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From ADL's Terrorism Update Team
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Extremist Activities on Public Lands By: Special Agent Randy August, Bureau of Land Management
Some faces show shock; others, resignation. As budgets shrink and workloads increase, they already face a tiresome juggling act: part-time tour guide, part-time firefighter, part-time medic, and full-time cop. And now these park rangers learn they're expected to deal with extremists, too.
Welcome to the world of the 21st century ranger.
Almost a quarter-century ago, I reported for duty at my first ranger station. Twenty years later, I hung up my ranger hat for good to become a criminal investigator. But extremists lurked in the background of almost every assignment I've had. They weren't all as obvious as the one who, when I approached him for illegal camping, tried to shoot me. We found sets of stolen license plates in his car, and learned that another agency was very interested in him for extremist violence.
Less obvious extremists include the ones who, when I ask them for a driver's license, tell me "you're just a park ranger" and try to walk away. They are the ones who, when I ask them to get a required permit, quote the Uniform Commercial Code at me. They write pseudo-legal gibberish on the application form or---if a confrontation goes that far---on the citation I write. (As if I really want to cite armed violators in the middle of nowhere, who typically outnumber me three to one, with my nearest backup---if it can find me at all!---two or more hours away.) These are the ones who hand me a multi-page questionnaire demanding to know my name, date of birth, social security number, and home address/phone number before deciding if they will talk to me. Sometimes they accuse me of trying to intimidate, simply because I'm wearing a badge and a duty weapon. Or, as happened a few years ago, they skip all the intervening steps and just try to run me over with their truck.
One of my favorite images is a photo of a well-known white supremacist leader visiting Yosemite National Park. Another is a photo of a Ku Klux Klan robe complete with blood-drop patch, recovered from a California marijuana garden. There are also photos, taken during a search warrant, of page after page of neat hand-written notes detailing where and how to place explosives to blow up bridges, destroy railroad lines, drop trees across a road, etc.
I have my favorite reports, too. There's the mining claim in Oregon, where one amateur chemist tried to produce ricin. There's the extremist in the Pacific Northwest, offering military munitions for sale. There's the story of a nationally-known, corporate-sponsored off-road racer who allegedly travels the desert accompanied by a personal entourage of racist skinheads. Then there are the white supremacist groups with no home of their own, holding annual conferences in campgrounds.
And all of these things happen within or near parks, forest reserves, and open spaces publicly owned and open to all Americans.
That's the point. Extremists take vacations, with or without their families, and want to see the sights. They camp out in our parks when they have no other affordable meeting place. They court the media, whether by holding a gathering of their own or by trying to hijack someone else's event. Extremists, whether of the Identity or Islamic variety, move away from the distractions and perceived corruption of the big cities. They move out to the remote, rural areas to set up their compounds, build their shooting ranges, and hide from the modern world. And there they come into conflict with those of us whose job it is to regulate and manage the places where they hold their maneuvers, practice with their explosives, and build their retreats.
In an era where parks and public lands have attracted everything from illegal drug labs to cross burnings, from paramilitary border patrols to militia retreats, no place is immune to hate and extremism. And so I train rangers to identify extremists, anticipate what they are likely to do, and protect themselves and the public.
My message reaches a mixed audience: most members are with state or local park services, but there are a few federal employees, and there's a sprinkling of college students working towards a ranger career. Perhaps half don't carry firearms, yet all are first responders, wear uniforms, drive well-marked emergency vehicles, and are expected to deal with whatever problems arise in their parks.
I can understand the resistance I encounter. Many became rangers to get away from urban living and urban problems. I deliver bad news: I tell people and show them that there is no escape, anywhere in our society. So I teach rangers about a danger they hoped would never come their way, about things they really don't want to hear, clues that may save their lives. I deliver a simple message: recognize the danger signs, disengage, get away, get help. Don't go it alone.
Are there officers who don't want to hear that message? Who tell themselves that this just doesn't happen in their town or in their county? In a world where the most remote ranger station may have to deal with extremist violence, where hate crimes occur miles up a backcountry trail, such officers and deputies are only fooling themselves.
I wish I could reach every officer with this message, one I learned the hard way: No place is immune. No place is free of extremists. Learn to recognize them, think about ways to minimize the potential for violence, and plan how you will survive the encounter.
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The author has been a ranger and criminal investigator, for more than twenty years, within two different bureaus of the U.S. Department of the Interior. The opinions expressed here are strictly his own and do not reflect the policies or practices of his employer. He is currently a Special Agent with the Bureau of Land Management, Las Vegas, Nevada, and specializes in the investigation of natural resource crimes. He can be reached at Randy_August@blm.gov.
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