Meeting With The Well Known: If you travelled back in time, could you change history? Would you? An Alaskan's supernatural journey.

By Carey Cossaboom

I died in 1990, in an automobile accident in Alaska on the Seward Highway. Soon thereafter, I found myself sitting on the ground outside my home in south Anchorage. Only my home wasn't there. Actually, the whole subdivision was missing. Because I soon learned that it wasn't 1990 anymore; it was 1963. But how could that be? In 1963, I was a 9-year old boy living in upstate New York. How did I get here, and why? Could I get back the life I knew? I wanted my wife back! Meeting With The Well Known details my journey back to 1990 from 1963. The impossible circumstances, the delicate change of history, and the call of God to challenge the Church's misconception of time. An adventure so incredible, I dare not declare it as true.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publication Consultants
• Release date: Sep 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781594334924

Carey Cossaboom

Carey Cossaboom, a retired geologist living in Anchorage with his wife Peggy, has worked as a mineral exploration geologist for several large mining companies throughout Alaska. He was on the discovery team for the Red Dog Mine, and worked many years at Alaska's next hard rock gold mine—Donlin Creek. He finished his career managing environmental cleanups at former military sites in Alaska for the Army Corps of Engineers. He enjoys all sorts of outdoor activities to include skiing, snowmachineing, catarafting, and mountain biking. Indoors, as a practicing Christian, he enjoys heady theological discussion. Carey and Peggy have two children, Jared and Kayla, going to college out of state.

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Epilog

Part I

Phone Call

How does one account for an impossibility? How do ... we? Even now, I find it difficult to believe that which supposedly occurred. Unquestionably, I am frightened. With my life in the balance, why wouldn’t I be?

Neither one of us is an accomplished writer, but there must be a record of our experience. We decided that I would relate my part of the story first since I have such a limited tale to tell. My coauthor has imposed a three-day deadline for me to complete my part. His manuscript is practically complete. We don’t know which of us will write the final chapter. Then again, we both could be dead in four days.

It began for me in the late summer of 1990 with the phone call. I had recently returned to Anchorage after spending several months in the Alaska Bush conducting a drilling program on a silver prospect for the Hecla Mining Company. I am a mineral-exploration geologist. Money was tight at Hecla then and my program was cut prematurely due to insufficient funds. It’s always an affront to Alaska mineral geologists to terminate fieldwork during the summer because there are so few snow-free months for efficient ground mapping and trouble-free drilling. Freeze-up poses problems for the relatively small truck or skid-mounted drill rigs employed by the mining companies as opposed to the giant platforms used by the oil companies on the North Slope or in Cook Inlet.

My sudden program termination caught my wife off-guard as well. Though she was home when I got back to town, Peggy had now gone for a 10-day trip to visit her folks in South Dakota. Her tickets were bought 30 days in advance and intended to coincide with the latter part of my field season. Peg didn’t propose to cancel her trip just because I was home, so I was baching it when the call came in.

Hecla’s corporate office was in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, and they had no Anchorage field office. Therefore, I was handling company matters out of my home. It was Friday afternoon around five, and I was drafting up the recon-geology maps for some of the field traverses our small team had completed in the Circle Mining District the past few months. That evening I had planned to head over to my friends’ house, Joe and Sarah’s, for an informal cocktail and dinner get-together. The phone rang.

Hello.

Hi, is this Carey? the voice asked.

Yeah, who’s this? I replied cheerfully.

You don’t recognize my voice.

Nooo, I offered hesitantly. There was something about the voice but I certainly couldn’t place it. "Who is this?"

Could you do me a big favor . . . and sit down?

"Who is this?" I said incredulously.

Are you sitting down?

I pulled the phone away from my ear for a second and looked at the receiver as if that might clear up the confusing introduction. No, I’m not sitting down and I’m not going to until you tell me who this is, I replied bluntly, yet in a pleasant tone.

I don’t know how to break this to you any more gently, Carey, he said and then paused. Suddenly, I feared that this must be bad news from home. My parents in South Carolina were getting older. Or maybe something happened to Peg!

