Stephen Fuller (6:44)

It was late September. The gorgeousness of the American west in the autumn. The aspen trees, the incredible beauty of the meadows. And I just immediately fell in love with the place. That was an epiphany for me. And there was a job in Yellowstone for a winterkeeper. And I thought, well, that sounds just about perfect for me. And I got the job. Since I was the only applicant for the job, I wouldn't have gotten it otherwise.

Interviewer (7:13)

Why were you the only applicant?

Stephen Fuller (7:16)

Because it paid $13 and a quarter a day. It was very remote. Well, an old timer told me it was the toughest work in Wyoming. If that's true, that's really saying something. When I came here, I had more than 100 buildings to keep the snow off of. You know, I worked with a snow saw and a broad steel scoop shovel. I'd cut blocks about the size of upright refrigerators and skid them off the roof. Historically, winterkeepers didn't last very long. The guy before me had been here for two years. Hated it. The guy before that damn near killed himself with whiskey. It was very typical not to see another soul in the winter. Supplies were extremely difficult to get in. It wasn't most people's cup of tea. Isolation, hard work, poor pay. There wasn't much competition for the job.

Interviewer (8:18)

The math I'm doing says there's always a roof that needs to be cleared.

Stephen Fuller (8:23)

Yeah, there is always a roof that needs to be cleared.

Interviewer (8:26)

It's Sisyphus. The snow comes back and you got to do it again. And the snow comes back and you.

Tommy Mischke (8:31)

Got to do it again.

Interviewer (8:33)

But you're saying to yourself, what?

Stephen Fuller (8:36)

I loved the physicalness of the work. There was an exuberance to the physicalness of the work. Also, nobody was telling me what to do. I worked with the weather. It's not an 8 to 5 job. Monday through Friday, I came to really not just the physicalness of the work, but the craft. Now, it may seem like ditch digging if you don't know anything about it, but snow is an incredibly complex, always in flux material with very interesting properties. I would cut the snow. It's actually a cross cut saw blade like before chainsaws. I put a D handled snow shovel handle on it, which would give me what, an eight foot reach, seven foot reach with a saw. And I'd use that to cut the blocks on the roofs. Now, some of the blocks resemble an upright refrigerator. On some of my buildings, though, I Would cut blocks the size of a van. They were great fun, like cutting down a redwood, only without the ethical implications. But I found a beauty on the roofs. And you know, you're up high, it could be a glorious day with those wonderful high mountain clouds. The ravens are wheeling around overhead, talking to each other, talking to me. I'm talking to them. Nobody's telling me what to do. There's the song of the saw, you know, swinging. It makes a certain kind of music. You walk up to a building that's got an acre of roof on it with anywhere from 15 to 6ft of snow on it. That's an interesting technical problem. It's almost like a combination of engineering and sculpture. It's a mile from my house to where I did my winterkeeping work in the canyon village, a mile to the north of there. So every day I'd ski to work. I'd pick up my 10 foot aluminum ladder, two big shovels and my snow saw, and on skis, ski from one building to the next, clear the roof, carry everything to the next building and do the next building. At that time, I never thought anything about it.

Interviewer (11:00)

There was no point during that when you said, aha, I see why they can't keep guys around here all that long.

Stephen Fuller (11:07)

No, I loved it. Loved every bit of it. God, I'd come home, my hair just stiff with ice.

Interviewer (11:16)

But you were happy.

