Barking Backward

A Blog by Jameson Parker

The Span of Life

The old dog barks backwards without getting up.
I can remember when he was a pup.

- Robert Frost

Timothy Murphy, Poet, 1951-2018

July 11th, 2018 5 Comments


Far too much modern art is created by people who have never bothered to do the hard, painstaking, time-consuming work that is required to master the basics: line, shape, form, space, texture, color, value, and above all, the draftsmanship and drawing necessary to utilize those basics.

In the same way, “free verse” has been taken over far too frequently by poets who lack the musicality, discipline, and education to master the fundamental skills of rhyme, rhythm, and meter, with those conforming to a specific form, as elegy or sonnet or ballad or whatever. Early free verse, and good free verse today, was in reality anything but “free,” but just as with modern art, it is too easy to skip the hard work of learning a craft, justifying Robert Frost’s observation that writing free verse is like playing tennis without a net.

Timothy Murphy not only had all the skills—the discipline, the musicality, and the education—but he also had an extraordinary, unique, and very rare (in any age, but especially ours) capacity for memorization. When his professor and mentor at Yale, the legendary, two-time Pulitzer Prize-winner (for prose and poetry, the only man ever to have achieved that) Robert Penn Warren, told Tim to memorize three-thousand lines of classical verse, Tim moved the decimal point and memorized thirty-thousand lines. 30,000! Think about that. I was trained as an actor, accustomed to memorization, and lucky enough to have a certain inherited facility for it, but I couldn’t memorize thirty-thousand lines to save my soul.

Tim was not the only poet working in our era to utilize rhyme and meter, but he was by far the most gifted, the most adept, the most versatile, and—by an enormous margin—the most prolific. He was also a farmer, venture capitalist, hunter, sailor, lover of dogs and fine guns, gay, alcoholic, a lapsed Catholic who returned to the Church, and undoubtedly a true and singular genius.

There are a lot of good poets alive today, and far too many of them labor in obscurity. But there are also far too many who consider any random, undisciplined collection of thoughts acceptable as “free verse.” Very few, damned few, have the skills and discipline necessary to write in rhyme and meter, but just as important, far fewer still have Tim’s incredible range of experience about which to write. He once said somewhere—to me? in an interview? to our mutual friend Steve Bodio? I don’t remember now—that most poets become professors and consequently have no human interaction with anyone other than eighteen- and nineteen-year-old students, or any world experience outside the ivied walls of academe to write about. Tim went home to North Dakota to farm, after Robert Penn Warren wisely refused to recommend him for a teaching position, and as a consequence he had a wealth of old men and women as his friends and neighbors and mentors, old men and women who knew something about life and all its ups and downs, about the good and bad, the success and failure, the love and loss, the joy and sorrow that life is made of. He had, in short, real material to study and draw from and write about, and Lord have mercy, did he ever!

He also wrote one of the most extraordinary, unusual, beautiful memoirs ever, Set the Ploughshare Deep, a unique combination of verse, prose, and woodcuts (by Charles Beck) that I cannot recommend highly enough.

I will give you three short poems of his, one an elegy for a dog, and one that could serve as his obituary.

Benedict Farms

Plagued by the lack of jingle in my purse,
by Keats and Tennyson jingling in my ear,
I double-clutched to ease into reverse.
A ten-year-old showed me his new John Deere.

He taught me PTO, the fourteen gears.
Choke – wasn’t that something you did on dates?
Not five feet tall, savvy beyond his years,
he jounced beside me through the barbed wire gates,

Then sank the disc with a hydraulic lever
into a half-section of golden stubble.
It stretched fencerow to fencerow, stretched forever.
“If a wheel spins, downshift, ‘cause you’re in trouble.”

For him, my height was no redeeming factor.
“You go to Yale, and you can’t drive a tractor?”


Perro del Amo

Go where the blue wings flash

over the whitecapped wave,


where crippled mallards splash

and every bitch is brave


When the returning dove

roosts at your mother’s grave,


I’ll bury a box of ash

beside her in the sod.


Vaya con Dios, love,

you were the dog of God.



Steve told his wife, “I think Tim’s going to die,”

          ten years ago last fall,

          but answering a call

from the Spirit I staged another try,

          a last grasp for the sky,

and so ensued a decade, far my best,

but now I must endure a cruel test

which I shall fail, because my fate is sealed.

          So here’s my gratitude

          for ten years latitude

in which my crippled soul was slowly healed,

          my wounds annealed

by mercies far beyond selfish intent.

Let this be my Last Will and Testament.

I wrote a profile of Tim for Sporting Classics, but since the magazine has agreed to publish it, I cannot post here until it appears in print. When it does, I will post it.

This world could use more men like Timothy Murphy, but his like will not pass this way again.

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James Woods

July 8th, 2018 9 Comments


What with one thing and another, I missed the details about James Woods being dropped by his agent, one Ken Kaplan, of the Gersh Agency. Apparently, Mr. Woods’ outspoken conservative political views did not sit well with Mr. Kaplan and were the cause of the agent dropping his immensely talented (three Emmys and two Academy Award nominations) client.

To be perfectly honest, I don’t follow any of the doings of the business I once was part of, and this, in particular, is not the sort of thing to which I would normally pay any attention. Agents drop actors and actors drop agents with such monotonous frequency and regularity—albeit not normally for political differences—that the more interesting take, along the lines of “man-bites-dog,” would be a story about an actor/agent partnership that endures.

But this morning, I happened to catch a news item about the event that included Mr. Kaplan’s tweet to James Woods informing Mr. Woods of the end of their relationship.

My first thought was that tweeting was an exceptionally tacky and unnecessarily public way of breaking the news, but hey, maybe that’s how things are done in the business these days. But what really caught my eye was the text of Mr. Kaplan’s tweet, which read: “It’s the 4th of July and I’m feeling patriotic. I don’t want to represent you anymore. I mean I could go on a rant but you know what I’d say.” (The absence of commas must be a stylistic device of Mr. Kaplan’s.)

Mr. Woods’ response was very elegant and gracious: “Dear Ken, I don’t actually. I was thinking if you’re feeling patriotic, you would appreciate free speech and one’s right to think as an individual. Be that as it may, I want to thank you for all your hard work and devotion on my behalf. Be well.”

At first, I was appalled by Mr. Kaplan’s not even having the grace or courage to break the news to his client face to face, but I was especially struck by his reference to “patriotic feelings,” which I found rather odd. I actually feel patriotic all the time, not just on the Fourth of July.

Mr. Kaplan may only feel patriotic on the Fourth of July, but clearly, like so many well-educated progressives, his annual patriotism is expressed by aping some of the worst tried and true techniques the Nazis used to demonize the Jews: harassment, boycotting, denying opportunities for employment, denouncing those who hold opposing political views, and isolating them as “other.” It might have been nicer if Mr. Kaplan had studied and learned techniques employed by a far greater and more enduring teacher—inclusiveness, tolerance, a willingness to try and understand the other fellow’s point of view, loving one’s neighbor as oneself, following the Golden Rule—but that Book has apparently fallen out of favor in progressive liberal circles these days.

This incident, coming as it does on the heels of Kirstjen Nielson being screamed at in a Mexican restaurant, and Sarah Sanders being told to leave the Red Hen restaurant in Lexington, Virginia by progressive liberal owner Stephanie Wilkinson, or that paragon of compassionate deeper thinking, Maxine Waters, encouraging people to go after members of the Trump administration, made the comparison to the early days of the Nazi holocaust inevitable. And it begs the question of what conservatives should expect next. Will Maxine Waters introduce a bill demanding conservatives be made to wear an identifying badge, like the yellow star the Jews were compelled to wear? (Possibly a red MAGA hat, something easily stolen from frightened teenagers by violent thugs following an assault.) Should we look forward to an updated version of Kristllnacht, with homes and business looted and destroyed?

Actually, I don’t think we need to worry. Liberal progressives may be ill-mannered, intolerant, and ignorant of the lessons of history, but I think they’re at least smart enough to realize most conservatives are not as cowed and obsequious as the Jews were after fourteen-hundred-years of pogroms and persecution. It’s a shame progressive liberals have only learned the worst techniques from the worst people in history. Almost as great a shame as only feeling patriotic once a year.

