After gulping my coffee and burning the inner depths of my taste buds we reached the turn to the hot drink spillage inducing rocky and serpentine dirt road. As the sun began to glow on the tops of the peaks we would soon traipse upon I killed the headlights and put on my game face. I knew that this was a risky operation, and all precautions must be taken – when you’re dealing with Big Brother, you need to put a low sense of value on safety and protocol, as it goes against everything the Man is trying to profess. With one stealth motion I turned down the knob on the bluegrass, shut the jangling change tray, and gave the dog a sock toy pacifier so she would stop whining in anticipation. My senses were tuned to call out the slightest disturbance on our approach through the foothills. Before reaching the base of the peaks I saw what appeared to be a drone glide above, low and lethargic as it coldly surveyed the scene, and I imagined it’s morbidly obese operator sitting in a climate controlled building somewhere in middle America with piles of energy drink cans rusting at his feet as he steered the joystick with SlimJim fingers. I was trespassing as a fugitive in my own land hell bent on reaching the steep peaks of what could possibly become my own personal Tora Bora. After all it was BLM land and I figured I had a good chance of getting droned since apparently the president can do that whenever he pleases, government shutdown be damned, and/or droned, hopefully both. The apparition kept flying in the darkened morning and the dog and I soon found ourselves in the familiar and eerily comfortable rocky steeps we left late last season.
As we ascended from the truck and the daylight began to take hold I saw the flying object return, and was relieved to see it flap it’s tawny wings and continue over the cliff bands, searching for a meal. I had the pleasure of working these hills with a golden eagle last winter, it searched above me for birds and dove off after stragglers if the dogs and I busted a covey, which we found more than a few by watching the eagle circling a particular outcropping. It was quite a spectacle to seemingly work for the same meal with a different species, and it was a hunt I’ll never forget. I know it’s not the national bird, but this golden eagle is occupying the BLM and doing a more patriotic duty than most of us.
I knew prior to my morning hunt that the government shutdown had (in)effectively shut down 85% of my mostly BLM home state of Nevada, and with that much land that is impossibly understaffed and under-enforced by now furloughed workers there was no way in hell any of them would keep any of us off of it, especially on the opening day of chukar season.
If you visit the DOI homepage you’ll notice the nice closure notice at the top of the page which states that all of our public lands are now closed, that is unless you’re running a fracking or oil rig on our BLM land, than you’re free to carry on, now with reduced oversight.* The shutdown has suspended the issuance of new BLM drilling permits, which you will see in that horrid article is a real point of contention among the moneybag militia. At least they can hunt their dipshit planted birds on their private ranches free of drone reprisal while we continue to do things the honest way. *DISCLAIMER – I do not endorse Forbes or this article. They can eat _____ for all I care.
Ah America. The system works.. just not for us. So get out there and take back what you already own, and be sure to tell your friends to come along. This land is yours and mine. Let’s continue to use it respectfully and responsibly during this bullshit crisis.
|This land was made for you and me.|