Wilson's loss

It's been a while since I shared a Wilson tale. I thought of one while writing my latest post on my prepping blog.

It's possible I have written about this before, but I didn't find it.

Years after Wilson disappeared I happened to run into him in another tourist town. He was living in the area and working at a hotel.

Things hadn't gone his way since the last time I had seen him.

Back when he lived across the river from me, he was an ammunition hoarder. When we went out to shoot, he took 3 or 5 cartridges for each of his two firearms. That was it. He bought ammo with each paycheck, but he wouldn't use it. He just stacked it into a nice wall of ammo in his house unheated shack. He said he didn't want to use what he might someday need.

But, after he left the area, things went south-- according to what he told me. 

As many of us tend to do, he got into a relationship with the wrong woman. She got angry at him and called the police to report him as a danger. Keep in mind this was well before "red flag laws" were all the rage with antigun bigots, so I guess they aren't "necessary" after all.

But the cops did what cops do: kicked in his door, tackled him to the ground, cuffed and kidnapped him... and stole all his guns and ammo. Back to square one. But he didn't end up in prison.

I didn't ask if he'd yet managed to rebuild his collections. I knew not to pry too much.

I guess it's a good idea to have a secondary stash, in case the Blue Line Gang steals your primary one.

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Wilson's temper

Wilson had a bit of a temper, which I experienced a few times as his target. Fortunately, most of the time he was upset at someone or something else-- not me.

I would be sitting at the fire out by my riverside wikiup and he'd drop by ranting about something. I'd invite him to sit. We'd talk for a while about whatever was bugging him, and if he was still worked up I would suggest we go shooting. It was his therapy.

I've mentioned before how stingy he was with his ammo, but just the act of heading out to one of the local shooting spots was usually enough to calm him down. The whole process usually took a couple of hours from the time we left the house until we got back-- with driving time and all. He needed the release, even if it only involved firing off 3 or 5 rounds.

If that hadn't been an option, like the anti-gun bigots seem determined to bring about, then I don't know what would have happened. It couldn't have been good.

Everyone needs that pressure release valve, whatever form it may take. You take that away from people at your peril. I saw for myself how it could help an agitated person regain his composure. The more tightly you try to control people, "for their own good", the more people will eventually "pop".

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Reminder: I could really use some help.

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Wilson's government "job"

As much as "Wilson" disliked and distrusted government, he did have a government "job" most of the time I knew him.

He had been stopped by a cop at some point, and ticketed for something. Probably "driving without a license", but I'm not certain of that (I do know he never had a driver's license as long as I knew him). Part of his "fine" was community "service" at the recycling center-- I think he was there for a couple of months. (I met him during his stint at the recycling center.)

Apparently, the supervisor was impressed enough with his work that he offered Wilson a permanent job at the landfill.

Even better was what Wilson was to do as his job: he just walked around the perimeter fence all day picking up escaped trash. Honestly, he really enjoyed it. It didn't pay as well as the job government cronyism had stolen from him earlier, but it was peaceful, undemanding, and he was left alone from the time a co-worker dropped him off in the morning until he picked him up at night.

He carried a backpack, his .40 pistol, and a "wrist rocket" type slingshot. For his lunch break he would often use the slingshot to shoot a grouse, then cook it over a small fire. Occasionally he shot an extra grouse and took it home for a later meal (he offered me a bird once or twice).

I never questioned him about the contradiction of working for an entity he despised-- it was none of my business. I just knew the job suited him better than most other available jobs.


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Reminder: I don't mean to grouse, but I could really use some help.

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YOU get to decide if I get paid.

With Wilson in the wilderness

I've mentioned the business "Wilson" had which was shut down by government meddling. Well, due to our similar interests in that area he and I used to hike in the wilderness area outside of town. He wore a camo army jacket with cargo pants and army boots and I wore my buckskin clothes and mocassins-- in other words, I didn't dress any differently than normal for the hike, although I did carry extra gear.

Most people find me a frustrating person to hike with-- one former wife said I don't hike, I wander aimlessly from spot to spot. But Wilson seemed OK with it.

Those hikes gave us chances to hone some of our less-critical survival skills. We had to cross racing, ice-cold rivers on foot going in and coming out-- during the spring melt that was pretty exciting. We sometimes encountered serious mud traps. We nibbled on various plants, tracked animals, watched game, and met whatever other necessity cropped up for us to tackle.

