The Old Blog in the Desert

The Nevada election landscape is a never-ending game of cat and mouse, a system engineered to ensure victory for those who understand the convoluted rules. And Sam Brown’s loss is just another glaring example.

In Nevada, however, “election season” drags on as ballots trickle in until the chosen candidate comes out on top. What we are seeing is legalized manipulation, courtesy of laws like AB321 that have turned Nevada into the poster child for questionable election practices.

The problem is how a network of policies and practices effectively builds a firewall to protect the political elite.

Take ballot harvesting: the law allows activists to deliver bundles of ballots with minimal oversight. Adding to it are voter rolls that are rarely updated, and lax ID requirements mean no one verifies the people casting votes, and the system is ripe for abuse.

Want more evidence? Nevada does not require postmarks on mail-in ballots.

We have all sent and received mail, and it is rare to see anything unmarked. But, somehow, ballots in Nevada are an exception, enabling a loophole where legitimacy becomes guesswork.

And recounts? They are laughable, re-running votes through the same machines as though feeding data into a black box a second time changes the answer.

Despite Secretary of State Cisco Aguilar’s recent claims about addressing Nevada’s election issues, he ignored bipartisan solutions proposed by Governor Joe Lombardo during the last legislative session. The reforms, designed to expedite and secure the process, never saw the light of day, thanks to a political machine that refuses to budge.

Aguilar could have taken action—he could have supported measures to clear outdated voter rolls and implement strict ID requirements. Instead, he’s now “frustrated” and suggesting new deadlines. But without structural changes, it is just a Band-Aid on a gaping wound.

If there is nothing to hide, why not allow for a hand recount in Washoe County, where the delays have been particularly troubling? Washoe has invested millions in equipment to process thousands of ballots daily, yet progress is sluggish.

A manual audit would be simple—confirm the machine results and verify signatures against DMV records. The results would be available in two days, and if everything is up and up, transparency would only strengthen public trust. Instead, officials label any questions as conspiracy theories and call for blind faith in a system that is anything but transparent.

In a class act, Sam Brown conceded to Senator Jacky Rosen. He took the high road and thanked Nevada for the honor of running, but his message resonates as a call for transparency and resilience.

BrownSam may be stepping aside, but Nevadans who believe in fair elections will not stop demanding accountability. They are not silent, and they are not backing down.

So here is the challenge to Nevada’s officials: prove “We the People” wrong. Open the books, allow a recount, and give voters the transparency they deserve.

The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows over the sand of the desert. A hot wind stirred the grit and dust, whispering through the skeletal remains of a long abandoned village. Sergeant Major Collins sat outside the tent, his eyes scanning the horizon, where the land met the sky in a wavering line.

He had been in the Marine Corps for more years than he could remember, each year adding to the weight on his shoulders, a burden he wore like a second skin. He thought of the young men under his command, fresh-faced and eager, their spirits unbroken by the realities of war. They were good boys, he thought, brave and strong, but they didn’t know yet.

The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. It reminded him of the sunsets he had seen in places far from here, where the ocean met the shore, and the world seemed to breathe in and out.

In those moments, the war felt distant. But here, it was always close—hovering like a storm cloud.

He heard the distant hum of engines, a sound that rumbled in his chest. They were coming. The vehicles rolled in, dust swirling around them, the men inside tense with anticipation. He could see the look in their eyes, a mixture of fear and determination. They had trained hard for this, and now it was time.

“Listen up!” Collins called, his voice steady, cutting through the noise of the engines. The men gathered, forming a semicircle around him. “We’ve been through hell together, and we’ll go through it again. Stay sharp. Trust each other. Keep your heads down.”

He watched as they nodded, some exchanging glances, their bravado still intact. It reminded him of himself at their age, full of fire and certainty. He wondered if they knew how quickly that could change.

As the last rays of sunlight faded, the sky turned dark. The stars appeared–cold and distant, indifferent to the lives that played out below. Collins felt the familiar tightness in his chest. He had seen good men fall, brave men who had fought fiercely and taken too soon.

The night was heavy with silence, broken only by the distant sounds of the night—the rustling of the wind, the creaking of the vehicles, the gruff murmurs of the men. In the darkness, he could hear the unspoken fears, the questions that loomed like ghosts. What would happen when dawn broke? What would they face?

He closed his eyes momentarily, letting the stillness wash over him. In his mind, he could see the ocean again, waves crashing against the rocks, the salt air filling his lungs. He remembered the freedom of those moments, the peace that came before the storm.

The sun would rise soon, and with it would come the chaos. But for now, in the quiet before the storm, he found a sliver of solace. He opened his eyes, resolved. He would lead them through it. They were Marines, after all. They would fight. They would endure.

