With the above in mind, ponder the following fourth dimensional experience of Mark Rohrer:

#7. Dreamscapes. . .Journey Into the Unknown By: Mark E.
Rohrer
Riverwind@prodigy.net
http://members.xoom.com/riverwind

Hi Louise!
As promised is the first cut of the article. Please bear in mind that I am not a professional researcher, and thus I'm not qualified to add my two cents in that arena. The best that I can do is to share the experiences my family and I have gone through the last 10 years, and how we manage to cope with the fallout. Sometimes I think first hand anecdotal accounts are far more beneficial for the people at large rather than reading a white lab coat disection of incidences that depersonalize them and move them further from the realm of believable.

Like talking with friends is far more beneficial than talking to a shrink -- both generally help oneself to see their way through their problems, but one group does it out of love and caring without need for money, and that builds far stronger relationships. Well, enough of me harping, here's the promised article. Mark
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I have no footnotes. No references. No credits. I have no corroborating witnesses outside my family. No police or any other formal report to substantiate my writings, my claims, my anecdotes.

What I write here I write of my own experiences and neither demand nor ask for your belief. In time, if not already, you will have your own experiences with which to pass down to your grand-childrens' children. The new folk tales of the dawning golden age to be passed around the new campfires of the millennial nights coming upon us.

My yarns I have spun on the great spinning wheel of the 'net, first on Prodigy'sTM Science & Technology bulletin board under its "UFO" topic, and more recently recast under my own web pages at Riverwind's Castle Keep in the "Dreamscapes" section (http://members.xoom. com/riverwind/dream/dream002.htm). They tell of incredible visionary journeys and visitations by entities not common to our world.

They tell of a family's struggle with the unknown for a week in early February of 1993. They attest to the continuing saga that plagues a father and his oldest daughter, and that now threaten to engulf his young son, too.

Only his one other daughter, the middle of three siblings, appears to be innocent of the current episodes, though she, too, was party to the earliest beginnings.

A cold Nevada night sometime in January 1988 greeted me on the high desert amidst a series military buildings dating from the 50's. Old, wooden, elongated A-frames painted white against the landscape also painted white by the dusting of snow that had fallen overnight.

I had emerged from an unknown origination to find myself scrambling in a dark- blue, quarter-ton pickup truck from the Air Force Security Police. Fishtailing into a parking lot between buildings and sliding into a stall between two other vehicles, I vaulted from the truck and ran back across the myriad tracks crisscrossing the parking lot while shuffling my boots to obliterate my tracks. As I neared the front of the building to my left, I dove for cover beneath the bushes that adorned the entrance to the building and struggled to control my breath, hiding the telltale vapor by exhausting into my jacket.

As I squatted beneath the flora, the door to the building opened above and to my left as a couple of officers, dressed in flight garb, departed . From the aroma of bacon, ham, and eggs that wafted out with them, my appetite spiked and I surmised I was in front of the mess hall.

Listening to the officers talk about their"Nighthawk" squadron, I was soon overwhelmed by the revelation that I was at their super-secret stealth fighter base. This fact about the existence of a stealth fighter squadron named the "Nighthawks" would not be publicly revealed for another eight months in October 1988 -- I was in attendance at the speech during its public unveiling.

Flashing forward during this trio of dreamscape sequences, I had made my escape from the SPs, having been one myself. Proceeding east across the sage brush terrain, I stayed low to the ground and low crawled a good distance to the mountain chain a few miles across the valley floor. Off in the distance I could see a train heading north along tracks leading further into the mountains. The pair of great GP-9 diesel engines rode in tandem as they hauled a series of box cars and a couple of low-boy flat bed cars that were not only loaded down with tarpaulined material, but were also heavily escorted on board by what I perceived to be an elite Army unit called the "Overland Train Group"-or OTG.

(I just returned from vacationing with my family throughout America's Heartland. While in Colorado visiting the burial site of Buffalo Bill on top of Lookout Mountain overlooking Golden and its fine Coors brewery and the U.S. Geological Service to the west of Denver, I came across a tidbit of information concerning the U.S. Army. Nestled within the Buffalo Bill Museum is a reference to a crack Army unit that Buffalo Bill scouted for during the Indian Wars. The name of the unit? The "Overland Troop." Elite military units do not have a habit of disappearing into history, but of continual evolution in their particular discipline. It seems that I may have at least a partial validation of the second dreamscape within my trio of dreamscapes.)

Zipping forward again, I cleared the last summit and there laying before me some thousand feet below on the valley floor, created by the merging of three surrounding mountains, was an apparent military installation, the likes of which I had never before seen. From my distance, and hidden within the crevices of the mountain rock, I could clearly make out a central building from which eight platforms radiated out like spokes on a wheel. Along some of the spokes where six circular structures, three on either side. Some spokes had none of the circular structures, and some had less than their full complement of six structures.

