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In “Scandal at Big Springs (Vol. II No. 4) David provided a map and sidebar “White Mountain City, What's There and How to Get There,” but, always the explorer, he wanted to see more. Returning in May of 1991, he came back with many more photographs and one of his usual whimsical adventures.

The wind, howling through the sagebrush is too cold for May. Clouds hover close over the White Mountains. The Sierra Crest, peeking over a low saddle in the Whites, is swathed in snow squalls that race down its canyons. I walk across a boulder strewn alluvium, cold and hungry.

The empty valley east of the White Mountains is vacant, hostile beneath the sudden uplift of its encompassing ridges. I stumble aimlessly through the low sagebrush, exposed to the elements in a barren country, alienated from civilization.

Suddenly, I come face to face with a large Indian buck! At that close range, a bull is more like it! I have no weapon, but he carries two of them; pointed, razor sharp. I cautiously back away, attempting to make no sudden threatening moves. He follows me, his eyes flash is disdain at my invasion of his territory.

I detour up a hill. Gaining elevation I find that I am in the midst of many Indians. They are scattered all about me. I feel anxiety at my perilous circumstance. With no cover in which to hide, where do I run? I hear voices carried on the wind. They are calling to each other. Plotting how to kill the intruder?

The rock stronghold circles about, all over the place. I see huts of stone also. They prick my curiosity.

The Indian bulls are close, but out of range. Keeping an eye on their positions, I explore the rock hovels scattered about the thick sagebrush. A small creek bed bisects them.

I see no other white men about, but ovviously they left their mark here. With the abundant rock, numerous dwellings have been built, plus the stone stockade zig-zagging about over an extensive area, encircling the huts.

Rounding a corner I run smack into another huge Indian bull. His eyes glow, he displays his prominent weapons, obviously annoyed at my intrusion. He opens his mouth to shout his anger ...

“Moooooooooo ... !!”

Like a flash, I gallop through the abundant sagebrush straight for my Taurus. I am no match for that large steer; a Taurus with hair, hide and a head with an abundance of bony protrusions. It is also too cold to be out here playing in this wind. I guess I'll have to check out White Mountain City another day, when the aggressive range bulls aren't surrounding the place, and I bring suitable clothing.

In the warm car I chuckle to myself. Imagine me, a 35-year-old man, playing cowboys and Indians in a forgotten ghost town in a forgotten corner of Inyo County. Some day ... maybe, just maybe ... I'll grow up.