Stephen Fuller (11:18)

I needed a remote, wild nature place. Folks that live in the city, they live inside their car. Artifact. They live inside their work. Artifact. They live inside their house. Artifact. Even if you fly somewhere, you're indoors. Most of us spend our lives indoors. I've been in Yellowstone the year round. The center of Yellowstone, the same house since October 1, 1973. I've lived in the interior of the year round longer than any human being in history. I need space around me. I feel beyond myself. When I'm out in a wild place, that inner chatter, that inner monologue goes away. And I think of myself as turning inside out, Receptive to all that natural world out there. When I'm out with the animals in a wild place, I just like not to be distracted either by my inner voice or other people's voices. I don't want to hear about what a bachelor wife is or what a bastard their boss is. I want to be there where I am and fully taking everything in that's going on around me. Because out there in the natural world, there is so much going on. Most of it's not dramatic, but it's just so deep and dense and Rich. The sounds, the smells, the sights, the nuances, you know, things that tell me about things that are going on. Trying to read animal mysteries. There's a story here and it's just a matter of deciphering it. How old is this bear? Scat was it a few minutes ago? These things can be of more than academic interest, right? The solitary aspect of my life came easily. I have never experienced cabin fever or boredom.

Interviewer (13:22)

When I research solitude, what comes up a lot is someone wrote an essay after doing a 10 day retreat. Someone else talked about what interesting things occurred during the 48 hours they went out by themselves in the wilderness. We're at a point where a 48 hour 10 day retreat in the wilderness is worth an essay. Because look at all they learned. What happens in years of solitude.

Stephen Fuller (13:57)

Solitude has a bad rep, bad reputation. I'm in an incredibly rich environment. Let's see. I have, as you may have noticed, one of the largest, most eclectic libraries in northwestern Wyoming, which isn't saying much, but still. I always dreamt of living at the top of the mountain, but being able to access the Library of Congress. Most of us spend our lives in a cacophony of white noise. Cell phones, our radios, our televisions, the crowd, the sound of aircraft overhead. Silence is rare and lovely space to be in. And that's one of the benefits that comes out of solitude. A lot of us are afraid of being alone. I think my parents, they would turn the television on. That background noise somehow gives us comfort and silence. We're afraid of many of us, maybe because we're hardly ever exposed to it. But in the natural world, cutting down the inner and the outer chatter allows us to hear unheard sounds. There's immense amount going on in a natural environment. Wind in the trees, water in the rivers, the sounds of a thermal basin, a geyser basin, incredible noises, mystery. It sounds like voices sometimes. Or you hear the chatter of a squirrel and he says, there's a coyote coming into my neighborhood. He announces that and you hear that and you don't see it, but you know that's what's going on. There's just a whole world out there that if you can tune out your own noise, it's a great means to connect with what's left of nature. And there ain't much left.

Tommy Mischke (16:03)

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Interviewer (18:29)

The number of people who will say, who will separate man and nature in sentences. I went out to be with nature. There almost seems to be some sense that there's us and there's the rest of it. And I'm just curious to hear your take on it, because the bear doesn't think to himself, there's me, then there's nature.

Stephen Fuller (18:53)

