally do... He doesnt debate... he wouldnt just speculate. Wally would just post on Indeed, and hire some help.

​They need even more Evidence

While his method is plausible, there isn’t always direct archaeological evidence (like preserved pivots or levers) to prove this specific technique was used over others (like using wooden sledges on wet sand, for which there is evidence in Egypt).

Wally has a toolbox with other tools. Common sense tells us he does... tells us he’d set down his lever and grab the right tool for the job... the situation... the environment.

​Manpower

Most experts agree that while one person can do this, ancient projects had massive, organized labor forces and likely would have used less precise but much faster methods. They have yet to identify these “faster methods”. And like we already figured out, Wally can post on Indeed if he needs more help.

​Current Status of His Project

​Wally has not been active publicly for several years. His grandson has started a new YouTube channel to re-upload and share his grandfather’s original videos and knowledge, which has renewed interest in his work.

Wally moved his entire project... including the multi-ton blocks, to a new home 10 miles away. Another feat that demonstrated his techniques.

​Wally Wallington is a “hands-on” theorist who proved what is possible for a single person to achieve using simple, clever solutions that our ancestors might have used.

Here’s a link to his YouTube videos, you’ll really like them. They are not AI, they’re for real.

(Source: YouTube share.google/5LGLs5Tkws…)

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Checking the Garden

I was checking my carrots in the garden this morning, thinking about living out here in the middle of nowhere. Beautiful fall morning, 55° out. The sun is rising behind the trees. There's silence out here. No breeze ruffles the leaves yet. The air is so fresh. There's a few clouds, but it looks like no rain today.

My Pond, photo by me:

No cars or trucks or highway sounds. That's miles away.

I planted my carrots a little late, and I've been watching all summer for signs of a healthy crop. They look good and I can't wait, I've gotta try one.

I pulled a little bunching of carrots. They're too small but still growing, and one looks pretty good! A solid little carrot!

I munched down the carrot! So good! My first carrot!

Raising Chickens

I'm planning to raise a couple chicken for eggs. I'm not sure if I could eat the chickens. Chicken is a favorite --I'm not a vegetarian, but I'm leaning more and more that way lately. Mostly because I dont want to do the killing. The more I take responsibility for providing my own food, the more I shy away from buying my meat. Raising my meat would be hard for me because I get attached to animals.

Hunting

I prefer to hunt. I used to hunt for sport, but now just hunt for food. I only hunt to feed myself, not for trophy kills or thrill killing in the name of hunting and sport. It’s a personal decision. Too many bad experiences with inexperienced hunters and weekend warriors coming up from the city to walk around the woods with a rifle and shoot at something.

I've unfortunately witnessed a deer being shotup as she ran, shotup by multiple hunters at once in a frezied attack that only wounded the terrified animal. I've witnessed a hunter shoot a dog, killing it for the pure enjoyment. I had to call the sheriff that day and tell a little girl her friend was gone.

That’s Not Hunting

That's not hunting. That's killing for the thrill of it. Nobody was looking to ethically kill the deer without terrorizing it in the process. And the monster that shot the lab on purpose, that was his habit. He defended his actions and was insulted anyone would question his ethics. The police charged and convicted him.

I don't want any part of that.

Killing carries weight. It's an adult responsibility. Kids and inexperienced adults need education and training to properly appreciate the new responsibility they're taking on, if they plan to hunt and kill an animal, for sport or for food. Or if they raise animals and slaughter their livestock. So they're not cruel in the process. If you're going to hunt an animal for food, or slaughter your livestock, you should do it in a way that doesn't terrorize the animal in the process. Do it humanely, with skill and full knowledge of what you are doing.

Your Choice

I'm advocating choice. Correct choices made in the light of day, with full appreciation for the intended consequences of your actions. That's why I'm shying away from buying meat at the store and trying to hunt myself. Or eat an alternative if I can't hunt for some reason. The more I take responsibility for providing my own food, the more I can't gloss over where my meat comes from.

Albert Schweitzer

Last night I was reflecting on these things, and I came across an interesting wikipedia article on Albert Schweitzer.

Schweitzer wrote, "I am life which wills to live, and I exist in the midst of life which wills to live.(https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albert_Schweitzer#cite_note-75).

The article states,

“In nature one form of life must always prey upon another. However, human consciousness holds an awareness of, and sympathy for, the will of other beings to live. An ethical human strives to escape from this contradiction so far as possible.

Though we cannot perfect the endeavour we should strive for it: the will-to-live constantly renews itself, for it is both an evolutionary necessity and a spiritual phenomenon. Life and love are rooted in this same principle, in a personal spiritual relationship to the universe. Ethics themselves proceed from the need to respect the wish of other beings to exist as one does towards oneself".

The article continues,

“For Schweitzer, mankind had to accept that objective reality is ethically neutral. It could then affirm a new enlightenment... by giving priority to ethical will as the primary meaning of life. Mankind had to choose... Respect for life, overcoming coarser impulses and hollow doctrines... (leading) the individual to live in the service of other people and of every living creature. In contemplation of the will-to-life, respect for the life of others becomes the highest principle and the defining purpose of humanity.(https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albert_Schweitzer#cite_note-76)"... Such was the theory which Schweitzer sought to put into practice in his own life".

I Agree

That sums up my thoughts and feelings here. I sympathize with the life around me. Life is hard. Through yor choices, you can make it better or you can make it worse.

Anyone Else?

Is anyone else familiar with this famous man and his philosophy? His name was famous when I was a kid, but he died in 1965, and you dont hear much about him anymore. It seems his ideas are timeless and apply to our lives today.

Especially farmers, and anyone who raise livestock for food. How do you deal with raising and eating your livestock? Hunters--you're living a valued tradition as well. How important is it to you to hunt with skill and intent? How important is it to both the farmer and the hunter to not terrorize their animals, and to recognize their will to live, providing a healthy environment for them to be born into, live and grow, and then be harvested or hunted ethically as food?

Thanks for reading this, I hope you join the discussion!

-Tim

More soon,

From Tim’s Desk

Checkout my other articles here, and on Medium:

Blood and Water — My real-time DNA mystery investigation. Military documents, family secrets, and the slow process of reconstructing a hidden life — Did my father fake his death after testifying against murderers?

Wilderness Witness — Turning my remote, 40-acre property from hunting camp into a streaming wildlife sanctuary. Trail cameras, solar panels, and the challenge of creating something sustainable while living off grid.

Life Imitates AI — Experiments in augmented consciousness and AI-assisted living. And what happens when you let AI read four decades of your handwritten thoughts.

Northern Lights Philosophy — Insights from a life spent thinking about thinking. Reflections on truth, identity, consciousness, and what it means to live with uncertainty

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