"In Iran.... they shot you, here they just take your property"(my title)

A crisp sunlight greeted us this morning as we pulled out of a small motel about 10 miles north of Albuquerque. We will head northwest on a small highway recommended by a local truck driver that will take us into the southeast corner of Utah. Highway 550 winds up through a valley connected to the Rio Grande River.

Ancient pueblos squat on rimrock mesas high above the valley floor, where cattle graze among aspen groves whose bright yellow leaves stand brightly against the desert backdrop. It is beautiful country that reminds us of home, and Bill Ransom is scanning the countryside with his elk-hunter eyes, spotting features far in the distance and commenting on them.

Grant Gerber, who once owned a trading post near Ramah, New Mexico, about 200 miles south of here, gave Bill and I a running history lesson as we passed through this country, crossing the Continental Divide at more than 7,100 feet at 10:30 a.m. local time. The pueblos we are seeing, adobe structures that blend into the colors of the country behind their high perches, were defensive positions developed more than 400 years ago when the Spanish Conquistadores invaded these high valleys. Their horses and firepower gave them distinct advantages over the local tribes, and relatively small numbers of Spaniards could control vast acreages of the surrounding terrain. Now, as we cross the high plains with the white-capped Rocky Mountains visible far to our north, small haciendas lined with broken cars, ramshackle outbuildings and skinny dogs are visible on both sides of the highway, the result of a culture that survives on a federal check.

No businesses flourish here because there is little incentive to work. The oil and gas pumps that dot the landscape, together with numerous federal aid programs, provide each Tribal member with a check every month, whether they work or not. Make no mistake, this is not easy street, because a people deprived of any need for initiative suffer horribly, as evidenced by the hovels we pass and the wandering youths we see on the streets of the small towns we roll through. Workable solutions in this country do not derive from a federal check.

As we approach Shiprock, it becomes apparent why travelers throughout history used this massive spire as a landmark to either turn north into Colorado, as we did, or stay westward bound for California. The massif is well named, for one can easily see the masts and sails of an old clipper ship in the wind-carved stone that stands nearly 1,000 feet bove the desert floor.

Turning north, we head into country that lies barren for miles, ringed with red rock mesas that stand far in the distance. Between the convoy and the mesas, less grand yet still formidible rock formations sprinkle the desert, solitary towers that reach into the sky for hundreds of feet. To our north, lying blue under a distant cover of clouds, we can see the southern end of the Rockies, where we will turn our rigs once again to the West.

Bill Ransom, who has guided this convoy for nearly 8,000 miles, occasionally will offer insight into his thoughts as we cross country like this. "Can you magine what it must be like to ride a horse through this country," he will say. Picturing a small group of wagons, subsisting on the strength of its men and the fortitude of its women, is easy to do as we watch the miles roll by our windsheilds. The challenges faced by our forebearers, the obstacles overcome and the great losses suffered, become crystal clear, almost real-time when the harsh beauty of the land is seen up close. At that time, a simple mistake could kill you, your family, your dream. You had to rely on your neighbor, and they on you, to survive and prosper. This ethic does not clash with the storied individualism that marks those of us who live in the West, however.

I figure I'm preaching to the choir, so I'll keep this short. It stands to reason that before one is in a position to help anyone, they must be strong themselves. Each of us, I'll bet, can think of someone who was strong when we were weak, had help when we were in need. It was this dynamic that led to barn raisings, to a house being rebuilt near Malin several years ago after a respected member of the community who had no insurance had watched it burn to the ground. It was this dynamic that led to groups of people who wouldn't share a cup of coffee together standing together as one on the headgates. Just my two cents, for what it's worth.

As we enter Colorado the country changes again, irrigated fields and pasture bordering a highway that loops over one rolling hill after another. The patchwork quilt of brown and green so particular to a farming communtiy stretches to the foot of the Rockies. The clouds that capped the once-distant mountains are now close, winds buffeting the bucket as Bill keeps a head of steam under the Chevy's hood.

Perhaps now is the time to mention the constant theme that has divided the convoy since its departure. Bill is driving a Chevy, Frank Wallace a Dodge, and Rocky Dippel has been at the helm of a Ford since we left home a month ago tomorrow. While all three have done a good job of keeping their prejudices in check, boys will be boys, and on occasion a spirited debate erupts. Whether the topic is pulling power, acceleration, or looks (the most contentious topic), none will budge in their opinion of the truck that carries them. As I have been riding shotgun in the Chevy, all I can speak to is the comfort of the passenger seat, and have been able to avoid the debate. So far.