Very interesting question. And certainly my view of nature and of my relationship with nature has evolved during my years here. In traditional Western European American culture, we get a lot of. I guess I sum it up. My mind is existentialism. Wah, wah. I was born into this cruel, indifferent world. I don't think of myself that way at all. I think of myself as fruit of this earth. I am made of this earth. I'll return to this earth. I'm not an alien in this place. On this planet, in this world. I wasn't cast into this world. I grew up out of this world and I am utterly part of it. You know, most of us think of ourselves as that entity that lives inside a skin bag. Inside is me, outside is it, or them. I'm not separated from the world by a skin bag. There's a wonderful Hindu saying which I consider to be the most profound few words that I've ever read, maybe, and I'm going to mutilate the pronunciation, but it's Taktavam Assam, which basically in English translates as that art thou. There's a children's Hindu story sometimes told in the beginning was God. And he said, well, this is rather boring. And he blew himself up into pieces and all the pieces flew out into space and started dancing with each other. And in due course, they all came back together into one entity, one being, one God. And God said, boy, that was fun. Let's do that again. And tatvam Assam means that art thou. We are one of those dancing fragments of God. It is a wonderful sense of belonging to the universe. And some of us can arrive at it in our heads and know it intellectually. Some of us can know it. It's a sense of certainty and knowledge. And this is it that art thou. That is what we call the environment. And it is me. I am it. That's just a living reality to me. I've been shaped by experiences in the natural world, especially in terms of my interactions and intimacies with animals. I have spent thousands of hours mingling with buffalo herds. I've developed a real empathy with them and an appreciation of them as individuals. Most of us, not having had any better opportunity, think of buffalo or bison as kind of a monoculture of cattle. Dumb things. You get to know them, every one of them, as a personality. Every one of them has a life history. I've been with them when they've died. Literally there when the light passed. I've seen buffalo bulls standing with the bones and the hide and the hair of one of their companions died of old age or whatever. There's a liquidy look in the bull's eye as he nuzzles the bones. We've seen this with elephants, but there's no dou seen it with bison. And I'm not anthropomorphizing. It's just so obvious. Early October, I encountered a mature buffalo bull whose right hip had been dislocated in battle with another bull during the mating season. And it was a horrid dislocation and he was losing weight. And so I walked out there virtually every day and watched him go down. And one morning I came to him and he was on his side laying half in snow melt, icy water. And you know, I approached him very gently, softly and I came up to him and his eye was rolling, watching me. And I just sat with him a bit. He relaxed, turned inward. In terms of his eye was no longer focused on me, it was focused inwardly. Animals and the people that I've seen die, there's a. I don't know, there's a profound difference as death comes on. I actually reached out and touched him, which he was okay with. I mean, touched him in a tender, fellow feeling way. I certainly related his dying to my own eventual experience. The acceptance, here we are, this is it. Something that we all will experience. Maybe not as well as he did anyway, a great feeling of fellowship.

Tommy Mischke (24:23)

The year was 1988, a year many will never forget. In the summer of 88, Yellowstone National park was engulfed in flames.

Stephen Fuller (24:31)

For months it was extraordinary in size and scope.

Tommy Mischke (24:36)

Cooke City and Silvergate were being evacuated. The continued devastation of the nation's oldest park has prompted high level Washington officials, after months of the park burning to take a firsthand look.

Stephen Fuller (24:48)

Fires in Yellowstone are normal, but 88 was extraordinary. Nothing in modern history had occurred on that scale. The big fire that came to my house started over on the west boundary, just outside of West Yellowstone. Matter of fact, the fire forensic investigation led to the cigarette butt that had been thrown down by a guy using a chainsaw cutting wood a few hundred meters from the west boundary of the park. Fire started there, moved up through Madison, up to Norris, split at Norris, went to Mammoth park headquarters 40 miles away, went over the mountain to Cooke City in the northeast corner of the park. Huge fire. Everybody else was evacuated. The scale of it, I've never seen anything before or since. Some of the terrible days there were these 30, 35,000 foot columns of smoke capped with lightning and pyronimbus clouds. Talked to a helicopter pilot, claimed to have seen a burning Christmas tree, you know, at 3,000ft. The lofting of the convection column in one of these monster fires. Seeing a burning tree several thousand feet above the ground and there were days when it was dark at noon, bits of flaming material blowing past you horizontally. Wouldn't have missed it for the world. You know, fires are fascinating. I became addicted to smoke. You know, I'd see a smoldering stump, I'd get off the horse and go over and it was like being addicted to cigarettes. Or something.

Interviewer (26:33)

Where did the flames stop in relation to your place?

Stephen Fuller (26:37)

The ugliest day the fire came up this timbered ridge, back of my house. And I was there. It laid down when it was within 15 minutes of the house. I was very lucky to survive that one.

Interviewer (26:52)

The fire laid down.

