Carol Hiltner’s Report on José Argüelles’ Altai Mission

     This report is excerpted from the upcoming Out of Time—the second book of The Altai Chronicles. The events are indicative of the synchronicity that José Argüelles says will follow from use of an harmonic calendar.

Chapter 1—José

      Wednesday, June 18, 2001
      I followed a rather elegant looking couple through the glass doors into the lobby of the high-rise in downtown Seattle where the Russian Consulate has its offices. As we cleared the door, the woman turned suddenly and walked into me. I dodged, and we both laughed.
      Then, she and the gentleman with her walked over to the building directory, and I, realizing that I also needed to look at it, turned and followed them. Her finger traced down the listing to the Russian Consulate: ninth floor.
      I followed the couple back to the elevators and, as we rode up, I made conversation: “Planning to go to Russia?”
      The man nodded.
      “Hm,” I said, “Where are you going?”
      “Siberia.”
      That piqued my curiosity—not many tourists headed for Siberia. “Oh?” I said. “Me too. Where in Siberia?”
      “Altai,” he answered.
      “Hnh, me too!” I said, surprised again. Spiritually inclined Russians are well aware of the power of Altai, but few Americans know of its existence. The remote and pristine Altai Mountains in southern central Siberia are a fabulously magical place where I had had profound healings, mystical dreams, and visions. Here, the veil between dimensions is thin, and I was pulled to return.
      “When are you going?” I asked.
      “August 3rd through 19th,” he replied.
      Another surprise. “We’ll be there at the same time,” I said, and the woman smiled.
      We arrived at the ninth floor. The consulate was closed that day.
      As we rode back down to the lobby, I asked, “Why are you going?”
      “To give a seminar on ‘New Time,’” the man said. Standing in the lobby, he pulled a few papers and a business card out of the parcel he was carrying and handed them to me.
      I offered him a business card of my own. “I’ve been to Altai a couple times,” I said. “I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have. Information is somewhat hard to come by here.”
      I walked out through the glass doors, and, as I proceeded up the sidewalk toward my car, I looked at the business card. Planetary Art Network, it read. I turned the card over. José Argüelles.
      I knew that name. I had read and been confused by his book, Earth Ascending. And I knew that he had been the initiator of the Harmonic Convergence in August, 1987, in which tens of thousands of people all over the world celebrated the convergence of I didn’t know what.
      Now I was confused anew: What was José Argüelles’s name doing on this card? And then it hit me: This man was José Argüelles, and he was giving a seminar in Altai this summer. And we had just had what my friends and I laughingly and somewhat incredulously call an “appointment”—a spiritually designated meeting.
      I was laughing aloud as I climbed into the car: this seemed to be a prelude to another adventurous summer.

      Sunday, July 8, 2001
      I had e-mailed José and his wife Lloydine, and she had e-mailed back information about the content of his seminar. Their Russian contact informed me by e-mail that the seminar was being held at a place called TurBas Katun, which, she said, any taxi-driver in the capital city of Gorno-Altaisk would know.
      That seemed like rather sketchy information to me, considering that Altai is about the size of Washington State, and that the Katun River snakes through it from one end to the other. But it didn’t really matter if I knew where it was, since I wasn’t making the itinerary for the Altai trip this year. I read the information and set it aside.

      Flash forward to August 10th. I had arranged for my friend Dmitri—our mountain guide on my first trip to Altai—to be our transportation. When the person who had promised to plan the itinerary decided not to come, I asked Dmitri to take us to places he would like us to see. His English is little better than my Russian, so I decided not to complicate matters by even mentioning TurBas Katun. Three of us were traveling together: Dmitri, my friend Susan from Seattle, and me.