Until we'd get a long ways down the trail, when we used the trails, we would also encounter the occasional hiker or two. When I'm out wandering like that, I tend to go a bit psychologically feral. When that happens I usually don't like encountering other people, so when we'd hear someone crashing noisily down the trail-- and that's what they all did-- we would step off the trail, sit and wait for them to pass.

When we did this we were never noticed. Not once. We especially enjoyed seeing the female hikers pass, but we never spoke to them. We didn't want to get pepper sprayed as a result of trying to be polite.

We were never more than a few feet off the path. Not hidden. Just sitting still and silent. I suspect people don't like to suddenly notice you under those circumstances.

Once, however, I was in the open, sitting on a boulder in an open area in plain sight, and still just about scared a hiker's dog to death when I said "Hi" as he came to sniff the rock. That time I was seen, but I wasn't trying to not be.

Needless to say, Wilson and I were not very impressed with people's observational skills. Of course, who's to say we didn't miss people doing the same as we hiked past. We were a lot quieter than others, though; while most of them never stopped talking, we rarely spoke. And we saw a lot of deer quietly watching us pass. But who knows.

Of all the Wilson stories, these were the times I enjoyed hanging out with him the most. It was always hard for me to turn around and come back to "civilization". But that's always been the hardest part for me.


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Reminder: I could still really use some help.

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Wilson's Dan Wesson revolver

Justice is something you won't find associated with government.

"Wilson" was accused by a guy he knew of being involved with the guy's wife. The guy came to Wilson's house carrying a shotgun and yelling threats. Wilson met him at the door with his revolver held down at his side. A nice Dan Wesson revolver that he really liked. Seeing Wilson's gun, the other guy decided to just yell at him for a bit, then walked back to his vehicle. But as he left he fired a shot from his shotgun into the air.

Someone, either the shooter himself or a "concerned neighbor", soon called the cops about the "shot fired".

An hour or so later, the cops showed up at Wilson's door, arrested him and stole his revolver. They didn't care about the fact that Wilson wasn't the one who fired the shot-- they didn't want to hear it. They never checked up on the other guy. They had "the perp".

Fortunately for Wilson, the jury didn't buy it. They found him not guilty.

So Wilson asked for the return of his revolver. He was told he would have to file paperwork to get it back. He jumped through all their flaming hoops, and waited. And waited. And kept asking. And waiting.

A year or more later he was finally told his gun had "disappeared", so "too bad". He was told there was nothing he could do. The state wasn't responsible for replacing (or paying for) the revolver.

Wilson was pretty sure who had taken his firearm. The prosecuting attorney had made comments which suggested he liked the gun and wanted one like it. Sure, this is circumstantial, but obviously the guy was crooked or he wouldn't have been a prosecuting attorney in the first place. Later he became the district attorney (or something like that over that whole quarter of the state). I still remember the guy's name because of the hatred Wilson felt-- and expressed-- for him. I shared his opinion.

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Wilson, the stingy

"Wilson" was the stingiest person I ever knew... with his ammunition.

In his mostly unfurnished house, he had built a "wall of ammunition". He had stacked the little boxes of 7.62x39 and the bigger boxes of .40 S+W so as to build a "wall" against the back wall of his living room. It didn't actually cover the whole wall, but it was about 3 or 4 feet high and about 6 feet long. It continually grew. I don't know why he didn't find a better way to store it.

But when we would go out shooting, he would only shoot one firearm that day. He would either shoot his carry pistol or he would bring along his SKS to shoot. He would never shoot both on the same outing. And he would only bring 3 to 5 cartridges to shoot. That was it.

The first time we went out to shoot his SKS I offered to buy a box of ammo from him for us to shoot. (He always bought every round the local shops would get as soon as they came in.) But, no, he wouldn't do that. He was convinced he might need it later.

When I ran into him years later and miles away he told me he had gotten married, but it went bad and his angry wife reported him to the cops for abuse. They came to his house, cuffed him on the floor at gunpoint, and stole his guns and all his ammo. He said he never got it back. I have no clue if he really abused her or not. It's possible-- he could be a bit excitable. Doesn't sound like she was without issues, though.

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If you enjoy personal stories like my "Wilson" series, you might also like Grant McGee's blog. He used to write in the paper here and has pretty interesting tales to tell.

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Reminder: I could really use some help.

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Wilson and the accused informant

"Wilson" was a little paranoid. We spent a fair amount of time together, frequently wandering trails (and off-trail) on foot in the nearby wilderness area. I knew he didn't trust easily. I was to discover that what trust he did have was shakey and easily upset.

There was this guy he sometimes spoke to in town. I had seen the guy around, wearing old camo clothing and a backpack-- I suspect he may have been homeless-- but I never met him. Which is odd because he claimed to know me and he caused Wilson to lose his trust in me. Which could have ended badly.

