"Can I buy that detergent off you?" I asked the only other guy in the laundromat, a sturdy dude in a mustard colored sweatshirt who looked like Matt Damon. The detergent vending machine was out-of-order, but I was enjoying my first 15 minutes in the city of Alturas. Matt gladly offered his detergent, and we began chatting, about Jesus and about how it's never too late in life to do something (I had recently been inspired by successful UK rappers Pete & Bas, who are in their 70s). I started a load of laundry and had a feeling that this guy might be my guide for Modoc County. 

Sure enough, half an hour later Matt invited me to stay at his Modoc compound that included his dad and his Paiute uncle. He mentioned they had a lot of guns, loved to hunt and practice ancestral skills. He also offered me work if I needed it. He seemed like a Native warrior (he was half-Paiute), and also slightly a wild cannon. I could tell he had a big heart, but could I really trust this guy? He had a sort of wild, untamed rebel sneer.

Three hours later, after buying bread, butter, milk, and expired macadamia nut butter at Grocery Outlet, I decided to take up Matt on his offer, and visit his compound. I felt a little fear, and I remembered a mantra, go towards the fear. So I drove out towards a rural neighborhood, following Matt's directions written in my notebook with a gray crayon. As I neared the destination, the daylight was fading and I felt the fear come back and considered bailing and finding a side street to park the RV for the night. But I stayed the course, and drove up to his rustic house where the gate stood open. I didn't see his car so I just parked and lingered in the driveway taking in the sunset.

Suddenly, a short, fit man with a gnome hat roared up on an ATV, and demanded who I was. It was Matt's dad, Gravy, and he began questioning me in what felt like an interrogation. “What are you doing here? How long you known Matt?" His eyes were piercing. Answer my goddam questions, they said, who are you? Who? Well? Well!? "Are you a serial killer?" he asked seriously. I just stared back, surprised by the question and the whole interrogation vibe. He continued, "At any time there's 100 roaming around this country. So? Are you a serial killer? Are you?!" I softened and finally replied, "Yeah, I'm on the FBI's top ten most wanted list.” 

Gravy might have been amused by my answer but he continued, intensely: "There's 500 miles of desert out there, we can hide bodies out there, hack 'em up with chainsaws and axes, bury 'em out there, no one will ever find you." It seemed like an elaborate effort to inject some fear into me, but I felt a calmness wash over. "Have you actually ever done that?" I asked. "No. But you could be the first," Gravy responded, with an undertone of "good reply, kid." As our conversation relaxed a bit, we chatted about my video project, who’s funding it, Matt’s big heart as well as his professional fighting skills. I laughed when Gravy said, “You pump and dump cougars in that RV?” But I took him seriously when he said, "Trust is built. If you break it, you're fucked." Then Gravy roared off on his ATV. I took a breath.

When Matt arrived in his car minutes later, he was elated that I'd come, and proceeded to give me a tour of the compound, which reminded me of the Lost Boys' camp from the movie Hook. Matt eagerly showed me his collection of arrowheads, crystals, diamonds, dried elderberries, a 13 LB. ax, illegal Ironwood. He gifted me a crystal, a feather, and a couple jars of homemade preserved elk and deer meat.

Matt cooked up some spaghetti with elk meat for me and his Uncle T-mo, who's a full-blooded Paiute native. I played a couple of songs on the living room guitar and fielded questions about myself, which was challenging because I was quite stoned after accepting a loaded cannabis pipe. We followed the dinner by making a strong brew of the elderberry tea. But something didn't sit right and I ended up not sleeping, feeling ill, and eventually vomiting. I was hesitant to eat the gifted elk meat because of this, but when I eventually did months later, it was delicious and I felt fine.

Matt was leaving the next morning at 5am for a week-long work trip, but he invited me to stay at his place while he was gone. At first not knowing how long I’d stay there, I ended up spending the week mostly with T-mo, in his tiny-home bungalow, watching DVD movies, eating microwave popcorn and talking. We watched American Hustle, and he’d yell at the TV, “Fuckin’ dirty corrupt cop!” Then turning to me, “The largest organized mob: the police!” 