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Fahrenheit 451 and the Fourth of July

July 3rd, 2018 9 Comments


I have been taking some time off for personal reasons, but I recently had one of those strange coincidences that seem, in retrospect, ordained from on high by a supernatural power with a distorted sense of humor.

We were in Costco, my bride and I, a few weeks ago, and I was relegated to pushing a cart that would have wearied the patience and drained the endurance of a Missouri mule, when my bride announced she had forgotten something somewhere other than where we were. She must have seen my reaction because she immediately pointed to the book section and suggested I browse while she went and got… Whatever.

Costco does not sell the kinds of books I have any interest in reading. The books I enjoy reading are primarily sold in the kinds of rare bookstores I can’t afford to even enter, but looking at self-help books and celebrity cookbooks and romance novels and thrillers with famous authors’ names on them—though actually written by unknown assistants—all of that seemed preferable to imitating a mule. And as it happened, Costco was selling a 60th Anniversary edition of Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451.

I am not a science fiction fan. The only science fiction I have ever read was the late, great John D. MacDonald’s Wine of the Dreamers. I do have, somewhere, a very gracious note written to me by the late, great Ursula K. Le Guin in response to a question of mine about something she once said in an interview, but I have never read any of her work, so that’s it. But there was this 60th Anniversary edition, and there was my groaning cart.

Shortly after I finished reading it, I was watching once of those weekend “news” shows that includes a sort of “man-on-the-street” segment, in this case a reporter asking beautiful bronzed young things on a beach somewhere in southern California about the significance of the Fourth of July. I know there is always a disclaimer to the effect that these are real people giving real answers, but I suspect the reporters must go out of their way to recruit the lowest possible IQs to be found anywhere in the continental landmass of the United States. Certainly, in this case, it was hard for me to believe any of the beautiful bronzed bodies they spoke to could possibly be that ignorant. It would hard to believe your average five-year-old could be that ignorant, but gorgeous young thing after muscular young couldn’t answer a question as tricky, intricate, obscure, complex, and intellectually challenging as, “What is the significance of the Fourth of July.”

I kid you not.

“Christopher Columbus?” was one girl’s answer.

Again, I kid you not.

And that brings me to Fahrenheit 451.

Science fiction can be defined as a projection, by the author, of recognizable people and events of today into a future world with previously unimagined circumstances. If you’re not a science fiction fan, think of the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey as an example. The science fiction writer’s job, essentially, is to take an ordinary man or woman confronting a relatively minor problem or challenge in today’s world, and to project that into the future while simultaneously expanding the scope and danger of the problem. At least, that is what Ray Bradbury did with Fahrenheit 451.

As I understand it, as a child, Ray Bradbury was one of those little boys drugged on books, a voracious reader who spent more time in libraries than anywhere else. When television came along, he was less than impressed, and projected his fantasies of the worst of what he saw into a world that is set roughly one-hundred-years ahead of the time in which he wrote, which would make the setting of the book about 2052.

I’m sure most people have read Fahrenheit 451, but just as a reminder, the premise is a horrible distortion of an America constantly engaged in some kind of never-ending war with some unnamed “other,” and a government that wants to keep its people both anesthetized and complacently happy so that they won’t ask questions or make trouble. Since books, good books with great writing by great minds—the Bible, Marcus Aurelius, Matthew Arnold, Thoreau, Bertrand Russell, Gandhi, Abraham Lincoln, Albert Schweitzer, Buddha, Confucius, Thomas Love Peacock, Plato, Jonathan Swift, Charles Darwin, Schopenhauer, Ortega y Gasset, Shakespeare, Sir Philip Sidney, Aeschylus…all those and many more are mentioned or referenced obliquely—can make people think, and if they think, people may possibly become dissatisfied, and then, oh horror, they may ask questions, therefore books must be destroyed. All books. Whenever books are discovered, any books of any kind, a group of men, so-called Firemen (no irony there), go around and burn not just the books, but the homes of the people who were hiding such contraband.

“More sports for everyone, group spirit, fun, and you don’t have to think, eh? Organize and organize and super-organize super-super sports. More cartoons in books. More pictures. The mind drinks less and less…” “…Now let’s take up the minorities in our civilization, shall we? Bigger the population, the more minorities. Don’t step on the toes of the dog-lovers, the cat-lovers, doctors, lawyers, merchants, chiefs, Mormons, Baptists, Unitarians, second-generation Chinese, Swedes, Italians, Germans, Texans, Brooklynites, Irishmen, people from Oregon or Mexico. The people in this book, this play, this TV serial are not meant to represent any actual painters, cartographers, mechanics anywhere. The bigger your market, Montag, the less you handle controversy, remember that! All the minor minor minorities with their navels to be kept clean. Authors, full of evil thoughts. Lock up your typewriters. They did. Magazines became a nice blend of vanilla tapioca. Books, so the damned snobbish critics said, were dishwater. No wonder books stopped selling, the critics said. But the public, knowing what it wanted, spinning happily, let the comic books survive. And the three-dimensional sex magazines, of course. There you have it, Montag. It didn’t come from the Government down. There was no dictum, no declaration, no censorship, to start with, no! Technology, mass exploitation, and minority pressure carried the trick, thank God! Today, thanks to them, you can stay happy all the time, you are allowed to read comics, the good old confessions, or trade journals.”

And, from an earlier draft (the novel was originally written as a short story under another title): “We must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the Constitution says, but everyone made equal. Each man the image of every other; then all are happy because there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against. So! A book is a loaded gun in the house next door. Burn it. Take the shot from the weapon…”

Instead of books, in Fahrenheit 451 people are entertained constantly with a sort of interactive, four-wall, surround-television that can be specifically modified to the whims and desires of each individual viewer whose likes and dislikes are monitored and followed. The actors on the television are called, and become, the “family” of each individual viewer, keeping them so constantly and happily preoccupied they never question anything.

Sound familiar?

The protagonist, Guy Montag, is one of the team that burns books, but he is beginning to have suspicions something is missing, that there must be something more, and he has begun to cautiously steal books before they can be burned. And therein lies the story.

Bradbury writes in (to quote my son) “a dreamy, febrile, style” which, toward the end, I found to be influenced (I’m guessing here) by the New American Bible version of Ecclesiastes; at least it reads that way. And there is a sparseness to his dreamy, febrile style that leaves room for all kinds of questions, but none of that matters. It is the story that matters, and in light of beautiful, pampered, glossy young Americans on an American beach who didn’t have a clue as to the significance of the Fourth of July, one wonders what Ray Bradbury would have made of the ultimate narcissistic, interactive anesthetic: social Media—Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, YouTube, and countless other ways I don’t know the names of to peddle absolutely meaningless non-information or outright lies, or maintain ersatz friendships with ersatz “familes.” I think of William Faulkner’s famous quote from Intruder in the Dust:

“…thinking, remembering how his uncle had said that all a man had was time, all that stood between him and the death that he feared and abhorred was time, yet he spent half of it inventing ways to get the other half past…”

Ah, but Faulkner himself is dead now, and his books reduced to ashes.

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Nothing Much to Lose

June 4th, 2018 8 Comments

For those of you who enjoy my writing, and who enjoy fiction, an online literary magazine, Typishly, has accepted a short story of mine about a real-life person who encompassed the highest of highs and the lowest of lows within his lifetime. The link is here:

The title comes from a poem by A.E. Housman, the poet best known today for his cycle of poems, A Shropshire Lad. Houseman did not actually serve in World War one (he would have been too old for service), but he is sometimes included in anthologies of the so-called “War Poets,” a title normally given to such luminaries as Rupert Brooke, Alan Seeger, Siegfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owen, and too many others, far too many, who wrote some of the greatest verse of all time as they died–most of them–in the trenches. What makes Housman stand out is that he is included, as far as I know, on the strength of a single poem which consists, in its entirety, of the following four lines:

Here Dead We Lie

Here dead we lie because we did not choose

To live and shame the land from which we sprung.

Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose;

But young men think it is, and we were young.

And that is one of the most concisely accurate summations of war ever written.

If you like the story, please email the editor ( and let him know. He and I will both appreciate it.

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Dave Stamey

May 31st, 2018 9 Comments


We went to see Dave Stamey the other evening. For those of you who live east of the Mississippi and probably don’t know who he is, Dave Stamey is a singer/songwriter ( who describes himself variously as “a chronicler of the West,” or as “a cowboy entertainer.”

