‘‘The Unnamed Monument’ is described, in most literature, as a brutal obelisk that just doesn’t sit right and that’s really about all there is to it. It’s made of gray cement and weatherworn to such an extent that the only visible markings indicate the year of its installation: 1787. Plenty happened that year, both good and bad, but none of it quite warrants a monument erected on the edge of the Dakota Badlands. There was a lot of New America stuff happening at the time. One might think that monument makers had their hands full elsewhere.

The early internet saw the rise of a ‘Money Pit’ style rumor regarding the monument, namely that it indicated the site of some lost treasure. This led to a great deal of digging in the area and, in 1998, a man had to be airlifted from the site after ‘The Unnamed Monument’ lost its grip in the earth and crushed his lower half. The monument was righted, shortly after, and the rumor was nearly forgotten. Nearly, because a new rumor now circulates regarding a blurry picture of the fallen obelisk that indicates there may be something carved into the bottom. It’s this author’s opinion that a social media challenge or a ‘copypasta’ will have the ‘The Unnamed Obelisk’ on its side again by the end of the decade.’

What doesn’t sit right to me, is that there are a few dozen obelisks like the one Autumn by the Wayside describes, crooked in the ground like teeth in the jaw. They are each foreboding in their own way and each has a number on one side, indicating that they may be counting down very slowly, I guess. Slowly enough that it’s the least of my worries, really, because I could name half a dozen ways for the world to be ending in 1700 days if that’s the sort of pace we’re setting.

‘The Unnamed Obelisk’ still manages to stand out as wronger than the others. It’s clear even from a distance which one is the oldest, and when I’m close enough to touch it, I feel the tingling ache of mild electricity- like blood pooling in my fingers. And my fingers are bleeding when I pull my hand away. Not from any clear point- just from the pores, I guess, which seems worse in theory than it seems to be in practice. I hand-sanitize, which just spreads the blood around, and then I wipe the blood/alcohol mess on my jeans.

It’s been said before, but ‘The Unnamed Obelisk’ does seem to sit at the heart of the future-proofing problem, which is to say, there’s a lot about the site that suggests it’s more of a warning than a monument. Someone must have thought people in the future would be smart enough to stay away from evil-looking, blood-sucking obelisks on those bases alone and that the year would be explanation enough as to why one might think to install one as a marker.

Maybe just make it really boring next time.

-traveler

There is a man having some sort of lonely mental crisis at the central point of ‘Compelled Echo State Park.’ A Ranger is stretched across a bench nearby, looking at his phone. He hears me approaching and shifts as though he might lend the weeping man some assistance, fulfilling what, I have to assume, is his duty at this particular posting. He shrugs, instead, and goes back to ignoring us both.

To be fair to the man-in-crisis, ‘Compelled Echo Cave’ is a lot to wrap your head around. The nearer I get, the clearer it is that the man’s outbursts are being prompted by the cave itself. The distant sounds of his own hysterics emanate from the dark, there, and hearing them elicits a fresh bout of wailing. Though, that’s not really what’s happening, is it? In reality, the man is being compelled to echo the wailing- his crisis playing out in the cave before it manifests on the surface. I feel a twinge of existentialist discomfort, myself, and before I can find the words to comfort the man, I hear my own voice echo out of the cave: You okay, man?

It’s exactly the sort of low-bar discomfort I have to offer in any situation: reluctant and almost judgmental. I try to think of something else to say but the words form in my mouth anyway.

“You okay man?”

No. The cave says.

“No,” the man answers.

To be fair to the Ranger, this seems like the sort of thing a person has to work out on their own.

‘There is no better way to upset your already less-than-stable understanding of the universe than to visit ‘Compelled Echo State Park,’ where the cave seems to anticipate noises at its mouth just before they happen. Researchers of the compelled echo phenomenon fits neatly into the established understandings of natural science, but the papers they produce utilize a great deal of technical jargon to beat around the bush and to eventually suggest other avenues of study to be explored at a later date.

