Manson in His Own Words

by Nuel Emmons

  Before everything was cleared up, we’d had a very costly learning experience. We learned that any further ventures creating new places for expansion should be done with girls and guys. Costwise, besides the bus that got torn up, we had to make two or three trips from the ranch to Mendocino, and on one of those trips the motor of the bus we had just bought blew up, leaving six people stranded outside San Jose.

  But even some bad has good. The good came when T.J., Clem, Tex and Ella were hitchhiking back to the ranch. They were picked up by a girl named Juanita driving a new travel van and by the time they arrived back at Spahn, they had Juanita convinced she should spend some time with us. Juanita dug our lifestyle and jumped right in on all our activities. The van became ours and in addition, she contributed over ten thousand dollars to our needs.

  The money was needed, because a lot of things at the ranch seemed to turn to shit after the arrest of the girls in Mendocino. The cops were hassling us, George was on again, off again about us staying there and I was starting to feel the pressure of responsibility for so many lives that were going nowhere. Juanita’s chunk of money gave us some slack. A few dollars went to George and he liked us again. We got the bus fixed and back on the ranch. Even though I wasn’t into material things, I saw the value of a dollar and all the tensions it erased. That also made me see the need to turn our heads toward something that would earn us a few dollars so that, until we were well settled in our own world, we wouldn’t have to be at anyone’s mercy when we needed something.

  About the same time Juanita showed up, I was pumped up about checking out some property in the desert that Cathy Gillies’ grandmother owned, Myers Ranch. With the bus now in good running condition, twenty of us headed out there. The traveling wasn’t rough until we got to the town of Trona, where the pavement turned to gravel. We had to double back south on a rutty old road that shook the hell out of the passengers and put the bus to the test. The heat and the rough ride were getting to some of the kids, but personally, I enjoyed every minute. The farther we got from civilization the better I liked it. Finally Cathy pointed to an old rutted space that had once been a road and said to turn down there. After a quarter mile of slow moving while some of the kids moved rocks and boulders so the bus could progress, we gave up trying to go any farther on wheels. Cathy told us it would take about two hours for us to walk the rest of the way.

  If you want to learn something about personalities and depth of character in people, take them on a laborious journey in the desert. It was around five o’clock in the evening when we decided we would have to hike the rest of the way. We weren’t prepared for hiking, but by wrapping things in sleeping bags, paper bags and boxes, we managed to outfit ourselves with the needed items. To impress us, Sadie stacked herself with the biggest load and started off out in front of everyone. Clem was right behind her with an equal load. The rest of us strung out in single file and headed up the canyon looking more like overloaded grocery shoppers than hikers in a hot desert with five or six miles of rough terrain to cover. Five minutes after we started our trek, Sadie and some of the other girls were shifting their ill-prepared loads around. It was obvious they weren’t going to get much farther before some improvements in the load distribution would have to be made. Sure enough, minutes later items began to drop and the rest of us behind would have to recover them and add them to our own load. At the end of the line little old dependable Squeaky trudged along, quietly picking up what the others had dropped. After an hour, we stopped for a breather and redistributed our loads. Dispositions were far from jovial. Even some of the guys voiced regrets about coming along.

  Two-and-a-half hours later, a leg-weary, arm-tired, hungry and grouchy group of people got their first look at Myers Ranch. I think Cathy and I were the only ones smiling. The others were too tired to appreciate it. But there it was, a fair-sized dwelling surrounded by unexpected green vegetation, a nice little oasis in the middle of nowhere. The house had a large front room with a big fireplace, two bedrooms, a small kitchen and a back porch with an attached bathroom. It was more than just an old miner’s shack and a hell of a lot better than some of the places we had called home before. But at that moment those weary hikers didn’t care if it was a castle or a hog pen, they just wanted relief from the weight of the packs and someplace to rest their tired bodies. After a quick meal of canned fruit and candy, the whole crew sought the comfort of their sleeping bags.

  The next morning I quizzed Cathy as to how receptive her grandmother would be if a bunch of us moved into her desert home. Cathy was a little uneasy about so many being there, and we decided to look at the only neighboring ranch, about a quarter of a mile back. The Myer house and surroundings were the best, but I didn’t want to get Cathy in a cross with her grandmother, so I decided to speak to the owner of the second choice. Little Paul and I hiked back to the bus and drove to Indian Springs where the owner of the property, Mrs. Barker, lived. We found her, like old George, sitting on the front porch half asleep. Paul and I walked to the porch and introduced ourselves. I wasn’t laying out any bull—I told her truthfully a group of us would like to stay at her ranch while we were putting together some arrangements for musical recordings. I also mentioned I did some song writing for the Beach Boys and, to add credibility, I gave her one of the gold records that had been presented to Dennis. She didn’t object to our living there if we took care of the place.

