The Old Blog in the Desert

As Told by a Reluctant with a Good Appetite and a Weak Spot for Beans

Now, I don’t go lookin’ for trouble, and I don’t aim to take supper where politics hang heavier than smoke from a mesquite fire. But when I came to the Bundy Ranch out in Southern Nevada, I figured, what harm could come from beef, biscuits, and a smattering of Constitutional debate served under the open sky? I’ve always believed you can tell a man’s heart by how he treats his cattle and guests—though you’d best watch both closely, lest one go stampedin’ and the other speechifyin’.

It was a Saturday, bright and blue like a ribbon in a preacher’s wife’s bonnet, and I found myself among a curious congregation—reporters, ranchers, and folks whose faith in government gets measured in teaspoons. At the center of it all stood Cliven Bundy, age seventy-seven, upright and leathery as an old fence post, surrounded by kin and kin-like admirers. He held court like Solomon–if Solomon wore Wrangler jeans and boots–and tucked a pocket Constitution where his heart ought to be.

“Dad, you ready to start?” asked Ryan Bundy, the son, with a voice like a saw drawn slow across pine.

Ryan, now fifty-two and full of memories from a spring eleven years back, nodded toward heaven and the dinner line. Prayer came first, as it does in the West—right after loyalty and just before dessert.

The meal was hearty and honest: beef so fresh it might’ve said howdy that morning, beans baked to perfection, potatoes that tasted of soil and sunshine, and biscuits that made you wonder why anyone ever bothered with silverware. The cooks had done their duty, and the smell alone could’ve ended arguments from here to Reno.

Before we ate, Brand Thornton of Alamo—who looked like he’d once auditioned to be Johnny Cash’s lawn care man—gave us a rendition of Journey’s greatest hits, followed by a few mournful bars from the Man in Black himself. Most folks clapped politely, but one old codger named from Pahrump bragged he’d crept up behind the karaoke rig and dialed it down a few decibels.

“Mercy,” he whispered to me, “is the noblest virtue.”

While folks shoveled beans into their mouths, Ryan Bundy shared recollections from that dust-kicked April of 2014, when tensions with the Bureau of Land Management ran so high you could hear it in the coyotes’ yelps.

“The man from the BLM asked me what it would take to avoid conflict,” Ryan said, lifting his fork like a gavel. “I told him, ‘That’s easy—don’t come.’”

The crowd laughed like they would when remembering a near-catastrophe that turned out alright–but still left a few permanent creases in the soul.

They don’t call it a standoff ‘round here, not even in jest.

“Disagreement” is preferred—something a bit more neighborly.

In truth, it was a showdown with international eyes watchin’ and a freeway overpass near Bunkerville that briefly turned into the Western world’s strangest campsite. I recall, as I knelt there myself, then. The Bundys stood firm against what they believed to be government overreach, and they drew men with rifles and convictions from as far as Maine and maybe even farther.

I won’t lie—there’s a kind of spell at Bundy Ranch, a mixture of stubborn dust and American mythos seasoned with old-time religion and open-carry sincerity. The tables were lined not just with food but with pocket Constitutions and a biography of Cliven himself, penned by a feller named Stickler, a good name for a biographer of a man like Bundy.

“I believe the Constitution was inspired by God,” Cliven said, his voice slow and steady like he was laying bricks. “To me, this is scripture.”

He tapped his chest pocket like it held the Ten Commandments and winning lottery numbers.

“You want to fix this country? You listen to what the Founders were sayin’ in this little book.”

There was a kind of gentle time-travel to the day—maybe it was the beef, or the songs, or the way the sun caught the dust like gold flakes in a miner’s pan—but I could almost believe we’d gone back, not just to 2014, but to 1874. You half-expected someone to break out a fiddle and declare for the Republic.

One supporter, a man from Utah, said, “Coming back here today is like walking back in time.”

And I reckon he meant it as praise. There’s a comfort some folks find in the past, especially when the present feels like a rickety bridge built by some committee.

By the end of the meal, Cliven had moved on from beef and beans to talk of liberty, law, and the free press. He gave us a nod, us ink-stained types, saying he still believed in our kind.

“Twenty years ago,” he said, “there were fifty-two ranchers in Clark County. I’m the last man standing.”

He paused like a man peering out at the edge of the herd.

“But in 2014, I wasn’t alone. They tried to run us off, but folks came. Now, we got President Trump again, and what he’s doing is real close to what I’d do, so I guess I’m not the last man after all.”

I finished my plate, wiped the crumbs from my shirt, and thanked the Bundys for their hospitality. As I walked back to my truck, I thought about that old fence post of a man, the blue spring sky, and the strange blend of reverence and rebellion that hangs like sage smoke over Bundy Ranch.

It ain’t a place for everyone. But it’s a place where people believe—deeply, loudly, and with both boots planted.

And sometimes, in a world gone slippery with nonsense, there’s something mighty respectable about that, even if the karaoke’s a little loud.