Staying within the crevice, I spent the good part of the day surveying and reconnoitering the installation. The train tracks well below me made a gentle descent to the valley and disappeared into the side of a mountain, seemingly stopping at the edge of the mountain without a track bumper that normally terminates spur lines. There was minimal activity outside the structures; only a handful of individuals had exited the central building, walked out on the spokes and then retreated back into the main building. At one time avehicle had appeared from around the building and a couple of individuals dismounted and proceeded into the building. I found it interesting that some of the individuals were a good foot shorter than other individuals, and surmised that foreign military personnel were present for some sort of training.

As the afternoon progressed, I began to carefully and stealthily make my way down towards the installation. Ever watchful for sensors and CCTVs, I clung to the rocks and used them for cover as much as possible. Eventually I made my way to the valley floor and remained covered by large boulders, amazed over the lack of intrusion detection sensors and equipment. With my attention now fully devoted to the installation rather than descending under cover, my breath was whisked away by the sight before me, and I knelt in raptured awe of the astonishing installation.

The round, central building was approximately 100 feet in diameter, being a little more than three times the width of one of the many round structures setting adjacent to one of the many spokes--walkways or ramps . The small, round structures next to the ramps were themselves about 30 feet in diameter, and adjacent to each of the round structures, or where a round structure would have been were it there, sat a small "utility" shack on top of the ramps. There were about 10 feet separating the small, round structures from each other, and 50 feet from the main building that served as a hub. Each walkway measured about 150 feet in length, servicing three small, round structures on either side and hosting six "utility" shacks. The small, round structures themselves appeared to be...flying discs.

Carefully panning the area for signs of CCTVs, tell-tale faint pathways of line sensors, and stand-off passive sensors such as IR, magnetometric , or volumetric devices, and seeing none, I carefully watched for personnel. After several minutes of anxious anticipation, I bolted from behind the boulders concealing me and sprinted across a hundred or so yards coming to a dead stop beneath the closest disc. Remaining cautiously in place while regaining control of my ragged breath, I listened carefully for the "clomp-clomp" of boots marching down the ramps or the chatter of voices engaged in conversation.

Confident that my detection was not discovered, I slowly and quietly made my way over to the center disc where I could see that about a quarter of its bottom shell was removed, revealing the superstructure inside. A series of cables ran from this disc, as they had the previous disc that I just left, up to the "utility" shack, apparently providing power. As I examined the superstructure and attempted to peer into the darkenedshadows of its interior, I heard the sharp "slap-slap" report of boots not marching down the ramp, but in full sprint. Alarmed, I raised my head enough to sight the commotion and noticed a couple of black uniformed personnel sporting black baseball hats and gripping their 9-mil sidearms in quick pursuit towards my direction. However, as frightening a sight as they were, they were nothing compared to what was following in their shadow: an alien being I have since come to know as a Grey.

Not needing an invitation to leave nor a clairvoyant to tell me the object of their desire, I exploded from beneath the saucer in a dead run in the direction I came, desperately seeking the cover and safety of the boulders from the rounds that I knew would be coming my way. As I cleared the last saucer and came into full view, a voice bellowed at me, "Stop or we'll blow your (expletive) brains out!" Knowing the difficulty of hitting a moving target dodging to and fro erratically, I paid no attention as my mind and body where in synch: escape! Still, the round that whizzed by my ear left an indelible impression on my memory as even more adrenaline pumped into my body surging me ahead. "If only I could get to the rocks in time," and then I found myself tumbling as I lost my footing on the loose valley floor merging with the mountain.

Struggling to regain my footing, a "voice," more like a disembodied "thought" reverberated in my head as though I were wearing stereophonic headphones, "Stop running; you will not be hurt." Turning my head as I labored to my feet, a dark gurgle rose from deep within me and escaped in a blood-curdling scream of primal fear as the Grey stood over me stretching to put one of its hands on my head. In that moment that I fell unconscious I awakened from my first conscious encounter with an alien being -- the first of many that were to follow.

Jolting into the consciousness of full wakefulness, and snapping into an upright position in my Southern California bedroom, I was terrified over this series of dreamscapes that were full of revelation. I sat in trepidation taking measure of my physiological symptoms: ragged, exhausted breathing; sweat pouring off me as a mid-summer's down pour; blood coursing through arteries and veins as the "thump-thump" of a racing heart beat within my ears. What did it all mean?

Eight months later, long after I'd forgotten about this series of dreamscapes, I attended an evening function honoring the stealth fighter squadron and its commander where it was revealed for the first time publicly that the squadron's unofficial (as of that time) nickname was "Nighthawk." In that moment the flood gatesof my memory opened spilling forth the trio of dreamscapes that I had forgotten eight months earlier, fully understanding their implication as the first was just validated this very night. (And now, as of my vacation this year, 1998, the second dreamscape of the series seems to be partially validated.) My journey into the unknown was just beginning...or so I thought.

http://members.xoom.com/riverwind Mark E. Rohrer Riverwind@prodigy.net