  Paul, I think, shared my enthusiasm for the desert. “Wow, ain’t this great Charlie?” he said. “Man, people can really get their acts together out here. This desert air makes you feel so alive, you could conquer the world. Goddamn, I’m glad we found this place! The ‘man’ (the police) ain’t around to be fucking with us. Ain’t no neighbors tryin’ to get you to conform to their ideas. Look out there, there ain’t a car, a house or another living human being in sight. Fuck, man, this is heaven!” Paul was right, because for me, it was the one spot on earth that came close to being my kind of heaven. There were no fences or boundaries. The only restrictions that existed were the mental and physical limitations of the person who lived there. Like Paul had said, the “man” wasn’t around to hassle us. We could be like the first born on earth. Society’s rules and demands didn’t reach way out here.

  Unfortunately, I knew that not all the kids were into our being here as much as I was. Yet I felt if they had something to believe in, a life to look forward to, it wouldn’t be long before every member of the group would be able to appreciate what the desert had to offer.

  The Barker Ranch wasn’t as large as the Myers place. It had a small front room, a bedroom, a big kitchen and a bathroom. There wasn’t a fireplace or any electricity. All heat and cooking would come from the oil-burning stove in the kitchen. But, like the Myers place, there was plenty of water and a lot of green vegetation with some shade trees. Like the Myers place, it was an oasis.

  The property was a victim of years of neglect and the uncontrolled growth of grape vines that had been planted years ago, so the next few days were spent fixing up the place to accommodate our needs and pleasures. The whole group enjoyed it. Nothing was urgent, so all the work and exploring around the place was done at a leisurely pace in the early morning hours of the day. By the time the sun hit its peak, most of the kids were in the spots they had found to be shady and cool, and we had siesta when the sun was at its hottest.

  The evening meal, later in the evening because of the heat, was like it had been at Spahn’s, a family affair with everyone expressing their views and throwing out suggestions. During one of the first meals we had at Barker’s, one of the girls asked, “Geez, we’re out here away from everything, it’s too quiet, too dead, what are we going to do with all our time?” “Do?” I answered, “I’ll tell you what we are going to do. We have love, the strongest kind of love, and with that love we are going to put some purpose, some direction in our lives. We are going to practice and play music until we are perfect, so perfect that when we go into the city, we can make the best recordings eve
r. And we’ll be the best, all of us! And beyond just music, we’re going to find ourselves, know our souls, understand our hearts and learn from our children.” (Susan had given birth to her son Zezozoze Zadfrack while we were still at Spahn, so he and Pooh Bear were with us.) “We are going to cast aside our remaining egos, rid ourselves of all the crap our parents threw down on us, quit reflecting our mothers every time we open our mouths. Be ourselves. We will have no leaders, no followers, just our individual selves. Individuals so strong with each other that all of us will be one. That’s what we are going to do. Can everyone agree to that?”

  While giving my spiel I had the full attention of everyone there, and not one set of eyes looked away from me. For the time being, everyone present accepted the desert as the place to be.

  Before a month passed, we knew every rock, gully, bush, spring and old mining claim within miles around the ranch. We became familiar with everything that grew and lived in the desert. We learned that in the daytime rattlesnakes and other varmints shift to the shady side of a rock or bush, so it was safest to pass on the sunny side of what might be a lair. At night, you stayed away from the part of the rock that received the most sun during the day, since at night the snakes used the warmth of the rocks as heating pads. Nothing was foreign to us.

  In my lifetime, I’ve been around every form of drug in existence. I’ve never had any use for heroin, opium, cocaine or anything else that makes you an addict, although I’ve always been strong on grass, hashish, LSD, mushrooms and just about everything that gives mind trips. But a couple of the most profound experiences of enlightenment came to me when I was not under the influence of anything. Anything, that is, except the heat of the desert sun and, perhaps, the fear of death.

  One Such experience happened about three or four weeks after we had moved onto the Barker property. I woke up very early one morning a little on the listless side and not totally content with myself. I wasn’t looking forward to the hour when the kids would be awake and moving around. There wasn’t anything heavy on my mind, nor was I angry. It was a simple urge to be alone and away from voices, questions, and opinions.

  I could have walked a hundred yards in any direction from the house and had all the privacy I needed. Instead, I filled a small canteen with last night’s cold coffee, stuck half a loaf of bread in my jacket pocket and walked outside in time to see the first rays of the morning sun peek over the Panamint Mountains. The first two hours of my solitary hike took me to a point where I could see out over the basin of Death Valley to another range of mountains. The walk in the crisp early morning desert air was invigorating, and by the time I sat down to tear a chunk of bread from the loaf and take a sip of the cold coffee, my surly mood had vanished. As I sat there looking out over the flatland and trying to gauge the distance to the next range of mountains, I was giving credit to the pioneers and all those who traveled without motor-driven machines. And I thought about the Indians who once dwelled in the desert without modern tools or equipment.

  I felt the kids and I, living the way we did, were a lot closer to nature than most of society, although we depended on the modern conveniences more than we liked to admit. Hell, rough roads, temporary power failures and a busy telephone line had often caused complaints and aroused anger. I was amused at myself and the kids, who, even in our rebellion against society’s rules, depended so much on what man had to offer. We could hate and resent all we wanted, yet we were spoiled, soft and incapable of doing so many things. What would any of us do if all of a sudden we found ourselves out in the middle of the desert with no transportation, food or water? Would we survive?

