In the before
After my wife died at age 51 (I was 54), I sold our house and applied to my company's internal job-transfer website, looking for something with travel. As a telecoms expert, they had jobs, and I wanted to see the world. We'd never had kids, so I had nothing to tie me down, and travel seemed like it'd be fun.
Over the next 2 years, via a continuing series of 3 day to 3 month gigs (most were about 3 weeks, to be honest), I'd visited almost every continent (missed Antarctica, of course). Some of the most remote places on Earth had telecom equipment that needed fixing or upgrading, and I found going to new places and talking to new people invigorating.
Ask any serious traveler, they'll know their country-count. Define it carefully! Just an airport or train station layover didn't count - you had to have a meal there outside of a terminal. That let me count Vatican City, which had a restaurant in the museum, and Andorra, which I really just drove through but stopped to have lunch in. My country count, The Before, was 134, though it was getting a lot harder to bump that number without going out of my way to do so.
Sometimes traveling alone was lonely, but that just gave good contrast to conversations and even dinners with a vast network of coworkers. In side trips, I stayed at youth hostels and met interesting people, though there was a range of 'interesting' I was okay with, and beyond that, I tended to steer clear, 'those' people weren't my scene. Happily they were easy to spot.
The closest big city on my last work trip was Murmansk, Russia. Murmansk is about as far north as any sane person would go, but, then, that was the easy leg! I had to keep going. A two-day river-boat ride, a change to an ancient Soviet-era float plane, and a series of 3-hour hops got me to an oil rig in a swamp.
The destination was a telecoms relay station used by giant oil companies.
To say it was hell-and-gone, yeah, that'd be an understatement. And, I was scheduled for 2 weeks, a long deployment for a simple relay station, but there was a long to-do list and I was just the one guy. Not many people were willing to spend time utterly alone with 500 km of empty, dense, tundra-forest in all directions.
The float-plane pilot and his crew member helped me unload my equipment and camping gear and ruck the heavy stuff up to the prefab building, then shook hands and took off again. I waved and let them go, and got busy setting up.
Not dying alone in a wilderness tends to focus the mind.
Setting up the equipment and kicking off the hardware and software upgrade processes took two days, but I punctuated the indoor time with my secondary outdoor duties, trimming back trees from around the site to get the area cleaned up. They'd given me battery-powered tools - a chainsaw, a brush cutter to clear undergrowth, and the normal carpentry tools because some parts of the cabins always needed repair.
I burned the refuse and delighted in getting to be a super-duper highly-paid landscaper.
The fact that I knew not to cut the cables between the antenna towers and PV array field justified any expense on their part, I was sure. Russia was famous for having drunk idiots blindly drive expensive equipment into sinkholes, cut vital cables randomly, and otherwise generally die needlessly doing The Wrong Thing (making for expensive funerals, too).
I should note the problems with Russian workers wasn't bravery, it was the opposite, a cavalier attitude to just trying the bang-it-harder, jury-rig, make-do, see if it works perspectives mostly characterized in the USA as, "Hold My Beer." That's fine for seeing if a riding making a shopping cart into a luge seems fun, but when you've got $10m of telecom equipment, NO, that's not the guy you want fixing it.
Some of my handyman tasks were fun - repairing ripped up crap where bears had tried to get in, for one. The more normal stuff balanced it out - tightening the permafrost-loosened guy wires on the dishes, and ensuring the foundations were stable from the giant frost-heaves, etc.
The computer work was the simple part, I'd been doing that a long time. You'd think that all of it could be done remotely, but sometimes hardware would fail, and we'd have to bring in a new unit, or fix a leaky roof that dripped on the server rack (it happened). Some things could ONLY be done in-person - swapping out equipment with more modern versions, patching software, looking at blinking lights to diagnose which component was failing. And, yes, seeing if the dang power plug had fallen out (I'd seen this on previous jobs).
I had some books to read, and a ton of summer sunlight to read them in. Granted, being summer, mosquitoes were horrid, but I had bug repellant and a beekeeper's mask. It's possible to choke to death on gnats and skeeters out there. I had been warned, but I'd also been around permafrost tundra-swamps before and came prepared.
Between tasks, my "off time" in nature (after cleaning up) meant some hiking and nature photography. I liked to do close-up work on fungi, what animals I could see, and even rock outcroppings (geology being a lifelong amateur passion).
It was almost by-chance that I spotted a strange looking rock outcropping on one of my walkabouts, right about at the limit of how far I was willing to walk from my 'camp'. It didn't pay to get stuck walking home in the twilight and miss a step into a deeper-than-expected puddle.
The outcropping wasn't visible from far away, so I was surprised when I happened upon it. It was so oddly shaped I had to go look closer. Indeed, it undercut the rock hillside to make an expansive overhang.
This was NOT a natural formation!
Pillars came up to support the overhang, and deep inside it was obviously well-sheltered from the weather. The 5 meters (15 feet) ceiling of the 'patio' under the rock face felt open but it was so deep there was a lot of area in there to walk around in, and a lot of chest-high rocks scattered inside as well.
Once I got in the space, it was obvious the outcropping's shape wasn't random.
Underneath
The space itself was the size of a medium-sized bus terminal, or maybe about half a U.S. grocery store. It wasn't small, but it wasn't empty, either. Odd looking boulders with almost-deliberate shapes filled the area in groupings.
The 'almost' part faded away as I got in far enough to see a carved stone chair, integral to the back wall and almost throne-like in appearance. Quickly, I took some pictures, all around, knowing this was ancient-beyond-ancient, just by the look of the place.
As I got closer, I could see the walls, overhanging ceiling, and even some boulders had ornate carvings on them, letters in some other language. I knew a lot of languages by then, but some characters were cursive like Thai and others chittish like cuneiform.
Of course I took tons of pictures!
The obvious focus of most of the place was The Chair, and I began to notice sets of arcs in the floor that made it look ever more like a throne, with a slight lean-back angle so whoever sat in it definitely would either sit up straight on their own or could appear relaxed. That aspect of it appealed to me - a relaxed throne, a funny idea in itself.
I'm not going to say it called to me, or I was forced, but I felt increasingly compelled to sit in it, just to see what it would be like.
Yes, you're probably yelling at me for doing this, super sus and creepy situation, but hell, I was in the middle of freakin' nowhere, and the rock looked really, really cool!
So, yeah. I sat in the chair.
This was a life-ending mistake -- not my life, mind you, physically, but... it's complicated.