Chapter 2—Seminar

      Friday, August 10, 2001
      This morning, we crammed our gear back into Dmitri’s car and headed toward Gorno-Altaisk. Around noon, we rolled into a campground. Dmitri and I walked with one of the camp employees up to the area where we could pitch our tent. It was full of mosquitoes, road noise, and dust; was a significant distance from both water and outhouse; and there was no view.
      Spoiled by the breathtakingly beautiful campsites where we had stayed thus far, I asked, “Can’t we find something better?”
      Dmitri squinted at me and rubbed his chin. “Different camp, fifty kilometers,” he pointed up the road, “TurBas Katun.”
      “I know that name!” I realized. I had goose bumps. “There’s a seminar there that I want to go to—I think…” I wasn’t sure that that was the place—for all I knew, there could be any number of places with that name. But now I was really curious: “Let’s go see.”
      I doubt that Dmitri had any idea what I was talking about, and he wasn’t thrilled to drive that fifty kilometers, but he did. TurBas Katun was a well-developed resort, with a lodge, maybe a dozen big out-buildings full of sleeping rooms, several buildings with meeting rooms, a cafeteria, a couple coffee shops, a little store, and a river-rafting concession.
      Dmitri inquired in the lodge about the seminar. This was indeed the right place. As we approached the meeting hall, I had the odd and wonderful sense that the people gathering here were “family” to me. I poked my head inside the door. The room was half full of people—maybe fifty or sixty—sitting on mats on the floor. No one spoke to me.
      Generally, I avoid groups of any kind. I still had that feeling of “family,” but I was uncertain. As I started back down the front steps, a whole group of people approached the building. I spotted Lloydine Argüelles just as she spotted me.
      “You came!” she exclaimed, and reached to clasp my hand. As the group swept her and José on past me into the building, a beautiful young man stayed behind. “Hello, I’m Pavel,” he bestowed a smile on me.
      “Are you American?” I asked in surprise, not having detected any Russian accent in his speech.
      “No, Russian,” he laughed.
      “I guess we found the right place,” I said. “What’s happening right now?”
      As the room filled to overflowing, Pavel showed us the seminar schedule, registered Susan, Dmitri, and me, and figured out our “galactic kin” (similar to one’s astrological chart) according to our dates of birth and wrote them on our name tags: I am a “yellow spectral sun”; Dmitri is also a sun; and Susan is an “electric skywalker.”
      It was the first day of the seminar, and we had missed only the opening session that morning. I was astonished that Dmitri had suggested bringing us to this particular place without my having said a word—even though there were several other camping places nearby. This is now my second divine appointment with the Argüelleses, I thought. What’s the message here?
      Now it was time for the afternoon session. Susan and I sat down just inside the open door as José began to speak about “new time” and how changing our calendar to a harmonic thirteen-month, twenty-eight day calendar, based on both the lunar cycle and the human female menstrual cycle, was critically important.
      He explained how the irregularity of the Gregorian calendar is actually a means of controlling humanity by disrupting the natural human rhythms so we are off balance. Such disruption costs us our attunement with the planet, and has led to our current environmental cataclysm. Changing our relationship with time, José asserted, would bring humanity into synchronicity with itself and the planet, resulting in the birth of the noosphere—the telepathic global mind.
      I was intrigued by the idea that changing something as seemingly mechanical as the calendar could have such powerful impact. I thought about how irregularities in machinery can cause parts to break and finally cause complete failure. Of course, the human organism is more adaptable than our machines, but still such irregularity on a global scale certainly would have negative global consequences. Such a simple solution: humanity would be better able to work together if the basis for keeping time were a consistent, natural rhythm!
      I decided, then and there, to adopt this calendar, and thereby to incorporate the harmonic designations into my journaling. (I have included the Thirteen Moon calendar information for the remainder of this book. Each date has designated characteristics as indicated by Mayan time science—which has a depth of prognosticatory detail similar to astrology. In-depth information about this system is available at the Foundation for the Law of Time.)
      After José ’s talk, Pavel finished orienting us—showing us where we could pitch our tent, free, in a tent city of seminar participants, down on the riverbank where the smoky-green Katun River flowed swiftly and silently past.
      Then, as we waited in line for dinner at the cafeteria, Susan made conversation with a man who introduced himself as Anatoly. He spoke flawless English, and told us that he was a professional translator of esoteric books, from English into Russian.
      I wasn’t feeling especially conversational, so I mostly listened to the two of them. But a couple times, I noticed that Anatoly was staring hard at me. The second time, I asked, curious, “What are you staring at?” But he didn’t answer. I thought that perhaps he hadn’t heard my question as the conversation between him and Susan swept on.
      Susan and I managed to get our plates of dinner with translation assistance from Anatoly, and after eating, we wandered with Dmitri back down to our campsite by the river.
      “I don’t want to be here,” Dmitri announced as he looked over the crowded camp-ground. “There’s better place,” and he pointed further up the river.
      But I was captivated by the feeling of “family” that still lingered, and by the miracle of our having arrived here on the first day of the seminar. “I want to stay,” I said enthusiastically, “And it’s okay if you don’t. If you want to find a place that’s not so crowded, you can come back in a couple days when it’s time to take Susan back to Novosibirsk. Then you can take just her, because I want to stay for the whole seminar. I’ll get back to Novosibirsk on my own.” (Susan had to fly home on August 17th, but I was staying a month beyond that.)
      “Okay,” he said, frowning—obviously displeased that I wouldn’t come with him—and, after a few minutes, he left.
      Back in the tent, I thought about the miracle of this day. Clearly, I was linked to José and Lloydine Argüelles—somehow part of their “World Thirteen Moon Calendar Change Peace Movement.” Although I couldn’t resonate with José ’s assertion that simply harmonizing the way we measure time would be sufficient to bring about world peace, I did see that it would have profound impact, both personally and collectively.
      I pulled out the little thirteen moon pocket calendar that I had brought with me—the one José had given me in Seattle—and, thinking, I may as well start now, I checked the date:
      This was the 17th day of the Magnetic Moon in the year of the Yellow Solar Seed. The day of the week was Gamma.
      And on the 260-day Harmonic Module of the Mayan Calendar, this was day (kin) 220—Yellow Crystal Sun.