Stephen Fuller (26:55)

Well, fire behavior, fires are like animals. They have personalities. We talk about the fires getting up and running. They'll run through the canopy. It's a running canopy fire. Or at night they lay down and rest and sleep, digest, and then they get up and eat again the next day. Every night I would meet with the district ranger and the fire chief who was the general in charge of the fight. A square jawed guy from Idaho. No nonsense. But he'd start talking about his fight of the fire that day and he'd say, that son of a bitch really played a joke on me this afternoon. He talked about it like it was an animate being. And we all came to think of him that way. Every fire has its own personality, its own behavior. And you swear sometimes there's a consciousness there. I wrote a piece afterwards describing fires as dragons. Came to think of them in that way. You know, in the old days here in Yellowstone, we extinguished all of our wolf population. We made them extinct. They were bad animals. We reintroduced wolves in Yellowstone in the early 90s because we felt they belonged here. Well, in some ways it's the same attitude toward fires. Yellowstone is a pyrophilic ecology. The forests here, the louchpal pines, are adapted to a fire regime. They expect, in a sense, need to be burned periodically. So fire is just a natural part of this environment. So park management in the last 30 years has come up with the idea that fires are part of the natural ecology of Yellowstone, like wolves are a natural part of the ecology. So I thought of it as dragons. We now protect dragons living in Yellowstone. As long as the fires are out in the wild places, we let them burn. I was at the fire base one evening and it was funky. It smelled like a saloon on a Sunday morning, you know, a smoke funk gray and cold that morning. And I was eating my oatmeal and something was falling in. Usually it's ash, you know. I looked up and it was snow. And it was like ecstatic to see the snows come. And the army packed up and everybody was gone about two days later.

Interviewer (29:24)

Was it the snow that finished it off?

Stephen Fuller (29:27)

Yes. Well, you know what they say about a big forest fire, how you fight it, you throw money at it until it snows, you know, I knew this country, this wild country. So I went to some of my favorite places. Horseback. After the fires pretty much died out and I felt like a European walking around in his home city in 1945, the neighborhoods were gone. It was just desolation and ruins and charred, dead landscape. That was tough. After the fires laid down that September October when I was out on horseback, I used to carry a firefighter's water bladder on my saddle with a hand pump and I'd find a stump, a nurse log where the fire lingers and I'd get off the horse and squirt it and put it down. And then I stopped doing that because I got the thing that it's like the end of the dinosaur age were the dragons. These are eggs, but the dragons are dying out. I don't need to go and squash their eggs anymore.

Tommy Mischke (30:46)