I stopped by Wilson's house one afternoon and he approached my car with an odd demeanor. I noticed his hand was on his pistol. I didn't get out of my car, but asked what was up. He told me this guy, who I didn't know and had never spoken to, had warned him I was a police informant. Supposedly I was spying on Wilson's activities and reporting to the cops. He was telling me all this using colorful language.

I got very uncomfortable very quickly. I honestly expected to be shot at any moment-- and my young daughter was in the car with me.

(A few years later I got the same sort of feeling when a different friend told me he "knew" I was a Martian who was controlling his mind, but that's another story. I'd rather be a Martian than work with the cops.)

Wilson loved to buy ammo but hated using it. I've never seen anyone so stingy with ammunition. Maybe that worked in my favor that day.

I told him I wasn't a police informant, and would never do that. Not to anyone. I told him emphatically that I had never worked with, or helped, the police in any way. Never had and never would. He knew how I felt about cops, or at least I thought he did. He questioned me for a few minutes, and I guess he was satisfied enough with my answers. I left on somewhat calmer terms. But it was a few weeks before we were back to normal.

For a long time I wondered what the guy had actually said to Wilson about me. What he had against me, and how he was even aware of me. Had Wilson mentioned me and the guy just decided to accuse me? Did he have me confused with someone else? That seems unlikely because I was sort of "unique" in town, but it was a town of misfits and maybe he mixed me up with someone else. Or, was that guy an informant who didn't like me speaking to Wilson and keeping him less volatile? At this point, I'll never know.

Eventually the incident passed and was never mentioned again. Once I regained his trust I never seemed to lose it again.

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Reminder: I could really use some help.

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Wilson vs the Forest Circus

I first met "Wilson" soon after he moved to the area. He told me he moved because he had lost his business. Personally, I think his business was stolen from him by the mafia Wilson always referred to as the "Forest Circus". These were the clowns who controlled (and rationed) the license which "allowed" Wilson to conduct his business.

His former business would be my dream business. In fact, I tried to think of a way we could go into partnership and start again, but unfortunately, it was never to be. Neither of us had the money to get it started.

He showed me one of his leftover brochures. I loved his idea.

What he did was take people into the Colorado wilderness on "public" [sic] land. Sounds simple, doesn't it. He charged what seemed to me to be a huge amount, but he had plenty of takers. He said he had as many as he could manage.

He then let them decide what they wanted out of the experience.

If they simply wanted to get away for a few days, that's what he helped them do. If they wanted to learn survival skills, he helped them with that. Whatever they were looking for, while having an experienced outdoorsman along, he tried to provide. He asked that they not take radios or anything like that on the trip, but otherwise didn't require anything too primitive unless that's what they wanted. He was always more modern than me anyway.

He made certain to walk "lightly" and leave as little trace as possible. This was partly self-interest, otherwise his future clients wouldn't have been happy with the scarred land and the trash, since he generally used the same area for each trip. He was conscientious about leaving little or no trace, and proved this to me time after time.

One thing he did was to go out the day before they left and bury a frozen Cornish game hen (one per person) and make sure that's where they ended up on the last day out when he would dig them up and cook them for a special meal. (He never mentioned any getting taken by bears.)

He had clients from all over the country. The one who apparently made the biggest impression on him was a city guy who was facing a bleak, short future with AIDS. He was the only client Wilson ever specifically talked about. The guy was very grateful for the experience of being immersed in nature's beauty and grandeur, and Wilson seemed moved by the chance to see the wilderness through that guy's eyes. When you see something every day it's almost impossible to avoid getting a little jaded. I think the dying man's joy jolted Wilson out of his apathy.

Unfortunately, I think that was one of the last customers he had before the bureaucrats of the US Forest "Service" decided to not allow him to renew his outfitter's license, but to give it to a political crony instead. Suddenly, Wilson's successful business was turned into a "crime". This infuriated him, and he never got over it. I can't really blame him.

He was soon broke and (mostly) homeless and moved to the western side of the pass where I lived. I would never have met him otherwise, but it really was a nasty thing they did to him. Something he never really recovered from-- emotionally or financially. I don't know how much he hated government before this happened (I heard stories) but they definitely made an enemy that day. Not that they care. But, if he ever goes Heemeyer* on them, I'll understand and sympathize.

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*Interestingly enough, Marvin Heemeyer looked an awful lot like Wilson.


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Reminder: I could really use some help.

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YOU get to decide if I get paid.