  I took another look over the basin at the distant range of mountains. It didn’t seem they could be over ten or twelve miles away, but I knew the distance was actually more like sixty-five or seventy miles. From where I sat, it took me about forty minutes to reach the edge of the basin. When I got there, I sat down and slowly finished off the bread, took several more sips of the coffee and placed the canteen on a rock. According to the height of the sun, it was about eight-thirty in the morning. I started to lay my jacket on the rock beside the canteen, but reconsidered because, even though the day promised to be a hot one, evenings in the desert can get pretty damn cold. And what the hell, even the Indians had warm garments.

  To this day, I don’t know why I decided to cross that plain. There wasn’t anyone around to impress, I wasn’t loaded on anything but fresh air, and I wasn’t on the run from a reform school.

  With a bandana tied around my forehead to keep the sweat out of my eyes and my hair in place, the thongs on my moccasins tied snugly and my jacket tied around my waist, I began a steady, easy trot across the desert. It was never my intention to get to the other range of mountains. What I had in mind was to reach the exact middle of the desert. Then I could return knowing I had the stamina, survival instincts and the courage to tackle the desert with nothing more than what an Indian of two hundred years ago might have had.

  For the first hour I was full of energy, and though I knew I would be tired and must pace myself, I would still leap over a rock just for the pleasure of feeling the strength of my legs. But as time went by, with the sun higher and brighter, me dripping sweat, and my mouth like a cotton ball, I stopped the leaps and slowed my trot down to a steady walk. After about two hours of steady moving I took my first rest. There were no rocks or bushes large enough to throw a shadow, so I spread my jacket over two small sage bushes, giving me enough shade to cover my face as I took a ten-minute breather, ten minutes in which I sweated more profusely than when moving. During that ten minutes, I cussed myself for leaving the canteen. To play it like the Indians, I located a pea-sized pebble and put it in my mouth. At first it didn’t seem to help, but within a couple of minutes, the cotton seemed to dissipate and some slight moisture returned. At about midday, I still had a long way to go before equalizing the distances between the two ranges. I had serious thoughts about heading back the way I had come, but stubborn pride and my personal commitment made me head farther into the desert. With each step my stride became more like a flat-footed wino’s and I slowed to a walk again.

  My second rest stop was forced on me by cramps in the back of my legs. I had thought that all the climbing and running around that I had been doing for the last month had kept me in condition, but those leg cramps gave me some bad pain. I sat down in the hot sand so the heat would loosen up the knotted muscles. By licking the sweat from my arms, hands and what was dripping from my face I managed to get some salt into my system.

  Around three o’clock the desert is at its hottest, and by that time, maybe by cheating some on the distance, my eyes told me I had reached the halfway point. Heading back I wasn’t the energetic person who had challenged the desert earlier in the day. Between blurry eyes and a light head, I had to fight off fainting spells, and I gathered a few rocks and built a marker, like a prospector staking a claim. I wasn’t claiming anything, only leaving a symbol that I had journeyed through the heart of the desert without food or water or the conveniences of modern man.

  By six o’clock, it seemed just as hot as when I had started the return hike. I’d walked steadily for the last three hours and yet the range of mountains seemed just as far away as ever. My tongue was so swollen I could no longer work the pebble around to keep the saliva going. There wasn’t any liquid left in my mouth anyway. Nor was I able to sweat any longer. I would fall every few steps, and it took so much energy to get up that I tried crawling, but the sand and rocks were hot and hard, and my skin got so raw, I couldn’t crawl. If I was to make it at all, I had to get on my feet and walk. I tried to ignore the fatigue of my body, but my head ached so much from the exposure to the sun and from hunger, I couldn’t focus my mind.

  Many times in my life I had been hungry enough to cry, my head aching and my body void of all strength, but never during those times had I thought of death. In a normal environment, or even in jail, there was always that morsel of food or drink of water needed to pull you
through. But I wasn’t in a normal environment; I was far from any ear that would hear my cries for help. As foggy as my mind was, I realized that to shout or cry would be just wasted energy. Save it, I told myself, get up, get up, you can make it, you can’t die here. Several times I did get up and move forward a few steps. But, finally, there was no strength left, my lips were parched and my tongue so swollen there wasn’t room for it in my mouth. I fell and my arms did not have the strength to keep my face from striking the gravel and sand. I couldn’t move my tongue or moisten my mouth, so I cleaned my tongue and mouth with my hands. I didn’t have enough strength to get up. I just lay there on my stomach with my arms under my head to keep my face and swollen tongue from touching the dirt. My eyes focused on a rock and I talked to it with my thoughts. “You lucky bastard, you don’t have life, so you don’t know what it’s like to suffer, be hungry or thirsty or worry about living and dying. You’re dead, you son-of-a-bitch, dead.” I rolled my body over and looked at the sun, a sun that was just starting to drop over the same mountain where I had begun my day’s journey. For a few minutes I totally gave up. I knew I would never walk another step. Inside me there was some fear of dying and my thoughts registered a plea, a prayer to any God who might want to hear a dying man say, “Help me, I don’t want to die yet.” Then my eyes turned to the rock and again my thoughts spoke to it. “You lucky piece of earth, you don’t know pain.”