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There's gonna be a little deviation in the show. I'm not excited about it, but it has to happen. When I started in radio many, many years ago, radio. Radio was fun. It was a fun world. There were goofy people with shows. Bob Yates in the morning with Bob's Radio Basics. Crazy Barbara Carlson with her tendency to moon the radio staff. Turi Rider who liked to have dominatrixes on her show. And there was Don Vogel and I screwing around in the afternoon. But there was one fella in the middle of it all, a syndicated guy by the name of Rush Limbaugh. And he was a different cat. He did politics. Now, no one else in radio in America back then sat around doing politics every day on the air for hours. Rush was a real freak. But the freak got ratings. And pretty soon the Hubbards realized there was money to be made by going all political all day long. And all of a sudden, KSTP shifted to a political station. Suchere was there doing conservative politics. Jason Lewis the same. Ron Rosenbaum and Mark o', Connell, they liked politics. Willie Clark in the morning was doing politics. I was the lone guy left who had zero interest in that as a subject matter. I mean, zero interest. I did not want to do a radio show talking about political issues. Why? Because every guy who did a political show seemed angry to me, Seemed upset, seemed ticked off about something. In fact, Patrick Royce, the longtime Twin Cities sportswriter, used to come on Sushre's program regularly and say, what are we angry about today? And it was not just the radio hosts who seemed angry. Listeners seemed angry as well. And the anger fueled more anger. Everyone was getting riled up. At least that's how it looked from my vantage point. Well, I laid off politics because of that. I did my own thing. Politics was about as much fun to me as talking about complex electrical engineering or feminine hygiene products. I just wanted to keep my distance. I like culture. I like odd stories. I like quirky people. I like interesting books. I don't like anger. I'm not a fan of going home with a headache every night. So I was the odd man out at KSTP for years and years. It was a right of center political station, and I wasn't right of center, and I wasn't interested in politics. Every now and then, however, politics could get to a point where it intruded into the show. An example. 9 11. There was no way after 9112001 that I could just go right back right away to the show I was doing. It changed everything for a while, radically. Suddenly I was forced to talk about all the different tangents and issues and subject matter associated with that horror show and what stemmed from it and how it changed so many things in this country. It was unavoidable as a radio topic for a time and that was not a pleasant period for me. That wasn't a joyful stretch for doing my radio show. Well, there's another thing that happened just recently and it's big enough and intense enough and right in my backyard. And now right now bleeds into this show, a political topic. Of course. I'm talking about ICE and the Border Patrol. These fun loving fellas who make me wish I still had my kegerator in the backyard so I could have them all over for beers. Yeah, they arrived in town and initially I ignored them, much like I've ignored many a political matter since starting this show last February. Oh, I watched them, these strangely dressed visitors. I studied them out on the street. I looked, I saw, I noticed. But I kept their shenanigans off of this show because I hate that topic more than I hate talking about strip mall parking lot design. But then they had to go get brutal in their approach to their jobs, kill a couple of people and put my lovely hometown in a state of terror. Because it no longer really seemed to be about finding bad guys. It became more about accosting people with different colored skin and different accents and harassing them, asking them for their papers. The germans of the 1930s would have been so proud. Pretty soon neighbors of mine were afraid to go out. Shops in my neighborhood were afraid to open. Children in my neighborhood were having nightmares. Schools were having boatloads of no shows. And these fun loving fellas known as ICE and Border Patrol were costing taxpayers $18 million a week, accomplishing very little but harming greatly. Certainly not making my city a better city. If you give people $18 million a week, you better see the city and state get better fast. Real fast. Massive improvements for $18 million a week? Nope. It got worse here. We paid as taxpayers for it to get worse. Now if you know me at all, you know I've been a bit of a anti authority fella most of my life. I get in trouble with authority. It's been that way since I was a kid. I'm not entirely against all authority. It's usually not until it grows big and bullying around me that I start to rebel. And again, ever since I was a kid. It's how I'm built. You see, guys like this come charging into my town dressed like World War 3 has broken out and you can bet old Mishke is not going to be saying to himself, golly, how can I help out these fine feds sent by our dear President? What can I do to make their lives easier? Surely there are some brown skinned people hiding whom I can tell on, or some Asian folk in the back of some