You’re about to have a supernatural experience, the voice continued.

During the momentary silence that followed, my rush of relief receded into perplexed withdrawal. What?

You know how when you hear your voice played back on a tape recorder, it doesn’t sound like your voice to you? But to others it sounds just right. Well, that’s why you don’t recognize my voice—I . . . am . . . you. Again, a period of silence ensued, wherein I struggled to attain a measure of understanding.

Look, gimme a break, will ya? I implored. Tell me who this is or I’m gonna have to hang up. Okay?

The comeback nearly leveled me. Try this out for size, he said. You blew your lines in the fifth-grade play at Milton School in Rye, New York. You had a large blood blister removed from the side of your head while at FSU; you were glad the doctor insisted on zapping it right away, so you wouldn’t have to think about it. You found a liquor bottle in the attic off your brother’s room back in Johnsonville. You don’t remember the brand, but it was shocking to you at the time. Now that you’re older, you realize it was part of normal adolescence. You’re still angry about missing the tackle on that extra point run against Norfolk Academy—you whupped their lineman, but the back ran right over you! You used to fantasize about having sex with Mrs. Garming—being seduced by her while taking a break from mowing her lawn. He fired these off in accelerating succession. Then, as if slowing to catch his breath, he added, The last molar on the upper right side of your mouth is bent outward at a weird angle and can be a pain in the butt to floss.

I should’ve been sitting down. I caught myself a split second after my knees buckled, which only rewarded me with a quick sideward slam into the kitchen counter. But I didn’t drop the phone; I couldn’t let this person know that I was rattled! What had just happened? Some sort of prank? My mind was racing; an instant retaliation would surely expose this fraud. Who was the first girl I ever kissed? I asked.

Janet somebody-or-other, at Christchurch. It wasn’t a very good date.

I yanked the phone receiver away from my ear, as if it had bitten me, and held it at arm’s length. I was semi-paralyzed trying to figure out what next to say when the voice spoke again.

Look, are you there? Hello? Are you there?

Hesitantly, I drew the handset back to me. Yes, was all I could manage in reply.

Look, I can’t explain all this over the phone. I have to come see you. You’re going to Joe and Sarah’s tonight. Go. When you get home, I’ll be there. Oh, and uh, I lost the key to the house about 20 years ago, so don’t lock me out. You can put the key in the lockbox outside the door; I know the combination of course. Silence. Look, everything’s cool. Don’t tell Joe and Sarah about this. Don’t take any gun with you. Hide them if you must. Drive carefully. I’ll see you when you get home. More silence. Any questions about how we’re going to get together?

I don’t know, I answered feebly.

Everything’s fine, he said. I’m very nervous too. This is going to be incredible! Okay? I’ll see you when you get home. Oh, and uh... I’m not going to answer the phone once I’m there. See ya.

I hung the phone up in slow motion, stunned from this incredible exchange. Any second now the phone was going to ring again and somebody would tell me this was all a big joke. Had to be a joke. But how could he have put all that together? Nobody knows those things he said about me–except me. There might be a few people who knew one of those pronouncements, but this was uncanny!

What the heck was going on? Did he say he lost the key 20 years ago? We’d only lived here seven years, and the house was brand-new then. We were the first occupants. That made no sense whatsoever.

I wandered aimlessly around the house, confounded, analyzing every remark the voice had spoken to me. A lot of people knew I had messed up in my fifth-grade play. All my classmates. But I hadn’t been in contact with any of them for 18 years! I still kept up with the Bucketts from Rye. Barry had been my closest friend, a year behind me in school, but we’d moved away from Rye when I was a seventh-grader. The Bucketts knew nothing of my high school or college years except for the major details. Nobody knew about the Mrs. Garming fantasy. Nobody! This was unreal; this couldn’t be happening!

The phone rang. I lunged for it as if knowing that the perpetrators of this absurd gag were about to confess, but after lifting the receiver from its cradle a sudden rush of fear prevented me from placing the speaker to my ear.

Hello? the muffled voice queried. Hello?

Finally gathering the courage to answer, I replied, Hello?

Carey, this is Joe. You coming over?

