You do not need to travel to India for spiritual enlightenment. If you do, spiritually enlightened Indians are likely to point you back where you came from: Specifically, to Mount Shasta in northern California.
The mountain itself is an ancient volcano 14,000 feet high, once home (maybe still is) to an ancient civilization called the Lemurians.
Nearby, Bigfoot runs amuck.
UFOs drop in for a magnetic energy fix, rendering this magical mountain a service station for extraterrestrials.
Assorted New Agers, Buddhists and shamans hang their shingles to milk the pilgrims, some of whom never leave.
Purge the past. Spiritual rebirth. Tranquility. Serenity.
The more I delved into Shasta and all its mysteries, its status as a mystic landmark, the better I saw an opportunity to scribe a fantastical adventure involving an ancient civilization, futuristic aliens—and even Bigfoot.
This was my experience on a road trip ten years ago when I visited Shasta:
The great mystical mountain finally comes into view as you glide a curvy path on I-5. It peeks or peaks over lesser mountains, fleeting glimpses here and again, every bit as majestic as painted by the Harry Cassie Best, a traveling musician who discovered his truer talent as an artist by painting this mountain.
Soon, the ancient volcano looms, providing me the same kind of thrill I used to get when approaching Disneyland as a kid and seeing the Matterhorn from the freeway.
An exit from the interstate into Dunsmuir, a quaint town that exists in a gully and from which most of Mount Shasta is hidden. I’d been minded to find overnight accommodation here and check out “the world’s best water” from a 5,000 year-old aquiver. But Dunsmuir is sleepy so onward to Mount Shasta City, more a village, combining retirees with new age mystics.
Around three a.m., the devil’s hour, I awakened with a headache and a thirst and reached for Advil and a glass of Shasta water, from the tap, fresh and cold. It took a while but I eventually fell into the sweetest slumber of the night—and with it this very vivid dream: I am in this same hotel room but, instead of a rustic setting, outside my door is a lively vibrant street akin to San Francisco’s North Beach. As I gingerly step out, joyous people engulf me, asking what I’m looking for, offering to take me to Mount Shasta’s central boulevard, which, they say, is even more vibrant and artsier than the street we are on. I am awed by the joyfulness and gaiety exuded by these smiley, very happy people. They call their main street “Honoré” and seem in a hurry—so gleeful they are—to take me there.
It inspired me to scribe a novella I titled Dakota, Driven (unpublished) that delves a mile beneath Mount Shasta into the magical land of Lemuria. (Maybe I’ll run it as a Monday Meltdown Madness series after True Nuts concludes.)
Later, I wrote Book Drive (Bartleby Press, 2021) a road novel that takes the protagonist to McCloud, just south of the mountain, where inside St. Joseph’s Church he experiences an epiphany that transmogrifies him from a curmudgeonly, bitter man into a joyous, spirited soul.