Field Notes from Your Friendly Neighborhood Editor-in-Camo
Listen here, privates—kidding, kidding! Listen up, Lincoln County—said in the tone of someone who once forgot their own keys while holding them and is now somehow nearly licensed to operate a 22,000-pound combat truck.
That’s right, your managing editor has traded the newsroom for night vision and a whole lot of sunscreen. I’ve been out in the Idaho desert for a little over a week with the National Guard, and while this field training isn’t forever, it has definitely been an experience worth writing home (or to the entire county) about. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in my Record-Times chair by Sunday, June 16 at the latest—with a sunburn, a few bruises, and definitely a few more stories to tell.
The adventure began with a 10-hour convoy drive south, which sounded a lot more glamorous than it was, until I realized I’d be swapping between driving and napping in a heavily armored JLTV.
If you’ve never seen a JLTV, imagine a Humvee after too much pre-workout and a gym membership. My first turn behind the wheel was through a mountain pass, and nothing humbles you faster than piloting a beast of a truck the size of a small house through tight curves while trying not to look like you’re gripping the steering wheel in full panic. Two hours in, the speaker came out, I requested classic rock, and right on cue—AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” blasted as I merged onto the freeway.
Next thing I know, we’re all headbanging like it’s Wayne’s World with body armor.
Upon arrival, I was assigned to a barracks room that came fully equipped with a firm mattress and zero pillowcases. The transition from reporter brain to “where-do-I-put-my-rifle” brain was surprisingly smooth. I tossed my ruck on the bed, threw on my Odessa Tigers sweatshirt (yes, I brought it), and took a moment to appreciate just how bizarrely cool this all is. A week ago, I was fixing headlines. Now I’m in the desert getting ready to fire military-grade weapons before breakfast. What a time to be alive.
The next day was range day, and things got real very quickly. I was randomly selected to fire the M320 grenade launcher. And let me tell you, that thing kicks like a caffeinated mule. I took a breath, lined up my shot like I was born for it, pulled the trigger, and BANG. I immediately felt the launcher jump off my shoulder and clock me in the face like it was mad at me. The launcher kicked me so hard in the jaw it rearranged my dental insurance. I may have blurted a word I can’t print in this paper, but the colonel standing nearby found it hilarious, so at least I entertained the chain of command. Did I hold it wrong? Yes. Did I hit the target? Also yes. Win-win.
I asked how many more rounds we’d be firing. “Eighteen,” said the Staff Sergeant casually, as if my clavicle hadn’t just been personally introduced to a military-grade sledgehammer. My shoulder has never known this kind of workout, and I once tried CrossFit.
Between grenade launches and range chaos, I’ve kept busy—taking every opportunity to help, learn, clean, and say “yes” to whatever detail gets tossed my way. Drivers training has been a personal favorite. The master driver let me take the JLTV on the freeway and said, “Drive it like you stole it.” Naturally, I did—earning the unofficial speed record for our unit in the process. I even tackled two hill climbs, including reversing down one like I was in an action movie that skipped the budget for stunt drivers.
Ammo guard duty was next. I packed up my ruck like I was going on a weekend getaway—snacks, hygiene kit, rifle, check—and headed miles away from base with another specialist. We set up cots, outlined our area with chem lights, and took shifts under a pitch-black sky. At one point, we spotted a distant fire. I calmly assessed the situation; she, however, nearly combusted herself. I may have made a joke about zombies or skinwalkers. In hindsight, that didn’t help. But she did eventually laugh—around 2 a.m.—so I’m calling it personal growth.
By now, I’ve shot every range I can, broken in every pair of gloves I brought, and seen more tanks roll by than I ever imagined. Rifle qualification was the only rough patch—it took me five tries to get a score I’m still not proud of, but hey, if everyone else was struggling too, I’m just fitting in, right? And we’re blaming it on the machine gun holes in the targets. Fires started by mid-morning gunfire? Totally not my department.
As I write this, I’m once again bouncing around in a JLTV, AC blasting, soaking in the 100-degree desert sun from behind ballistic glass and wondering how on Earth this ended up being my life right now. It’s wild, it’s dusty, it’s exhausting, and it’s somehow fun.
I’ll be heading even deeper into the field in just a couple of days, and I’m sure there’s more weirdness and wonderful chaos ahead.
So until I return—hopefully with all my limbs and my sanity—I’ll keep proudly repping Lincoln County and maybe sneak a few extra ammo rounds for target practice (because, let’s face it, it’s free). Winnie and I will see you all soon. Until then, keep the paper dry and the coffee hot.