Close Encounters of the Worst Kind

A pack of cops stumbled into the ultimate chase when they tried to pull over a UFO.

Remember the scene from Close Encounters of the Third Kind in which police cruisers take off on a high-speed, semihumorous pursuit of ground-skimming UFOs? Believe it or not, that was based on an actual encounter from 1966. But the real chase, and the life-changing repercussions it held for the many men who conducted it, was no laughing matter. It began around 5 in the morning on April 17 on the shoulder of Route 224 in Portage County, Ohio, just south of Cleveland. Deputy sheriff Dale Spaur and mounted deputy Wilbur Barney Neff had parked their police cruiser and were warily approaching an abandoned car theyd spotted on the side of the road. Suddenly, a large flying saucer with bright lights rose out of the woods behind them. Spaur noticed it first as it levitated to a height of perhaps one hundred feet (30 m). He quickly alerted his partner. The two stood slack-jawed, staring as the craft moved toward them, so brightly illuminated that it turned the predawn murkiness into day. The only thing, the only

sound in the whole area was a hum, Spaur said later. Regaining their composure, the cops jumped back into their car and watched as the UFO veered off toward the east. Spaur reported what had happened to his dispatcher and was told to pursue. And so the chase was on. As long as the flying saucer stayed close to the ground and kept a reasonable speed, it was a breeze to tail. It was so bright, Spaur said, that itd make your eyes water. Still, they pushed their cruiser to the limit to keep up. The UFO ambled east at what, for it, must have been a leisurely pace. But the cops had to drive in excess of one hundred miles an hour (160 km/h) just to stay in the general vicinity. As dawn broke, the two men got a better look at their quarry. It was reportedly silver, with some sort of tail fin or projection at the rearor at what the gumshoes assumed was the rear. It seemed to be about forty feet (12 m) wide and eighteen feet (5.4 m) tall. As the minutes passed, they highballed through jurisdiction after jurisdiction, keeping up a running commentary on their radio. In East Palestine, Ohio, an officer named H. Wayne Huston listened in, then parked at an intersection he knew theyd have to pass. Shortly thereafter he saw the UFO glide overhead, followed moments later by Portage Countys finest in their severely overtaxed squad car. Huston fell in behind them and joined the chase. The pursuit ended in Conway, Pennsylvania, when Spaur, low on gas, pulled over to ask a local cop for assistance. While the officer was on his radio seeking instructions, Huston pulled up and joined the party. The UFO, obligingly, hovered nearby in plain sight, as if waiting for the game of tag to resume. But it wasnt to be. The officers heard chatter on their car radios about Air Force jets being scrambled to investigate. Soon afterward they thought they saw fighters approaching. That, ap -

parently, was too much for whoever piloted the flying saucer. The craft suddenly shot straight up, out of sight. But Spaur would see it againonce more in the real world, and endlessly in his nightmares. The official investigation into the affair, viewed from the distance of four decades, looks like a by-the-book whitewash. Police chief Gerald Buchert of Mantua told the Cleveland Plain Dealer that he took a photo of the thing as it passed his house. But he also said that someone from the Air Force told him not to give the image to anyone. The military denied scrambling the interceptors that seemed to flush the UFO. Finally, in the famous Project Blue Book, the entire affair was pooh-poohed as a case of mistaken identity. The flying saucer, which was so bright it cast shadows, was dismissed as a misidentification of Venus, or a satellite, or perhaps both. None of this washed with the men who had risked their lives driving at breakneck speeds down dark roads to keep an eye on the thing. We were close, closer than I ever want to be again, Spaur told the Plain Dealer. I know nobodys going to believe it, but its true. He was dead right about the nobodys going to believe it part. But what he couldnt know was that his game of tag with the harmless-seeming flying saucer would ruin his life. Within six months of the sighting, Spaur lost his job and his marriage and was hovering on the edge of destitution. And he wasnt the only one hitting rock bottom. The Pennsylvania policeman to whom hed turned for assistance clammed up so tight he had his phone removed. Officer H. Wayne Huston, who brought up the rear during the pursuit, turned in his badge, changed his name to Harold W. Huston, moved to Seattle, and became a bus driver. Even Neff, who rode shotgun with Spaur that fateful

morning, wouldnt say a word. He never talks about it anymore, his wife, Jackelyne, told the Plain Dealer. Once he told me, If that thing landed in my back yard, I wouldnt tell a soul. Hes been through a wringer. The cherry on top of the cover-up sundae was provided by Buchert, who had taken a photo of the craft from his porch. Id rather not talk about it, he told the Plain Dealer later. Its something that should be forgotten . . . left alone. I saw something, but I dont know what it was. This is the sort of talk that sends conspiracy theorists into blogging frenzies. But the truth is, witnesses werent silenced or ruined by mysterious Men in Black or ruthless government agents. Their fellow citizens did the job. All were mercilessly ribbed about the incident and painted as either gullible morons or total wack jobs. Spaur, who led the pursuit and, afterward, exuberantly shot off his mouth about it to the papers, took the most flack. Reporters from around the world harassed him, as did legions of UFO enthusiasts. Though the now-well-known phrase hadnt been coined yet, he was getting his fifteen minutes of fame. But the glaring spotlight fried him. When his estranged father called him after years of silence, it was to ask about the UFO. And when he sought solace at a church, he was introduced to the congregation as the guy who chased the flying saucer. Everything changed, he sullenly told the Plain Dealer. I still dont really know what happened. But suddenly, it was as though everybody owned me. And I no longer had anything for myself. My wife, my home, my children. They all seemed to fade away. Incredibly, the one thing that didnt fade away was the UFO itself. In June 1966, right before he quit police work, Spaur saw the saucer in broad daylight while driving down I-80 outside Cleveland. The last thing his department wanted was another

spaceman flap, so the staff created an on-air radio code to use if the visitor ever returned. The silver ship was to be called Floyd, which was Spaurs middle name. On that day, the soon-to-be ex-deputy whispered, Floyds here with me, into his radio. Then he pulled off onto the shoulder, lit a smoke, and stared resolutely at his floorboard for a quarter of an hour. When he looked out the window again, Floyd was gone. So in the end, the UFO that Spaur had so doggedly tailed wound up tailing him. But one other intriguing thing happened on that strange morningsomething that was largely forgotten in the crush of events. Remember the car the two cops were checking when the UFO first rose up out of the trees? Just before all hell broke loose, the officers noticed that it was filled with communications equipment. On the side was a curious triangle framing a bolt of lightning. Above this were the sinister words Seven Steps to Hell. When police finally returned to the spot, the car had vanished. Did it have something to do with the flying saucer? Perhaps, or perhaps not. At this late date, no one will ever know. All it is, and all it will ever be, is one more strange footnote to a very strange, very sad encounter.