Trip: (slang) an intense, stimulating or exciting experience
As rocks skitter beneath my feet and Stevie Nicks' "Landslide" runs through my head, it becomes clear that if there is a vortex on Black Mountain, it's trying to kill me.
It seemed a perfect day for hunting vortex: dark and dreary, sprinkled with a foreboding wind. I'd read about this so-called pocket of otherworldly energy at paranormalplace.com, and as I'm climbing up this steeper-than-it-looks hill of rock, I'm cursing the editor who sent me on such an assignment on the mere recommendation of one anonymous woman on the web—a woman who claims no expertise and says she discovered the energy source with her teenage daughter.
In typical Vegas fashion, the vortex is allegedly located within a gated community called The View. Here lies my first obstacle. I wait by the entrance for less than two minutes when an ominous black Yukon pulls in. I follow. My cell phone loses reception as I pass streets with names like Vortex Avenue and Solitude Point Avenue and park near a trail that winds up behind a row of homes. After glaring at a yapping dog below, I take stock of the mountain looming before me, full of desert fauna and small rocks. There's no way in hell I'm climbing to the top of that. Right? But my compass tells me otherwise. The mountain is northeast of the community—where this vortex roosts. Climb I will, with a compass that one week later will be mysteriously broken.
There's no actual trail, so I make my own. It becomes steep enough that my water bottle feels like an impediment to balance. Halfway up the mountain, I glance down at the homes. There's an open garage door, and it looks as though residents are peering out at me, a crazy woman climbing up what could be a suicide walk. I lift my legs over rock after impeding rock, slipping now and again, noting a lightheadedness that is caused, I tell myself, not by a mysterious energy, but by shortness of breath. Before I can question how high I'm going, how far I'm going to take this, I'm almost there. I can see the crest and suddenly need to know what's beyond. But the large, anchoring rocks are fewer here. Stopping for the fifth time to catch my breath, I glance back into the community. The garage door is still open, and I can see shadows glaring up and out.
I realize I'm onto something. What if, without this unseen energy, this particular community wouldn't exist? It holds the key to electricity, happiness, prosperity, youth and harmony for its surrounding residents. They see me down there. They know I'm onto their dark secret, and I will soon be sacrificed.
I plod on.
Until I'm about 10 feet from the top of the mountain, and I instinctively know that to go further would mean sure death. The slope is too steep. I keep maneuvering, but then slide back. To arrive at the crest could be feasible. But to descend? Impossible.
I begin making my way down—primarily on my ass. Slide, stop. Slide, stop. As I'm questioning the odds of making it, my cell phone buzzes. It's a friend calling to solidify plans for the evening. Plans! That's right. I'm not done yet. I won't be smote so easily! Tonight, I will drink wine!
I crabwalk over rocks and cactus with renewed resolve, and soon find my climbing legs have returned to me. I walk down the bottom half of the mountain, dignity returned, determination intact.
Outside the gate, I drive to a spot northeast of the community, I consider walking up a different route, trying to find this blasted mystery once more. But the area is surrounded with "No Trespassing" signs, and thoughts of survivalists thriving on secret mountain vortices keep me in my car, heading towards home. I fought the rocks, and I won. No need to wage two wars in one day.