Space Cowboys

Space Cowboys

Every Fourth of July weekend, revelers trek miles—possibly light-years—to visit ranch country, Roswell's annual UFO Festival, and the site of the spaceship crash that started it all. Join Brandon Call for a close encounter of the festive kind.



As a kid, I would gaze for hours at the nighttime sky and sometimes pinpoint a single star. It was fun to imagine that someone—or something—was staring back at me.  In those days, space represented something undefined. Sure, I learned all about the nine (now eight) planets in our solar system. I could readily recall that Jupiter has 63 moons, and giggled any time someone said, “Uranus.”  Still, I wondered what might be beyond our solar system, further than any scientific exploration. And as a child, it’s easy to find the beauty in possibilities.

         Fast-forward 15 years. A lot has changed.  In the hectic adult world, I no longer make time to stargaze.  Extraterrestrial beings don’t occupy my thoughts as often as do the responsibilities of going to work and paying my bills.  That is precisely why Roswell’s annual UFO Festival is a perfect escape from reality. To drive south three hours from Albuquerque is to literally leave civilization.  There’s nothing but sand, cacti, and the occasional herd of cows.

         Like ants drawn to a picnic, each year more than 120,000 UFO enthusiasts are drawn to Roswell, carrying with them a cargo of unanswered questions (and most with a camera): Is there life on Mars?  Do UFOs really exist?  What really happened in Roswell on that storied night of July 2, 1947? Like so many before me, I set out to discover the great unknown.

***

         It’s noon during the Fourth of July weekend. Elsewhere in the United States, revelers are busy launching fireworks and barbequing meat, but here—from the strangely dressed visitors to downtown Roswell’s UFO-themed storefronts—I see no red, white, and blue.

         But there’s plenty else for the eyes. On North Main Street, a teenage girl wearing a tie-dyed t-shirt that reads “WE COME IN PEACE” stares goggle-eyed at the Wal-Mart storefront welcoming “EARTHLINGS AND INTERGALACTIC TRAVELERS ALIKE.” A 60-something woman in a silver tankini and green body paint orders a Big Mac at the local McDonald’s shaped like a flying saucer. At the nearby Walgreen’s, a 20-something man in a tan Star Trek uniform buys hair gel. “Congratulations,” says a cashier. It was New Mexico Military Institutes’ graduation weekend. “Oh, I’m not graduating,” says the man. “I’m James T. Kirk, today.”

         It feels like a plot to the next, big Sci-Fi blockbuster: aliens take over Earth, forcing peace-loving hippies and the military to come together to save the planet. Except this isn’t some made-for-tv movie; this is the heart of ranch country—Roswell, New Mexico. Besides, there’s no such thing as space aliens. Or is there?

         I continue my stroll down Main Street and enter Not of this World Coffee, an oasis in the 95-degree heat and a perfect people-watching locale.  A younger man in an orange NASA jumpsuit orders an iced latte.  An elderly woman with head-to-toe silver body paint and an elaborate wired headpiece complains that she’s melting in the “wretched dry heat.”  Three Imperial Stormtroopers sit and order sandwiches for lunch. I think to myself: how can someone wear such an outfit in this heat? But I dare not mention that to these space cadets.

         After slurping down my lemonade, I take a tour of Alien Village, a carnival in the center of town. There’s laughing kids, a Ferris wheel, bumper cars, and I even stop to buy some ice cream from outer space (freeze-dried Neapolitan flavor). Amid the flashing lights and loud techno music, people of all ages soak up the warm, festive atmosphere. The UFO Festival seems like one huge, all-ages party.

         Later that night, (and after all the children are in bed) most everyone is gearing up for that night’s open-bar affair on 2nd Street where three electronic space-age rock groups will be playing. The genre of alien rock is really booming. With acts like ET and the Planets, Nucleon, and Alien Planetscapes, what started in 1997 at the Strange Daze Festival held in Sherman, New York, now has grown to include dozens of acts that play UFO festivals like these all over the country. For alien rockers, these late summer days are the dawning of their Age of Aquarius, their Woodstock, their summer of love.

         The genre’s U2, “it-band” is Element 115, with members Michael, Jess, Carla, and an animated alien drummer named Al. The band gets its name from the real-life element 115, Ununpentium, supposedly from outer space, able to propel things (such as UFOs) at the speed of light, and rumored to have been discovered by Area 51 scientist Bob Lazar in 1989. On stage, Element 115 plays to a crowd of screaming fans. Behind them, the amp has the outline of an alien head and says: “BELIEVE.”

