Joan leaned against the Packard and took in the surroundings. The parking lot was framed on three sides by trees, mostly oaks and evergreens of some sort. The property sloped up a bit to the north, and at the top of a rise sat a small cabin with a simple front porch. Two other cabins, similar in design, were off to the side closer to the road. In a clearing across the way stood a white dome, maybe twelve feet tall, looking completely out of place, like something from the set of a science fiction movie—like papier-mâché. Parked behind it was a battered, green camping trailer. But all those things were afterthoughts. Directly in front of her was the center of this particular universe, such as it was: another wood structure with a stone chimney protruding from the front, and a low-gabled roof topped by four letters, C-A-F-E. A gaggle of journalists and assorted other members of the Big Eye entourage was already jamming the side entrance in search of sandwiches and coffee. A handwritten sign in one of the windows informed would-be patrons that the café served beer.

I never had to struggle choosing the setting of Helium. The choice was always obvious. Once I decided that my story would revolve around the real-life flying saucer “contactee” George Adamski, I knew I had to set most of the action at a place called Palomar Gardens, near the base of Palomar Mountain in southern California. That’s where George ended up during the late 1940s, after trying—and mostly failing—for many years to build a following as a spiritual guru. By 1947, George was living at Palomar Gardens with two of his last remaining acolytes, and working as a fry cook at the property’s café. His quest for spiritual relevance had screeched to a halt at a tiny outpost at the bottom of road leading up to the brand-new Palomar Observatory.

And that’s where I decided to have my fictional protagonist, Joan, first make his acquaintance.

It’s not easy to find information about Palomar Gardens. The picture above is from one of several postcards of the place that were produced during the 1950s. The postcards and a few other photographs are available online if you know where to look. When combined with the scant written record, the images paint a picture of George’s small world. But they only go so far. I knew that if I wanted to do a good job describing the place, I needed to see it with my own eyes.

So, in 2021, that’s what I did. During a family vacation in Palm Springs, I took a day trip to Palomar Mountain. We were in the early months of the COVID vaccine, so the world still felt off-kilter. The big observatory at the top of the mountain (a significant location in my book) was closed to tourists, so I didn’t get to go inside. But I was able to visit Palomar Gardens—or, I should say, what’s left of it.

The property on which Palomar Gardens was located is now called Oak Knoll Campground. It’s a quiet, humble place that’s easy to pass by without realizing it even exists. But if you turn into the gravel entrance, you’ll see a single landmark that survives from George’s years there. It’s the campground’s main building, where its office is. If you look hard, you can see how the roofline and other architectural features match the postcards from George’s day.

During my visit, I walked inside to find out if there was anything else to see that might help me tell my story. There wasn’t much, just a rather ratty display of old newspaper clippings commemorating Palomar Gardens’ short-lived fame as a centerpiece of the 1950s flying saucer phenomenon. I doubt the display exists anymore. The current web site for Oak Knoll Campground makes no mention of George. It wasn’t so long ago that he was an important part of the property’s marketing.

I spent about a half hour walking the grounds, hoping to get inspired. The experience was mostly disappointing. I used the compass on my phone to situate myself, imagine what my characters would see when they looked one way or the other. I used my plant identification app to make notes about the flora (lots of live oaks). But that was about it. There wasn’t much more to learn. As I walked back to my car, I encountered the campground’s manager. She asked if she could help. I told her I was writing a book about George Adamski. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “The flying saucer guy.”

That was the extent of our conversation

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