In the warm glow of the afternoon, the thermometer nudged a pleasant 73 degrees—a fine day for late October. With a satisfied sigh, I took my cherished 1913 Liberty overalls, those sturdy bibs that have seen me through many a day, and gave them a good wash. I never trust the machine to dry‘em; instead, I hang them on a low-hanging branch of our aspen tree, letting the sun soak into the fabric and the warmth, embrace them like an old friend.

But this morning, I woke with a nagging sense that something was amiss. As I turned to reach for my trusty bibs at the bedside, my heart sank—I had left them out overnight, exposed to the chill of the night.

With a groan, I pulled on my boots and stepped outside. The air bit at my cheeks with a brisk 30 degrees, and there, in the aspen’s branches, my bibs hung like a forgotten memory, frozen solid, stiff as a board, and to my utter disbelief, a crafty old crow had commandeered a button from one of them.

The feathered rascal with its glossy black eyes, seemed way too pleased with its prize—a half-ripped button from the one side of my bibs. As I shooed the crow away, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony.

Guess, I’ll be donning my Wranglers until I can patch up my favorite overalls. Even a greenhorn knows better than to leave his bibs out overnight.

Pete and I stood outside The Roasting House, sharing a laugh over the Venus Fly Trap he had received as a gift. It sat proudly on his office desk.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna feed it come wintertime,” he mused.

“My mom used to raise a few Fly Traps when I was a kid,” I said. “Raw hamburger works—that’s what she used for hers.”

“Good idea,” he said. “Any other suggestions?”

I couldn’t help but grin at the memory that surfaced. “Yeah. Don’t talk your younger brother into putting his willy in one.”

Pete burst into laughter. “What?”

“Yep,” I continued, chuckling. “I talked my brother into putting his willy in a Fly Trap. When it slapped closed, he took off screaming like it had bitten him.”

Pete’s eyes widened, and he laughed even harder.

“Mom was not too happy with me for that,” I said. “Not only did she have to deal with a terrifed, screaming five-year-old, she had to rip the plant apart to free him.”

“Did you get in trouble?” Pete asked, still laughing.

“Couldn’t sit at supper that night,” I replied. “Mom whipped my ass pretty good. And worse et, my brother never fully trusted me after that. He’d tell people I tried to get a Venus Fly to bite his willy off.”

Coffee came out of Pete’s nose.

In Nevada’s Senate race, Republican candidate Sam Brown saw his early lead begin to erode as incoming ballots favored his Democratic opponent, Senator Jaky Rosen—a scenario sparking calls for increased scrutiny over Washoe County’s voting procedures. Over 100,000 ballots reportedly sent to incorrect or invalid addresses call into question ballot integrity, echoing similar claims from the previous election cycle, when a comparable down-ballot shift impacted GOP candidate Adam Laxalt’s race in 2020 against Senator Catherine Cortez Masto.

Compounding the controversy are allegations that Washoe County’s Registrar of Voters (ROV) office failed to conduct proper signature verification, enabling the counting of potentially invalid ballots. This process involves comparing signatures on ballot envelopes with official records to confirm voter identity, a measure that many believe has not been uniformly enforced in Washoe County.

Critics are urging an emergency audit of every ballot envelope in Washoe County, with verification of each signature following Nevada’s Secretary of State guidelines. They contend that signatures that do not match, and if fraudulent, should result in the removal of votes for all relevant candidates. The unprecedented approach, which advocates admit could raise constitutional questions, would uncover potential discrepancies in voter verification processes.

Supporters of the audit are calling for federal oversight to ensure transparent, accurate vote counting, demanding that both parties be allowed to scrutinize ballot integrity. With video evidence allegedly showing lapses in signature verification practices, proponents claim that a thorough investigation is essential to safeguard the integrity of Nevada’s election processes.

Meanwhile, in a press conference on the unfolding election situation in Washoe County, Deputy Registrar of Voters Andrew McDonald attempted to quell growing frustrations, pledging that the ROV would “do better next time.”

The statement, however, sparked further criticism as voters pointed out the ROV’s ongoing struggles and recurrent issues across multiple election cycles. And with a new Senate seat hanging in the balance, Republican candidate Sam Brown’s tenuous lead has drawn sharp scrutiny to Washoe County’s ballot-counting process and long-standing procedural challenges.

With over $30 million invested in an election system to handle around 300,000 voters, the Washoe County ROV’s struggles have only intensified public discontent. The county has cycled through several acting registrars in the past four years, yet election night has increasingly become an exercise in delayed results and incomplete counts.

Despite these investments, persistent issues in vote tabulation and verification have led many to question whether the failures point to more than just incompetence.

The highlights of McDonald’s report were sobering as 79,000 mail-in ballots are already processed, leaving about 46,000 mail ballots in the pipeline. Additionally, 1,458 ballots have been challenged and require “curing,” where officials attempt to resolve issues, such as missing or mismatched signatures, to determine their eligibility.