restaurant I can steer them toward. No, no. A guy like me is going to say, hi fellas, how are you making the world any better? I don't see it, I don't feel it. My neighbors don't feel safer, the kids don't feel safer. And that 18 million a week could be used in some rural areas of the state to bolster health care, medical offerings. It could be spent fixing some roads. But instead a couple of people are dead unnecessarily. And a death sentence was not what either of them deserved for what they were doing. Sushire on his show this week called the most recent killing an execution. I finished my last show before learning of that killing. This is my first show since that killing and I would concur with such a assessment of it as an execution. When federal governments get to do that with impunity, well, we are slipping fast toward authoritarian rule. And that's always, always going to be where I rebel. Always. Now, people who love talking politics would give out the call number at this point and you could call in. And in good old Jason Lewis fashion, this issue could be argued about until the spring equinox. And neither of us would change our minds, just as neither the host nor caller would ever change their minds in the KSTP days, which is another reason I hated talking about politics. We're not going to change each other's minds. So why am I talking about this now when I don't want to? Unlike Joe Sucere, who makes his living in this subject area, I come to this kicking and screaming. I'm only talking about it and only talking about it today. This is it. Because I have to. And I'll tell you why I have to. Not talking about something is an action in itself. Inaction is action. Inaction. Silence is a statement. And I don't want to be accused of making that statement because that statement today would put me on the side of the occupying force because God knows they would love more silence. That helps them tremendously. And I don't want to be seen as aiding them with this current project. In this particular case, this one case right now. Silence is an immoral act. In my mind, my silence on this issue would be an immoral act. It has already begun to cause people to ask questions of me, including the question, are the Hubbards preventing me from talking about this topic? The Hubbards have never once in my lifetime, going back to 1992, told me what I can or cannot say, ever. But the fact that people have been wondering meant that they were expecting me to speak. And why wouldn't they expect it? The whole world is watching the Twin Cities, and I'm doing my show from the Twin Cities. It's the biggest story going nationally, arguably. And I'm saying nothing. Nothing. No, I have not been saying anything because this is not a sandbox that I want to play in professionally. It reminds me too much of the political days at kstp, and it is just a downer. But it is a fact that silence in the face of something like this is, in the view of many great thinkers throughout history, an immoral act. So I'm not joking when I say it would be, at this point a grave sin for me to continue to be silent. You know the great quotes about silence, right? We all know those. All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing. Or what was Martin Luther King's line? In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence. Silence of our friends. Or JB Pritzker, tyranny requires your fear, your silence, and your compliance. Or silence is complicity. I could go on and on, but in essence, it is cowardly and kind of cruel to those who have died to say absolutely nothing. It's an affront. It's chicken shit. I still hate it, though, that I have to wing in. But I'd hate myself more if I kept silent because it would be reasonable then for someone to call me complicit. Complicit in what to me is tyrannical activity. Massive government overreach, an act of punishment against a state by a president who just doesn't much like Minnesota. And you know that because the big illegal immigrant states outside of California are Texas and Florida. Texas and Florida. What do they have in common? They really like Trump, so he leaves them alone, the states with a huge illegal immigration population dwarfing our numbers. But Trump isn't having a childish tantrum with Texas and Florida. So they get to skate. That's how you know it's not about immigrants. It's about a Petulant tantrum by a guy who really, really digs authoritarianism. And I would, too. The Constitution gets in the way of a whole lot of freewheeling fun. All these checks and balances. Screw that. As Trump said recently, sometimes you need a dictator. I think that's going to be the new bumper sticker on Air Force One. Sometimes you just need a dictator. Now, I haven't arrived at that point yet, but I suppose someday I could long for one. Folks, when I was growing up, the great conservatives I knew lived for fighting off this kind of federal overreach. But we have been turned upside down somehow. Remember Ruby Ridge? Remember Ruby Ridge. Randy Weaver, Remember that standoff? It was the Democrats who were for the assault there, not the hard right. When I was growing up, the far right hated the idea of the government intruding into our lives. When I was growing up, I could count on Republicans to push for freedom. That was the right's great gift. They pushed for more freedom. The