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A Gunman
Homesteading in the Post-American U.S. with the Man in the High Castle


My friend, known as Sea Daddy, a retired life support technician who worked for 40 years on oil rigs and barges and salvage ships, making sure risk-addicted divers stayed alive below, invited me to his canyon. This canyon is an arm of a valley in the Rocky Mountains where he has retired from the insane world, and yet ever seems to be sensing its near arrival as hipster hikers and government goons intrude. This gently wizened man had offered me a 10 day writing refuge. Upon my arrival, I was shocked at how much acreage, vertical and otherwise, there was. Informing my host that I was looking for 4-8 hours of exercise a day, he pointed out some ditching projects that needed vigorous attention and said, “If you’re looking for exercise we might as well get you in touch with all that white slavery you write about.”

Respect for the makers of Inca roads bloomed in my mind as the high altitude ditching and terracing expanded my battered rib cage and made my head swim over this past week of really enjoyable toil, bordering on ancient engineering, as it does. Mattocking, shoveling, prying, hauling and fitting rocks, raking and banking and gravelling have given opportunity to exercise mind and body together as my host patrols with his gun and fixes technical problems, like electricity. Writing during the reign of the cruel sun and working in the morning and evening, then repairing to Sea Daddy’s firing platform in the evening shade, along with the vigilant dog, Cowboy [my supervisor, actually] brings three perspectives:

-1: I am living the life of the voluntarily bond servant imagined by our establishment historians, speaking as an equal, livening in the big house, with a bed even, being permitted to work at a healthy pace, with my host often reminding me, gun riding high on his right hip, “Don’t strain your buttermilk, now. It’s near a hundred degrees and no time to be a hero.”

My host has even paid me.

He has provided me the best food and drink.

-2: In contrast, It is easy to imagine the reality for most servants in Plantation America, sleeping on the floor of the out building, working a 10 to 16 hour day, eating only maize and being beaten on a regular. I sit exhausted from 4 hours of ditching. Imagine 12 hours on corn and dirty water.

-3: I do not have to imagine the peril of remote isolation, for it is here, a rattle snake crawling over my ditch yesterday, a pack of coyotes killing something down the drawl two nights ago, the slain and half eaten dear on the side of the canyon road three nights ago [I am told by a visiting mountain man, probably by a cougar], the looming rock formations above, the thick pines I tread through when harvesting a staff for my host, the fact that the rattle snake carcass was gone this morning and that a sizable non-bovine crap was taken by some creature 30 paces from my ditch. It is a comfort to have my host ever armed with a gun and to have my knife always on my side and some wicked tool usually in my hand. It is unthinkable to walk off unarmed in this long-ago tamed land. What must it have been like on the edge of an impenetrable forest, at the foot of an endless mountain range, perhaps at Bacon’s Henrico Plantation in long ago Virginia?

My host has three stories that bear on the greatest peril:

Out on patrol, he caught a hipster hiker woman taking a shit on his game trail. He said, “What are you doing?’

She said, “Isn’t it obvious?”

He said, “You are shitting on my property. Pinch it off, pick it up, and leave.”

She produced a sandwich baggie from her pocket and walked off with her feces…

One afternoon, he heard a car, a Los Angeles style low rider at his gate, the fat-headed neck-tattooed occupants, trying to gain entry.

From his firing position he could see that they were Latino gangbangers, tatted up and most likely armed, about to open his gate and gain access to his mountain top castle.

He put them in the sites of his AR-15, media decreed weapon of evil, for the very reason that it is used to stop crime by isolated independents, yelled at them to “Go away!” and they beat a hasty retreat.

In many cases, released or escaped servants used to provide raiding intelligence to Indians in the 1600s and 1700s. Today day laborers hired to do ranch work pass on information and gate codes to gangbangers to make raids.

On another occasion Sea Daddy was patrolling down from his Rocky Mountain Redoubt when he noticed a private real estate development truck on his property, being surveyed. When he demanded what these men were doing they said, that they were surveying a road.

He told them to leave and they refused, threatening him with legal action, citing a state law that permitted private road construction wherever utility service was present.

He told them, “This is off grid you son-of-a bitch. Get the fuck off my property and if you come back I will shoot your asses!”

The tone changed and the infrastructure vampires headed back to their lair.

Such encounters have parallels in English North America in the Plantation Era, with English planters in danger of encroachment from Spanish, French, Dutch, Swede and Native American men, as well as English from neighboring colonies. In fact, Maryland and Virginia engaged in a small war in the mid-1600s. The fact that servants were unarmed made the situation extremely perilous when outsiders attacked. Of course, the fact that servants were only armed in very rare instances, and a Virginia Governor circa 1680 told the King in a letter “that we dare not” arm the servants, demonstrates that most servants were not voluntary indentures and discontent was so intense that armed servants posed an internal threat to the Plantation economy.

Tomorrow I cut a stair to his power station.

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Add Comment
Dan BagrovJuly 31, 2018 12:39 AM UTC

Fascinating report. One of the takeaways I draw is that it’s harder and harder to really “get away from it all”. Resisting the machine, holding up in the woods, exposes one to its own risks and demands unending vigilance, sounds like a tiny taste of what life is like for your typical Boer Afrikaner farmer these days, and we can guess which way it’s headed. No escape from this mad house un-society, in some ways I feel the best way to endure is to live as close to the Machine as one can endure.
Bran Mak SwornJuly 30, 2018 7:31 AM UTC

Sounds like heaven.
ShepJuly 30, 2018 12:39 AM UTC

Outstanding!
PRJuly 29, 2018 6:49 PM UTC

"From his firing position he could see that they were Latino gangbangers, tatted up and most likely armed, about to open his gate and gain access to his mountain top castle.

He put them in the sites of his AR-15, media decreed weapon of evil, for the very reason that it is used to stop crime by isolated independents, yelled at them to “Go away!” and they beat a hasty retreat.

In many cases, released or escaped servants used to provide raiding intelligence to Indians in the 1600s and 1700s. Today day laborers hired to do ranch work pass on information and gate codes to gangbangers to make raids."

Did he hire some illegals to work on his property? This is the reason I never hire them. You have no idea who else they'll give your information to.

I always find hippies, illegals, and gangbangers in the same areas such as state parks. I suspect it's because they're buying and selling drugs from one-another. You'll see out-of-shape hippies walking up trails with some weird school backpack or fat illegals wearing sunglasses and hooded sweatshirts with the hoods up in 90 degree heat with the same type of backpack on the same trails. The gangbangers are too lazy to walk or it's beneath them.

I suspect there are pot grows near his property. He needs to plant some male marijuana plants upwind of the suspected grow sites so that the drug-producing females are fertilized and ruined.

How many pitbulls has he seen/shot?