In a strongly-worded communication, the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) has demanded that the State of Texas grant access to the U.S.-Mexico border on land seized by the state in Eagle Pass.

The letter, addressed to Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton, instructs the state to “cease and desist” efforts to block Border Patrol’s access in and around Shelby Park and remove all barriers by the end of yesterday, Wednesday, January 17. DHS General Counsel Jonathan E. Meyer contends that Texas’s actions are unconstitutional and disrupt federal government operations.

In response to the DHS letter, Abbott asserted, “Biden is doing everything possible to eliminate strategies that actually prevent illegal immigrants from entering our country. Texas will continue to use every tool possible to block illegal immigration.”

The letter set a deadline, suggesting a showdown between Texas’s actions and the authority of Border Patrol under federal law. The term “impeded” in the letter raised concerns, suggesting potential criminal consequences for officers carrying out Governor Abbott’s orders as Federal law 18 U.S. Code § 111 deems it a federal crime to impede or interfere with federal officers or employees with penalties including fines and imprisonment.

The incident unfolded on Thursday, January 11, when the Texas Military Department, acting on Governor Abbott’s orders, seized Shelby Park, expelling Border Patrol agents, erected barriers, and instructed Border Patrol to leave. Since then, crossings in the area have dropped from about 13,000 to 5,000 per day.

The subsequent drowning of a Mexican migrant woman and two children in the Rio Grande escalated tensions after their deaths were blamed on the Texas Guard by Congressman Henry Cuellar, who attributed the drownings to Governor Abbott’s decision to restrict Border Patrol access. A timeline from the Texas Military Department shows that their entering the park came after the drownings, with confirmation from a CBP source that the trio lost their lives an hour away and floated down the river until recovered by the Mexican Federal Police.

Despite this, the DHS letter maintains that denying access to the park contributed to the drownings. Biden administration officials say a communication from Grupo Beta, affiliated with Mexico’s National Institute of Migration, indicates Texas refused Border Patrol access when a group of migrants attempted to cross the river.

In a sudden about-face, the Biden administration, in a new filing to the Supreme Court, admitted that a mother and two children who drowned last week died long before Border Patrol agents sought access to the Shelby Park area from Texas officials.

A Chinese Communist Party member is the second-largest foreign owner of U.S. farmland, with an $85 million Oregon purchase made secretly nine years ago.

Chen Tianqiao bought nearly 200,000 acres of farmland in the Bull Springs Sky Line Forest in 2015 at about $430 an acre. However, his purchase of the acreage does not appear in government records of land ownership by foreign investors.

The Agricultural Foreign Investment Disclosure Act requires foreign investors to report any new interest in American agricultural land to the Department of Agriculture within 90 days of the transaction. So far, USDA Director Thomas J. Vilsack has refused to explain.

Chen trails only Canada’s Irving family in foreign ownership on the list, who own 1.2 million acres of Maine timberland.

The upcoming re-election bid of City Councilman Devon Reese has taken an unexpected turn as recent allegations suggest he may have crossed ethical boundaries, opening the door to potential campaign finance violations.

Reese, facing a tough re-election battle, is actively campaigning and aggressively collecting funds. However, an alleged in-kind contribution from Waste Management might derail his efforts.

The sanitation giant sent out mailers featuring Reese as the “Vice Mayor of Reno,” accompanied by a quote creating concerns about an in-kind contribution that could exceed legal campaign contribution limits. We even received one at our home.

The most an individual or entity could give Devon Reese would be $5,000. So, if the maximum contribution is $5,000 and this mailer costs over that amount, it could be a campaign finance violation with significant penalties. The mailer may have cost $100,000, $200,000, or more to blanket the county.

If proven true, this could result in severe penalties for Reese. Already facing a few ethics violations, Reese failed to disclose the in-kind contribution on his campaign report posted to Nevada’s Secretary of State’s website.

It was one of those temporary assignments for further training that the Marine Corps is well known for, and I came prepared in more ways than one, but I let no one know it.

For three days, I lingered in the barracks, sleeping or reading. I went to chow and cleaned as I and others waited for the training platoon to fill up with the bodies the Corps thought we should have.

Desert training would be long and hot at an average of 112 degrees during the day, with nighttime not much better at 95. The only blessing was a hard-moving easterly breeze that not only cooled but peppered us with sand, small rocks, and other debris like buckshot from a cannon.

Navigating by starlight was no treat either. Nightly, we were left cussing out the variety of cacti we encountered with our shins, calves, hands, heads, and asses.

But, like everyone else, I survived.

On the second night out, I was with the forward squad, which consisted of five men and a training NCO. The staff sergeant separated us by far enough links that we could not see one another, only hear each other as we groped through the dark.

Ahead of us came a loud noise, like a grunt, followed by a low, guttural growl. Everyone froze in place.