left would push for more oversight, more government involvement. The right would want to be free from that. Folks, I would no more help these ICE and Border Patrol folk find and arrest a neighbor of mine. Then I would help hide the Epstein files, which Trump continues to hide as the country seems to move on, giving him a free pass. I was so with the right on Epstein, no matter who those files would have ended up scorching. The Epstein story was as sick as it gets. But you know how you get people to forget about that? You get everyone talking about Minnesota. And it worked. We're all so easily played. My neighbors are good, hard working people and I live amongst them in the inner city and I go to their stores and their restaurants and their coffee shops and I talk to them and I hang out with them and I love them and they're hiding these days. They're hiding now. I'll help you find a criminal all day long. I will help you find a criminal and I'll support you making the borders absolutely airtight. But once someone who longed, longed their whole life for freedom and knew it existed in America and got into the United States and made a fresh start the way my ancestors made a fresh start. And once they had been living here and raising children and working hard at all the shit jobs white folks don't want to do. No, I'm not helping you root them out, grabbing five year old kids off the street. I want nothing to do with that. So no help from me, no cooperation. On the contrary, you piss me off. I got no time for the way ICE is operating. Find real problems, Find real criminals. What the hell are you doing for your 18 million a week? I've spent a lot of time of late reading about how ICE used to operate. I've been reading interviews of former ICE officials, learning how they did their jobs before Trump came along. I'm not talking about Border Patrol now. I'm talking specifically about ice, the guys who had the job of finding illegal aliens. Aliens in the US after they already got in. I've been reading interviews with former ICE officials who say they are aghast at how their department is now being run. They call it amateur hour. They say it's embarrassing to them. It puts a stain on what was to them a job one could be proud to participate in. What does sushiray call ICE now? Violent Keystone Cops. Was that his quote? Violent Keystone Cops? Keystone means incompetent. That is not what they used to be. The folks who used to do this job said in interviews they'd primarily do their research at computers when they were with ice, not on the street. They'd spend weeks figuring out who the criminals were, where they were located, make sure they had their facts straight, their eyes dotted, their T's crossed, make sure they were following the law because that was stressed, so they could make their case stick. And then when they knew where an illegal alien guilty of some criminal act or thought to be guilty of some criminal act, when they knew where he or she was, they showed up at 5 in the morning at the illegal alien criminal suspect house and arrest him or her before they got up and went to work. Few in the cities where it was happening knew it was happening. Trump didn't like that approach. He wanted a show, a real show, something theatrical. He wanted to create moments of confrontation. He thought that would play into his hands. Chaos is good. Makes it look like cities are out of control. Maybe he can bring in the US Military. Pretty soon he can clamp down on these states and cities that aren't big fans of his. More control, more authoritarian control, more big government, more big fist of the feds coming our way. So he and his crew will get no support from me. I think this whole thing is not only stupid and ineffective, but now criminally stupid. Because I watched inept, raging individuals with all the field training of a cosmetologist take out a couple of beautiful young people and then immediately try to smear them, purposely knowing it was a lie to cover their ass. Slandering my deceased neighbors. Snakes aren't lower than that, my friends. The lying bastards tried to smear Kind, good hearted souls with falsehoods, with false narratives. Just like you would find on the pages of George Orwell's 1984. Don't believe your eyes. Let we the government tell you what you see. No, But it isn't just that. I learned of Irma Escodo, a U.S. citizen born in New Mexico, surrounded by ICE agents right here in St. Paul, my hometown. Sitting in her car outside a taco shop. Her husband, a Naturalized citizen since 92, had to race outside with her passport to prove her citizenship. The couple actually co owns the restaurant. She was targeted just based on her appearance. They made her show her papers. An American citizen, born in New Mexico. You're brown lady, we don't think you belong here. Can we see your papers? God, I wish I could do a solid German accent right now. Jose Ramirez, 20 years old, US citizen, Red Lake Nation descendant. Punched and detained by ICE while driving to visit his aunt. They said to him, you don't seem to be from here. He was finally released after family brought passport, birth certificate. That is not the America I grew up in. And that is not an America I'm joining. Participating in aiding, cooperating with Ryan Eklund, a US citizen and real estate agent, detained by ICE for nine hours