That’s pretty typical of Dave, and pretty much the extent to which he blows his own horn. Now listen to how critics and magazines have described him:

“The Charlie Russell of Western Music” (Cowboys and Indians Magazine); “the greatest cowboy balladeer alive today” (the Booth Western Art Museum); and “the Best Living Western Solo Musician” (True West Magazine, four years in a row). He has also been named Entertainer of Year seven times, Male Performer of the Year seven times, and Songwriter of the Year five times by the Western Music Association. He has been given the Will Rogers Award by the Academy of Western Artists, and in 2016, he was inducted into the Western Music Hall of Fame.

Also typically—just to give you a sense of the kind of man Dave is—his response to all the accolades is only to say he prefers them to being stomped on by angry horses.

He can say that with authority, because he is the real deal: he has worked as cowboy, a mule packer, and a dude wrangler. And while you won’t find it on his resumé or his website bio, I happen to know he has also written Western novels that were considered good enough to get published, but he wasn’t happy with them, so he has steadfastly refused to tell me the titles or the pseudonym he wrote under. He does, however, have some very funny anecdotes about his erstwhile agent.

It is the anecdotes he intersperses throughout his show that helps make him such a stellar performer. He is very funny in a self-deprecating way that makes him accessible to his audience, an accessibility that is echoed in real life. Between sets, he mingles with the audience, chatting here, greeting familiar faces there, posing for photographs, and generally treating strangers as if they were all old friends.

I first met Dave fifteen or twenty years ago, when he was performing at a private party (a birthday party for reining-horse trainer Doug Williamson, (, a website worth visiting) and have frequently heard his music since then, most frequently while visiting my friend, custom knife-maker Dave Ferry (, another website well worth visiting) in his workshop, but this constituted the first time I have been to a concert of Dave Stamey’s since that long-ago night at Doug’s ranch. He has performed twice in our little town, but once I was out of town at the time, and on the other occasion I was otherwise engaged, being in intensive care after having broken the first rule of riding—“always keep the horse between you and the ground”—an incident I have chronicled here under “Fistfuls of Balloons!”

But, as I said, I have frequently listened to his music, and while I like it all, there is one song that especially resonates with me. It’s called The Circle, and the title refers to the circle a cowboy makes when riding out to check on his herds, a circle that on some of the big ranches might take a full, long day—or even more—to complete. Dave was kind enough to sing it at my request during his recent concert:

The Circle

The horse I ride is old
But he has served me well
Coat like old tobacco rich and warm
He’s old but he is sound
My rein chains ring like bells
We fit well together as we glide, above the storm
And the boots I wear are old
But they have served me well
Leather like old tobacco, cracked and brown
The tops are scuffed and broken
And my spur chains ring like bells
My rowels gleam like the starlight and up here, we spurn the ground

And the trails I ride are new
Even though I’ve made the circle many times before
For they change with every season
And with every shift of light
From the summit where the clouds fall to the sweet, valley floor

And the saddle I ride is old
But it has served me well
Leather like old tobacco buffed and smooth
It fits me like a friend
With no secrets left to tell
Astride I make the circle and I ride, where I choose

And the trails I ride are new
Even though I’ve made the circle many times before
For they change with every season
And with every shift of light
From the summit where the clouds fall to the sweet, valley floor

And the life I live goes on
It fits me oh so well
Old and new together evergreen
I mount my horse at dawning
My heart rings like a bell
We ride through the canyons where the air, is fresh and clean

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May 19th, 2018 33 Comments


Oh, no!

Just when I actually break down and praise President Trump, he goes and puts his foot in it.

I took a break from the news for a few days (and what a lovely respite it was; my blood pressure went back down to normal levels, I laughed more, and I almost thought—for a few minutes—that we lived in a healthy world) and no sooner do I come back when I read, see, and hear that our president has stuck his foot in it by calling MS-13 members “animals.”


Of course, he didn’t put his foot in it as much as the putative but spurious press did by deliberately misunderstanding him and pretending he was referring to all illegal immigrants. Some of the media eventually, grudgingly, admitted their dishonesty, but having done so, they immediately followed those deeper thinkers on Capitol Hill—Chuck Schumer and Nancy Pelosi—and condemned the president for his callousness, crudity, and inhumanity for calling MS-13 members animals.

I know I will now offend my conservative readers, but I’m going to side with Chuckie and Nancy and the media. To call MS-13 members animals is a crude, grotesque, and extremely offensive insult to the entire animal kingdom, and to the class Mammalia in particular. If President Trump had called all MS-13 members cockroaches, I would consider that an insult to cockroaches, but I would let it go, primarily because I don’t like cockroaches. But to imply that rattlesnakes and Gila Monsters, let alone coyotes and skunks, are somehow as worthy of disdain and contempt as MS-13 members…

Well, once again, our president has said the wrong thing. Unless, of course, what he meant was that he thinks highly of MS-13 members, but I hardly believe that to be the case.

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Peace Officers’ Memorial Service

May 18th, 2018 9 Comments


Donald Trump is too frequently the least presidential president we have ever had. He speaks—or tweets—when he should remain silent and is too often crude, boorish, bullying, and a buffoon. You may or may not approve of the direction in which he is leading the country (with some exceptions, I do, very strongly), but even his most ardent supporters cannot call him eloquent. Or charismatic. Or presidential. Or even, surprisingly enough for someone who had a reality television show, particularly adroit on camera: he doesn’t speak well; he seeks out people in the crowd the cameras can’t see, which is simply confusing to viewers; he turns to look for people while still talking, so that words get lost; and he sometimes walks away from the microphone altogether.

But the other day, something happened during the annual Peace Officers’ Memorial Service; nothing earth-shattering, but the kind of thing that makes Deplorables like me, guys and gals who cling to God and their guns, willing to overlook a multitude of coarse behaviors and ill-advised tweets.

It started in typical Trump fashion. As usual, the speech was like the man: awkward, clumsy, and filled with too many digressions. He departed frequently from his speech, something that always makes me hold my breath for fear of what he might say or do next; he pointed out unseen people; he smiled at people off-camera. Then, unexpectedly, he pointed to the family of a murdered officer and told them to come up onstage. And, as all too often happens with Trump’s unscripted moments, there was a clunkingly clumsy delay, because there was a locked gate in the barricade protecting the president and other politicians onstage, and the gate had to be opened, dignitaries and honorees had to shuffle out of the way to make room for the family, who were clearly unsure of what to do, and all this was then compounded because an elderly family member had stayed seated and the President insisted she too come up to the stage, but she had to be assisted up the stairs, which is why she hadn’t gone up in the first place…

In short, it was just another awkward, unscheduled event; vintage Trump.

But then, leaving the microphone, he moved forward to embrace the family members, kiss two of them on the cheek, hug and kiss the elderly lady, touch shoulders, grasp hands, say things we could not hear and will likely never know, but also too, clearly things that meant something to those family members. He bantered charmingly and lovingly with the elderly lady and, in short, treated them with the kind of kindness and grace and dignity with which all bereaved should be treated all the time.

He unexpectedly asked the partner of the fallen officer to say a few words, a situation that made the officer in question clearly uncomfortable. He wisely kept his comments brief, but he was very moving in his praise of his murdered partner.

What President Trump said (I mean the stuff he said into the microphone) was unremarkable and not particularly memorable. But a family who lost a beloved daughter, mother, granddaughter, that family will never forget that moment.

I remember very little of my father’s funeral. I was still in shock from the fact of his sudden and violent death; in shock because of some of the things I had to see and had to do; in shock because of all I should have said and done that could now never be said or done; in shock because I was unable to envision a life without him. But there were two encounters with total strangers I will never forget.

One was a Marine who came to the memorial service and to the reception afterward. He was giant of man, far taller than I would have thought the military would allow, an officer, in full dress uniform, someone I had never seen before and never saw again. But when he came forward and we shook hands, he put his free hand on my shoulder, and that little gesture from a stranger moved me in a way that hugs and kisses from the known and loved did not. To this day, I remember that man, and that meaningless touch from a stranger. Meaningless to all but me.

The other was a police detective. I had to go down to the central police headquarters in Washington, DC to retrieve my father’s personal effects, the things (gold pocket watch, wallet, pen, keys, change) that had been on him and had been put into keeping at the police evidence locker. The station was enormous and very crowded, and I had to stand in endless lines with different forms that had to be approved and stamped and signed by different entities and then on to other lines. I have no memory of how long I was there, but I know there were frequent episodes of pointless redundancy and mistakes before I finally got—for what I thought would be the last time—into the interminable line that led to a single window, maned by a single uniformed officer, at the evidence lockup. But when I finally made to the window, the bored officer glanced at my paperwork and handed it back.