      Kin 221: Red Cosmic Dragon (transcends birth)
      Magnetic Moon (of purpose), Kali 18
      Year of the Yellow Solar Seed

      Sunday, August 12, 2001
      I was thrilled to be at the seminar, but José was transmitting much more technical information than I could take in consciously. So I let the words float past, and focused on Lloydine, who was sitting erect, smiling, grounding the energy field that José was weaving—anchoring the mysticism of the Maya into the magic of Altai. I decided I’d rather do that with her than try to process José ’s intellectual presentation. I eased myself into an altered state, and spun out a field of love to Lloydine and the audience.
      But the highlight of today was the note handed to me by Anatoly, the man who had been staring at me in the dinner line that first night:
      To Carol,
      When we were standing in the dining room and talking on the day of your arrival, your face changed suddenly. It was definitely and recognizably you, but the “version” was completely new. You looked young, beautiful, tender, and very feminine.
      The vision lasted for about half a minute, then shifted to your usual appearance. It repeated several times, and as I gazed at you, amazed and enchanted by the unusual vision, you asked me why I was looking at you in such a strange manner. I didn’t answer because Susan began to speak something to you, and you forgot your question.
      There were several very brief glimpses of the same on the following day, but unfortunately they did not repeat afterwards.
      Thank you for the vision!
      Anatoly R.

      Strange and magical currents were flowing here.

      Kin 223: Blue Lunar Night (stabilizes abundance)
      Magnetic Moon (of purpose), Limi 20
      Year of the Yellow Solar Seed

      Tuesday, August 14, 2001
      Dmitri came and picked up Susan today, to take her back to Novosibirsk. I walked up to the road at the time we had set, and he hadn’t arrived yet. A couple hours later, I had the inclination to check again, and as I arrived at the front gate, he was coming through it—the promised psychic alignment of the Thirteen Moon calendar must have worked very quickly!
      He loaded Susan and her gear into the car, lifted me off the ground with his hug, and then off they went.

      Kin 225: Red Self-Existing Serpent (measures life force)
      Magnetic Moon (of purpose), Dali 22
      Year of the Yellow Solar Seed
      Thursday, August 16, 2001
      The Russians in our little tent community really reached out to include me. Last night, we sat around the campfire until very late—maybe twenty of us—and the Russians sang dozens of songs, which they all seemed to know. I amused them with a few songs in English.
      The star Arcturus, which José calls home, glittered brightly above the horizon in the clear night sky, sending shards of starlight skittering across the surface of the River Katun. And the Perseid meteor showers arched across the curved shoulder of the firmament. I had a wonderful, intimate, hour-long conversation with a man named Viktor—who had translated for me on several occasions.
      I finally sorted out a little about how this group came together. Pavel, the young man whom I met the first day, was one of the “group of five,” leaders of the Light Center in Moscow (two men and three women), who provided leadership in organizing and networking. Pavel and Anna must have been in their twenties, and the other three—Sofia, Sergei, and Alina—in their forties.
      The “group of five” had traveled with José and Lloydine in Altai—as had José ’s translator and main spokesperson in Russia, Valentin; and Nina, who translated for Lloydine. Completing the entourage were two American women: one, a highly respected spiritual leader whose identity will not be disclosed because of the nature of my subsequent psychic interaction with her—whom I will call Tamara—and her companion.
      Three men and a woman had come from the Netherlands to help teach. Otherwise, all of the approximately 150 attendees (except Susan and me) were Russian-speakers from all over Russia and the republics.
      There was a large group from Moscow, many of whom seemed to have known each other before coming. Besides the work of José Argüelles, this group also appreciated the work of Drunvalo Melchizedek, author of The Ancient Secrets of the Flower of Life, and the Indian mystic whom they call Osho, but who is known in the U.S. as Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh.
      Today—the last day of the seminar—Tamara, the spiritual leader traveling with José from America, presented the morning session. As she spoke about love and tolerance, I got more and more light-headed until, when she finished, I could hardly stand. As the group dispersed, I staggered down the outside steps, and Rob, one of the Dutch group, caught me in his arms and held me until I was a little more steady on my feet. Somehow, then, I got back to my tent and lay down, and my consciousness dropped away.
      When I came to, I checked the clock. Three hours had passed, and it was almost time for the final session of the seminar. In the past, when I have been light-headed in that way, I generally have not been functional until at least the next day. But I was feeling somewhat better, so I walked up toward the meeting area. Sitting on a rock near the hall was Rob, looking quite dazed and confused.
      I greeted him, “Whoa, are you okay?”
      He looked up at me, taking a second to register my presence. “I’ve been sitting here since the last session, really unable to move,” he answered. “I’ve never had anything like this happen to me. After I hugged you, I was completely disoriented and light-headed. I just sat down. I couldn’t do anything else.”
      “Ah,” I said. “I think I might know what happened to you. I think you must have given me a huge amount of healing energy, and maybe you took on some of whatever was affecting me. I didn’t expect I would recover so quickly, but it seems I had help from you. Thank you.”
      I sat with Rob for several minutes, and then, as people started arriving for the final session, we got up and, leaning against each other, made our way into the meeting room.
      I was not aware of what José said during those two hours. I was only aware of the movement of the group energy. It felt to me like, in the morning, Tamara had built the energy field as tightly as a stretched bow, creating great tension or potential; and as José spoke, he focused all that gathered energy with the intention for harmony on the planet, and then released it—implanting this intention deeply into the energy-space of Altai with all the power of the entire group.
      (Months after this, I was still wondering what, exactly, had happened that had affected both me and Rob so profoundly. A friend of mine anchored me for a shamanic journey, which looked again at this day, as well as giving me several significant mystical gifts. You’ll have to read the book for the details.)