Wilson and the state police

This tale has a few holes. I was trying to remember all the details, but I may not have known them all at the time. Anyway...

"Wilson" never had a driver's license in all the years I knew him. He normally traveled by bicycle. He wasn't usually in a hurry and it was cheaper than buying fuel. Especially at our local prices.

When he needed to carry a load or make a longer trip he drove his old full-sized van. He avoided being pulled over because he wasn't a reckless or impulsive driver. But one day his luck ran out when he was a few miles outside of town.

The state trooper pulled him over and asked for his papers. Well, he didn't have any.
 So the goon ordered him out of the van. He complied. The cop wanted to search his vehicle. Wilson refused to consent and started quoting the Fourth Amendment. This was one place where Wilson and I disagreed. In spite of all the evidence to the contrary, he believed the Constitution could protect his rights. I wanted to believe it; he did.

The cop didn't like being informed of his legal limits. He called back-up and a K9 unit, and searched anyway. Wilson sat cuffed on the side of the road to keep him from "interfering" with the cops' "duties".

The cops found nothing-- which is surprisng. I guess they'd already used up all their incriminating substances that day. The cops didn't find the pistol in his backpack, either.

But this is where there's a hole in the tale: I can't remember how the attack ended, or how Wilson got his van back home, but he wasn't arrested and the van wasn't impounded as far as I can remember. I do think he ended up getting the van's paperwork in order soon after this, so maybe it was briefly impounded. If it had happened to me I'm sure I would remember better.

He was much more reluctant to drive the van after this, and pretty much left it parked until he got the pop-up camper and needed to haul it around. But he still didn't get a driver's license.

This confrontation didn't improve his attitude toward cops and led to another incident, as he was coming out of the grocery store, a few weeks later.

In that encounter, the sheriff grabbed him by the shoulders, shoved him against the wall, and told him to "drop this 'Constitution' $#%!". This didn't surprise me, since the local sheriff never saw a right he didn't want to violate. (That was still the most free place I've ever lived, in spite of the vile local Blue Line Gang.) And that threat just made Wilson ramp up his outspokenness to new levels.

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Reminder: I could still really use some help.

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Wilson's pop-up camper incident

Not the actual camper

After "Wilson" moved out of the house without heat, he and his elderly black chow (I'm blanking on the dog's name) moved into a pop-up camper he had bought.

He moved it frequently to avoid "imperial entanglements". This meant I saw him less often, and I don't even know where he was parked most of the time. I never was invited out to his camper; he probably didn't want anyone to know where he was parked. He was probably on Bureau of Land Management land-- it was all around us and I knew several people who lived on it.

He still stopped by the shop in town to visit during working hours, or dropped by my campfire if I was home.

One day he came to the shop very agitated. Almost explosive with anger.

He told me he had gone out for a hike and when he returned he saw a couple of people fleeing his camper, which had been vandalized. All the canvas around the door had been shredded. He was really angry, and I was sympathetic. After all, it was his home. He wasn't sure it could be (affordably and sufficiently) repaired. At least his dog was OK.

He was going to track the vandals down, and... what? I'm not sure, but I wouldn't have wanted to be them. So with grim determination, he took off again.

I felt really bad about his situation, but he wasn't usually open to accepting help.

I didn't see him for a couple of days, but when I did he was acting strangely sheepish. He needed to tell me something, and I could tell it was really bothering him.

He made sure no one could hear us and admitted there had been no vandals. His chow had ripped up the canvas to escape the camper, possibly intending to follow him on his hike. The dog was old and arthritic, and he had left him behind so he could get where he was going faster, and with less trouble. The dog wasn't too bright and constantly caused problems, on the trail and off. So the dog ripped up the canvas to escape, but ended up hanging around the camper anyway.

He seemed a little less excitable after this incident. I didn't hold it against him, even though I didn't really understand why he made up the story in the first place. That's the only time I know of that he wasn't truthful. This wasn't too long before he vanished from the area without a word.

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Note: I've added the tag "Wilson" since it looks like I may keep posting of his escapades, if people ask for more. I'll post something about the highway patrol encounter next time.

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Reminder: I could really use some help.

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This blog is my job.
YOU get to decide if I get paid.

Wilson and the USPS

Here's the next installment of The Wilson Files.

This is all second hand, from "Wilson" himself, so it may have been embellished. He was keeping me informed almost hour-by-hour during the events, rather than dropping by my fire to tell me the story after it was all over, so I suspect it's close to the truth. (Although a later incident did show he could lie-- even if he soon came clean due to guilt. More about that another time, maybe.)

