on essential details such as communication networks and internal security, the theft and stockpiling of weapons and explosives, fund-raising through counterfeiting and armed robbery, selective assassinations and finally terrorism on the grand scale...all spelled out and underscored with virulent anti-Semitism and racial hatred that leaves nothing to the imagination. This was exciting fodder for members of The Order, and they set out to make the neo-Nazi dream a reality. Recruiting from the hate groups that were allied with the Aryan Nations, The Order made stringent demands on its prospective members. Sodium Pen- tathol, lie detectors and voice- stress analyzers were reportedly used to ensure that only those who hated Jews and non-whites in their heart of hearts were admitted into its ranks. They believed that white supremacy and genocide were the true path, and swore an oath of allegiance that bound them to accept all direct orders from their leaders, upon point of death. Moving swiftly from rhetoric to direct action, The Order began to lash out at the System, as the powers-that-be are called in The Turner Diaries. Alan Berg, a Jewish radio personality, was one known victim, gunned down in front of his Denver, Colorado home in mid-1984. Robberies of armored trucks and banks in Washington and California netted millions of dollars for The Order’s war coffers, as did a massive counterfeiting scheme. A shootout between the FBI and a suspected member of The Order in Northern Idaho led to a series of exchanges that culminated in the incineration of leader Robert Matthews by FBI agents in December, 1984, at an Order hideout on Whidbey Island, Washington. A nationwide manhunt followed, resulting in more than two dozen arrests in several states. But although several large caches of armaments and stolen money were uncovered while tracking members of The Order down, several million dollars still remain unaccounted for. One person, wholeheartedly dedicated to the tenets of racial superiority and willing to kill for his beliefs, is a lone psychopath. Three dozen racial fanatics, bound together in a subversive group and controlled by the threat of death, are something else altogether. As the news poured forth on The Order, I began to wonder how such an organization could have been tolerated by the rustic Idaho citizenry. Were they giving up their outdoor sports and digging bunkers instead? Were the Idaho schools filled with neo-Nazi brownshirts? Were the loggers and farmers graduating from chummy racist jokes to organized anti-Semitism and murderous bigotry? I wanted to know. My Own Private Idaho Like most natives of Idaho, I’ve always carried a piece of the state’s vast Primitive Area in the back of my mind as a safe mental refuge that I could dream of whenever the forces of the modern world overwhelmed me. The neo-Nazis had despoiled my illusion of Idaho as a sanctum sanctorum. I found myself planning a trip back to my old stomping grounds to view the aftermath of this bombardment of hatred. Before long I was driving into Hayden, Idaho. Hayden is a small town of about 2500, adjacent to the resort area of Hayden Lake. Both communities are about 30 miles east of Spokane, Washington and five miles north of Couer d'Alene, Idaho. I’d lived there before, so I thought I knew what to expect. In 1971, some friends and I had gotten involved with the production of a Summer rock festival at Farragut State Park, a large recreation area a few miles north of Hayden. An enraged local resident, filled with fury over the imagined hordes of drug-crazed hedonists due to invade the park, decided to do something about it. He rented an airplane used to spray crops and arranged to load the tanks with undiluted pesticide, intending to direct the pilot to fly over the park’s ampitheatre when the crowd was at its largest and spray them with poison. The pilot, understandably nervous about the plot, turned his client in and he was stopped by the county police. Another group of local rednecks had chosen to take up positions in the hills across the lake from a nude swimming beach, with the intention of sniping at a few hippies. An alert waitress, hearing ITS TIME FOR A NEW CRUSADE I AMIN NATIONS ■1^^ Directions of alien occupation drives Alien Invasion of North America In all the world's history never has a strong, productive, advanced Racial Nation of people, occupying a geographical territory,separated in the main by great oceans from the earth’s diverse, primitive peoples, been invaded and occupied by these regressive alien hords with such impunity' Aryan technology (Fulton’s steamboat, Wright brother’s airplane) plus Aryan treason made