The last 100 miles were arguably the most beautiful I've ever seen from the shotgun seat of a pickup, as we wound our way through narrow canyons to Moab, Utah. Sculpted rock formations slope from hundreds of feet in the air right down to the roadside, and graceful natural arches of rock are commonplace. The canyon bottom is aglow with soft red light, reflected from the setting sun shining onto the curved rock faces. What a place! The urge to stop is too strong to resist, and we stop for a picture of the bucket against a red rock backdrop. The stop was brief, and reminds us once again we are accidental tourists, able to see a lot of this wonderful country yet unable to pause because of distant commitments. As Peggy Wallace said, her children will ask her of the many famous places she has seen and all she can provide is a description obtained at 70 miles per hour.

As we pulled into Moab, Grant Gerber informs us the small town is the "most liberal in all of Utah." The setting for Edward Abbey's book "The Monkeywrench Gang," a seminal text for Earth First! and others who came to believe that the world needs an underground army, the town is funky and hip and clearly anti-whatever. The perfect punch to Grant's story came as we drove down Main Street in Moab, right through the center of an anti-war march. About 100 people were marching down the street carrying signs denouncing George W. and off-road recreationists. As we honked our horns and waved happily at the unwashed activists, they smiled cluelessly. Probably thought we were part of their parade. I guess we were!

We roll relentlessly north, hitting I-70 for a short stretch before once again setting across the high desert towards Salt Lake City, about 200 miles away. Climbing out of Moab's sculpted canyons, we cross a high, desolate plain, made more so by the slanting rays of the setting sun. It was this section of Utah we crossed late at night two weeks ago, as Bill was pushing us hard to make television committments in Denver, and we find ourselves in a similiar situation tonight. This time, however, our motivation is to be within striking distance of home tomorrow, and to see the faces of the people we love rather than the welcoming faces of people we have just met.

Pat Ratliff, the convoy's photographer, said we covered 897 miles yesterday in our hump from Little Rock to Albuquerque, covering four states and at least that many thunderstorms. Tonight, if we make Wendover, we will rack up 690 miles, and once again set foot in four states. Thinking of those wagon trains again, when 10 miles a day was a good day, we have covered two months' worth of travel today.

At 9:30 p.m. local time the glittering lights of Salt Lake City slid by our windows, and we turned West again to cross the salt flats. The scuttlebutt says we will go to ground in Wendover, 100 miles away. We parted with Grant Gerber in Orem, where his son and brand new, two-week old grandson picked him up. We will see Grany again tomorrow in Elko, where the shovel will be off-loaded and sent to a city park to be enshrined. Grant fought hard to keep the shovel on the road getting the message out, yet the citizens of Elko want their shovel to stay home. That shovel means a lot to them.

The Jarbidge fight was done alone, without outside media bringing pressure to bear on the decision-makers. Because of that, the citizens of Elko fully realize their winning a battle only defined that the war continues,and they have supported the Basin with everything they have. And Grant himself is a true warrior, always thinking, rarely resting.

We are now jetting through an inky black night across the vast salt flats, the stars faintly defining a distant horizon. The chatter that helps the miles pass has died away, and we are each left alone with our thoughts. I find I have difficulty remembering what day of the week it is, or the calender date. Yesterday is known by where we were, tomorrow by where we will be. Yesterday was Albuquerque, the day before Little Rock, before that Jackson. Tomorrow is Wendover, then home.

Beyond that, I remember people we met. Almogordo rancher R. L. Posey, a craggy man as hard as the country his cattle roam, yet with wise, blue eyes that softened with tears when he bid on Kaulin Neilson's saddle. Linda Barron, a woman who fled Vietnam 33 years ago and worked hard to bring the rest of her family over. A woman who wasn't born here yet has something to teach us all about being an American.

As does Harry Azur, who came here from Iran and now works to fight forced annexation of his neighborhood in Sacramento. He spoke at our rally on the Capitol steps in that California city Sept. 30, and his simple eloquence demanded rapt attention from seasoned speakers from the California Grange and the Pacific Legal Foundation. "In Iran, if you spoke against the government they would shoot you and your family," Azur said. "Here, they just take away your property."

Pete Lainey, a veteran politician who is Speaker of the House in Texas. A lifelong Democrat, he taught me a valuable lesson about how my foe is to be defined. Lynette Ames, a fireplug of a woman with long blonde hair and flashing eyes that belie a fierce dedication. Ken Freeman, an Alabama cattleman who can work a crowd as easily as if he was sitting on his cutting horse working a herd.