         Next on stage is UFOetry. The song “We Never Went to the Moon” espouses that the U.S. government staged the 1969 Apollo lunar landing. The next song, “Confirm or Deny,” includes the lyrics “Underground is where they live/ In the bases that are secretive / We’re not supposed to know” about the location of Area 51. The band closes the set with the fan-favorite “Roswell,” which mixes a loud electric guitar and ominous lyrics with actual television and radio transmissions from 1947.     

         To close the night of out-of-this-world partying, the headliner for the festival is none other than Alien Ant Farm, who gained world-wide acclaim in 2001 for its rendition of Michael Jackson’s “Smooth Criminal.” Without a top-50 hit in more than eight years (and what many consider a one-hit wonder), the band has found new life playing the UFO festival circuit. “It pays the bills,” says vocalist Dryden Mitchell.

         Backstage and surrounded by adoring groupies in space-themed regalia, lead guitarist Terry Corso explains the band’s name: “Wouldn’t it be cool if the human species were placed on Earth and cultivated by alien intelligence? Maybe the aliens added us to an atmosphere that was suitable for us, and they’ve been watching us develop and colonize—kind of like what a kid does with an ant farm.”

***

         On a hung-over Saturday morning, I make a beeline for the mecca of UFO studies: The International UFO Museum and Research Center.  Here, I learn that everything UFO in New Mexico began more than 60 years ago, when W.W. “Mack” Brazel reported debris scattered over his ranch near Corona, outside Roswell.  Later, on July 8, the commander of the military’s 509th Bombardment Wing, Colonel William Blanchard, issued a press release stating that a crashed disc had been discovered outside Roswell.  Meanwhile, the story goes, a small group of archaeologists happened upon a crashed flying saucer—and bodies.  The Army was quick to identify the wreckage as a weather balloon and deny the presence of any extraterrestrials.  In a flurry of backtracking, the first press release was rescinded. As quickly as it had begun, the media furor was over, and witnesses abruptly stopped giving interviews. But after perusing old newspaper clippings, firsthand affidavits, and death-bed confessions, I’m convinced that something crashed in the desert 30 miles northwest of here.  Now, I’m on a mission to determine exactly what.

         First on my quest is a talk with ufologist Donald R. Burleson, author of The Golden Age of UFOs and UFOs and The Murder of Marilyn Monroe.  Burleson, who holds a PhD in English literature, speaks with distinction and certainty: “Some people smile indulgently when one mentions UFOs, but increasingly it’s becoming possible to discuss the issue pretty broadly in an academic setting.  The more spectacular the UFO sighting, the more difficult it is to dismiss the phenomenon as nonsensical or wrong-headed.”

         Next, I sit in on a lecture about UFO abductions. The main speaker, John Carpenter, is a licensed psychiatric therapist from Missouri who volunteers his services to people who believe they may have been abducted.  In excruciating detail, audience members join in with accounts of how alien life forms poked and prodded them.  By the fifth testimonial, I feel as if I’m attending a support group—abductees anonymous.

         Next, international journalist Paola Harris lectures about firsthand information she gathered from Colonel Philip J. Corso. After retiring from the Army in 1963, Corso penned the international bestseller The Day After Roswell in 1997, a year before his death. Harris’ talk focuses on information not included in the book, including the belief that five bodies were found at the Roswell crash site—two of which were still alive—along with two flying saucers. According to Harris, the reverse engineering of these artifacts led to the development of accelerated particle beam devices, lasers, fiber optics, integrated circuit chips, and Kevlar.

         Then, I sit in on a discussion of the origins of crop circles. The session is moderated by Paul Vigay, founder of www.CropCircleResearch.com, who has studied the phenomenon for more than two decades. Several on the panel believe that crop circles are other-worldly, “No man-made entity could accomplish such detail overnight.” Others on the panel attribute the geometric designs to ball lightning, another debated and controversial phenomenon. Still, others believe it a man-made hoax, citing UK-based CropCircles.org, who has created crop circles since the mid-1990s for movies, TV shows, and advertising campaigns. One guy combines all the theories: “Maybe crop circles are an advertising campaign displaying logos of galaxy-wide corporations, preparing Earth for its admission to the Galactic Federation of Planets.” 

