By Anna Von Reitz
Picture this. It's evening. I and an Indian Chief are out in the middle of nowhere fifty miles from the nearest cattle crossing. The only sign of civilization in the whole vast landscape is a pair of steel rails on railroad ties and we happen to be standing on them. In the near distance, about three miles away, we can see a train heading toward us and feel the very faint tremble in the rails under our feet.
We've been gossiping about life and weather and the difficulties of men and women we know, commiserating about the hardships of bringing up children, the effort to restore the buffalo herds, the beauty of the landscape in front of us, and we go on discussing these and other topics as the train makes its slow way forward.
A few minutes later the train is coming close enough to start to worry me. The faint tremble in the rails has become something more akin to an electric current, a constant strong vibration, and I can see the engine heading through the final copse of trees before it hits a straightaway stretch coming right for us.
"Ah, Chief, we should move off the tracks," I suggest mildly.