No subject

essentially
average in appearance. No uniforms, no suits -- but they weren't =
laborers.
And they were certainly all looking hard at me.

And then, as I looked beyond them at the neighbor's house in our strange =
and
scattered "frontier" residential setting  -- he who had followed them so
closely and who'd then disappeared into his garage -- I thought of
something else.

In mid-October, we had suddenly encountered him walking up on the edges =
of
the rough and rugged turf. We knew him to be a sometime technological
worker of some sort -- and someone who frequently worried about
strangers in the area and especially anyone going up into the high =
country.
I had heard from an acquaintance that this person often calls the Bureau =
of
Land Management to report allegedly suspicious folk and doings. He's =
also a
fairly conspicuous American flag man -- but of course a lot of people =
around
here are these days.  In any event, not exactly a friend of ours, and
visibly surprised to see us, he talked somewhat awkwardly.  And then --
then!

His eyes were suddenly fixed on the left side of my wide-brimmed hat.  =
And
there, as always, resides my old battered union badge -- from the now  =
gone
but always remembered in legendry: the always radical and thoroughly
democratic and hard-fighting Mine-Mill union.  The
badge is 1 and 3/4 inches across, white backdrop, and the word Mine is =
in
red with Mill in red right below it. On the upper rim in very small blue
letters left-to-right are the words, International Union Mine, Mill -- =
and
on the lower rim, again left-to-right, are the words, & Smelter Workers =
--
all of
this in interlocking conjunction with the big red Mine Mill letters.

The Mine-Mill -- the hard-rock metal miners union -- had been vigorously =
and
effectively active all over the Mountain West and surrounding regions =
for
generations.  It had been a major force in North Idaho.  But, with the
exception of one local union in eastern Ontario which declined =
absorption,
it had been gone from the 'States and Canada since its 1967
merger with the much, much larger United Steelworkers of America.  This =
man
was old enough  to know at least something of the old fighting Mine-Mill
union and the wild controversies engendered by its many venomous =
enemies.

He looked downright strange. Very much so.  I abruptly turned my head to
cut off his view of the badge.

And as we parted that mid-October day, he was now visibly hostile,
suspicious.

Now, as I directly approached the waiting men, I recalled that on a
number of occasions since that surrealistic meeting with this neighbor,
he -- often right around his home -- had seen me from a distance coming
down from the high country, day after day, just as I was
now doing.  And  always at around this very same time.  He didn't come =
over
to talk.

Then I was there -- at the gate and the group.  The walker's face looked =
out
at me from under a heavy cap.  As he held up his hand in greeting, I
recognized him as an elderly neighbor -- and certainly a friend -- from =
down
below our house.  The other four were stony-faced, expressionless. They
struck me as trained field men of some kind.  One was middle-aged, =
almost
non-descript. Another was in his twenties.  An older man, his face lined =
by
decades of hard weather, was looking at me with especial intensity.  The
fourth man who, almost imperceptibly at first edged forward, was =
obviously
the leader.  He was as tall as I and heavier.

I respect age.  Looking directly at the older man, I said, "Howdy, you =
all."

Silence.

This was weird.  My face was obviously cut up -- but that wasn't the =
origin
of this cold little drama.

Then the walker/neighbor grinned, "So you're the guy," he said, "that's
tearing up these hills."  He smiled broadly.

That comment struck immediate resonant relevance within me and, tucking =
it
for ready reference at the fore of my mind, I simultaneously said, =
"Hell, no
one could get back there with any vehicle now.  Way too muddy, icy."

Even as I said this, the leader came toward me and then -- then! -- to =
the
point immediately on my left. He stopped right there. From my =
eye-corner, I
could see him looking at the Mine-Mill badge. Then I saw a kind of =
motion
with his hand.

And then suddenly, he was walking back in front of me -- and his three
colleagues relaxed like puppets whose taut strings had been abruptly
loosened.  The older man smiled.  "I bet it's a mud bog back there," he
said.

The big man -- the leader -- added helpfully, "They say it's going to =
rain
again tomorrow. Maybe some snow as well."