      Kin 226: White Overtone Worldbridger (commands death)
      Magnetic Moon (of purpose), Seli 23
      Year of the Yellow Solar Seed

      Friday, August 17, 2001
      Last night, we laughed and sang around a campfire through the entire night, reveling in the group accomplishment and communion, and wanting to treasure each moment before we all went our own ways in the morning.
      This morning, many of us exchanged e-mails and addresses, and I was fervently invited by half a dozen people to come and visit them in cities all over Russia.
      I packed all my equipment into my rucksack and, as I started to shoulder it, I was stopped by one of the men, who absolutely insisted on carrying it up to the road for me. As we walked, several other similarly laden men fell into step.
      Everyone carried a huge load except me: I was entirely unencumbered as we walked up the road. A couple women from our group met us coming the other way, and one asked me laughingly, “All yours?”
      As I began to shake my head, the man carrying my pack put a hand on my arm, stopping me. “Of course you must say yes—that all this is yours,” he said, gesturing with a wide sweep of his arm at the group.
      I, who am so accustomed to determinedly managing my own stuff, had to smile at the new idea that all of these men would have gladly supported me in that way.


Chapter 3—Family

      Kin 235: Blue Magnetic Eagle (attracts vision)
      Lunar Moon (of challenge), Kali 4
      Year of the Yellow Solar Seed