possible what was impossible for these mongrel peoples to accomplish. They, who have never dreamed of steam or jet power, land on our shores daily. Skilled Aryan captains, piloting Aryan-conceived craft, bring the alien hords to our shores in "4" luxury beyond the wildest imagination of ancient kings. Neo-Nazi literature the plan discussed in a Plummer, Idaho cafe, had alerted the authorities. The propensity for violence has always been present in the Idaho Panhandle; it has merely lacked direction and organization. Now, however, the leadership is there. I checked into a local motel, described in the tourist brochures as “offering a beautiful view in a restful, quiet atmosphere.” Then I looked the town of Hayden over. It had grown, of course. Instead of being a tiny crossroads settlement on Highway 95, Hayden had expanded considerably. There were a few bars, cafes, gas stations and small businesses. There was even a small mall. Many lakeside homes in Hayden Lake are maintained for vacation use by Spokane residents, lending a vague resort-town atmosphere to the area. The Hayden Lake golf course is still one of the best in the state. Despite the changes, Hayden looked much the same as I remembered it. The differences were more subtle. I got my first hint of them when I stepped into the tiny bar at my motel and plopped down on a stool. The conversation in the tavern absolutely stopped, as everyone directed hostile stares in my direction. I ordered a drink and sipped it in near-perfect silence. No one said anything for half an hour, until I thanked the bartender and left. As soon as I went outside, the buzz of voices resumed. This was strange stuff. I went to two other bars, with exactly the same results. You could have sliced the fear and paranoia with a knife; everyone acted as if they had something to hide, like a town full of coke dealers. After buying some gas from a silent service station attendant and a newspaper from a mute 7-11 clerk, I drove two miles south to the neighboring hamlet of Dalton Gardens to visit some old friends who live there. Ben and Carrie acted like they were glad to see me. Married for years, they seemed to be relatively prosperous residents of the community. Their house, similar to many others on their rural road, was large and set on a sizeable chunk of real estate. A chest-high chain-link fence separated them from the rest of the world. Ben has been a trader and swap-meet organizer for years. He knew many of the long-time locals on a first-name basis. “What’s the matter with people around here?” I asked him, as we sat in the living room watching their baby playing on the shag rug. “Everybody clams up as soon as I come around. It didn't use to be like this.” “People are playing it close to the vest," Ben told me. “There are 50 FBI agents running around here...that's one agent for every 50 residents. You know that these rednecks have never particularly liked the cops, especially the feds. And we’re all pretty sick of the publicity too. There have been dozens of reporters coming in and dredging up information about the neo-Nazis, and Hayden is getting a bad name. Everyone that lives here resents that. Most folks here think that the neo-Nazis are totally fucked; they stay away from them and mind their own business. When a stranger shows up, the locals figure that he’s either a cop, a reporter, or maybe a right-wing nut. We don’t say much, because you never know who might be listening. “But really, most people dislike the neo-Nazis. I’ve got an 18-foot Nazi flag that I bought at a flea market a couple of years ago, and I’ve been thinking about putting it on display and charging people a dollar to take a whack at it with a knife. I could give the money to charity.” “I’d like to see that,” I told him. “By the way, where is the neo-Nazi encampment? It’s not right near Hayden, is it?” Carrie shook her head. “No, it’s about eight miles north of town. Most people don’t even know exactly where it is. Come on, let’s drive out and take a look. You can see for yourself.” We drove north through Hayden and got on Highway 95, turning right at the Garwood Tavern. A mile or two more, and then another right onto Rimrock Road; then another half mile, and there it was, on the right side of the road, a wooden fence and gate with a sign: ARYAN NATIONS—Whites Only. It wasn’t much to look at. “How many people gather here?” I asked. “About 75, max,” Ben said. “They have services every Sunday morning, and that’s when all the local members get together. There are a few living out here all the time, Butler and a few of his zombies. 6 Clinton St. Quarterly
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