I kneeled, knowing what was happening.

The same noise came again. Harsh whispers came from the men around me as they grew concerned that a wild animal was ahead of us in the dark.

Before I arrived at the Stumps, I heard there was the possibility that the instructors would likely pull a prank or two involving what they called the Yucca Man. Growing up in the redwood forest of Northern California, we called him Bigfoot or Sasquatch.

Again, that sound came. This time, four men, silhouetted by a blanket of stars, fell back, retreating from whatever was out in that desert area before us.

Suddenly, I realized that our training NCO was standing next to me. As I looked up at him, the growling came out of the darkness, and he jumped, eye growing large, turned, and disappeared behind me.

Whatever this thing was, it was not a prank, as all the NCOs started shouting for us to return to our jumping-off point or from where we started that night’s training. I wasn’t afraid but curious, so I remained on one knee, rifle up, safety off, ready to confront whatever this was.

Remember, this was a pitch-dark night, illuminated by only the stars. As I studied the area ahead of me, I listened and waited.

Then I saw something pass about 20 feet in front of me. I only realized this because it blotted out the stars as they moved from left to right.

Slowly, I stood erect and started quietly stepping backward. I maintained my composure until I heard a loud sniff, as if it were disgusted, from my left and slightly behind me.

Then, the rotten egg smell hit my nostrils. It was too close for comfort, and my military bearing evaporated faster than the sweat dribbling down my back.

“To hell with this,” I said, sprinting back to my bivvy area.

The Federal Government has violated Article IV, Section 4 by refusing to protect our borders.

“The United States shall guarantee to every State in this Union a Republican Form of Government, and shall protect each of them against Invasion; and on Application of the Legislature, or of the Executive (when the Legislature cannot be convened) against domestic Violence.”

Now, Texas is enforcing the 10th Amendment of the U.S. Constitution and taking matters into its own hands.

“The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people.”

The Texas National Guard is denying Border Patrol agents access to Shelby Park in Eagle Pass as the Biden administration continues to let in illegal migrants. The move has angered the Biden administration, who submitted a new court filing to the Supreme Court, claiming Texas is illegally putting up miles of razor wire.

“That fencing further restricts Border Patrol’s ability to reach the river in particular areas,” the Department of ‘Justice’ said. “But the Texas National Guard has now blocked Border Patrol’s access to the area, rendering its agents unable to place mobile surveillance trucks.”

Pundits claim the move could cause a Civil War. That aside, I think every State, including Nevada, needs to follow suit and eliminate the Federal Government and its control over the individual states.

“Surmising that the prospectors had been murdered by the Indians, a party of citizens attacked the Indians on Battery Point, near town, killing the one who had the pistol and several others.” A. J. Bledsoe, History of Del Norte, California with a Business Directory and Traveler’s Guide, 1881

In northwestern California, the Taa-laa-wa Dee-ni’ thrived. However, in the spring of 1853, a shadow descended upon their existence as a group of prospectors, led by a man called “California Jack,” set out on a fateful journey from Crescent City to Smith River.

As California Jack and his men prepared for their journey, their excitement filled the air. 

“This land is said to be rich in gold, boys! We’re going to make a fortune,” exclaimed California Jack, his eyes gleaming with dreams of wealth.

Fueled by dreams of gold nuggets, California Jack struck a deal with Sam, a Tolowa man he believed owned promising land. Unbeknownst to California Jack, the concept of land ownership was foreign to the Native Americans, and Sam, aware of the prospectors’ desires, saw an opportunity.

In a trading conversation, Sam, with a wry smile, remarked, “You want this land, yes? We trade. You give me gun, I give you land.” 

The engraved pistol, a prized possession of California Jack, exchanged hands, sealing a transaction that would set the wheels of tragedy in motion.

As California Jack and his men set out to work the mine, the promise of gold held them in eager anticipation. Yet, as days turned into weeks, the glint of the precious metal remained elusive. 

Frustration grew, and California Jack, sensing something was amiss, discovered the truth about the land trade. Anger welled within him at the realization Sam had tricked him.

“This is a swindle! That Indian played me for a fool. I won’t stand for it,” fumed California Jack, his voice filled with anger.

Soon, news of the Native American attack near Battery Point reached the prospectors, stoking fears of retaliation. California Jack convinced that the Tolowa were the aggressors, felt compelled to strike first to protect his men and his perceived interests.

Gathering his small party, California Jack voiced his concerns, “We can’t wait for them to attack. We need to act first. Gather your arms, men. We’re heading to that Tolowa village near the Smith River. They won’t know what hit them.”

The journey towards tragedy began as California Jack and his men, armed and resolute, approached Yontocket, and the stage set for a confrontation that would leave scars on the land and the souls of those involved. 