Some find the pre-mimicking of ‘Compelled Echo Cave’ to be difficult, but ultimately therapeutic. Others insist alien wordings and intonations are insinuated into what they are forced to say at the mouth. Still others assume the whole thing is a scam. Suffice to say: nobody likes the sound of their own voice.’

The cave speaks again: Look, I’ve never been good at this sort of thing under normal circumstances. I’m not going to make you feel better.

It pauses so I can catch up. The words tumble from my lips.

But this thing has always been here and seeing it for yourself doesn’t change anything.

I say all of that, too, and then I hear Hector sneeze in the darkness. A few seconds later, the Hector at my feet sneezes and seems legitimately surprised by the cave, as though it’s the first strange thing he’s noticed in all this traveling.

I hear the sneeze because the cave, and therefore the man, has quit crying. In fact, when I listen closely, I can hear the unexercised grunt of me pulling him to his feet.

The man opens his mouth to speak and I stop him, afraid we’ll end up back where we started. It must work, because the cave stays quiet and, soon, I hear the man’s footsteps fading into the dark. Soon after that he leaves.

Thanks! The cave shouts, and I turn in time to see the Ranger say the same thing. He follows the man down the trail and toward the parking lot.

I sit at the entrance of the cave for a long time, waiting to hear what I’ll say next.

But no words come.

-traveler

‘Likely the most miserable creature on earth, ‘The Angry, Impotent Cat of Bank County, Arizona’ is homeless by choice and, thus, is somewhat difficult to pin down, geographically, in a medium that cannot effectively utilize GPS. There are websites and social media accounts dedicated to tracking the direction of its wanderings. That direction is inevitably ‘away from the people who are trying to interact with it’ so most photos of ‘The Angry, Impotent Cat’ are of its butthole, likely the only aspect of its fame the cat would approve of.

Not to be confused with ‘The Angry, Important Cat of Bank County, Arizona,’ an elected official.’

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

There’s a lot to be said about the walled-off border of ‘The 51^st State,’ but what stands out most to me is just how flat it seems despite, according to maps, being a massive, perfect circle. The credibility of the map is questionable, sure. That’s true of any map that reveals the shape and location of the secret ‘51^st State.’ Holding a map like that is a misdemeanor at least. Creating maps- distributing them- is unquestionably felonious and maybe also the sort of thing that gets you thrown into the sort of prisons that don’t show up on maps either. Irony at its most cruel.

They can’t throw you in jail for finding the wall, though. That would be tough. It’s huge, towering hundreds of feet in the air. It reeks of misplaced tax money, the quality with which it’s been built and the care with which it’s maintained. People find this wall all the time, I’m sure, and without knowing the context, they must wonder the same thing we all do: keeping us out or something else in?

‘Rumor has it that official maps of the continental United States disguise the location of ‘The 51^st State’ by widening borders and shaving off little latitudinal degrees where the average non-cartographer won’t miss them. Situated as it is, where Midwestern prairies drag on for miles in every direction, it’s the sort of discrepancy that most will overlook without a second thought. The wall itself serves much the same purpose, it being the color of sandstone and curved so subtly as to blend in with landscapes and horizons when viewed from the highway. It is so bland- so unseeable- that certain stretches of interstate have been forced to draw some attention to the wall in order to keep vehicles from colliding with it as drivers pull to the shoulder to relieve themselves.

Of course, once the wall is seen, it can’t be unseen. It is the single largest construction on American soil. Unofficial estimates put ‘The 51^st State’ as the tenth largest in the nation but that sort of math is wholly unnecessary when faced with the truth of the thing. It breathes enormity and it has the allure of a dead insect- grotesque and dangerous for all that it’s still.

As for what’s behind it, collecting the ideas about ‘The 51^st State’ and its daunting wall has proven a difficult task. There are just so many theories and the people that ask about them just keep disappearing.’

-traveler