Anarchist to Abolitionist: A Bad Quaker's Journey

Remember That Time?

The Mojave Desert, near Jawbone Canyon, 1980
The Sheep Ranch

The remote desert location made this house perfect for drying and processing large quantities of marijuana plants. It was five miles north of the city limits of California City and down a dirt road a mile from the nearest paved road. Anyone approaching from the north, the west, or the south would be easily spotted from the property. Therefore, it was near impossible to get to it without being seen well in advance. The eastern approach was a different matter. I'll get to that later.

If you cut across the desert roads to the south west, it was seven miles to the greenhouses at the California City Airport, where the growing operation was housed. Add all that to the fact that the local authorities were–let's call them–"not a threat" to the growers, and this was the perfect place to dry and process a few tons of pot. As an added bonus, the property had a mile long dirt runway.

The greenhouses had just produced their first crop and the growers were pressed for time to clear out the harvest so they could start the next crop. The previous occupants of the house had moved out only two days before, and the truck had been rolling hard to get the crop into the house to dry.

The roughly horseshoe-shaped house was huge. It was the former headquarters of a large sheep ranch from back in the 1920s. The north wing consisted of two average sized bathrooms with a sitting room between them, along with a half bath. Moving south, there was a large kitchen, roughly 25 feet wide by about 40 feet long. It was built for two cooks and a kitchen staff to prepare meals for a large crew of workers. It had two refrigerators that could run on propane or the standard 120 volt electricity. It had two gas ranges, two gas ovens, and two large sinks.

Moving south again, and adjacent to the kitchen, was the dining hall. It was also about 25 feet by 40 feet. The kitchen and dining hall made up the center of the horseshoe. The south wing was made up of the main hall, a room about as big as the kitchen and dining hall combined. The remainder of the south wing held the bunk hall, again about the size of the main hall, and a full bath. The house had a wide wrap-around porch, so no matter the time of day, you could sit and relax in the shade. Except for the bathrooms, the house had large windows in every room, which could be opened to take advantage of the almost constant daytime breeze. And that wide porch made sure the windows were almost always shaded.

The original purpose of the sheep ranch was to supply fresh meat to the local mining crews working the large gold mining operations of the Rand Mining District, an area that was in steady operation producing large gold strikes from the 1860s to around 1940. The house was the center of a very large profitable sheep ranch and as such it was fully self-sufficient with generators, a deep well, large water tanks and a water tower, and a horse barn with lots of stables.

The house was situated on the west side of a slight rise in the valley floor that came to its peak about one hundred yards behind the house, to the east. That gave the house full view of the north, south, and west, but only about a hundred yards clear sight to the east. That wasn't a safety concern for the growing operation, since to the east was nothing but the Mojave Desert. Literally not a single structure for hundreds of miles. So that night, from the east we came.

I had selected each member of the crew for their unique abilities. I didn't want anyone who was a close friend, as I knew this raid could get real ugly and I didn't want to lose any friends. My gunner was a guy I'll call Dinky. He was a very large, simple man who would follow my instructions to the letter and act without hesitation. Plus, he had his own rifle and was good with it. We used two vehicles, both 60s muscle cars that could outrun anything we could possibly face. The driver of the car I rode in was one of the best drivers I knew. Let's call him Mr. Schmit. The other driver was good, just not as good. But he had the connections we needed to dump our haul quickly. Let's call him Mr. Garcia. None of them knew where we were going and none of them had ever been there before that night. I made sure of that. They would be at my mercy for directions in and out. Otherwise, they would be at the mercy of the vastness of the Mojave. If anyone got left behind, it wouldn't be me.

Having spent countless days in jeeps, 4x4 trucks, dune buggies, and on dirt bikes, I knew that desert like I knew my own face. For what should have been a 10 minute trip, I wound the guys over dirt roads and trails for about 45 minutes before we crept down the hill to the old ranch house with our headlights off. There were no lights on in the house and we killed the engines and coasted the last 90 yards or so.

Silently we came to a stop behind the house. I had reviewed the plan with the crew. No one fires up an engine unless I come running out of the house. Dinky and I were the only ones going in. Schmit and Garcia were to be ready in their cars.

Dinky went in behind me with his rifle over my shoulder. He is not to fire unless fired upon or unless I say fire. Then he is to shoot at center body mass in bursts of two. I had a pistol in my pocket, but my weapon of choice was a large dagger, razor sharp on both sides. This was to be a silent operation unless we were forced to make noise.

Our first step was to clear the house of any resistance, peacefully if possible, but clear it no matter what that took. Quietly we crept up on the porch. I slipped the lock on the back door. Slowly we entered by the bunk hall, seeking the (hopefully) sleeping guards. Dinky was steady and my blade was drawn for the first strike.

You know, before I really get into this story, I should explain the journey...

Next chapter

First post & table of contents

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