And Now… The Rest of the Story

I am quite certain that several of you noticed that parts of my last blog post just didn’t add up. The Keystone Cop routine of rushing in blind and then retreating, the anxiety over our neighbors’ safety, the massive response by law enforcement… all for metal scrappers?

I have to admit to leaving out a key piece of information. In a word – guns.

As you may recall, I am married to a retired hunting guide, who still hunts for pleasure on a regular basis. He has quite a collection of “long guns” – rifles, shotguns, muzzle loaders – all tools of the trade.

Or, I should say, had.

Our primary concern that night was to stop the bad guys before they gained access to the storage container, which is where we store everything that doesn’t fit in the barndominium (basically, everything we own). It is actually an old cell tower site – a reinforced building surrounded by chain link and barbed wire. We are convinced that they expected to find wiring, batteries, and other assorted electronics inside. What they found instead was a completely different story.

And Dave and I are sick about it – on so many levels that I am at a loss on how to verbalize it.

As you know from previous stories, I am still coming to terms with my own comfort level with guns. I recognize the need to protect myself from mountain lions and now, apparently, meth-heads, but I still question my ability to ever raise a gun against any living thing. (Except, of course, rattle snakes.)

But now, with my own sense of security violated, I am feeling incredibly vulnerable. So it was with a desire to feel more empowered that I asked Dave for some more target practice because, while I feel comfortable enough with the .22 pistol and snake shot, I have never really shot a long gun.

And here it becomes necessary for another emotional aside. Starting the morning after the incident, neighbors have been showing up on the doorstep, quietly offering Dave the loan of a “ranch rifle.” The thoughtfulness of it, the matter-of-factness of it, has brought tears to my eyes on not a few occasions.

But we began my training with one of the rifles spared in the heist. It uses the same caliber bullet as the snake shot pistol, so the only thing I had to get used to was contorting my body around the stock to sight in targets.

And, as I polish my fingernails against my shirt collar, I batted 750 when it came to shooting tin cans off the fence.

The thing is, it took me so long to set up and sight in each target that the mountain lion would have had time to completely devour two mules and at least half of one of my own legs before I pulled off a shot. And that would only have served to piss it off even more – feeling more like a bee sting than anything else.

With that in mind, Dave took up an offer from one of the neighbors, and we borrowed a shotgun that they both swore was the perfect size and caliber for petite, little me.

Dave set me up at the pond for this practice session, wanting me to see the “scatter pattern” that the gun produced. He handed me ear plugs, which should have been my first warning, and then showed me how to stand so I wouldn’t get knocked over. He warned me it would have a lot more recoil than the rifle I had first tried, and left me with the admonishment, “So don’t be a sissy and drop the gun after you pull the trigger,” before stepping well out of the line of fire.

I firmly planted myself, locked in on a mud patch in the pond, and… Holy Crap!

To my credit, I didn’t drop the gun, nor fall on my butt.

But, I am still picking pieces of my teeth out of my tongue, and I don’t expect to be able to lift my arm over my head for a week.

As for the scatter pattern – the shells were called “dove shot.” All I can say is never mind the dove, an entire flock of geese would have been completely obliterated. I guess I can rest assured that when the bear comes through the kitchen window for the dinner leftovers, that dove shot will have sent it fleeing into the next county before I can finish picking all my molars up off the floor.

In light of our new arsenal, we needed to pick up some ammunition to go along with it. In an interesting pairing of errands, we made stops at both the gun shop and Victoria’s Secret.

So I can say with confidence that the Badass Tinkerbell is, once again, well-armed and well dressed.

What We Have Here is a Failure to Communicate

Our mountain community is quite small, and very spread out. In most cases, if you need to borrow a cup of sugar you’re looking at a two-mile trek at the very least.

So our main connection to one another tends to happen while driving the main road. Our two mile ride to the ranch may take up to an hour as we stop to visit with the neighbors we cross paths with, catching up on the latest news and gossip.

And, let me tell you, you don’t need cell phones, Blackberries, or instant messaging when you have the mountain hotline! News travels faster than lightening, although the accuracy of the information tends to lose a little in the translation. Remember the tin can “telephones” connected by a piece of string from your childhood?

As an example, if I were to greet a neighbor at the top of the mountain and mention in passing that I saw a bear the previous evening, by the time I get to the bottom I’ll be asked by another neighbor about the monster bear that Dave shot last night and the two cubs that I’m now hand-raising.

So as I started encountering neighbors on my commute home one evening who tossed out comments like, “I’m so sorry about the robbery!” and “I heard they got everything!”, I was not overly concerned, recognizing there must be some distortion to the story. I had, after all, just talked to Dave fifteen minutes previously and nothing had sounded amiss.