Joe! Yeah, I was coming over, what time is it? I looked up at the kitchen wall clock. It was seven fifteen–where had the time gone!

It’s quarter after seven, we thought you were coming over sometime after six.

Wow, doggone, I’m sorry. I must have dozed off, I said.

You do sound kind of spacey, like you just woke up, Joe said.

Yeah, I’m sorry. I’ll be right over soon as I get my head together.

Okay, hurry.

Yeah, see you soon.

I felt numb as I returned the phone to its cradle. My mind had been in overdrive for some while, and I’d lost all track of time. I’d handled Joe’s call okay. Considering. I’d tell them I fell asleep while watching the news or something. He told me not to tell Joe and Sarah. It must be somebody local! No, no way. He told me not to take a gun; that I might consider hiding them. Well darn right I was going to hide them if he was going to be here when I got home!

It occurred to me that I shouldn’t even consider leaving home that evening. Why did the voice suggest I proceed with my dinner plans? Almost as if he didn’t want me here for his arrival. Still, the authority of the bewildering exposé on the phone compelled me to comply. Leaving the house might actually be less stressful than staying.

I always kept two guns fully loaded in the house. In the downstairs den, behind the door, was a chrome-finished 12-gauge shotgun. It was a mean-looking, short-barreled weapon I used as protection against bears while doing field geology in the Bush. Chromed shotguns were rare but very practical for everyday use in harsh weather, especially for those like myself who were lazy about cleaning guns. I moved the shotgun into the garage, near the door, where I could get it easily if needed. I was getting tense. I ran upstairs to retrieve the handgun from under the bed. A stainless steel, .38-caliber, Smith & Wesson revolver. The gun was resting snugly within a leather quick-draw shoulder holster, which allowed for easy concealment if worn under a jacket. I had worn the holster only once outside the house, just for fun. I was not a gun aficionado, and had actually fired the pistol on only a few outings. However, I sensed something threatening in this baffling scenario, and pressing the gun butt into my palm was peculiarly comforting. Contrary to his directive, I strapped the holster on before leaving the house; I left a duplicate key in the lockbox as instructed.

Dinner

The short drive over to Joe and Sarah’s house took me east along Klatt Road to the Oceanview subdivision, an upscale south Anchorage neighborhood with tall trees and landscaped yards. It was still warm in Anchorage and I was in my summer-car mode, driving a 1981 Datsun 280ZX. It was an older car but in near cherry condition since it experienced the long Alaska winters in a heated garage. Though uneventful, this particular trip was most unusual for me. Normally, I drove the silver and black coupe expeditiously, but this evening I found myself driving with extreme caution. I looked down every side street and peered into each passing car with acute paranoia. I wasn’t certain what I was looking for, and was relieved that I didn’t find it.

When I arrived, Sarah met me at the door and greeted me rather sarcastically with, So glad you could make it!

Yeah, I know, I replied feebly.

Joe was a little more perturbed, Jeez man, we gave up on you. We started eating. Fixed some crab, Dungeness.

We walked through the living room into the well-appointed kitchen where I glanced up at the clock and saw to my chagrin that it was nearly 8 PM. Holy cow, eight o’clock! I moaned. I lived only five minutes from them. Time had escaped me. Suddenly I realized I had come empty-handed. I pressed my forehead against the palms of my hands and muttered, Oh crap, I was gonna, and cut myself short thinking of the bottle of wine I meant to bring.

Here, Joe interrupted, and threw a beer in my hand. You look like you could use this. An Alaskan Amber, good stuff.

Why don’t you take off your jacket, Carey, and stay a while, Sarah offered.

My eyes flew open as I jerked my head toward her. I was carrying a gun!

Well, you don’t have to! she responded with a strained smile. She turned to the dinner table and I could see she was a bit startled by my reaction to her harmless suggestion.

Oh great, I thought, what kind of idiot am I to bring a gun into their house? I’d just keep my jacket on and play it cool. No, I’m fine really, I said, I’ve got a bit of a chill. It’s been a really strange evening.

Did you go into one of those deep midday sleeps? Joe asked.