The lengthy delay in finalizing counts has added more doubt surrounding the ROV’s operations. With criticism mounting, there is a need for a top-down review of Washoe County’s election procedures.

The old K-R wasn’t a big-time setup, just a scrappy outfit. Every Friday night, I’d drag 19-year-old Slim along to round up the cows out of the pasture and crowd ’em into the little quarter-acre square we used for a catch pen.

We’d camp out overnight because some Saturdays at daylight, we had twenty head of horses to catch and haul two miles down to the “stables.” That fancy word didn’t mean much in our case; we ran the whole deal off the tailgate, horses tied to ropes strung between trees.

We’d have to check on ’em throughout the night—another reason we camped there all weekend. Slim’s ma thought me stickin’ around was a good influence, figured I’d keep him in line.

Trouble was, I liked a good drink now and then, and there was a saloon a couple of miles down the way. So, after setting things straight with the horses on Saturday night, we’d mosey on over there, unbeknownst to Slim’s ma.

We’d be back to check on the horses by three in the morning. I kept myself mostly sober, but Slim was a different case. He managed to rustle up a fake ID and took it as a personal challenge not to leave a drop in any bottle he got his hands on.

To stay awake on the way back, I’d stop by a water trough halfway home, and dunk my head in that cold spring water to shake off the drowsiness. Slim usually woke up when I did this, but one night he was too far gone.

He didn’t stir until we reached the gate. Groggy, he sat up, scratched his head, and asked, “Are we at the water trough yet?”

Some horses were in a mood and hard to catch one Saturday morning, so we had to rope a few from horseback. That night, I let my youth and dumbness get the better of me.

Walking out to catch one of the more dependable horses, a pony zipped past. On impulse, I tossed out a Hoolihan, hit the ground as the rope went tight, and got dragged a good way before the pony finally stopped.

Slim thought this looked like grand fun. So when a full-sized horse ran by, he threw a loop, but his technique didn’t match mine. He pitched a nice loop around the horse’s neck and let out the extra coils just right—but forgot to drop to the ground.

That horse hit the end of the line, and Slim went airborne like a cannon shot, legs pinwheeling like a busted windmill, arms straight up like a high diver. He held on for dear life until the last second, then let go, but not before he managed a one-point landing that jammed his hat clean down over his eyes.

Watching him spin through the air, arms flailing like a windmill caught in a tornado, I couldn’t help but laugh fit to bust.

Then, he peeled his hat off, looked at his shoulder, and deadpanned, “Ya know what? I think I broke my shoulder. Ya know what else? I think I’m gonna pass out,” which he did, face-first into the dirt.

Finally got him in the truck and drove into town. At the ER I called his ma and told her what had happened.

Slim grinned at me when she walked in, “Are we at the water trough yet?”

To this day–his ma doesn’t know a lick about what he was yapping, thinking it was the pain medicine talking.

As dawn’s first light struggled to breach the horizon, he mounted his cow pony and rode up the rugged incline toward the Hungry Valley Rez. The air was crisp, a sharp 35 degrees that pricked at his skin, a reminder that winter still held its sway.

He paused atop the ridge, gazing down into the Spanish Springs Valley. The scene that unfolded before him stirred a deep ache in his heart—the once-quiet expanse was now a tapestry of homes and bustling enterprises, each structure a witness to man’s relentless march.

His thoughts turned to the coyotes he had observed on his daily journeys, those wily creatures now more frequently traversing the asphalt that had replaced their wild paths. They were harbingers of a fading era, forced to adapt to the encroaching civilization that encircled their territory.

The realization struck him with a palpable weight: he was also an endangered breed. The burgeoning world, brimming with progress and prosperity, threatened to sweep away the land and the essence of his existence.

He sat there, caught in the silence of the morning, feeling the chill of the future closing in around him. Soon, these rides—sacred moments of solitude and reflection—would become nothing more than echoes of a time long past.

The beauty of this land, unmarred by man, would retreat into memory, and he would have to wander the shadows of what once was a solitary figure adrift in the tide of progress.

A video captured over the weekend by a volunteer for Marsha Berkbigler’s GOP campaign for Washoe County commissioner has set off another political storm, revealing what appears to be an incident of campaign sign removal.

The woman in the video, Amy Powell, is the Deputy Director of Voter Protection and was seen removing Berkbigler’s campaign signs from a public area. Powell was reportedly an invitee at an event hosted by the Washoe County Democratic Party.

A former commissioner, Berkbigler is vying for the seat against current Democratic Chairwoman Alexis Hill.

The video, recorded by volunteer Cliff Nellis, shows Powell in a Mercedes van with California license plates. Nellis confronted Powell and recorded their interaction, which lasted 11 minutes until police arrived.

Powell contended that Nellis had improperly placed the signs on county property and had abandoned them. After reviewing the incident, police found no legal violation on Nellis’s part, and Powell returned the signs.