“Nope. Still not right. I can’t give it to you. You gotta get this form signed here and this form signed as well.”

I tried to argue, but he cut me off.

“Kid, go get the forms signed in the right places.”

I turned to leave and bumped into a plainclothes detective waiting behind me. I stepped back and looked up at him. If he knocked on my door today I would recognize him instantly. He was tall, lean, balding, with a curious comma-shaped scar high on his left cheekbone, and he had the coldest eyes of any man I had ever seen up to then, the dead and absolutely feral eyes of a predator, one of the big cats, a bird of prey, devoid of anything but appraisal: would you be good to eat; would it worth my time to kill you?

I apologized and started to step around him, but he put up one hand to stop me, and there was so much authority in that casual gesture that I froze instantly. He looked at the uniformed officer sitting behind the bars of the little window.

“Give him his dad’s stuff.”

The officer began to demur. “No, I can’t do that. He’s gotta…”

“I said. Give him his dad’s stuff. Now.”

It was spoken very quietly, but with such deadly intensity, such implied but unspoken danger, that I literally shrank away from the detective, as did the officer at the window. People talking in the line became instantly silent, leaning out to look at the detective. Two uniformed officers walking away down the hall stopped and turned. A family examining their own recovered property over by the windows looked up with open mouths.

The officer at the little barred window pushed his chair back and without ever taking his eyes off the detective, fumbled beneath the counter and placed a paper bag with my father’s things on the counter. I picked it up and turned around.

“Thank you.”

He said nothing. He looked down at me and gave a brief nod of his head, his eyes as cold as ever, and I never saw him again. But that moment’s kindness from a stranger—apart from the deadly and quiet sense of very real danger that he gave out for that one brief sentence to the lockup officer—never left me. Clearly, he had seen something in my face, some quality of despair and desperation above and beyond the grief I was struggling to cope with, and he had intervened on my behalf.

I have no idea if the family of that murdered officer, just one of far too many officers being honored in that ceremony, will have that moment onstage—with President Trump greeting and consoling them as he might a family member—seared into their brains as that Marine and that detective are seared into mine, but I suspect they will.

I know, I know: it doesn’t undo or atone for all the many blunders and the crudity, but for that one brief, shining moment, President Trump was magically, memorably presidential.

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The Hage Family Ordeal, Updated

May 11th, 2018 13 Comments


Have you ever read about the highland clearances? Briefly, it was the brutal, forced eviction of the Scottish Highlanders by wealthy landowners (primarily titled lowland Scots) in order to grab more land to line their own pockets. It was one of the darkest and most shameful episodes in Scottish history, the sort of thing that could never happen here, right? Read on.

Sometimes completely unrelated events come together in a concatenation that catches you off guard. In this case it was three events.

A reader on my Facebook page, who disagrees with my blog about Switzerland, stated that “…[the Swiss] actually trust their government. The US citizen wants to protect himself and their” [sic] “own peace, because they deeply distrust their own government to protect them.”

And a very nice, albeit liberal, friend of mine chided me gently for my derogatory comments about the FBI (part of a lengthy exchange in the comments about my posting of Victor Davis Hanson’s article on the Trump resistance).

And my copy of Range magazine ( arrived with an editorial and an article by Ramona Hage Morrison, summarizing her family’s ordeal at the hands of the United States government, the same government which is mandated with protecting it citizens and their constitutional rights, rights intended to protect American citizens from the kinds of abuses suffered by the Scottish highlanders.

Those three things inspired me to re-post my original piece about Wayne Hage and his ranch, and the unspeakable treachery and duplicity of the United States government, in this case specifically the US Forest Service, the Bureau of Land Management (an agency that was founded with original mandate of helping ranchers; my, how times have changed), the Department of Justice, the FBI, the US Attorney’s Office, and progressive judges unconcerned with following the law, never mind actually enforcing it. The kinds of abuses perpetrated by greedy, wealthy, titled landowners may be a thing of the past; instead, today, it is a single greedy, wealthy, infinitely powerful landowner doing the same thing: the United States government.

At the conclusion of my article, I have added a brief summary of the events that have occurred since it was first written, but I highly recommend you either buy a copy of Range, or—better yet—subscribe. Then let me know if you think any American should ever trust his government.



Tonopah—it’s a Shoshone word meaning either “water brush” (a small desert shrub) or, more likely, “little spring”—in central Nevada, owes its existence to a sometime hay farmer, sometime prospector, and sometime district attorney (for thirty-five dollars a month) named Big Jim Butler who camped there in May of 1900. The story goes that his burros wandered away from him in the night, and when Big Jim found them they were sheltering from the wind near an outcropping that looked likely. It turned out to be somewhat more than likely, assaying out at a staggering six hundred and forty ounces of silver to the ton. Less than a year later, Tonopah was a town of sorts, with eager hopefuls living in tents, or in shacks made out of barrels or oil cans or glass bottles set in adobe, living even in the shafts themselves.

In 1903, some Mormons decided to jump a claim on the edge of Tonopah and when the mining company representative confronted them, they pulled their guns on him. Among the townspeople who came to see what the commotion was about was a fifty-five year-old saloon-keeper who looked down the vertical shaft.

“You gentlemen get on out of there. This ain’t your mine.”

“Oh, yeah? And who the hell are you, old man?”

“My name’s Wyatt Earp.”

It was many years since his days as a lawman, many years since Tombstone and the OK corral, many years too since he had made and gambled away a fortune in Alaska, but such was the strength of his reputation that the claim jumpers climbed quickly and quietly out.

His reputation was not strong enough, however, to keep him from being run out of town shortly afterward for fixing a boxing match.

The Pine Creek Ranch lies about sixty miles north of Tonopah and has the reputation of being the single most isolated ranch in the United States. The hardtop ends at the picturesque old semi-ghost mining town of Belmont (summer population between twenty-five and thirty, winter population six), once the county seat, with an elegant brick courthouse, and it is eighteen miles of dirt road from there to the ranch headquarters. The ranch owes its name and its existence to the creek that comes down out of the mountains there; the water made it a natural place for a stage stop on the Belmont to Austin stage line back in the eighteen-sixties, long before Tonopah.

I know this land. This is where, as a transplanted Easterner, I began to fall in love with the West. I have hunted and camped multiple times in the Arc Dome Wilderness in the Toiyabe Range, and on Table Mountain in the Monitor Range. Trout streams empty into ponds the color of strong tea. Elk and deer move through the pastures and woodlands. In the Arc Dome, after I shot a five-by-six buck, two mountain lions trailed us almost all the way back to the camp; we found their tracks over ours the next morning. On Table Mountain, near 11,000 feet is an aspen grove known as Porno Grove where lonely—and seriously horny—Basque sheepherders once carved their fantasies into the trunks of the trees: naked women standing, on their backs, on all fours; breasts with life-support systems attached; men with heroic phalluses, coupling in every imaginable and some unimaginable positions; hundreds of images carved into the trees. Most are done just about as crudely as you might expect. Some are elevated by aesthetics or humor, a few by both.

It was on Table Mountain that a white mule—who has since gone, unlamented, to his just reward—led our entire pack string, in hobbles, away from camp and back down fourteen miles of exceptionally difficult trail to the valley floor.

There are few things in this life quite as deflating as bouncing out of your tent in the pre-dawn hours to go feed the horses and finding them conspicuous by their absence. You stand there with a bucket of feed in each hand and your jaw listing southward, reflecting that not only is it fourteen miles to the trailhead, but another honest fifteen or twenty miles from there to the nearest and only ranch—Pine Creek—where there might—emphasis on might—be signs of life. Suddenly you begin to think fond thoughts of mass transportation and the interstate highway system and beltways and traffic jams.

Fortunately, our outfitter’s wife had a cell phone with her. Fortunately, the weather was clear enough that she was able to get a signal. Fortunately, the cell phone at the Pine Creek Ranch—they had no hard-wiring for phones or electricity—was working (it also functioned solely at the whim of the weather). And, most fortunately of all, there was someone there.