Yeah, you know when you kinda lose all sense of what time or day it is? I replied.

That’s happened to me before, Joe said as he cracked into a crab leg.

I settled in at the table but my mind was anything but relaxed. Was that person at my house now? How was this evening going to end? I tried to concentrate on dinner but everything seemed so foreign. The lifeless crabs splayed before us looked like alien creatures as we ceremoniously dismembered them. Was I to be visited by a being from another world? Moreover, would my treatment of these hapless crabs earn me criticism from my uninvited visitor? Crazy thoughts. I knew I was acting strangely. I wasn’t contributing much to the conversation and my hosts, who fortunately knew me quite well, appeared to sense that something was amiss.

Joe and I had worked several field seasons together, both in Alaska and in Nevada. He had survived the Big Layoff five years ago at Cominco and was now in upper management, which kept him more in the office and less in the Bush. It suited him fine. Sarah was his second wife. His first marriage hadn’t survived the long field seasons, a situation that plagued the geologic community to which we belonged.

Are you okay? Sarah asked.

Yeah, fine, I replied, suddenly snapped out of my trance.

You’re beating your hand on the table and it’s driving me insane, she said. I had been obliviously rapping my thumb knuckle on the bottom lip of the table for I don’t know how long. I instantly moved my twitching hand to my forehead to wipe away some perspiration.

Earth to Carey, Joe interjected. Get with it, man, you’ve hardly touched your grub. But I had made it to my second beer. It’s Friday night, August 24, 1990. Come on, snap out of it already.

Yeah, right, I laughed nervously. Excuse me a minute. I pushed myself away from the table and headed for the small bathroom off the adjoining family room. I didn’t notice their expressions but remember thinking to myself that they must be scratching their heads now and wondering what was wrong with me.

I stumbled weakly as I approached the bathroom and reached for the sink faucet without even closing the door. Bending over, I splashed some cold water from the tap on my face. How was I possibly going to face this intruder in my life? Nobody knew those things about me! I was sweating heavily and pulled off my jacket. I was distressed by the shoulder holster over my tee shirt. Was I going to shoot him? A sudden wave of nausea rushed over my body and I quickly dropped to my knees over the toilet and heaved my guts out. I was in no condition to ward off any curious onlookers and, sure enough, Joe ambled over to check out my rather rude emanations. My back was toward the open door and I hadn’t noticed his arrival. When I finally rose from my ordeal, I bee-lined once again for the water faucet. Joe had been staring at the leather straps across my back and, by way of the sink mirror, got a full frontal view of the revolver butt tucked under my arm.

What the …! Why are you carrying that? he exclaimed.

I jumped back and instinctively raised my arms unthreateningly. I was so embarrassed. Look, I can explain, I pleaded.

Will you take that thing off right now, he demanded, pointing to the weapon. He used his left arm to hold Sarah back from rushing in. Oh man, he wasn’t sure that I posed no threat to them.

Slowly, I wiggled out of the holster and dropped it gently to the bathroom floor.

He’s got a gun, Joe calmly announced to Sarah.

Oh my god, she gasped.

I quickly rinsed my mouth out at the sink and eased my way out of the bathroom. My friends cleared a path for me as if I had the plague.

Let me explain, I said sheepishly to Sarah as our eyes met. The tension dropped a level when they were positioned between me and the bathroom, and the gun.

You’ve been acting really weird all night, what’s going on? Joe insisted.

After a momentary hesitation while racking my brain for some words, I blurted out, I lied. I can’t explain this. Not completely. Please bear with me, I’ve got to be very careful with what I say.

Are you in trouble? Sarah asked.

No—I don’t think so.

Well, did you do something wrong? Why the gun? Joe asked.

No, no, it’s nothing like that, I said. Somebody wants to meet me, and it’s a tad strange.

I’ll say, said Joe. Is this person dangerous?

Again, I replied, I don’t think so, but obviously I’m a bit freaked out, you know, the gun and all.

Oh Carey, this is creepy! Sarah said.

Well, you certainly have us intrigued, said Joe.