T-mo had a handful of phrases he would cycle through everyday, such as, "We're alright. The world's wrong," and "They fucked up... they didn't kill us all." I slept on the couch in his bedroom one of the nights. It was so unexpected to find myself kind of hibernating in a little wood-heated bungalow with this Paiute. Each day around 4:30pm he’d tell me, “It’s mooovie time,” and we’d watch two movies back to back while T-mo drank whiskey and smoked cannabis. I was loving it.

I began chopping and stacking wood each morning, delivering a bundle in front of T-mo's door, and taking charge of keeping Matt's fire going at night so the pipes wouldn't freeze. T-mo shared some of his history being raised on a local Reservation, and working a hard life in ranching. He told me the only reason he was talking to me at all was because of his nephew. 

T-mo was curious about my Report Card Project, and he told me he could point me in the right direction. But I could also tell he was unsure about me. There are so many layers to a person, especially a Native American who is deeply jaded by the white man. He would ask me daily, "What do you want to know about?" Eventually after a few days I replied, "Nothing. I have no questions." He smiled and clapped, and as we sat facing each other 8 ft. apart in his room, it felt like a moment of heightened presence. It felt like I successfully answered a zen koan, and by wanting nothing, I unlocked the next layer.

The next day I drove T-mo and I on a back-country field trip to Fort Bidwell. T-mo pointed out beautiful grassy fields in the forest where battles between Paiutes and settlers took place. At Fort Bidwell, he was teary eyed and told me he was sad for his people, who were largely decimated by settlers. He mentioned repeatedly about the function of the circle of old Indian women. It was these old women in the tribe who would choose the chief.

I was slightly uneasy when Matt returned home from his work trip. I'd been staying at his place for almost a week, hadn’t fully connected with him yet, and didn't feel fully comfortable around him. But he was going to some hot springs and the local Reservations, and took me along for the day trip. It was nice, but for some reason I had this lingering thought in the back of my mind that he might punch me randomly. That’s a strange feeling. 

As our evening unfolded (it included Matt frying up a big delicious river fish he caught while on his work trip), he had the idea for me to wrestle against his younger 15-year-old half-brother, which I felt resistant to at first. But the night ended up turning into a living-room wrestling class, not a match, and I found myself engaged in a slew of maneuvers, both in offensive and defensive positions. Being held, flipped around, then pinned down by Matt (in demonstration to his half-brother) was a vulnerable position to be in. We also engaged in the reverse roles, where I was practicing the special offensive move. It was exhilarating, and we were all focused and loving the impromptu class.

It was in the physicality of learning martial arts where a strong connection of trust was found between Matt and I. He seemed to feel it too. The following morning Matt and I, along with his half-brother, all went for a fast-paced run, and it felt like the beginning of a Native Warrior training program. Matt talked about us opening a kind of martial arts studio in Alturas. He told me his budget for renting a storefront, and I wanted to see it happen though I really couldn't imagine being too deeply involved. 

But I investigated a perfect-looking storefront at Grace Point Building on my way out of town, calling and talking with the commercial agent. I texted Matt the details for the rental ($750/mo. for approximately 2,000 sq. ft. of Main St. storefront). And though I don't know if Matt ever got the text (he's a flip phone guy), when I came back to Alturas 5 months later there was a new martial arts studio in that very storefront. It wasn't Matt's, but it felt mystical that it was there.

Gravy had given me an invite to visit him at his house, and I finally made it there on my last morning at the compound. He fed me soup, tea, and fresh homemade juice and he said he’d give me $100 if I guessed correctly all the ingredients. Sitting at the table relaxed and at ease, he told me about his life, his kids, and how he loved the seclusion and tight-knit community of Modoc County. He was full of vibrancy and love, which was a delight to witness after my arrival interrogation experience. Gravy showed me around his well-maintained property and sent me off with a bag of apples from his tree, a rose quartz crystal, and a big hug.

As I was walking down the road towards my RV, I saw T-mo slowly trudging along. I said a goodbye to him and asked if I could take a photo of us. “No,” he said, “I don’t want to be out there.” I told him it would just be a photo to have for personal use. “No.” he said again. I watched him hobble about 10 ft. away from me, then stop. He turned back and said, “Actually, go ahead, let's take the picture.” And we did.

Some names and details in this story were changed for privacy reasons