Did You Hear That?

Wheeler Peak Wilderness, NM – 1976

Back in the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness I’d had a strange uncomfortable feeling at a campsite that I later found had also affected the two women hiking with me. That same year, while hiking with the other wilderness ranger as he told me how he had ruined a woman’s life back in Arizona, I blurted out her name before he could. That same woman I had met two years before in Yosemite Valley and she had told me about a man who hurt her badly. Only she never told me his name. I was about to have another mysterious experience in the wilderness.

When Missy and I arrived at Lost Lake, we had the pick of campsites. We chose one with a view of the lake. There was only one other set of campers. The afternoon thunderstorms had already passed and the day went by uneventfully.

I was soundly asleep in the early morning hours when I either dreamed or else heard the sound of motorcycles. I bolted upright in my sleeping bag now fully awake.

My abruptness awoke Missy. “What is it?” she asked.

I listened intently. I couldn’t hear anything but a bird. Even the air was still.

“Did you hear anything?” I asked. “I thought I heard a motorcycle. The sound stopped just as I came awake. Maybe I just dreamed it.”

It kept nagging at me, so I knew I would have to check. I got dressed in my Forest Service uniform, told Missy I’d be right back, and Smokii and I quickly hiked to the outlet of the lake to the trail. There was nothing there. No motorcycle. No tracks of a motorcycle. And no sound of one. It was a dream. Smokii and I returned to camp.

Missy was up and we started preparing breakfast. This meant priming and then lighting my Svea stove to boil water. With everything ready, the water having reached a good boil, I turned off the stove. Instant quiet.

Instant quiet which suddenly burst loose into the unmistakable sound – motorcycles! I grabbed my ticket book and portable radio and Smokii and I sprinted to the outlet of the lake. They didn’t know I was there until I was right upon them.

“Shut off your bikes!” I commanded. “Take off your helmets!”

I was always required to take a portable radio with me, but it was rare that I could ever reach anyone. It was strictly line of sight from the wilderness. This morning I tried, and with the three motorcycle riders listening, I actually reached one of the Forest Service seasonal employees who was driving in the Red River area. The riders thought I was talking to the sheriff’s office.

Lost Lake was within the boundary of the designated wilderness area. I could tell by their faces they knew they weren’t supposed to be here. But they also hadn’t planned on being caught. They were extremely nervous and rightfully so.

As I questioned them, they admitted seeing the wilderness sign and the “NO MOTORIZED VEHICLES ALLOWED” sign. And then I asked if they had heard of the story of the Jeepers caught in a wilderness area in southern New Mexico. The three men literally turned white. They were very aware of the story.

Recently, two men had driven their four-wheel-drive Jeeps into the Gila Wilderness Area. They had been caught by the Forest Service, cited, and made to leave their vehicles until the Federal court made a decision. The story I was told is as follows.

The judge found both men guilty. They were ordered to pay a fine and write a letter describing that what they did was wrong. Rumor has it they each submitted, word for word, the same letter; so the judge added another fine of contempt of court (may or may not be true, but adds to the story). But the real kicker, and this is what scared the three motorcyclists, was that the Jeeps could not be driven out of the wilderness. The two violators had to pay a horsepacker, once the Jeeps were dismantled, to be packed out. This at great expense.

I told them I wasn’t going to seize their motorcycles, but I would issue each a citation. In addition, I told them they would walk their motorcycles back to the wilderness boundary sign. I was surprised when they asked one favor.

“Would you walk with us to the boundary sign?” one of the bikers asked. “We passed some backpackers on the way up and they weren’t too happy with us. We’d appreciate your protection.”

So I did. As we hiked out we passed the backpackers coming our way. When they saw me and my ticket book, I got smiles and thumbs up from them.

When we got to the sign, I told them they could ride out. But I had one more question I needed to ask.

“Did you ride up the trail an hour earlier?” I asked.

They all replied, “No.”

I then asked if they had just come in on the trail, or rode anywhere else, or if they’d seen another rider. They answered that they’d started up from the trailhead, stayed on the trail, and the only people they saw were the backpackers.

I then asked, “Would you like to know how I caught you?”

I told them they wouldn’t believe it, but I had “dreamed” I heard a motorcycle an hour before their arrival, and came wide awake. But it wasn’t really like a dream. It was like I had been brought out of a dream by the sound of a motorcycle. A motorcycle that wasn’t there.

I returned to camp and told Missy that this time I had a real encounter and told her the story. We had an enjoyable journey the next four days traveling to Horseshoe Lake and camping near treeline, to the summit of Wheeler Peak for a lunch with a view, and then back down to Lost Lake. But that enjoyment ended when we hiked down to the trailhead and saw my Landcruiser.

Three flat tires. At first I laughed to myself as I kept an electric tire inflator in my vehicle. When I got closer I got angry. I rarely swear, but I did then. Three of my tires’ valve stems had been cut off. So much for the inflator.

And then, the second miracle of our trip: I tried my portable radio and couldn’t believe my luck. I again was able to make contact with a Forest Service seasonal employee. He said he would come up and get us.

All of the seasonal employees working at the Questa Ranger Station, with the exception of Chat Campbell, the other wilderness ranger, and myself, were of Spanish descent and all locals. It was interesting at times being the “minority”, but never once was I treated with anything but kindness.

And the warmth of the friendship my co-workers bestowed unto me that day was incredible. Once everyone at the ranger station heard about my three flat tires, a whole chain of events came into play. Many of which I didn’t learn about until after the fact.

When Missy, Smokii, and I were picked up we were taken to Red River. We drove right past the camp where the three motorcyclists were camped. Three flat tires. Three motorcyclists. A coincidence?

Meanwhile in Questa, my amigos had acquired three tires and wheels off another Landcruiser. I later learned they “borrowed” these from an out-of-state tourist’s vehicle. I knew better than to ask. The tires and wheels were brought up to us and we drove back to my disabled Landcruiser.

Since it was parked at an angle, we couldn’t use a jack. Three of us lifted the body while the fourth took off my flat tire and wheel and replaced it with the “borrowed” replacement. So all three had been changed.

As we drove out we met a sheriff’s deputy interviewing the three motorcyclists. They denied doing the vandalism, and there wasn’t any proof without a confession.

My co-workers had me follow them to a gas station in Questa. The owner replaced all my valve stems, balanced, and remounted my tires and wheels. I asked him how much I owed him.

“After all you’ve been through,” he said, “nothing.”

Meanwhile, my co-workers returned the three “borrowed” tires and wheels. What at first had felt like a horrible situation turned into a remarkable display of kindness and generosity. It also was a wonderful feeling to find out that both Missy and I were considered part of the community of Questa.

Several days later,t the “end of summer” picnic, I found out how accepted we were. When my co-workers heard my vehicle had been vandalized, possibly by the motorcyclists I had cited, several grabbed ax handles, chains, and other assorted “tools”. Then, they were on their way to drive to the motorcyclists’ campsite. George Edwards, Bob Runnels, Tom Tarleton and some other Forest Service employees stopped them and finally talked them out of their proposed “attitude adjustment”.

At the picnic I thanked everyone. And then I especially thanked everyone for not going up there and busting heads. Muy bueno!