The next afternoon a young buckaroo rode into camp, leading our string—and the damn mule. The young hand wore a flat-brimmed, round crowned black Stetson, neckerchief, chinks, Carhartt jacket, Garcia spurs, and a Garcia bit on his horse, and he looked as if he just ridden right out of a Will James or Charlie Dye painting. His name was Wayne Hage, Jr., and that night he and I sat up late on opposite sides of the fire drinking Coors and Jack Daniels as he told me the story of his family’s legal battles and harassment and persecution at the hands of the United States government. It was easy to dismiss his tale as the delusional ravings of a disenfranchised cowboy, which is pretty much what I did, until one May night several years later when Tom Brokaw said something that made my ears perk up.

NBC Nightly News is hardly a hot bed of radical right-wing thought. Like all the major networks it tries to both reflect and influence the thinking of the mainstream majority of Americans, so when Tom Brokaw announced, “And the Fleecing of America. The government seizing private property just to increase the tax base. Is that fair?” I sat up. I had heard words very similar to those on top of Table Mountain. I decided I wanted to know more.


There is a lot of arid nothing to drive through in Nevada, and zipping through with the cruise control set at seventy does nothing to change that impression. But the thirty-sixth state gets its name from the Spanish word, nevar, meaning ‘to snow,’ and Nevada, meaning ‘snow clad,’ or ‘snow covered,’ is an apt name. The Sierras in California block most of the westerly storms—the western slope of the Sierra Mountains may get as much as eighty inches of precipitation in a year, while the eastern slope averages around ten inches—yet despite that, the mountains of Nevada get enough snow each winter that at the higher elevations the nation’s most arid state has some surprisingly good trout fishing—native brook trout—and equally good grass range. In a state where eighty-six percent of the land is publicly owned, that good grass range has become a bitter bone of contention.

In 1862, in an effort to encourage Western settlement and relieve urban labor pressures, Congress passed the Homestead Act, which essentially gave one hundred and sixty acres, free, to anyone willing to occupy and cultivate the land for five years. One hundred and sixty acres, a quarter section, one half mile square—free! To Easterners, accustomed to rich, arable land, and thinking in terms of pasturing many cows per acre, one hundred and sixty acres—free!—must have seemed like manna from Heaven.

Unfortunately, unlike the manna, rain did not fall from Heaven.

The ninety-eighth meridian runs a little ways west of the North Dakota-Minnesota border. It runs down through Mitchell, South Dakota, home of the aptly-named Corn Palace, a little east of Grand Island, Nebraska, near the staging grounds of Sandhill cranes on the Platte River, and in Kansas it runs just west of Wichita, where Wyatt Earp served briefly as a lawman. In Oklahoma it pretty much follows highway 81, west of Oklahoma City, and in Texas it passes near former President Bush’s home in Crawford and on down through Austin. It is an arbitrary line, but it is significant because it is an isohyet.

An isohyet is any line connecting points on a map that have equal amounts of rainfall, and along the ninety-eighth meridian the amount is thirty inches, the bare minimum needed for agriculture. Speaking in generalities, one can say that east of the ninety-eighth meridian enough rain falls to make one hundred and sixty acres a decent farm. West of that line there is not enough rainfall to make one hundred and sixty acres productive agriculturally, and a quarter section is not enough land to ranch. The farther west you go, the less rain there is. For thousands of eager settlers the Homestead Act was just a cruel joke. Homesteaders sold, mortgaged, and borrowed everything they could lay their hands on to make the journey west to their free piece of paradise, and by 1890, only one out of three had managed to stay on their dream long enough to gain the title.

In the desperately arid Great Basin of Nevada, as in most of the West, you can’t think in terms of multiple head of cattle per acre. You think instead of how many acres it takes to run a cow-calf unit, and in some places it may take an entire section, six hundred and forty acres, or more, to run a single unit. Where grass is converted to dollars through the medium of cattle, good grass is almost as valuable as gold.

So in a state where the Federal Government claims public ownership of eighty-six percent of the land, grazing rights become an extremely valuable commodity, and if you’re a rancher, those grazing rights directly affect the ultimate value of your ranch, as well as your ability to earn a living.

Even more valuable than grass is water, both kinds of water. Ground water is reasonably straight forward: it means any water that is under the ground. Surface water is a little more complex. It can refer to the obvious, such as streams and lakes, or it can refer to wells or stock ponds or other collecting systems that are influenced by surface water. Either way, without water the land is useless, so water rights become critical, and the history of water rights in the West is a story of bloodshed, chicanery, legal maneuvering, politicking, fraud, lobbying, graft, greed, malfeasance, and shady dealings so complex and so convoluted as to be almost unbelievable. If John Grisham and Tom Clancy collaborated with Jackie Collins, they might be able to do justice to the story.

But if you own the land, all this is moot, right? Well, no. Land ownership in the West is nowhere near that simple. For one thing, in addition to the water rights and grazing rights, there are also mining rights, timber rights, oil and gas rights, wildlife rights, easement rights, development rights, trespass rights, and possibly other rights that I’m not aware of. It is a concept known as the ‘split estate,’ and to take it to its illogical extreme, it is theoretically possible for you to own a piece of land in the West with which you can’t do a single damn thing except pay taxes and boast.

Conversely, if you own grazing rights, say, on land controlled by the Federal government, when you die, the IRS will tax those rights as your ownership interest in the land, your private property.

For ranchers throughout the West these rights, grazing, water, and so on, have become inextricably entangled with the question of property rights as defined under the Fifth Amendment. If the government decides to take your property for the greater good of society, should you not be compensated fairly, as spelled out in the Fifth Amendment?


When I was there, The Pine Creek Ranch was 757,000 acres, give or take a plot or two. 757,000 acres is—if I’ve done my math correctly—roughly 1,183 square miles. To give you an idea of the scale of the place, Rhode Island, at 1,214 square miles, is only slightly larger, while the country of Luxembourg (nine hundred and ninety-nine square miles) is substantially smaller. The country of Liechtenstein (sixty-one square miles) would barely qualify as one of Pine Creek’s pastures. The ranch was eighty-two miles long, running north-south, and varied in width from eight miles at the narrowest to almost thirty-five miles wide. It encompassed two separate mountain ranges with peaks ranging from 11,000 to 12,000 feet. The ranch headquarters on the valley floor sit just at 7000 feet.

7000 acres of meadows and hay fields on the valley floor were owned by Wayne Hage, Sr. in fee patented land (sometimes called full fee simple, or fee simple absolute) which means he owned both the land itself and all the inheritable rights that come with the land. 750,000 acres were fee lands, which means the public owns the land, while he owned some of the inheritable rights, in this case water rights and grazing rights.

This is a little like saying, “I own the chair, but you own the right to sit in it,” but that’s the way things have evolved in the West, thanks to a raft of frequently contradictory and indigestible slabs of legislation such as the Homestead Act, the Organic Act (the one of 1897, of course, not the Organic Acts of 1849, 1884, 1890, 1900, 1916, 2003, or any of the others by the same name), the Taylor Grazing Act, the Forest Reserve Act, the Mining Act, the Stock Raising Homestead Act, the Illinois Central Act, and the Act of July 26, 1866 which has surely the most spine-tingling, breath-taking, pulse-racing sub-title of any act ever passed by Congress: “An Act granting the Right of Way to Ditch and Canal Owners over the Public Lands and for other Purposes.”

Clearly, any cattle baron with 757,000 acres and the intestinal fortitude to duke it out toe-to-toe in the middle of the legal ring with the United States government for twenty-five years must be larger than life, a titan of a man in a twenty gallon Stetson, a sprawling, brawling, hairy-chested, two-fisted cross between John Wayne and Daniel Webster, shaking the devil by the scruff of his neck, while dispensing home-spun wisdom and rough justice from a ponderosa-pine castle.


Not exactly. I once had a sweetly vague professor who would occasionally try to absentmindedly write on the blackboard with the stem of his pipe. That’s who Wayne Hage, Sr. reminded me of. Small, rumpled, portly, hair and shirttails both sticking out at variegated angles, his Stetson little more than a glorified fedora, a beard that managed to somehow be both short and untidy, he was an unlikely warrior, who dispensed his hard-won legal knowledge from a modest cinderblock ranch heavily festooned with dozens of mud cliff-swallow nests.

