Coincidence has played a starring role in this project ever
since its inception. Indeed, it was an odd coincidence that set this whole thing
in motion. I’ve lost track of the number of just-so incidents that led me to
find what I was looking for at just the right time that I needed it.
I mentioned last week that Pete’s brother Richard sent me a
large packet of material from Pete’s private journal, and also a copy of a very
tense encounter Pete had with some
sketchy characters up in the hills.
I had seen the story before, somewhere in the folio of notes,
and scripts for The Lost Canyon and Lost Era shows. The letter from Richard
provided me with just what I needed right then, which was material for the next
week’s post. I got it all transcribed,
and you’ll get to see it in just a few more paragraphs. Or you could just skip ahead.
But there was one more little just-so element in the mix.
I don’t get very many comments here at the Lost Canyon
Project, so seeing the notice in my email started my morning on a very good
note. I received a comment from a gentleman who goes by the nic “Lineman”
asking about the power poles, one of Pete’s favorite subjects.
So I searched out the
post from last January, about when Mike and Lou came down over Labor Day weekend to assess Pete’s enormous collection
of powerline insulators.
More Strands in the Web
More Strands in the Web
If you click over there, you may notice that I ended that
post with a teaser about Pete’s scary encounter with some sketchy characters up
in the hills. I, uh—forgot to follow up on that teaser. (embarrassed grin)
Until now. To give some context to the story, Pete would frequently
build small hidden campsites in the canyons in the Whittier hills. One of the
reasons, was to record the night sounds of coyotes howling, or the songs of
various birds.
What follows is from
Pete Hampton’s journal. These are Pete’s unedited words.
Scary True Story
By Pete Hampton
By Pete Hampton
May, 1980
One fine morning I awoke in my tent hearing all the birds
singing and the little wren with his beautiful clear burbling song and one
coyote up on the ridge and I started dozing off again because it was so
comfortable in the tent. Suddenly I was awakened by people’s voices and the
roar of some vehicle that had a bad muffler.
What the hell is that going on at 7:00 in the morning? I
peeked through the branches of the brush around my camp and I saw an old faded
red Datsun pickup truck.
Then I hid, and was going to put the recorder on, but those
noisy DC10’s were flying over and I couldn’t get it on tape. There were two
people that I estimated were in their 30’s.
“Hey, there’s cows back here. Let’s get the fuckin’ this and
fuckin’ that…”
They talked rough and crazy like bad people or even
criminals. Then they left.
Then, two days after when I left for home I found an old
crumpled up pornographic pamphlet in the beautiful little stream below me. It
was raw and crusty pictures of penis enlargers and a picture of a black dude
with a 14 inch cock, and all kinds of women’s
vagina, sex stimulators, weird masturbating devices for women. I picked
it up out of the stream and threw it where the owners of Rose Hills would find
it.
Then another time those creeps were up there again and I
figured that they might even have a gun “Bang, Boom” they’re bad people…
Then again one afternoon I was ready to go up the hill
from a deep gulch just below my camp (100 feet- 33 1/3 meters) and I found an empty shell from a .30-.30
high powered rifle. As I started going up the hill to my campsite there was a
whine overhead and a report of gunfire that followed because a .30-.30 is
supersonic. Oh, Oh. There’s that red pickup again, down below in Dark Canyon.
Yikes, I better get up to my camp, but fast! I rushed up to the front entrance
and pulled out the branch door and quickly got under the huge sumac bush and
shut the camouflage door and rushed inside the tent and grabbed my hidden
Remington .22, 19 shot rifle, and chambered it.
I felt like I was in guerilla warfare as I tried to remain
non existent to all intruders in my domain.
Don’t panic now: put your recorder on and tape it all for
evidence in court if you have to shoot them in self-defense…
The sun had set now and by their rough, laughing psychopathic
voices they were right down below me in that stream under the oak trees again.
Bang.
They had a gun and they also had a dog with them. A hunting
dog.
Oh my gosh what if that dog sniffs me out where I am up here?
Paranoia… barkbarkbark arf arf.
I put on the recorder and then crouched down below the
dug-out where I could see their silhouette
coming. If they decided to fuck with me. (pardon my French) I would have
no choice, but to shoot the one with the high powered rifle in the head; then
his accomplice also in pure self-defense. Oh, how would I explain this to
police, though?
I was scared, but very organized and prayed they wouldn’t come
up the trail and find where I was, although I was extremely well concealed. My
heart was pounding and I swallowed down a can of beer to calm my nerves.
Then I heard, “let’s go up here and (harsh obscene words) and
if we see ‘em let’s kill ‘em.
Gulp! For a moment it wasn’t real anymore to me I’m going to
have to commit a murder. Wow! Bark Bark
went the dog again. But luckily they went up the other side of the
canyon and shot their gun then drove all over laughing and shooting, screwing
things up for me and the coyotes. Then they left.
The next morning, when I left, up on the dirt road I noticed
a red pickup truck with a white camper on it creeping along. They saw me from a
distance and acted very suspicious about my presence. I cleverly waved to them
and smiled, and they left and so did I, after a few minutes.
I never saw them again. I told police, but they didn’t seem
to care about the incident.
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