How did this happen? he thought. The refuge is such a wonderful place. All the times I have visited, I never imagined that some bunch of cowboys would take it over and act like it belonged to them. How the hell does it belong to them? The government is letting them get away with murder. They let them off in what’s the name?
He googled it and found the name Bunkerville and April 2014.
That’s it. The government is just a bunch of pussies! They need to just do whatever it takes to get control over the refuge. I don’t care if someone gets killed. This is bigger than the people involved.
George finally went to bed. He tossed and turned for several minutes; then he tried to push his thoughts aside using techniques he had learned at Tech Space. George Henry was part owner and primary visionary of the company, but he had some difficulty completing some tasks due to overthinking. With some encouragement from his business partner, he invited a local employee assistance company to do some in-service trainings for his small staff. He had learned to remind himself of two thought-changing techniques that helped him sleep when nothing else did. He learned to ask himself if there was anything he could do in the moment to change the circumstances that worried him and then write out anything that needed to do tomorrow. He also learned to persistently refocus his mind on a pleasant environment. On this night, nothing worked.
At nearly 4:00 a.m., exhaustion overcame him, and he fell into a restless sleep. His dreams carried on the struggle for Malheur.
Cattle came in huge dusty herds, charging directly at him. Riding the front cow was a man wearing a wide-brimmed cowboy hat and laughing. He pointed a gun and laughed again. George tried to move, but shit held him like glue. Glue covered everything. Birds dying and fighting against the glue-like shit. Men sitting in leather chairs watched and cheered the struggle.
George snorted himself awake. He stared at the time on his phone. Four thirty in the morning. He started to go back over everything he had been working on but stopped himself. Giving in to his drowsiness, he finally fell back asleep. On Sunday, he did not awaken until late morning. He dragged himself to the kitchen. Jill impassively watched him slowly move his tall, bent, and disheveled body toward his chair.
“Had a rough night?” she asked rhetorically.
George nodded. “Yeah, pretty rough.”
Jill waited. She knew it would be a while before they had an actual conversation. After a brief period of heavy sighs and a sullen expression, George dragged himself out of the recliner, walked ponderously to the espresso maker, and set up a very stiff Americano. He grabbed a bagel, sat down, and waited for the coffee. He looked at his iPhone and clicked his Facebook app.
“Shit! Nothing has happened. God, I hope this doesn’t end up like Bunkerville!” he exclaimed.
Jill had some idea of what Bunkerville was about, but she wasn’t sure. With apprehension, she asked George to elaborate. Eagerly, George explained that Bunkerville was the location of a standoff between sympathizers of a Nevada rancher and law enforcement. The story behind this was that the rancher had been in at twenty-one-year struggle with the Bureau of Land Management over his grazing of cattle on BLM land. He had refused to pay for grazing his cattle on land owned by the BLM, as required by law. The rancher had claimed that the BLM did not have the legal authority to manage the land on which he grazed his cattle.
As he explained the background of the situation, George frequently interrupted himself with, “That’s just bullshit!”
When he had finished explaining the history of the standoff, he added vehemently, “That land belongs to all the people, not one particular person or rancher.” Shaking his head enough to agitate his thick black hair, he continued, “These ranchers have been getting a great deal on their grazing rights for years. They are often referred to as ‘welfare ranchers,’ and I think they are making money and degrading public land while they do it. And they are so arrogant that they want the government to give the land to them. It’s bullshit!”
George stared off into space—his long face stern and his eyes looking but not seeing anything but the images in his mind, images of cowboys stealing the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge.
After some time staring at nothing, he stood and announced, “I am going. I know you don’t want me to, but I think I have to.”
Jill knew it was useless arguing with him. She touched his shoulder to get his attention and said, “I would feel better if you had someone with you. Why don’t you invite Russel?”
George looked at her with a furrowed brow, his thick black eyebrows bending together to form one mass over his dark eyes. He relaxed some and said, “I don’t know if he could take the time off.”
Russel Jones was his birding buddy. Every spring for the past twenty years, he and Russel would travel the three hundred miles one way to the refuge to camp, observe the birds, and compare their photographs of birds and other wildlife. Their interest in photography had developed in the past few years. These trips and had become as important as discussing the Portland Trail Blazers over a pint of beer. Hanging around the campfire, exchanging critiques of their photos, their daily wildlife sightings, and the quality of the beer they were drinking had become like a spiritual pilgrimage.
With the events at the refuge, it was more than a philosophical debate; it was a direct threat to something that George, Russel, and many other wildlife enthusiasts enjoyed and valued. It felt like a violation of sacred land.
George liked the idea of having Russel along on this trip. It would be somebody to keep him company and to watch his back. He made the call.
The phone rang four times before Russel answered, “Hey there.”
“Hey, Hoss. How’re you doing?”
“Good, George,” Russel answered. “Except I am really having trouble watching the news. I know you have heard. About the Malheur thing?”
“I’m doing the same thing. It really sucks!”
“I know. Those cowboys seem to think we owe them a living,” Russel continued.
“Exactly! So I just wanted to let you know that I have written everybody and their dog over this. It seems like pissing into the wind, but I needed to do something,” George added.
“I should do that too,” Russel admitted. “I just hoped that somehow the FBI or whoever manages this kind of thing would just go in and arrest these guys.”
“They should, but they seem to be afraid to do anything,” George explained. “Meanwhile, these guys get a bunch of media attention, and some people see them as heroes. I hope it doesn’t go on too long.”
“Me too.”
George allowed a brief pause, then said, “I have actually thought about going down to Burns myself.”
“Really? Just thinking about that scares the crap out of me! Those guys are carrying guns, George, and they seem serious!”
“I know, Russel, but I hate to let these guys get away with this. If people don’t stand up, the authorities will think we don’t care. I haven’t protested anything before now, but now I might. I think it’s time for me to stand up for something I believe in. And I really feel strongly about this.”
After a brief pause, George continued, “I don’t want to lay a guilt trip on you, but Jill doesn’t want me to go alone and talked me into asking you. I mean, I would love to have you, but I know it could be hard for you to get the time off, and it could be dangerous,” George continued.
“Boy, I don’t know. Besides being really worried about being shot, I don’t know if I can get the time off. I don’t own my own company like you,” Russel explained.
“Yep, I get it.”
There was a pause in the conversation. George