There were three common rooms in the ranch house: Wayne’s office, which looked like a cross between an unsuccessful law office and a disorganized history professor’s inner sanctum; a family room with an enormous fireplace and a television set; and the great room, a combination kitchen, entry, and dining room, with a wonderful antique wood-burning cook-stove and some prints by Western artist Jack Swanson on the walls. Wayne and I sat at the long table in this room on the folding metal chairs that served as dining chairs, looking out at an ancient unpainted wooden barn (possibly a hangover from the old stagecoach days) and the great expanse of the Monitor Valley.

Before the advent of instant celebrity and super-lotteries and reality television, Americans used to admire Horatio Alger men, men who overcame adversity through hard work and pluck and self-reliance.

“I started working as soon as I was old enough be able to. My father was in mining, a consulting geologist, but a lot of the other members of the family were involved with ranching, so I pretty well grew up with ranching, up around Elko.

“The winter of ’51, ’52 was devastatingly hard, so I persuaded my parents to let me drop out of school. I spent my high school years working around on different ranches in that country. At that time, you had the big cattle outfits and they’d put out a roundup wagon and just stay out on the range for maybe ten months of the year. For a teenaged boy, that kind of life made school seem pretty dull and uninteresting, so I just stayed with it.

“I was breaking horses in the Owyhee Mountains when the Korean War was going on. I figured I’d beat getting drafted and enlist in the Marines, but at the recruiting office I ran into a friend of the family. He said, ‘You’re a dumb S.O.B. Just look at you. You haven’t even been to high school. You enlist in the Marines and put in three years, and when you get out you’ll still be a dumb S.O.B.’ Then he started telling me about all the educational opportunities that were available in the Air Force, and before I knew it I had signed on the line and enlisted for four years. I got good schooling, came out at the top of all my classes, learned a lot about electronics, made up my high school with a G.E.D. test.”

At the end of the long table where we sat was a stack of magazines, Western Livestock Journal, Range, The Economist, Archaeology, and a carefully folded American flag. As we spoke, his ran his fingers over the flag, much as a man might run his hand absently over the head of a dog.

“When I came out of the Air Force I went right back to work on the ranches. Once that gets in your blood, making your living on horseback in that environment, it’s hard to get it out of your system. But I had the G.I. Bill, so I went ahead and got my degree. I was working on my Master’s at Colorado State when I got married, so I came back to a little ranch just over the Nevada line in northern California, finished up my Master’s at the University of Nevada. About fifteen years later I had the opportunity to buy this place, the kind of ranching I like, big open range kind of ranching.

“I knew the people were selling the place ‘cause they were having a lot of trouble with the U.S. Forest Service and the Bureau of Land Management, but I had worked for both of them, and I had taken a lot of courses relating to range science. I thought to myself, I understand good range management better than they do, and if that’s what they want, we’ll get along just fine.”

Wayne bought Pine Creek Ranch in 1978, and two months later the National Park Service met with him at a coffee shop in Tonopah and informed him that they were going to buy his ranch.

“They offered me a price that was about half of what I had just paid for the place, so I said, ‘OK, that’s fine, that’s for the land. What are you going to pay me for the water and the grazing?’ They said they weren’t going to pay me anything, that I didn’t own those. I told them I disagreed, that I had just paid a whole lot of money for those rights and I expected to be paid for them in turn. I said, ‘You go on back and do your homework. If those grazing allotments are public lands and the government owns them, then we’ll talk your price. If they’re not public lands and the government doesn’t own them, then we’re going to talk my price.’ Well, they went back and did their homework and I never heard from them again.”

All this is perfectly standard. America is a nation of laws, and when you and I disagree on something, we turn to the law to resolve our differences. And as proof of the efficacy of the system, you need look no further than Pine Creek Ranch, for Wayne Hage Sr. won every ruling in every court at every stage of his twenty-five-year battle with the federal government.

What is not standard, and what Wayne Hage was not prepared for, was what happened outside the courtrooms, a dreary litany of unrelenting harassment: gates left open, fences cut, vandalism, destruction of property, his cattle mysteriously turning up over and over again on the wrong side of allotment fences, all of it coupled with an overwhelming avalanche of paperwork. In a single grazing season, one hundred and five days, Pine Creek Ranch had seventy ‘visits,’ and forty citations from the United States Forest Service. (One of these was an accusation of failure to maintain the fences on Table Mountain. After two days of riding the fence line, a hand found the Forest Service flag marking a single missing staple.) Forty-five separate trespass citations (for cattle) were served, all of which were subsequently dropped when an eyewitness saw Forest Service employees moving Hage’s cattle onto restricted land. A major spring was fenced off and the water illegally diverted to a local Ranger Station. The Forest Service filed claims over water rights, and each claim had to be defended before the state water engineer. Permits were cancelled, suspended, and burdened with impossible conditions.

Finally, Forest Service employees armed with semi-automatic rifles and wearing bullet-proof vests came in and confiscated one hundred and four head of cattle. They must have been a little disconcerted when Wayne Hage reached into his truck for his own weapon, a thirty-five-millimeter camera, and asked them to, “Smile pretty, boys.”

But by that time four administrative appeals against the Forest Service (at $50,000 to $200,000 each) and fifteen years of legal battling had left him bankrupt.

“I thought to myself, ‘They’ve driven me into the ground. I’m broke. I’ve spent all my money fighting the Forest Service. They’ve made it so expensive for me to operate that it costs me twice as much to run a cow as I can hope to gain out of her. I can’t even maintain the essential functions of the ranch. If the United States wants this ranch that bad, they can have it. I’m not going to argue anymore. I’m folding my tent and getting out. But the Fifth Amendment says they have to pay me for it.’”

Which of course begs the question of just why the United States wanted the Pine Creek Ranch that much.

In the play The Zoo Story, Edward Albee has one of the characters say: “Sometimes a person has to go a very long distance out of his way in order to come back a short distance correctly.”

Asking Wayne Hage, Sr. about the motivations of the government, or the relationship of the various administrations to the Forest Service and the Bureau of Land Management over the last twenty-five years, or the legal issues at the heart of his lawsuit, would invariably prompt a response that would have made Edward Albee proud. One hand absently stroking the flag, he would look at the swallows flashing past the window and say, “Well, now, let me walk you through that…” and off we would go on a long hike across the dry and rocky terrain of the jurisdiction authority of the Federal District Court versus the United States Claims Court, prior appropriation doctrine, riparian law, alienable rights versus unalienable rights, the inappropriate influence of the Sierra Club on the Department of Agriculture, the externalizing of the national debt under the Johnson administration, the implications and interpretation of the fourteenth Amendment….

But the bottom line, like everything else in the West, was water. Or money; in the West the two words are pretty much synonymous. The Pine Creek Ranch sits on the largest source of fresh water in central Nevada, some 80,000 acre feet worth of ground water, readily and regularly renewed by the run-off from the Monitor Range on one side and the Toquima Range on the other. At 7000 feet that water is an easy gravity feed to either Las Vegas, the fastest growing city in America, or even to Los Angeles, which is expected to add six million more people to its freeway system in the next twenty years. So instead of raising beef and supporting the elk and deer and antelope—and brook trout—of central Nevada, the Pine Creek water will go to fuel the fountains in front of those tastefully understated casinos in Sin City, or to water those oh-so-vital and ubiquitous lawns and golf courses in what Richard Henry Dana, Jr. once described as, “…a fine plane country, filled with herds of cattle, in the center of which was the Pueblo de Los Angelos…”

The final phase of this ordeal was the determining, by the United States Court of Claims, exactly how much the grazing rights and water rights on 750,000 acres were worth. According to various sources, the ultimate settlement, delivered after Wayne Hage’s too early death, was $14,000,000. Was it fair? Would ten times that amount have been fair? When looked at in the context of having your way of life taken from you, or in context of the harassment he and his family had to endure, would one hundred times that amount have been fair?


The kid who once found high school too dull and uninteresting ended up knowing more about constitutional law and American history, and legislative history in particular, than most superior court justices, but that knowledge came at a terrible price. Sitting at that long table, I asked Wayne Hage, Sr. if, after everything that had happened, after all his legal battles and victories, he had more or less faith in America.

“Well, the situation has changed.”

“But you’ve won.”

“It’s not that simplistic or that clear.”

“Wayne, you took on the United States government in the courts, using the United States laws and the United States Constitution, and you won.”