He wasn't getting some things in the mail he was expecting. Like the catalog he had requested from a freeze-dried survival food outfit in Utah. In fact, he wasn't getting any mail at all. He wouldn't use the internet, so catalogs in the mail were very important to him. Then his mom said she'd sent him something, but he never got that, either. He was getting pretty upset, and I didn't blame him.

We didn't get home delivery, but had multi-box units along the highway. (The picture above, courtesy Google Street View, is the actual bank of mailboxes in the story.) He saw the mail carrier stuffing mail in the boxes and stopped to ask her about his missing mail. I wasn't there, so I really don't know what was said, or how he said it. He could be a little intense. He suspected she was stealing his mail, and he probably said as much.

Then when he didn't get a satisfactory answer from the carrier, if I remember correctly, he went to the post office in town and complained about his missing mail.

A couple of hours later a pair of cops or deputies (he didn't live in town, but town cops often left town to spread their "service") came to his house to talk to him. His door was slightly ajar, so the cops just pushed it a little more and stuck their heads in the house while calling his name. Of course, their guns were unholstered "just in case". Wilson was familiar to them.

Wilson could be a little twitchy, and always open carried. This could have gone really badly, but he saw the cops before they saw him, and carefully placed his gun out of sight, but where he could grab it. (I was treated to a dramatic re-enactment at the scene later that day.)

They said the mail carrier claimed he had threatened her. He said he was just asking where his mail was going. The cops said threatening a postal employee was a federal crime. He said he made no threats, he just wanted his missing mail.

The cops told him to watch what he said to the carrier, and that it would be best if he didn't speak to her again or approach her while she put mail in the boxes.

Everyone survived the encounter, and Wilson wasn't arrested.

Funny thing was, the next day he started getting mail.

I can't remember if he ever got the item his mom had sent, or the catalog of survival foods. But that seemed to be the end of his missing mail problem.

To Wilson (and to me) this seemed to confirm his suspicions that the carrier was responsible for his missing mail. You aren't paranoid if they really are out to get you.

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Reminder: I could really use some help.

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YOU get to decide if I get paid.

Wilson, the stubborn

I had a friend-- I'll call him "Wilson"-- who was... interesting.

He was a bit of a conspiracy nut, more than a little paranoid, hated government, was good at outdoor survival skills, had questionable taste in women, and was very stubborn.

Yes, he had his flaws (as do we all) but all-in-all he was a decent guy. I always enjoyed hanging out with him.

Here's one tale about him:

One winter his woodstove was not safe and he couldn't use it. The stove pipe was messed up somewhere above the ceiling. His landlord refused to repair the stove pipe so a fire could be lit. This was the only heat in the house, and it was already winter near Gunnison, Colorado.

He told his landlord that he would fix the stove pipe himself and deduct the cost from his rent. The landlord said "no". Wilson wasn't the kind of person to just bite the bullet and fix it at his own expense. So after a bit more arguing over it, Wilson simply stopped paying rent. And the landlord never tried to kick him out.

He spent the winter in an unheated house-- which obviously meant he had no running water, either.

He was lucky-- I don't think the temperature ever got much colder than 20° below 0 (°F) that winter. He lived diagonally across the river from me, and I went to visit him a few times over the winter. His house was about the same temperature inside as the outdoors. He wore his coat all the time.

He slept in one of those "100 below" mummy-type sleeping bags, inside a pup tent, in his bedroom. He said it was warm enough. His house would warm up a little if he cooked something, but that didn't last long and I don't think he cooked much.

I offered to let him hang out at my house some, but he didn't want to. He said he didn't want to get used to heat. He would sit at my campfire out by the wikiup with me, though.

That was his last winter in the area.

After a few other incidents, Wilson suddenly vanished. Years later I ran into him far from home, while I was on a vacation. He was working in a resort town in New Mexico and I bumped into him on the street. We caught up a little; he told me of more recent incidents, and I got his (general delivery) address. I mailed him a few times, but eventually my letters came back as "undeliverable".

I might relate some other Wilson stories another time. There are a lot of them to tell: his clash with the post office, his clash with the sheriff, the time he became convinced I was working with the cops against him, his clash with the forest circus (his term), why he wouldn't use the internet (he would know this is about him, but I know he'll never see it), his pop-up camper incident, his clash with the highway patrol... I notice a pattern here. But not all fit the pattern. If any of those pique your interest, let me know and I'll write it up for another day.
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Reminder: I could really use some help.

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This blog is my job.
YOU get to decide if I get paid.