The police did not press charges.

Following the incident, Nellis visited the Washoe County Registrar’s office to inquire about Powell’s role in the local election process. Deputy Registrar Andy McDonald initially confirmed that Powell served on an election certification board. Communications Manager Bethany Drysdale later stated that Powell no longer is the Deputy Director of Voter Protection.

The accuracy certification board in Washoe County, tasked with overseeing the functionality of voting machines before elections, comprises three individuals per Nevada state law (NRS 293B.140). The board must be politically balanced, with no more than two members from the same political party.

Drysdale says a Washoe County employee has replaced Powell.

The incident has drawn criticism from Washoe County Commissioner Mike Clark, who questioned Powell’s trustworthiness.

“If Ms. Powell had anything to do with counting votes, verifying signatures, or any election process — and has shown this behavior — I question her integrity,” Clark said.

He further suggested that Powell’s actions, in his view, warranted further investigation.

“Just because she returned the signs doesn’t absolve her from accountability,” he said. “A bank robber isn’t absolved if he returns the money when caught.”

Clark also questions Powell’s use of a van with California plates.

“If she was acting in an official capacity, why was she using an out-of-state vehicle?” he added.

Clark stated that he expects the Washoe County Democratic Party to condemn Powell’s actions and is calling on Chair Alexis Hill to disavow her publicly.

It is not often that the residents and visitors of Virginia City can claim to have witnessed anything stranger than what befell the town the day after Halloween. Much to the astonishment of the esteemed city fathers and mothers, a flock of no less than a thousand wild turkeys descended upon C Street and began a determined march eastward.

Why they chose to head east remains a spirited debate among the townsfolk. Some of the more imaginative residents speculated that the turkeys were seeking asylum at the many Native American reservations in that part of Nevada, holding a grudge against the Pilgrims of Massachusetts for the infamous First Thanksgiving.

You see, turkeys, unlike humans, have a remarkable sense of historical injustice.

Others, possessing a differing logic, posited that the turkeys were bound for Utah. Why Utah, you ask? It was suggested, with no small amount of conviction, that the turkeys had somehow deduced that Mormons might abstain from Thanksgiving festivities, as they presumably prefer their turkeys alive and well, thus providing a haven for these feathered fugitives.

But the tale does not end there. Always with an ear to the ground for ways to evade the carving knife, the turkey stumbled upon the Mormons. Now, anyone with a passing familiarity with history knows that Mormons, like all good Americans, partake in Thanksgiving with great enthusiasm.

Yet the turkey, in its infinite wisdom—or lack thereof—latched onto a misunderstanding. They had overheard whispers of peculiar customs and dietary restrictions among various religious groups and mistakenly conflated these with a rejection of Thanksgiving. The turkeys thus theorized that Utah, the heartland of Mormonism, must surely be a haven where Thanksgiving was just another ordinary Thursday.

It is a curious and amusing affair when one contemplates the reasoning of turkeys, those feathered philosophers who find themselves unwitting participants in the annual celebration known as Thanksgiving. One must first delve into their historical grievances and misplaced logic to understand their peculiar migration.

As the story goes, the turkeys of North America have long harbored animosity toward the Pilgrims of Plymouth Rock. With their big hats and buckled shoes, the Pilgrims are infamous among turkey-kind for inaugurating what is now an annual feast of fowl.

Their ancestors witnessed their kin presented as the centerpiece of this grand occasion and passed down tales of woe and betrayal through the generations. Thus, the turkeys developed a mistrust for anything remotely resembling a Pilgrim–or a Thanksgiving table–for that matter.

However, turkeys are unknown for their grasp of nuanced human customs or history. With their limited yet imaginative comprehension, they reasoned that the Native Americans, who were present at that inaugural feast, might share their disdain for the holiday.

After all, if your ancestors had graciously shared their harvest and knowledge, only to see it commemorated by the annual consumption of your feathered friends, you might feel a tad resentful, too. Thus, in the collective turkey consciousness, Native American reservations became perceived sanctuaries, free from the shadow of Thanksgiving.

Armed with these dubious historical interpretations, the turkeys made their audacious bid for freedom down C Street. One can only imagine the scene—a thousand turkeys, heads held high, strutting with an air of righteous indignation, convinced they were heading toward liberation. Whether they were seeking the supposed sanctuary of Native American reservations or the imagined indifference of Utahan residents, their motives were clear: to escape the fate that had befallen their forebears.

Of course, reality and logic do not always coincide. Should the price per pound of turkey rise beyond the customary 95.7 cents following this great migration, it will undoubtedly be the fault of misguided but noble wild turkeys.

And so, the Virginia City Turkey Migration of ’24 will be carved into the annals of history, demonstrating the indomitable spirit—and occasional folly—of those who seek freedom.