“Constitutional rights don’t exist under Federal Courts. All they’re interested in is what the rules are and did you violate the rules. I was smart enough to go through the Claims Court. If I hadn’t done that, I would have lost.”

“Yes, but…” I couldn’t let it go. The man who sat absently stroking the flag and gazing out over the land that would soon no longer be his wasn’t bitter or defeated or victorious, but somehow infinitely sad, and I wanted him to at least acknowledge what he had achieved with Hage v. United States, both for himself and for all property owners. At last he looked at me.

“You bet I believe in the rule of law, but most people are trapped in a fiction of law, rules and regulations, and don’t understand the law at all.”

I had to be satisfied with that, but perhaps that’s Wayne Hage, Sr.’s greatest lesson and legacy.


As I left, as my dog and the ranch border collie both walked around stiff-legged, taking turns peeing on all four of my tires, I turned to Wayne Hage.

“A hypothetical question for you, Wayne. If you get all that money and you could still keep the ranch, what would do?”

“I’d be like the rancher in the old joke. Rancher wins $250,000,000 dollars in the Super Lotto. Goes down to pick up the check and the press are all there and one of them asks him, ‘Now that you got all that money, what are going to do?’ Rancher takes off his Stetson, scratches his head a bit, puts the Stetson back on, says, ‘Well, I reckon I’ll keep on ranching until all that money is gone.’” He laughed for the first and only time during my visit.

We shook hands.

“Well, Wayne, I hope you get a fortune out of the government. You deserve it, and you’ll be a rich man.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I’ve always been a rich man. I’ve always had a roof over my head, clothes on my back, three meals a day. I’ve always been rich.”



Only, Wayne Hage was right: it wasn’t that simplistic or that clear, and now, more than a decade after his death, it would appear the United States government has won and conducted their own variation of the Highland clearances. Instead of swords and murder, they have used legal maneuvering, chicanery, and their own indefensible influence and power, bragging openly about having “more money and more lawyers,” and how they would get the case into the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals where, a DOJ attorney boasted, “We can get everything we want from the Ninth Circuit.” Make sure you read Ramona Hage Morrison’s article in Range, along with the accompanying article by Chance Gowan and the editorial by long-time fighter for rancher’s rights C.J. Hadley. It will curdle your blood with rage.

I hope it is clear that this is not a Republican or Democrat issue. Instead, it is an issue of grotesquely bloated and out-of-control bureaucracies filled with smug, self-satisfied, career employees of the federal government whose only fealty is to preserving their own jobs and enforcing their own world views, men and women both ignorant of and unconcerned with the rule of law or the Constitution.

I still strongly believe the American governmental system (i.e. the Constitution and the Bill of Rights) is the greatest system the world has ever known, created by men who wanted desperately to protect ordinary people from those who were ruthless enough and dishonest enough to subjugate others to their will. Unfortunately, for all the brilliance of the Constitution, it is only a tool, and as such, like a gun or a car or violin, it doesn’t matter how exquisitely crafted it may be; it is only as good or bad as the men and women who use it, and when those men and women are insatiable ticks, ever engorging themselves at the public expense, not even the brilliantly crafted Constitution can withstand their corruption.

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May 7th, 2018 14 Comments


We were still living in Europe when I reached adolescence and my father wisely decided that shipping me off to boarding school was preferable to serving a lengthy prison sentence for murdering his only son. Any parent who has raised a child as obnoxious as I was all the way through adolescence will rightly argue that there should be a special reduced sentence for parents who succumb to temptation: “Involuntary manslaughter resulting from extreme provocation; six-month prison sentence, maximum, with probation until all other children have passed safely through adolescence.” Something like that; perhaps more lenient.

In any event, the school I was shipped off to was in Switzerland, run by a father-and-son team of educators with lengthy educational pedigrees and credentials. The father was a doddering and decrepit old fossil in his late fifties, early sixties, something like that. The son was just a regular old man in his thirties, and—as Switzerland mandates military service for every able-bodied male between nineteen and thirty-five (I always thought it was twenty to forty-five, and researching this article I found other ages cited, but nineteen to thirty-five is close enough for government work)—I have a vivid memory of watching him, in his uniform, strap a fully automatic rifle across his shoulders, and bicycle off to train or serve or both. The rifle was kept somewhere in the vast and freezing old chateau that housed the school; all Swiss soldiers are required to keep and maintain their assigned service weapons with them.

Some quick stats for you:

**Switzerland has an almost entirely civilian militia (only 5% of the military consists of professional soldiers) who go through basic training and then continue to train and/or serve one day a month plus two or three weeks once a year. (I think this is still more or less accurate.)

**Switzerland has a long history of being politically neutral, but it has more soldiers relative to its population than any other country on earth.

**After service, men (and now women) are allowed to keep their personal small arms.

**Switzerland has the third-highest rate of private gun-ownership in the world.

**Children are taught to shoot at very young ages, where the phrase “taught to shoot” should correctly be interpreted to mean marksmanship, safety, maintenance of a firearm, responsibility, and patriotism. There is an annual shooting competition for children as well as ones for doddering old crocks like my headmasters.

**Switzerland has one of the lowest rates of crime and/or violent crime (including murder by any means) of any country in the world. (Statistics are like opinions, but while the actual numbers vary depending where you look, all sources agree on this.)

**Switzerland consistently ranks among the top five in the annual list of “happiest nations on earth.”

**Switzerland ranks second in the United Nations list of “human development,” a list which includes wealth, education, life-expectancy, and health.

**If I have my stats right, Switzerland ranks first in average wealth per resident.

I could go on, and some of this may have varied somewhat over the years, but you get the idea.

So, in case you were ever naïve enough to believe anti-gun politicians and progressive billionaire-sponsored anti-gun groups who sanctimoniously intone that they have no intention of trying to take your guns, that all they want is the “common-sense regulations” that will make us all soooooo much safer, because, after all, “if it saves just one life,” yadayadayada… If you really were that naïve, consider the following:

The European Union has mandated certain gun control measures that affect every member nation. Switzerland is not technically a member of the EU, but it is a member of something called the Schengen Area, which is, essentially, a border-free zone that allows any EU citizen to travel, live, or work in any EU nation. As a member of the Schengen Area, Switzerland is required to abide by the EU rules governing firearms. This gets complicated and I don’t wish to get bogged down in legalities here, but the bottom line is that the safest and most peaceful nation on earth, the one that has relied on a citizen army to keep it both safe and neutral for around five-hundred years, where the chance of being murdered, or even becoming a victim of violent crime, is considerably less than in any other country on earth, that same country is now being required to disarm its citizens, which is to say, its citizen army, all in the name of safety.

Worse still, various Swiss progressive groups and organizations, including the Socialist Party are calling for even more draconian gun control measures including removing local (i.e. canton) control and turning it over to the government, requiring training and sports-participation standards, and government registration.

To what end, I hear you cry? Not to make Swiss citizens safer, to “save just one life,” because other than possibly Antarctica, there is nowhere on planet earth where you can be safer. So why? Ah. Good question.

Possibly so progressive socialists can force Switzerland down the same primrose path they forced Great Britain to skip down, and we know how well merry England, the country that used to be the safest on earth, has fared in recent times.

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Victor Davis Hanson on Trump Resistance

April 25th, 2018 23 Comments


An article below by Victor Davis Hanson, author and senior fellow at the Hoover Institution, that reminded me of this famous passage by Robert Bolt, in his play, “A Man for All Seasons:”

Sir Thomas More: “What would do? Cut a great road through the law to get after the Devil?”

Roper: “I’d cut down every law in England to do that!”

More: “Oh? And when the last law was down, and the Devil turned round on you—where would you hide, Roper, the laws all being flat? This country’s planted thick with laws from coast to coast—man’s laws, not God’s—and if you cut them down—and you’re just the man to do it—do you really think you could stand upright in the winds that would blow then? Yes, I’d give the Devil the benefit of the law, for my own safety’s sake.”

Victor Davis Hanson is one of the best minds alive in this country today. Read his following article, and read his blog:


When legal bloodhounds and baying critics fail to take out Trump, what’s next? The Resistance wants Trump’s head — on the chopping block.

On the domestic and foreign fronts, the Trump administration has prompted economic growth and restored U.S. deterrence. Polls show increased consumer confidence, and in some, Trump himself has gained ground. Yet good news is bad news to the Resistance and its strange continued efforts to stop an elected president in a way it failed to do in the 2016 election.