Whispers of the prospectors’ fate reached Crescent City when a Native American carrying a pistol engraved with the name “California Jack,” neared Battery Point. Fearful that the tribe had slain the intruders, a group of townspeople, fueled by rage, descended upon the Native Americans at Battery Point.

In the chaotic confrontation, accusations flew. 

“Look at that pistol! It’s California Jack’s, and that’s enough for me! They must’ve killed him and his men,” shouted one of the angry townspeople, his face contorted with anger.

Sam, surrounded and feeling the weight of their eyes upon him, attempted to explain in broken English, “No harm. Trade for land.”

“He’s lying! You can’t trust these Indians,” someone voiced from the crowd.

“Murderers!” someone else shouted. “They killed California Jack!”

Amidst the chaos, shouts of “murderers” echoed, drowning out Sam’s broken attempts to plead for understanding. The settlers took matters into their own hands. 

The tragic scene unfolded as the crowd descended upon Sam and his party with a brutal and unrelenting force. The Tolowa’s lives ended at the end of a noose, the engraved pistol collected as evidence, and a militia hastily assembled.

The tension was palpable as the townspeople discussed their next steps.

“We can’t let them get away with this. We need to find their camp and make them pay for what they’ve done,” declared a voice in the crowd, rallying others to join the pursuit.

The Tolowa, hearing of the deaths of the three men from their tribe, sought refuge at Yontocket Ranch, a small settlement near the mouth of Smith’s River. In the shadows, a group emerged, ready to defend their people. 

“We can’t let them reach Yontocket. That’s our sacred ground. We must stand and fight,” declared a Tolowa warrior, rallying his comrades.

The attackers displayed a disturbing familiarity with the terrain, suggesting that someone in their midst possessed knowledge of the region. Yontocket, the heart of the Tolowa World, was a sacred village where tribes convened for religious celebrations, such as the Needash, a feather dance ceremony, after the fall harvest.

The third night of the gathering turned into a nightmare as the town mob invaded Yontocket, setting off a massacre that would scar the Tolowa people forever. 

“They’re coming! Defend the village!” cried a Tolowa elder, his voice filled with desperation.

One survivor later recounted the horror, stating that over 450 people perished that night. The onslaught came from the militia, known as the “Company,” formed by settlers from Crescent City.

The aftermath of the massacre was even more brutal. As Peter H. Burnett discovered the survivors’ location, a thirty-three-man company, armed and resolute in their intent, encircled the Tolowa at Yontocket. With the sun on the Eastern horizon, the attackers unleashed a barrage of gunfire, overwhelming the Native Americans armed only with bows and arrows.

The air filled with the screams of men, women, and children as they attempted to escape the onslaught. “Hold your ground! We can’t let any of them escape!” shouted one of Burnett’s men, the determination in his voice echoing the brutality unfolding.

The attackers, unsatisfied with the bloodshed, ignited a massive fire, consuming sacred ceremonial buildings, clothing, and food. With Yontocket razed to the ground, the few surviving Tolowa were left to grapple with the devastation.

As the attack had left its mark on the land, and as the flames of Yontocket consumed the sacred grounds, the once-prominent figure of California Jack became a haunting memory. Upon hearing about the Battery Point incident, he and his men formed a resolve to exterminate all Native Americans. 

“We’re well armed and resolved upon the extermination of all Indians,” California Jack reportedly declared, his words echoing with a chilling determination.

As Burnett and his men closed in, California Jack found himself trapped. In the cold light of dawn, just when the first rays of the sun touched the Eastern horizon, the attackers opened fire and caught in the crossfire, meeting his fate on that tragic morning.

Details of his demise were shrouded in the smoke and confusion of the massacre, but it is a fact that California Jack became a casualty of the brutal clash between cultures. 

“The camp of the prospectors on the banks of Smith’s River was easily found, and further search resulted in the discovery of the bodies of the men, all bearing marks of violence by the Indians,” wrote Bledsoe, nearly 30 years after the event, even though no witness testimony has ever found to back the claim up.

The official count spoke of 150 lives lost, but Tolowa sources insisted that the toll was much higher, estimating 600 victims in one of the deadliest massacres in U.S. history.

The aftermath was grim. Burnt Ranch, a reminder of the scorched homes, replaced the once-vibrant Yontocket. 

The survivors, bereft of their cultural center, relocated to Howonquet, a village north of Smith’s River. The Tolowa people continued to endure relentless attacks during their sacred Needash celebrations, contributing to the brewing unrest that eventually ignited the Rogue River Indian War.

The tragedies didn’t end there. 

In the years following the Yontocket Massacre, the Tolowa suffered further massacres – Chetko, Smith Creek, Howonquet, and Stundossun – totaling a staggering 902 lives lost in seven years. There are no records of accountability for the perpetrators other than they reported little or no loss of life. 

As for California Jack’s pistol, it appears lost to time.