I’m sorry, guys, but I really don’t want to talk much about this. And I don’t want to get you involved at all, I said.

But we’re already involved, Joe started.

No you’re not, I cut in.

Because you’re our friend, Joe continued. You come in here, acting distracted, and expect to meet somebody with a concealed weapon. What are we supposed to do? Let you go on your merry way as if we know nothing?

You’re gonna have to trust me on this one, was my weak reply.

What do we tell the police when they find you dead? Sarah demanded. A moment of silence followed as we all stared at each other.

Good point, I said finally.

The rest of my evening with them was tedious. I was fending off questions, stressing that I needed to downplay this whole affair. It was obvious that I was somewhat concerned for my safety, and hence, we eventually compromised on a plan. I wrote a brief note:

Somebody called me this evening. He said he was me. He will be waiting at home for me. He mentioned the supernatural. He knows everything about me.

Without revealing its content, I sealed the note in an envelope and showed Joe and Sarah the small compartment in the back of the Z-car where it would be in the event that I turned up missing, or worse.

Next, we agreed that they would call my house exactly one hour after I left them. We devised a secret emergency message. Sometime during the call, Joe would ask if I’d seen his paper on the Juneau Goldbelt. If I replied that, yes, I had seen it, Joe would know to call the police and notify them there was some sort of trouble at my place. If I replied that I hadn’t read it yet but would get a chance later tonight or Tuesday - or whenever - he would know that I needed no immediate help, but should call back at the time specified. Under no circumstances were they to come by my place without an invite.

At 10 PM, I parted with a bewildered pair of friends, shoulder holster in place, and set out for home. In my nerve-wracked mind, it was certain to be an unsettling trip.

Meeting

My mind was in a daze when I turned the key in the car’s ignition switch. He knew everything about me! I felt so weak. It was amazing that I could function well enough to drive. I knew I wouldn’t be driving straight home. Good thing we set up the staged phone call; it would force me to return home to answer it. Otherwise, I might have driven around all night.

Around 10 PM in August, Anchorage is just getting dusky, not dark enough to need headlights. At every intersection, I contemplated turning away from the homeward path, but I found myself cautiously advancing past each corner. I finally lost my nerve at the intersection of Suncrest Drive, my home street, and purposely passed it by. A cruise around the block with a drive-by of the house seemed a prudent option. We lived in a typical middle-class subdivision, in a modest Cape Cod house with an attached double garage. The neighborhood was only a few years old and landscaping was at a minimum. Our home was situated on a corner lot, and by rounding the corner you could easily see the entire house.

I was getting increasingly anxious as I neared my home, and my first pass was rather brisk. The Z was lightly squealing its tires as I accelerated around the corner. All looked calm. My next drive-by was considerably slower. In fact, I virtually crept by the front of the house and punched the remote control to open the garage door. If anyone was inside, he knew he had company. Peg’s blue Grand Prix was on the side of the garage away from the house. Everything looked normal, yet I couldn’t bring myself to pull into the driveway. I noticed via the dashboard clock that I had already killed 20 minutes. Joe would be calling in 40 more. I had to make my move.

After easing the car past the house, I put it in reverse and backed the Z up the slight incline of the driveway—something I had never done before. I parked well short of the garage and left the engine running. Stepping delicately out of the car, I edged my way onto the wooden boards of the front walkway. There were no lights on in the house that I could see. I looked around to see if any of the neighbors were noticing my strange behavior, saw nobody, and decided to enter the home as I typically did, through the garage entry. After the light from the overhead door opener shut off, I walked into the garage. The comparative darkness within offered some welcomed seclusion.

Inside the garage, I stalled. He knew everything about me! I looked around for any signs of entry, any indication that something was different. Nothing. My heart was literally pounding within my chest. He knew everything! I debated a few seconds, then pulled the .38 from beneath my armpit. I took a deep breath, turned the imitation brass doorknob, and gently pushed the door open into the laundry room. I heard nothing from inside. The adjoining kitchen floor was illuminated with natural light from the open Venetian blinds that covered the glass sliding door to the deck behind the house. I remember forcing myself to exhale slowly, as if breathing normally might reveal my location. This was nuts! I passed the washing machine and dryer into the kitchen.

