Janeece Smith is an agent at Klickitat Valley Realty, in Goldendale, Washington, about three hours southeast of the six-block strip, in Seattle, that protesters have called the Capitol Hill Autonomous Zone. According to Smith’s Web site, she sells “property to retreat to from the metropolitan cities like Portland, Vancouver, Seattle, Tri-cities and other areas in Washington and Oregon.” She refers to this as “doomsday-prepper land.” Business is always good for Smith in times of calamity. When the pandemic arrived (the first confirmed case of COVID in the U.S. was in Washington State, in January), she was getting several inquiries a day. Then “police lost control of the cities,” she said, referring to the protests in response to the killings of unarmed black people, and now “interest is off the charts.” Nearly all her customers mention the coronavirus and civil unrest. She recently finalized a deal: twenty acres for fifty-seven thousand dollars. “It doesn’t matter who you talk to,” she said, noting that lawyers, doctors, a former White House official, and a Google employee had all contacted her. “Even people who won’t wear a mask, who think the government is trying to take your rights away.” In the end, she said, “they’ll go”—to a secluded cabin, a bunker, or another hideout of their choice.
The other day, Smith was preparing to show a visitor some land that was available for purchase. “Normally, there’s a chainsaw back here,” she said, leaning over the bed of her Ford F-150. She was taking inventory of her truck before heading to the property, which was fifteen miles away from her already remote realty office. Smith, who is forty-three and has hair down to her waist, wore an ivory choker and a camo-print shirt. Before she became a real-estate agent, in 2006, she was a horse dealer. (“I moved to Goldendale because I’d had enough of the crooked horse industry.”) What kinds of things do her customers want? She opened an e-mail from a new client, who was planning a “community-building defensive homestead.” He wanted neighbors to be “at least a mile away.” Also, if possible, owner financing.
Smith continued to rifle through her supplies. “A bunch of chains,” she said. “Oils, tow straps for anchoring loads, a case of water.” She opened up her truck’s center console. “Neosporin. A few Old Timers, for gutting,” she said, removing a knife that had “a little remnant on it from something.” There was also jerky, toothpaste, C.B.D. oil, binoculars, dip, a solar-powered charger, and ammo for her sidearm. “Smith & Wesson .380 with the laser sight,” she said, unholstering it. “I’ve heard that ninety-two per cent of assailants walk away when you put the laser on them.” Equally important was her Garmin Rino 650 radio. “It has a chip in it that shows you the land parcels and who owns them,” she said. “Walkie-talkie capabilities, too. If you’re a prepper, you get one.” (She has her own bug-out spot: a pine cabin, an hour northeast, that sits on sixty acres.) Her visitor pointed out one item that seemed to be missing. “I don’t do the face mask,” Smith replied. “You need proper air.”
She drove down Highway 142, past hills peppered with volcanic rock, and ranches where roping steers roamed. (“No balls, and short horns,” Smith said, waving at them.) She turned onto a dead-end road, passing a rival agent’s sign. “That guy is eightysomething,” she said, “and I guarantee he’d hump a hill faster than you.” She reached a few dozen acres of land surrounded by evergreens, with the hulking white mass of Mt. Adams in the distance. “People have been buying here recently. They have ‘well witchers’ with welding rods come and find water underground. They get power with wind or sun or both.” She pointed to a small, prefab off-grid home: “This is the average prepper. Most aren’t in cabins or bunkers. They’ve got full pantries, though, like you wouldn’t believe—buckets of powdered milk and rice, deer they’ve had canned up for years. They’ve got their cows going, their chickens, their jerky, their go bags.” Back to the truck. She wanted to get home before dark. When she cranked the engine, she noticed that her gas tank was nearly empty. ♦