         After a long day of exploration and discovery, I settle into a corner booth at a downtown diner and order a milkshake.  Here I sight my first star: Dee Wallace Stone, the female lead of E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial.  Recalling the line “E.T. phone home,” I quickly call my own mom before heading to my hotel for the night.

***

         No Roswell alien experience is complete without visiting Hangar 84, where the military supposedly transported the alien bodies for examination, and the crash site itself, 30 miles northwest of town on private ranch land.  The next morning, I buy tickets to visit both for less than $50.

         I am pleasantly surprised when I learn that the trip to Hangar 84 is in a chauffeured stretch limousine.  Decked out with neon rope lights and a stuffed alien in the passenger seat, it shuttles nine anxious travelers to the Roswell International Air Center, 20 minutes away.

         In the car, I can feel a collective sense of anticipation.  The Florida couple next to me says they don’t believe in the “mumbo-jumbo” of space aliens visiting Earth.  They’re passing through New Mexico on a cross-country road trip, and are intrigued by Roswell’s allure.  “You can’t visit New Mexico and not at least think about Roswell and its alien and UFO connection,” the woman explains as we approach the hangar.

         At the entrance, we are greeted by a sign: “RESTRICTED AREA: TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.”  A military security guard closely eyes our group’s every move as we snap pictures of the sign and the chain-link fence surrounding the building.  It creates a fortress-like appeal to the otherwise unassuming warehouse.

         Inside Hangar 84, our chauffer explains that the area is a working airfield where planes are demolished.  Pigeons flutter in the rafters as I take a closer look at the aliens: two papier-mâché creations, one in the front grill of an Army Humvee and the other on a food-service table in the supposed dissection room.  The guide tries to tell us more about the hangar, but most of the group isn’t listening—they’re busy snapping pictures of a wandering tarantula.

         Next stop is the Roswell Convention & Civic Center, where I walk among booths with vendors hawking alien shot glasses, toy UFO gliders, and life-sized Marvin the Martian dolls.  I pause to examine some “moon rocks” that look uncannily like ordinary rocks found in any southern New Mexico desert.  The elderly woman tending the booth tells me she’s sold five that day.

         I have to run to be sure I don’t miss the crash-site tour.  Inside a typical school bus, I’m surrounded by a cast of odd characters, including a family who insist they’re from another planet.  When the father says, “We had to travel several thousand light-years to get here,” his two teenage children look more pink from embarrassment than green from intergalactic travel.

         Near the back, I find a seat behind two lean teenage boys in glasses.  They hardly notice me, so intently are they focused on their books: The Roswell UFO Crash: What They Don’t Want You to Know, by Kal K. Korff; and The Real Roswell Crashed-Saucer Coverup, by Philip J. Klass.

         A 30-something woman takes a seat across from me. She, I learn, is a Roswell native.  “I want to see what all this hype is about,” she says. “Everyone talks about aliens and UFOs, so I want to see for myself.”

         Thirty minutes later and five miles down a bumpy dirt road, I’m finally staring straight at it: a small crevice in a gorge.  I stare intently into the rocks.  I see a hole where something could have crashed.  I think I can make out some charred markings.  Or is it just a shadow?  Is my mind playing tricks on me because I really want to see something?

                 The guide instructs us to stay on the path, but that doesn’t stop one middle-aged woman from crawling over the railing and ascending the 10 feet to the site.  Our group waits 20 minutes for her as she kneels, bows her head, and touches the hole.  Later, she tells me, “I needed to absorb the energy of the area.  I feel a kinship with those who perished here.”

         On my way back to the bus, I ponder a stone monument: “WE DON’T KNOW WHO THEY WERE. WE DON’T KNOW WHY THEY CAME.  WE ONLY KNOW THAT THEY CHANGED OUR VIEW OF THE UNIVERSE.  THIS UNIVERSAL SACRED SITE IS DEDICATED JULY 1997 TO THE BEINGS WHO MET THEIR DESTINIES NEAR ROSWELL, NEW MEXICO, JULY 1947.”

         Riding back to town, I look out the window at the expansive New Mexico desert.  It’s getting dark, and I see the first twinkle of a star.  Once again, my eyes are open to the possibilities.

***