On the Border
Dudley Williams
ALONE
By Stephen L. Wilmeth
Am I the
only one?
Am I the only one here tonight
Shakin’ my head and thinkin’
something ain’t right
Is it just me? Am I losin’ my
mind?
Am I standin’ on the edge of the
end of time?
Am I the only one? Tell me I’m
not
Who thinks they’re takin’ all
the good we got
And turnin’ it bad, hell, I’ll
be damned
I think I’m turnin’ into my old
man.
Song by Aaron Lewis
Who is this fellow, Lewis?
Over the past several days, the
song has been shared enough times that at least his name is going to start
being recognized by folks who don’t pay much attention to so called country
music anymore. The lyrics are rough. Nana would not have approved at all in how
the message is presented, but Nana didn’t live in this modern world, either.
She would be appalled.
The fact is we are all disgusted
with the political polarization. If there is a statesman, he or she isn’t in
the top five or six slots. There isn’t one of them who could or would stand and
say, whoa, enough is enough … there is more to lose here than to gain.
There is no alternative other than
to deduct there is genuine hatred.
Those five or six have made the individual(s)
the target of hate, but there is no isolation factor. The supporters of the
individual find themselves in the net and have assumed the role of ally from
which they, too, are cast into the likeness of the hated.
The Border is but one of the
chapters of this growing tragedy and nobody is more in the crosshairs of the
outcome than the border ranchers.
For far too long, they, like the
other targets of federal misadventure, have been relegated to an outcast bin.
Where they are gathered in their meager groups of five or six, there is not
enough critical mass to swing any influence.
They stand alone.
On the Border
The Daily Signal’s Rachel del
Guidice has penned a worthy article about border rancher, John Ladd. Mr. Ladd
ranches near Bisbee, Arizona and knows firsthand what life is like having his
front yard and its ten miles of international border with Mexico open to the
public, the federal land agencies, the CBP, the ATF, the US Marshals, the FBI,
the Arizona Game and Fish, the Arizona Brand Board, local law enforcement, at
least three major Mexican drug cartels, and untold numbers of illegal,
undocumented travelers from all points of the globe.
Mr. Ladd (66) has a problem,
though.
He is the current patriarch of a
family heritage marking 125 years of ranching on that border location. He
doesn’t want to live anywhere else. He doesn’t want to do anything else other
than what he has spent his life doing, and he could use at least a modicum of
support from the same federal government that had changed and was making his
life and his business tolerable up until the beginning of 2021.
This is his legacy.
He knew the fellow that lived in
the White House a year ago recognized his existence and his circumstance. There
was an intuitive bond. As it now stands, his ranch is but one of the many on
nearly 1954 miles of international border that simply serves as a pathway to
all comers for unearned United States citizenship.
The travelers remind him boldly that
this president, the fellow that must speak from notes, wants them here.
Dudley Williams
Dudley Williams doesn’t know him,
but he is a brother of Mr. Ladd in every way but blood.
Mr. Williams (age immaterial and no
one’s business anyway) ranches in the Potrillo Mountains of southern New Mexico
210 miles east of Mr. Ladd’s place. His ranch, now largely designated wilderness,
is 300 sections of wild frontier. Wild is the proper byline, too. The isolated
Potrillo complex is America’s newest Arizona class smuggling corridor. It has
every feature as a coveted source to market avenue for drugs entering the
United States from Mexico. The lands are dominated by federal land ownership. The
geographical features lie generally north and south providing natural,
protected access (only to be enhanced by wilderness designation and no
motorized vehicles). There are key, high points for cartel observation and
directed operations. Other than Mr. Williams’ home and ranch camps,there are
no permanent residents for early warning and constant presence. There are major
improved roads running east and west located north and south of the complex. To
make things worse, this massive corridor is bordered on the north by the major
and ultramodern southern tier transcontinental railroad where 7-11 super unit
trains may be parked at any time awaiting priority clearance.
Mr. Williams has pleaded for sovereign
sanity.
It’s not as if this cross-border
invasion is new to him. He ranched in San Diego County, California before he
escaped urban sprawl and found New Mexico. He was in San Diego County when it
was the hot sector and thousands of cross border trespassers sought the
sanctity of urban centers north of the line daily. He knows the real environmental
carnage border invaders create.
This isn’t their land.
The urban center draws have been
replaced by the cartel-controlled desolation of southern Arizona and New Mexico
and the immensity of the length and surrounding lands of the Rio Grande Valley
of Texas. Mr. Ladd’s counterpart will relate the same stories of cut fences,
drained water storages, and dead or near-death experiences of the people who
pay for passage north into Del Norte. There are other even more repulsive stories,
but border ranchers have learned it doesn’t matter. Washington could care less.
This isn’t their home.
ALONE
A comment was made this week. Aren’t
you glad you ranch north of I-10?
The implication, of course, is that
the majority of illicit traffic is picked up along I-10 (at least in New Mexico),
and then transported away from the border. The answer is simple.
Absolutely, but the Ladds,
the Williams, and the other families south of I-10 are pretty much on their
own. Many no longer call the Border Patrol at all. It is akin to law
enforcement in most rural areas of the West. Nothing is ever solved and
certainly there is no resolution. We smile and we wave, but we are pretty much
left to our own devices for security and continuity. That varies from county to
county, of course, but the experience for too many is simplistic.
The word is spelled A-L-O-N-E.
Stephen
L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Dudley Williams is my friend
and a neighbor to our south. Our range will be forever less safe and certainly
less interesting when certain ranchers of his cut are gone.”
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