For several months, while I’ve been able to get Veterans Affairs appointments at the mental health clinic, getting to see an actual medical physician for a check-up or screening, or whatever that call it now, has been difficult. And while it seems like I’m about to rant about the VA health system, I’m not.

Then I began having worsening dizzy spells, spells I’ve been living with for the last couple of months. On top of that, I have been battling some of the meanest headaches I have ever experienced in my life. Add to this forgetfulness, fatigue, and myriads of other things, all noticeable differences in my life, and I figured something had gone wrong with my health.

The last time I went to the VA in mid-December, I stopped again in the appointment area to see if I could see a medical doctor. The woman behind the plexiglass screen told me not until July or August.

About three weeks later, my cellphone rang while I was at work. I answered, and the woman on the other end asked if I could make it to a VA medical appointment at 9 a.m. because they had a cancellation.

I said that I could, and I did.

The nurse weighed me, took my temperature, and checked my blood pressure. It was a whopping 201/100 — a deadly range.

That became the focus of Dr. Phillips, who prescribed Losartan to help relax the walls of my blood vessels. Since starting it, my systolic number has dropped by 30 points, and just that tiny change has made a difference, as I am feeling much better.

This health scare placed me back in the combat zone, where death is a possibility and becomes acceptable at a certain point, which is oddly calming in such stress. Between learning I could stroke out at any time and receiving my prescription, I moved into that sedate zone, knowing that if it happened, I could do nothing about it.

Finally, the VA medical system instituted a call list on January 1 for vets waiting to see a medical doctor, a policy I knew nothing about. Dr. Phillips said I was one of the first people called via the new program.

Thus, two more God things.

In the depths of judgments, dark and deep,
A tale unfolds, a somber promise to keep.
In accusing gazes, the privileged stand,
Lost in shadow, caught in fate’s open hand.

Males, burdened by a weight unknown,
An essence questioned, stories overthrown.
Whites, painted in hues of unjust perception,
Bear the weight of a flawed conception.

Christians marked by sin’s predetermination,
Struggling against internal condemnation.
Mid-aged souls, twilight’s strife entwined,
Deemed guilty in life’s relentless bind.

Able-bodied, seemingly robust, and sound,
Condemned in whispers that echo around.
Middle and owning class, donning stigma with care,
Wearing a privileged cloak woven with despair.

English-speaking voices heard loud and clear,
Yet their words resound in a realm of fear.
In this prejudiced symphony, they play,
A melody of hopelessness, day by day.

But ponder we must in this bleak expanse,
Can hopelessness be our enduring stance?
For in casting guilt, do we build a bridge,
Or deepen chasms, privilege, and privilege?

Not even media wants to scribe a final line,
Their cameras yearn, parsed words intertwine.
Claiming dog whistle, sharp stick, self-blind
Witnessing our murder, a tale left untold.

My Cousin Elmo says, “Never make a woman fall for you, if you don’t intend on catching her.”

In the rugged backcountry of the Feather River area, where the wilderness met the unpredictable weather, I was part of a horseback search and rescue mission.

The call had come urgently, a hiker lost in the vast expanse off Highway 70, and I, with my trusty horse, Hickory, embarked on a journey into the heart of nature’s uncertainty. As we looked for the missing hiker, the skies started changing from a clear day into a winter wonderland as large, heavy, wet snowflakes gently descended from the heavens.

The mission became mixed with the challenges of navigating through the freshly fallen snow. As the storm intensified, we sought refuge in an aging outbuilding.

The structure creaked under the weight of the snow, but it provided the shelter needed to weather the storm. Little did I know that this snowfall would persist through the night and into the next day, blanketing the landscape with a thick layer of six feet of snow.

The once straightforward task of rescue turned into a battle against nature itself. Miles away from civilization, the isolation set in, and my only companions were the echoes of the wind and the loyal hooves of Hickory.

The wooly chaps I wore to protect my legs proved futile against the biting cold, leaving me vulnerable to the relentless winter. Snow found its way between the leather and my jeans, and I thought frostbite would be the outcome.

Day after day, Hickory and I pressed on, navigating through the vast and challenging river canyon. The landscape, now a serene and frozen wilderness, tested our resilience as the cold gnawed at us, and each step became a struggle against the elements.

Three days passed, and just as the struggle seemed endless, we finally found our way out of the river canyon. The relief was palpable, but the reality sank in — we were alone in the wilderness for far longer than expected.

As we pushed on, I longed for a cup of hot coffee to warm my insides and hands, and I imagined Hickory was daydreaming of a feed bag of oats.

As we emerged from the snowy expanse, I learned that the lost hiker had managed to self-rescue during our arduous journey. Returning home, I realized I had become the one on the verge of being reported lost.

My poor wife, caught between relief and worry, had been awaiting news of our safe return.