Indeed, the aim of the so-called Resistance to Donald J. Trump is ending Trump’s presidency by any means necessary before the 2020 election. Or, barring that, it seeks to so delegitimize him that he becomes presidentially impotent. It has been only 16 months since Trump took office and, in the spirit of revolutionary fervor, almost everything has been tried to derail him. Now we are entering uncharted territory — at a time when otherwise the country is improving and the legal exposure of Trump’s opponents increases daily.

First came the failed lawsuits after the election alleging voting-machine tampering. Then there was the doomed celebrity effort to convince some state electors not to follow their constitutional duty and to deny Trump the presidency — a gambit that, had it worked, would have wrecked the Constitution. Then came the pathetic congressional boycott of the inauguration and the shrill nationwide protests against the president.

Next was the sad effort to introduce articles of impeachment. After that came weird attempts to cite Trump for violations of the emoluments clause of the Constitution. That puerile con was followed by plans to declare him deranged and mentally unfit so that he could be removed under the 25th Amendment. From time to time, Obama holdovers in the DOJ, National Security Council, and FBI sought to leak information, or they refused to carry out presidential orders.

As the Resistance goes from one ploy to the next, it ignores its string of failed prior efforts, forgetting everything and learning nothing. State nullification is no longer neo-Confederate but an any-means-necessary progressive tool. Suing the government weekly is proof of revolutionary fides, not a waste of California’s taxpayer dollars.

Anti- and Never-Trump op-ed writers have long ago run out of superlatives. Trump is the worst, most, biggest — fill in the blank — in the history of the presidency, in the history of the world, worse even than Mao, Mussolini, Stalin, or Hitler. So if Trump is a Hitler who gassed 6 million or a Stalin who starved 20 million, then logically Trump deserves what exactly?

The book industry is doing its part. Mythographer Michael Wolff’s hearsay Fire and Fury suggested that Trump was a dangerous child despised as much by his friends as by his enemies. As  FBI director, James Comey leaked confidential memos, lied to Congress, misled a FISA court, admitted that he based his handling of the Clinton-email investigation on the assumption she’d win the presidency, misinformed the president about the status of his investigation. And the now-former director book-tours the country slamming Trump hourly on the assumption that he would certainly not be former, if only his prior obsequious efforts to appease Trump had saved his job. Comey is building perjury cases against himself daily with each new disclosure that belie past sworn testimonies, but that is apparently less scary to him than simply ignoring Trump.

Robert Mueller and his “dream team” were long ago supposed to have discovered proof of Trump’s collusion with Russia. A year later, they have found nothing much to do with this mandate. Then the alternative scent was obstruction of justice. Then the chase took another detour to follow some sort of fraud or racketeering. Now the FBI is reduced to raiding Trump’s lawyer in an effort to root out the real story on Stormy Daniels. One wonders what might have happened had Michael Cohen panicked and destroyed 30,000 emails before Mueller seized his computers. No matter, Mueller’s legal army presses on, even as it leaves its own wounded on the battlefield, as resignations, reassignments, and retirements for improper conduct decimate the Obama-era FBI and DOJ hierarchies.

Trump has left the intelligence community unhinged. John Brennan (“When the full extent of your venality, moral turpitude, and political corruption becomes known, you will take your rightful place as a disgraced demagogue in the dustbin of history. . . . America will triumph over you”) and James Clapper (who called Trump a veritable traitor working for Putin) have both admitted to lying under oath to Congress in the past, and with their present invective, they have discredited the very notion of a Washington intelligence elite. At some point, Mueller’s zealotry will remind federal attorneys that equality under the law demands indictments of those with far greater legal exposure, regardless of the exalted status of Comey, Andrew McCabe, and — in the matter of lying under oath, leaking classified materials, and destroying evidence — John Brennan, James Clapper and Hillary Clinton.

In addition, a media, found to be more than 90 percent negative in its coverage of the Trump administration, sought to delegitimize the president. Journalists declare that disinterested reporting is impossible in the age of Trump — and therefore believe that Stormy Daniels or James Comey’s Dudley Do-Right’s memos are a pathway to accomplish what they are beginning to concede Robert Mueller cannot.

Everything from the NFL to late-night comedy shows have become Trump-hating venues. Almost every sort of smear from scatology to homophobia has been voiced by celebrities to turn Trump into a president deserving such abuse — and worse. Late-night television host Steven Colbert was reduced to incoherent and repellant venom: “You talk like a sign-language gorilla that got hit in the head. In fact, the only thing your mouth is good for is being Vladimir Putin’s c*** holster.” Actor Robert De Niro has become deranged and dreams of pounding on Trump’s face. But then so does former vice president Joe Biden, who on two occasions boasted that Trump is the sort of guy that a younger he-man Biden used to take outside the gym to give a whippin’ to.

Each cycle of hysteria demands another, as the race to the bottom has descended into which celebrity or politician can discover the most provocative — or crude — Trump expletive. “S***” and “f***” are now the ordinary vocabulary of angry Democratic politicos and officeholders. Are we reaching a point in the so-far-failed Resistance where little is left except abject violence in the manner of the Roman or French Revolution? The problem for Trump’s pop-culture foes is not whether to imagine or advocate killing the president. That’s a given. They just need to agree on the means of doing so: decapitation (Kathy Griffin), incineration (David Crosby), stabbing (the Shakespeare in the Park troupe), shooting (Snoop Dogg), explosives (Madonna), old-fashioned, Lincoln-style assassination (Johnny Depp), death by elevator (Kamala Harris), hanging (a CSU professor), or simple generic assassination (a Missouri state legislator).

The Resistance and rabid anti-Trumpers have lost confidence in the constitutional framework of elections, and they’ve flouted the tradition by which the opposition allows the in-power party to present its case to the court of public opinion.

Now the Democratic party — whose presidential candidate, Hillary Clinton, hired Christopher Steele to find dirt on Trump with the aid of Russian sources to warp the 2016 election — is suing President Trump, alleging collusion with the Russians. If Clinton were called as a witness, what would she say under cross-examination — that she did not hire Steele, that he never purchased Russian dirt, or that there was no collusion effort to enlist foreign nationals such as British subject Christopher Steele and Russian propagandists to warp an American election?

Insidiously and incrementally, we are in the process of normalizing violence against the elected president of the United States. If all this fails to delegitimize Trump, fails to destroy his health, or fails to lead to a 2018 midterm Democratic sweep and subsequent impeachment, expect even greater threats of violence. The Resistance and rabid anti-Trumpers have lost confidence in the constitutional framework of elections, and they’ve flouted the tradition by which the opposition allows the in-power party to present its case to the court of public opinion.

Instead, like the French revolutionaries’ Committee on Public Safety, the unhinged anti-Trumpists assume that they have lost public opinion, given their venom and crudity, and are growing desperate as every legal and paralegal means of removing Trump is nearing exhaustion. Robert Mueller is the last chance, a sort of Watergate or Abu Ghraib that could gin up enough furor to drive down Trump’s poll favorability to the twenties and thereby reduce his person to a demonic force deserving of whatever it gets.

After the prior era of hysteria, between 2005 and 2008, when books and docudramas staged the imagined assassination of George W. Bush, and celebrities like Michael Moore and activists such as Cindy Sheehan reduced Bush to the status of a war criminal, the Left in 2009 demanded a return to normal political discourse and comportment, with the election of Barack Obama. A newly contrite and apologetic America was abruptly worth believing in again. In 2009, the CIA and FBI suddenly were reinvented as hallowed agents of change.

Bush careerists, including Clapper and Brennan, were now damning the very counterterrorism practices that they once helped put in place, while offering Obama-like politically correct sermons on the benign nature of Islamism. Surveillance and jailing were appropriate punishments for suspected Obama apostates (ask James Rosen or Nkoula Basseley Nakoula). The IRS was weaponized for use against Obama’s ideological opponents. Suggestions that the president was unfit or worse became near treasonous. Unity was the new patriotism. The assumption was that Obama had ushered in a half-century of progressive norms, not that he so alienated the country that he birthed Donald Trump.

The danger to the country this time around is that the Left has so destroyed the old protocols of the opposition party that it will be hard to resurrect them when progressives return to power.

We are entering revolutionary times. The law is no longer equally applied. The media are the ministry of truth. The Democratic party is a revolutionary force. And it is all getting scary.

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