This night, due to the rain, the mud, fatigue and the wet condition of the back road; John made the decision not pick up all the reflectors and to leave his truck and his camper, (the crew and actors warming station and rain protection, snack bar, etc) up at the cemetery; a very wise decision in my opinion.
The downhill crew was cleaning up and tearing down, but they almost always have some hot cider and cookies left for the cast and crew as they straggle in from Jasper Mountain. We ate cookies, drank cider, talked about the crowd and the performances and people drifted off for home.
I walked around the corner to my jeep to put some things down and returned to the now very small group still by the table. John asked me if I had seen the four young boys and a dog that had come through and gone up to the cemetery. I hadn’t. He said they asked a question or two about why people were there at this time of night (11:30) and had gone on.
John and I talked for a moment about the things we had left up in the cemetery and the proclivities of the youth of America, abroad on a night near Halloween. It was decided that I would walk back up (the fifth time tonight!) and see just what the kids were up to. I walked back to the jeep, put my black duster back on over my light grey suit, put on my black, flat brim hat and picked up my cane. I did not put my spurs back on as it was now, time for quiet among the tombstones. By the time I was back at the bottom of the path, everyone else was ready to go home. I encouraged them all to do so and started up the hill.
Unknown to me at the time, John elected to stay behind and catch a ride home with me when I came down. He decided that I probably ought to have some kind of back-up when dealing with four teenagers. I was grateful later for the thoughtful, but in the end unneeded gesture. John, as it turned out, was delighted that he stayed for the show.
In a short time, I have again walked up the hill on the back trail, ducked through the barb wire fence just below Jasper Ward’s grave and arrived at Doc’s. I can hear shouting and see an occasional flash of light through the trees of in the direction of the cemetery entrance. I walk up in that direction perhaps forty or fifty yards and stand in the deep shadow of a pinion tree. The moon is still dodging in and out of holes in the clouds, being dim more often than bright.
Even at 63 years old, I still have exceptionally good hearing and night vision. My eyes dark adapt quite well and I never use lights when moving about in the cemetery at night. Actually, quite a few of the Ghost Walk cast and crew don’t use lights too often. We prefer to keep our dark adaptation. Star shine and Glenwood glow are usually quite sufficient. Most of us are familiar with the place and have been there far more hours at night than in the daytime. Miss Amber, our youngest cast member; who by the way, joined us some years back at age eleven, I believe; often makes her way around the cemetery alone at night with no light.
As I had expected, the low clouds were reflecting well, so ambient lighting was actually rather good, but shadows, were crisp edged, deep and dark. The expedition was coming towards me and I was able to determine that one of them was actually a girl; only two of them had lights, one of which was worthless and that an adolescent male was doing most of the talking. I decided the other three voices were younger as I listened while they suggested that, perhaps, it was time to go back down. The epithet tossing, breaking voice, of the audience induced bravery of the young male led them on! “Sum bitch! Lookit this grave, 1892.”
“That’s old!”
“Can’t we go back?”
“No way, we’re going to go see Doc Holliday’s grave! It’s over here somewhere!”