Wayne

At the base of the Nevada desert, just off the shores of Lake Mead, there lives a true American patriot.


He's not your traditional hero. Nobody will ever mistake him for General Patton. But he is steadfastly committed to the American cause.

You'll find Wayne living his life outdoors, close to nature. That's the only way he wants it. But he says that he's there for a more important cause.

"I bet you didn't even notice when you drove in here," he says with a big grin. "Nobody ever notices when they come by. But I'll show you something that'll blow your mind. "

On top of Wayne's bright yellow trailer, connected to his bright yellow pickup truck, is a message. It's a message for the military, letting them know his location at all times.

"All the jetliners know about me. This roof stands out up there."

Wayne tells me all about his connection to Washington; how he petitioned over and over with hundreds of briefcases to design the roof; how he is assigned to various locations throughout the Southwest for search and rescue; how he has seen some absolutely unspeakable acts but has been told by the government to keep quiet.

"I could tell you more. But some of these things you just simply wouldn't be able to understand."

Aiding Wayne in his mission are his three bloodhounds.

"They're worth a lot of money. I got Sleuth, he's five, for $7000. The other two, Redbone and Junior, are eight months; I got them for $2500 apiece. They're my family."

The dogs are big and seem vicious. They howl at any vehicle that dares to pass by the campground. But Wayne insists they are friendly.

"Pet Sleuth," he insists.


"She won't hurt you. I promise."

Wayne, for all his charms and good nature, has many of the eccentricities you would expect from someone who has spent the vast majority of his time living outside.

Sleuth, for all his charms and good nature, just snarled at me.

"I don't know. Are you sure he..."

"Just pet him. He won't bite."

So I do.

And he doesn't.

Actually, the dogs are quite friendly. Still, I no longer take my hand for granted.

The man who interrupts our interview is not as friendly. He is about six feet tall, deeply tanned with a well-trimmed gray beard and a mesh hat. He has pulled up to ask Wayne to go fishing. I approach him and extend my hand out to greet him. He looks at me like I just spit in his face.

"Someone puts their hand out to me, I expect they want something."

"Nope. Just wanted to say hi."

"Don't film me. I don't want to be filmed."

He stares at the video camera I am holding. It is turned off and rested at my side.

"Don't worry. I have no interest in filming anyone who doesn't want to be on camera."

"You better not film me."

I back off, giving the old man his space. As he continues to talk with Wayne, he looks at me and raises his voice.

"This guy right here is making me nervous."

I laugh. I can't help myself.

"Don't laugh. I'm not the type of guy you want to make nervous."

I don't ask him to sign my van.

"Don't worry about him," Wayne says after the old man leaves. "He's just mad I'm hanging with you. He wants me to go fishing in his boat and he knows I don't want to leave my dogs."

Wayne is pretty fun to hang out with. I think he enjoys the company. It has to be lonely out there. We listen to his favorite morning talk station and he insists I call in.

"Flip up or flip out?" I hear the talk show host say on the other end of my phone.

"Flip up."

I pause, not quite sure how this type of thing works.

"Yes?"


"Flip up the kindness of strangers," I say. Before I can elaborate, my cell drops the call.

Wayne turns up the volume on the radio so we can hear my call. The radio hosts laugh.

"That's one of the best calls we've ever gotten," he says.

I think he's joking.

I hope he's joking.

Wayne calls in twice. The second time the hosts yell back.

"That's Wayne again. Wayne, only call once!"

Wayne laughs as he plays this back on the radio. I get the feeling the hosts would like to "flip out" Wayne.

I head into town to write a blog and return later that day with a twelve pack of beer and two blocks of ice. Wayne lays down a blanket in the shade of his pickup and we sit down a few feet from the bloodhounds. I take a swig of beer and stare out onto the lake as Wayne tells me one unbelievable story after another.



There are not a lot of situations that compare with sitting in the middle of nowhere, drinking with a stranger; especially with a stranger like Wayne. In this instance, it is a surprisingly peaceful feeling. It seems to fit.

After all, it’s not every day that you get to toast a true American patriot.