just for recording them with his phone, constitutionally protected. Brandon Segenza and Patty o', Keefe, both US citizens monitoring ice, detained eight hours without charges because there were no charges they could come up with. Pepper sprayed them, smashed their car windows, interrogated them about protest organizers, offered deals if they would give them names. What does that sound like? There was no deal to be made with them because they hadn't done anything wrong. So the agents didn't have any leverage. And the agents were forced to admit they didn't have any leverage. And after eight hours of detaining them for nothing, they had to let them go. Those eight hours were a little ride into Little Germany, 1930s style. A Hmong fella, naturalized US citizen, no criminal record, detained by ICE, who broke down his door, did not allow him to put on proper clothing before pulling him outside in 10 degree weather. His grandkid inside. Are we still in the United States, grandpa? I don't know. They're gonna drive me around for a while here, question me, fingerprint me. It's a little mini terror campaign here. You sit tight, little fella. Ramon Manera, US citizen, detained by border patrol agents outside his home in Minneapolis in front of his five year old daughter. Agent accused him of not being a US citizen because of his accent. His five year old Daughter said to him, I don't want them to take you, Daddy. I don't want them to take you. Four days after ICE detained four Oglala Sioux tribal members from a Minneapolis homeless encampment, three remained in custody at Fort Snelling. Despite the tribal president issuing a formal memorandum demanding immediate release, calling the detention a treaty violation and stating that tribal citizens are not aliens and are categorically outside immigration jurisdiction. The tribal leader got no cooperation. Combat wounded army veteran William Vermeer, detained for eight hours after observing an ICE arrest from a public sidewalk in south Minneapolis. A Purple Heart recipient who served in Iraq, denied access to a phone, denied access to an attorney throughout his detention. He was released without charges eventually, because there were no charges you could have come up with. This will be my one and only weighing in on the matter as I don't do this for a living. I talk about other stuff. But it will be the weighing in here that counters the idea that my bosses won't let me talk about it and it will end and counter the rather reasonable charge that could be leveled were I silent that I am a coward. I would have agreed with those who could have called me that had I remained silent. Silence is a crime. Inaction is action, immoral action. Which is why I run food to people in my city who are afraid to go outside. I make sure to shop every week at stores owned by people of various ethnicities whose stores are empty right now to try and keep them afloat. I will protect my neighbor long before I will aid ICE because I am Randy Weaver, sitting in his little cabin watching the big boys with the big guns coming. I'm the anti big government guy that reminds me of all the old anti big government guys I grew up with. The old men in my neighborhood who seem to have disappeared in this brave new world. I have said it. I have spoken, and I will stop now. Darkness swirls out there, folks. Darkness swirls these days. And I expect it to get a lot darker in this country before it ever gets lighter. It will get lighter one day. One day down the line, it will get lighter. But we have to go through much suffering to get there. I fear the darkness moves in all sorts of mysterious ways right now. Or as an old man said to me years ago in a dusty bar in Oklahoma, the devil walks these sacred hills. Not the literal devil. It was the old man's name for the darkness. The darkness moves, he said, as it has moved in other historical periods, growing and spreading into places one would never have expected it to go. In better times. The devil walks these sacred hills and the daylight fades and the shadow spills or so the lyrics to a song I wrote go. A song I wrote years ago about the darkness and how it comes for you, how it comes looking for us all. The battle to keep the darkness out is the battle of our time. And by golly, there's a piano sitting right here and a microphone. And there's a song to be sung right now, I think a song I wrote called the Devil Walks.

Tommy Mischke (singing) (61:28)

The devil walks these sacred hills Daylight fades and shadow spills Just like whiskey bottles and sleep on pills the devil walks his sacred heals.

Tommy Mischke (62:00)

He got a satchel on his bed.

Tommy Mischke (singing) (62:05)

Back he'll take your soul won't give.

Tommy Mischke (62:11)

It back.

Tommy Mischke (singing) (62:14)

Twilight brings autumn chill when the devil walks your sacred heals. Looking for the weary and worn.

Stephen Fuller (62:39)

Looking.

Tommy Mischke (singing) (62:40)

For the trouble the tired and the.

Stephen Fuller (62:43)

Tone.

Tommy Mischke (singing) (62:46)

And he's been looking for me since I was born. Have mercy, sa. I hear his voice I feel his.

Tommy Mischke (63:40)

Breath.

Tommy Mischke (singing) (63:43)

Make a deal, boy I'll meet you there Death as my beaten heart grows still. The devil walks these sacred heals.

Tommy Mischke (64:13)

Sa.