      Sunday, August 26, 2001
      After a wonderfully pleasant week with Mama in Novosibirsk, I was supposed to have gotten on the plane to Moscow at 7:30 this morning. That didn’t happen.
      I don’t think Mama had ever been in an airport—Dmitri had been here to see Susan off. But Dmitri had left Mama detailed instructions, including taxi fare. She was to take me to the airport and stay until I boarded my plane.
      Susan’s flight had left at 7:30 in the evening, and I carefully explained to Mama several times that my flight was in the morning, showing her where my itinerary said a.m. instead of p.m. She thought she understood, and I thought she understood.
      I listened when she called to order a taxi to come at four o’clock—allowing an hour and a half to get to the airport, and two hours there.
      Last night after a late, long, leisurely dinner, Mama set juice glasses out in front of the two of us, and filled them full of some sort of vodka. I am normally a non-drinker, so this was way too much for me. But she insisted, so, after a toast to her hospitality, I drank it down.
      Mama excavated in her cupboards and pulled out a record-player and a half-dozen hi-fi records. Putting a record on, she cranked up the volume as far as it would go, and, as Russian pop songs from the ’fifties blasted out of the speaker, seventy-year-old Mama closed her eyes and passionately sang along like a teenager, dancing and gyrating around the table, the folded-out bed, and me. I watched open-mouthed. She danced up to me and pulled me into the dance with her.
      Shortly (it being after 10 p.m. now), the phone rang. It was Lena, her friend and downstairs neighbor, who had heard the ruckus and wondered what was going on. Even though I couldn’t understand the words of her explanation, her body language said it all: she was celebrating life, and I had given her the occasion. The volume stayed where it was, and Mama sang out every word. We danced and laughed until midnight, pulling out scarves and skirts to adorn ourselves, twirling giddily and bumping against the walls.
      Finally we subsided and got ready for bed. I signaled to her to set the alarm clock, but she gestured that there was no need. This concerned me. I thought that waking up without an alarm at 3 a.m. after the evening’s revelry and drink was not likely, so I asked again, but she insisted. When my daughter Aimee and I had stayed here on my first trip to Altai, we had also scheduled this early-morning flight. She had gotten us up then in the early morning, albeit with the alarm, but I figured she must have some other way.
      Satisfied with life, and still significantly drunk, I dropped off to sleep. I regained consciousness just as the room was getting light. My eyes flew open! I leapt out of bed and checked the clock: 6:30 a.m.
      I gasped and squeaked at Mama, who was starting to stir in response to my commotion, “It’s 6:30!” She looked at me with her of course nod.
      With my hands shaking, I got out my ticket and pointed to the time on it, trying to get her to understand that my plane was leaving in an hour. For about fifteen minutes, I frantically pointed and explained in words she couldn’t understand, while she tried to calm and reassure me.
      Then it began to dawn on her what I was saying. Just as she was starting to comprehend, I began to see the comedy of it: this could just mean that I have a cosmic “appointment” on a later flight—unless, of course, the plane is extremely late, which is a definite possibility. Everyone was safe, but truly, there was nothing we could do now to get to the plane. We would just have to reschedule my departure, even if it meant buying another ticket.
      For the next fifteen minutes, we reversed roles, with me trying to reassure her as she ran between the kitchen and living room, alternately wringing her hands and raising them in despair, wailing, “Gospodi, Gospodi (oh God, oh God)!”
      With pointing and flailing, she got me to understand that she couldn’t read the English alphabet, so the AM on the itinerary had meant nothing to her. Susan had left in the evening, so evening was when the plane went, she thought. And all my talk about morning was, well, just my talk, which was incomprehensible anyway.
      She finally stood still, with a lost look on her face, and shrugged, raising her hands in front of her. I realized she had no idea what to do now.
      I gestured toward the phone, with key words like “aeroport” and “taxi.” She got out paper and pencil and started dialing. In the next half hour, she talked to half a dozen people, trying to find out what to do. Finally, she set the phone down and, with some composure regained, she said and gestured that we would go to the airport now.
      We got dressed, packed up some of the piroshki she had made the previous day, and were out the door in fifteen minutes, just as the rescheduled taxi was driving up.
      We got to the airport a little after 9 a.m. The plane had been late, if I understood correctly, but not that late. Mama parked me and the bags in a corner of the lobby and disappeared for almost an hour.
      She showed up again, looking much lighter, but still scowling at herself. We dragged my luggage up a flight of stairs and into an office labeled Aeroflot. One of the men in the office spoke English, and, while Mama stood vigilantly, he explained to me that they had already changed my ticket to the evening flight, and that there would be no charge.
      I was astonished by and grateful for their handling of the situation. I am sure that, faced with Mama—frantic at having made an error she had limited ability to fix—the Aeroflot personnel decided that the only way to calm the distraught babushka in their office was to unconditionally change my ticket.
      I still had one more problem: it was not clear to me that Mama knew where we should wait for the flight. The agent directed us over to a big, almost empty waiting room.
      Mama stayed with me—all day—like the peel on a potato. She made conversation with the other people waiting in the room—there weren’t very many. When 6:30 p.m. rolled around, and there was still nobody in the waiting room, I went downstairs on a scouting expedition.
      There on the reader-board downstairs, the check-in gate for my flight was listed, the gate was open, and people were standing in line. I went upstairs and dragged my bags down and got in line with Mama. We checked the bags, found the gate, hugged good-bye, and off she went as I proceeded into the waiting room.
      As the waiting passengers milled about, suddenly I heard, “Carol!” Looking around in surprise, I saw Nina, Lloydine’s translator from the seminar—a beautiful, delicate, and charismatic young woman. We squealed and rushed to hug each other.
      “Nina,” I exclaimed, “How amazing to see you! I was supposed to go out this morning, but I missed the flight. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever missed a flight. When it happened, first I was really upset, but then I thought, Maybe there’s a mystical reason for this. And now, here you are!”
      Nina laughed. “Well,” she said, “I also changed to this flight at the last minute.”
      Once on the plane, we traded seats so we could sit together, and had delicious girl-talk for the entire flight.