It would be hard, and unfair to the widespread success of this convoy, to pick a favorite, but I do have a person whom I have grown to respect a great deal, although my time with her all together was probably less than an hour. Frances Heidel is the executive secretary to Rep. Daniel Stephen Holland, who chairs Mississippi's Standing Committee on Agriculture. While Holland himself is, in Frances' words, "quite a character," it is she I must thank for the unparalelled hospitality with which we were treated in Jackson. Holland has chaired the committee for 16 years, and Frances has guarded her "chairman" with skill and determination without fail for all those years. She does it with a Southern grace and style I thought survived only in novels by William Faulkner and Shelby Foote, and commands a presence and respect that is not overt or ostentatious. I think the best evidence of her skills lies in her voice, a smooth and silky tone that puts the visitor at ease and would be defiled by calling it an accent. Her kind eyes notice everything, and to watch her move among the powerful people in the Mississippi Capitol is like watching a cougar slink through a sleeping camp.

We owe her a great thanks, for it was she who saw the simple truth of our mission, and allowed Holland to meet and connect with Bill Ransom. Our task in the Basin has gained a powerful ally in Mississippi and, although Mississippi is a long ways away, an ally is not limited by distance in this fight. We owe a debt of gratitude to Frances Heidel, and she would be the first to pooh-pooh it. The size of that debt or, put another way, how big a help she has been, has yet to be determined.

Oh, the saddle update. After a final auction in Naples, Kualin Neison's saddle has brought in a total of more than $1,400. In Naples, Bill tried to read the note the Neison family sent with the saddle to be given to the final buyer. Bill couldn't make it through the note, only 54 words long. The saddle, the note, and a gift from the organizers in Florida will be given to Kaulin on Sunday. The miles are still slipping by in the blackness beyond our truck. Our world right now is defined by the twin lanes that stretch into the blackness, aimed at home.

I wrote a lot today, and I should remember that sometimes it is the fewest words that carry the most power. I hope to send another post tomorrow, and then a final one after our welcome home Sunday afternoon. Thanks for taking the time to read them.

I hope you will all take the time to read this inspiring email from Kehn Gibson, who started covering the Klamath Crisis last year and was taken over by the land rights movement and traveled with the caravan to Florida, documenting everything. Our thanks go to him and his fine work, along with the fine Americans traveling with him and those he met along the way.

You are the most precious man! You're ALWAYS there when I need you.. It would be nice if you could join us in Klamath Falls about 4pm tomorrow to welcome the caravan home!

As we pulled into Moab, Grant Gerber informs us the small town is the "most liberal in all of Utah."

Of course, that's a little like the "most conservative in all of Massachusetts!"

If true, Moab has changed a LOT in the last 12 years. Back then, it was pretty much dying. Mountain biking was just starting to turn the economy around. It is indeed situated in the middle of some of the most beautiful country on the planet.

I thought you might enjoy reading this inspiring account of the last leg of the convoy of the Sawgrass Rebellion from Oregon to Florida and back again!

Thanks AuntB, this validates my position that no gun law on the books has ever prevented nor solved one crime. Not one, it would be bad enough to say that after all the millions of dollars in paperwork and resources that only 100 were prevented or solved, but zero results is an apalling waste of tax money and an affront to law abiding citizens and the Constitution.

It's been interesting to watch Mr. Gibson cover this from the beginning of the Bucket Brigade in Klamath Falls last year. He learned to love those people and what they were trying to do. His email was so inspired that I thought it should be noticed by more than a few.

Khen is not only a good writer, he's a golden guy with a perpetual smile.

These people are among the finest of the fine and the best of the best. God bless them.

"In Iran they just shoot you"

Well when Roosevelt signed the Trading with the Enemy Act , America's elites were trading with Hitler and were protected from being called "Traitors".

Oil , fuel , equipment and parts were sold to Hitler for profit costing American lives.

Rockefeller made a trade deal with Krueshev and had Johnson sign it. After which Rockefeller sold materials to Russia that were turned into weapons and sold to North Vietnam. These weapons were used to kill over 58,000 American's.

They shoot us here too...................

They fund the international communists because they see global communism as the way to implement their vision of a global society. Communism promotes group think and central planning. What a great way for an ultra-capitalist to control trade and their profits! They can't abide upstart little American patriots, free thinkers and individualists who constantly upset the collectivist apple cart. Global communism is a heavy chain they hope to lay upon the world's people to weigh us down and keep us under control, physically by limiting our ability to travel freely, monetarily,by limiting what we can earn in the global system and what property we can possess, and spiritually by eliminating the western judeo-christian foundation of our nation.

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