As it turned out, Dave had discovered earlier in the day that thieves had targeted a storage area on the property. Over dinner, he explained that they had mostly taken things that could be sold as scrap metal: water pumps, shovels, ladders, batteries. They had also tried, but failed, to access our storage container.

He had gone to the local police department to report the crime, but more importantly, to let them know about our remote location and find out about response times, as he was convinced they would be back for what they could get out of the storage container.

Long story short, he was told to contact the County as it was out of their jurisdiction, they were too short-staffed, and we lived too far away.

Message received.

As we finished dinner, we discussed the type of shady character that would pull such a heist and his plan to visit the County the following day, and then he walked outside. Only to come racing back in.

“I can hear them! They’re breaking in right now! Let’s go!”

For the next part of this story, you should be imagining something akin to the Keystone Cops meet the Dukes of Hazzard.

We charged up the hill towards the storage unit, adrenaline pumping, stopping just below to make our presence known.

And this is where the Keystone Cops come into play. We hadn’t thought through any action plan, and suddenly found ourselves in a Mexican standoff. We knew they were there, they knew we knew they were there, but now what?!

Call for backup!

But, Oh crap! No cell service.

Retreat to regroup!

We raced back down to the olive grove where Dave ducked behind a tree near the main road to keep watch while I ran back to the house, where my phone actually works. Then it was a matter of running back and forth through the grove, alternating making calls with updating Dave on who was coming.

Which is where the Dukes of Hazzard come into play. Within ten or fifteen minutes, the neighbors started showing up from all directions, most half-cocked (and a couple of them, half-crocked). As the bad guys saw all the lights converging, they decided to run for it, one on foot uphill, and the other in a truck downhill.

What followed was what you would expect from any great chase scene – high speed pursuits, cars catching air, trucks blasting through locked metal gates. The only thing missing (thank God!) was a gun battle.

Enter the professionals. You should now shift your mental picture to one of the final scenes in the movie The Blues Brothers, where 152 police cars chase Jake and Elwood all over creation.

There were lines of squad cars hitting dead ends on the dirt roads, only to have to wait as, one by one, they reversed out and attempted to turn around without driving off a cliff in the dark. There were broken down vehicles; radiators blown on the steep, rough terrain.

And the climax came as 27 shotguns were whipped out and trained on my husband and a neighbor, who in an unfortunate coincidence drives a truck with a similar description to the suspect’s vehicle.

Okay, maybe it was only 2 or 3 shotguns, but it was enough to send me streaking through the olive grove, shrieking at the 911 dispatcher, “Tell them not to shoot! Tell them not to shoot!”

**********

It’s time for me to put all kidding aside. This was a heavy, emotionally charged night that I’m still really trying to find humor in. Dave and I are still second guessing ourselves about involving the neighbors, especially in light of the 911 response that we actually got. And I agonized over every call I made, knowing that we might be putting each of them directly in harm’s way.

But our neighbors are rock-stars. To a person, they instantly dropped everything and came to our aid without hesitation, which we will never forget and forever appreciate. In fact, a few are genuinely angry with us that they weren’t called. And it was largely through their actions that we ended up with the outcome that we did.

And in all seriousness, the Sheriff’s show of force was swift, impressive, and incredibly professional. They brought in a K-9 unit and helicopter to track the suspect on foot, and a forensics unit was here until 4:30 am processing evidence.

And recognizing the value of local knowledge, within seconds after being caught in the crosshairs of their shotguns, our neighbor was already riding shotgun in a squad car, acting as navigator on the backcountry roads. And Dave was helping them make sense of the chaos at the crime scene.

The final outcome? Armed with the information our neighbors collected before the law arrived, the first suspect was arrested in less than 24 hours. And they nabbed the second within 48 hours. Deputies have been up every day since to build their case, collecting more evidence, witness statements, and lists of stolen property. They should be able to charge each of these rat bastards with at least one, if not two, felony counts.

Let’s hear it for the good guys!

**********

As for all of us involved, we remained on high alert for a few days afterwards. So we all got riled up when, the following day, rumors started filtering in through the mountain grapevine that the suspect on foot had held out until daybreak and then called a buddy, who had the audacity to drive up and pick him up. But, according to the rumor, a neighbor had chased them down and actually caught them!

High fives all around, and score one for mountain justice!

Or, maybe, we need a new tin can on one end of our mountain communication system.

The true story is almost better. As a neighbor left the mountain mid-morning, he came across a car he didn’t recognize, who refused to stop when he flagged them down. So he threw his car in reverse and chased them – backwards – up the mountain, and straight into a Deputy Sheriff who had been up collecting evidence.

Unfortunately, I’m afraid that the elderly couple who was just coming up the mountain to visit their son will be traumatized for life.