I smiled at them.  "I may have to get me a mule," I replied.  Then I =
added,
"I took a bit of a spill myself earlier today."  They nodded politely.  =
On
that one, they didn't even imply questions. "But I always keep going," =
said
I.

And then I waved to them.  "Adios, I'm heading home.  Live right near =
here."
The big man nodded in friendly, knowing fashion. Joining me, my walker
neighbor and I headed off.  I was tempted to ask him what he meant when =
he
made the comment about "tearing up these hills" -- what he'd heard from =
the
group -- but I didn't ask the question.

However, I did comment, "Those must be BLM guys."

And he, who had of course been talking with them at some length, =
confirmed
they indeed were.

I heal with very great speed.  By the next day, most cuts and scrapes =
had
faded from my face and, a day or so later, even the gash above my eye =
was
all but gone.  And my hat brim, bent sharply from the hard fall, had
immediately bounced back to normal. [Aussie hats are damn resilient.]

But questions -- obvious ones -- hung in the clean air of Idaho.

One answer I was sure of:  this was the doing of the neighbor who'd been =
so
obviously alarmed at my Mine-Mill badge.

But had he called BLM about a radical coven I was hatching and =
ministering
in the mountains?  Prepping for a Red Dawn invasion over the mountains =
and
down into Pocatello?

Or, had he misread the badge -- and somehow assumed I was running a
surreptitious prospecting and mining operation back yonder?  Those, by =
the
way, are perfectly legal on most public lands -- including these.

Quien sabe?  One of those -- or maybe both.  Big Bill Haywood -- who
married Nevada Jane  here at Pocatello in 1889 and honeymooned here
as well -- was a hell-raising Red who also had cowboyed and prospected
and certainly mined all over the Intermountain region.  His original =
union
was the  Western Federation of Miners which eventually -- in 1916 --
rechristened  itself as the International Union of Mine, Mill  and
Smelter Workers.

All of this was, as I say, in early November.  A few days later, a BLM =
man
took five minutes to lock the gate to any vehicles until mid-May.  And =
then,
weeks later and deep into December on a snowy day, I ran into the
inter-meddling neighbor for the first face-to-face time since he'd =
looked at
my badge.  Although I was wearing the hat with it loyally thereon as =
always,
he kept his eyes averted.  His unease and embarrassment, even as I was
politely civil, were totally revealing.

And, yes, I checked his tracks.  They aren't the tracks of the man who
followed me in the snow that fall day.  That one remains a significantly
serious mystery.

Hunter and I continue to make our daily five to six mile junkets -- up =
into
the very steep and rugged high country that begins almost in our back =
yards.
But now, although we never see any human sign, we do it mostly in the =
very
early morning hours -- going and returning in the dark. I wear my hat =
with
the Mine-Mill badge and also my bear claw choker. Bears and rattlesnakes
are seasonally asleep. But we often hear mule deer and
moose.  Bobcats and lions circulate around, sometimes following us -- as
friendly coyotes do consistently each day and close-by for at least a =
mile.
I have excellent night vision and, in this kind of setting, we have -- =
like
many of the other creatures of the wild -- maximum control over our
situation.   The Sun is our Vision -- but one can say much for the  =
natural
darkness as well. It doesn't ask questions and it minds its own =
business.

If there are chains, break'em.  If a cupboard is bare, toss in loaves of
bread -- and much more. Let's build a system where those are among the =
many
Good Life guarantees.

But let's not pry with petty ears and eyes and questions and, sans =
distress,
let's not intermeddle arrogantly or even sanctimoniously into the lives =
of
others.

Don't fence us in.  Don't even try.


HUNTER GRAY  [HUNTER BEAR/JOHN R SALTER JR]   Mi'kmaq /St. Francis
Abenaki/St. Regis Mohawk
Protected by Na=B4shdo=B4i=B4ba=B4i=B4
 and Ohkwari'
=20
Check out our Hunterbear website Directory =
http://hunterbear.org/directory.htm
[The site is dedicated to our one-half Bobcat, Cloudy Gray:
http://hunterbear.org/cloudy_gray.htm
=20
And see Outlaw Trail:  The Native as Organizer:  =
http://hunterbear.org/outlaw_trail1.htm