We saw each other at the same time. He was sitting at the kitchen counter barstool. Drawing in my breath, I stared in disbelief. I stood transfixed, not a muscle twitching save for those that controlled my eyes as I surveyed his form top to bottom. He looked exactly like me, same beard and mustache style, same thinning hair, same build. His clothes were different, I didn’t recognize them, but they were normal (no silver spacesuit!). As his image sank in, I began to get a sense of his demeanor. There was a tenseness about him. Not an unsettled agitation, more like a quiet apprehension, void of movement.

He broke the silence. "At least you’re not pointing the gun at me," he said, cracking a grin.

I exhaled, panting; I must have been holding my breath. I couldn’t think of anything to say. Stunned. The voice was vaguely familiar, the voice from the phone.

He spoke again. Can we turn on the light? he asked.

Who are you? I blurted out.

Dumb question, don’t you think? he said. He reached over slowly and flipped on the kitchen light switch.

I still hadn’t moved. The lighting brought out better facial details. Good grief! A three-dimensional mirror! He had a small brown skin spot on his left cheek. I instinctively reached up to feel my own cheek but realized it would not be detected by touch.

This is unbelievable, I said.

Yeah, it just about is, he countered.

How can this be? I asked.

Well, it’s a long story, he said. We’ve got a few days yet. I should be able to tell you all that I know.

A few days before what? I said.

Before the accident.

What accident?

The one that has brought us together like this, he said.

You’re here by some mistake? I asked.

No, no, no. I came here on purpose.

For what?

I’ve come to save your life, was his calm response.

Settling In

Ireturned the revolver to its holster and removed my jacket. I wasn’t quite ready to let all my defenses down. The phone rang. It hung on the wall next to the bar where my visitor was sitting. I made a step toward it and stopped. Sensing my discomfort, my guest retreated from his seat into the dining room. He watched me answer the phone. Hello?

Hey Carey, this is Joe.

Hey, what’s happening?

Not much, what’s going on over there?

Oh, just have a friend over, we’re talking, I said.

Well, I was going over some paperwork and I was wondering if you had seen a copy of my Juneau Goldbelt report.

I eyed my guest who appeared quite interested in my conversation. No, I haven’t seen your paper. I paused, trying to formulate the proper response as we had rehearsed. You ought to show it to Roy. He should be in around 10 tomorrow morning.

Okay, sounds like a good idea, said Joe. Well, guess I’ll let you go unless you’ve got anything else.

No, that’s fine. Thanks for calling, talk to you later. I returned the phone to its cradle.

That was quick, my visitor commented.

Yeah, just a colleague of mine asking if I’d seen a gold report he had written, I said.

What’s Roy up to these days? Since when does he work on Saturdays?

I was startled for a few moments. I’d been caught!

You know Roy?

Of course I do. I’m you, remember? And I know Joe and Sarah. I know Phil and Laura. I knew Gordon Vernick in Rye when I, or we, were a kid.

What did Grandma Malicki say when she rocked me on her knee? I asked quickly.

Pony rider, pony rider, pony rider, he said.

This was unreal. I hadn’t thought about that in years. I really was face to face with myself. This is unbelievable, I said. How can there be two of us all of a sudden?

Actually, I’ve been around for over 20 years, I’ve kept hidden from you and your world. I’ve already lived it. I mean, I am you but I’ve already experienced about a week of your future.

Are you a time traveler? I asked.

No. Well—yes, sort of. I don’t have a time machine or anything, if that’s what you mean, but—

How are you gonna save my life? I interrupted.

Whoa, whoa, he said. Look, this is a bit tricky to explain. Let’s sit down and let me talk for a bit. We’ve got several days for me to tell you some incredible things that have re-happened over the years. But first I’ll try and set the stage for how I got here.

He walked into the living room and sat on the sidewall couch. I followed him in and took up a position on the opposite wall couch directly across from him, about 12 feet separating us.

How about a couple of beers for us, my guest mentioned casually.

Obligingly, I returned to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. "Where did