Ranger Writings
Shepherd Pass, John Muir Wilderness, CA – 1972
My next five day patrol, led me up to Shepherd Pass, and happily for me, no bears. This time I started at a 6,300 feet trailhead. Although not quite as hot and dry as Sawmill Pass Trail, it’s a good second. A constant 5,700 foot climb to the top of the pass at 12,000 feet. It has many really steep switchbacks and one part of the trail you descend about 500 feet then have to climb back up!
On my hike up to Shepherd Pass I brought along the paperback book “Black Elk Speaks” by John Neihardt. It is a story told by a Sioux medicine man of spiritual visions he experienced in his lifetime. Black Elk was but a child, but he was present at the Indian encampment during the Battle of the Little Bighorn.
While working on my undergraduate degree I took a course in Native American studies. I was one of only a handful of non-Native Americans taking the course. This class, however, opened up my mind and soul to a “natural” belief in religion; one that is closer to nature rather than “man having dominion over every living thing”.
After a first night spent at Anvil Camp, I hiked well above timberline to Lake Helen of Troy. Looming overhead was 14,018 foot Mt. Tyndall, first climbed in 1864, by Clarence King and Richard Cotter while working on the Whitney Geologic Survey. Above me and Mt. Tyndall, and my personal favorite, stood 14,375 foot Mt. Williamson. I had climbed this mountain in 1970, with James Q. Brown from the George Creek drainage. A magnificent mountain. Second highest in the Sierra Nevada, and sixth highest in the contiguous United States.
As I sat along the edge of the lake, eating my lunch of cheese and crackers, I became fascinated watching John Muir’s favorite bird. Known as the water ouzel or dipper, this slate grey, wren-shaped bird easily brings a smile to one’s face. It is known as a dipper for two reasons.
First, when it stands on a rock next to a fast moving stream or edge of a lake, it literally dips up and down on it’s legs. Second, it is known to actually dip below the surface of the water in search of insects.
I had seen numerous water ouzels in the High Sierra, but I’d only seen them bobbing on a rock or reaching down and snatching an insect with it’s beak at the water’s edge. That moment I stopped in mid-chew while eating. I watched the ouzel walk down a slab of rock and go underwater into the lake. Before my eyes, with the help of open wings, he went running along the shallow bottom of the lake. I was ecstatic. I had read about the antics of the water ouzel in one of Muir’s stories, now here I was living it!
In a short while, the dipper surfaced and flew off. It seemed like 15-20 minutes, but it was probably only a few seconds. It’s experiences like that which makes wilderness so special. Nature’s surprises. The sounds and smells of the natural world. Seeing the land so little impacted by man and having experiences which will last throughout one’s life.
I continued to eat and went back to reading “Black Elk Speaks”. I felt it getting cooler and looked up to see the sky was growing darker. In fact all that I could see were dark, heavy rain clouds. I thought it best to retreat to my campsite set up in a small grove of krummholz or an elfin tree forest.
Leaving the lake and nearing my tent, a blinding flash of light followed by an almost simultaneous clap of thunder, awakened by sense of survival. A few raindrops and then a deluge just as I reached my shelter. I quickly threw myself in through the tent flap to a dry sanctuary. I couldn’t help but reflect back to what I had been reading moments before. Black Elk’s vision had come to him with horse riders out of a stormy sky; what he called “Thunder Beings”.
The next morning was beautiful and sunny. I left my base camp and hiked up Shepherd Pass overlooking Sequoia-Kings Canyon National Park. Around lunch, as I ate, I became absorbed reading more from “Black Elk Speaks”. Again the black ominous storm clouds returned and I had to push it to return safely to my camp before I had an encore of the previous day.
On into the night as I ate my freeze-dried dinner of Mountain House beef stroganoff, I read more of my book by flashlight. The thunderstorm continued and at one point I had to rush outside when one of the tent poles and metal stakes were blown over by the high winds. (In 2004, the highest ever recorded tornado, at 12,000 feet, was observed at Rockwell Pass which is a short distance from Shepherd Pass)
When I finished reading my book, I noticed the rain, lightning, thunder, and wind had all ceased. I stepped outside my tent and was assailed by a full moon flooding the brilliant, light-colored granite of Mt. Tyndall. There are times in the wilderness when you feel like your legs have been knocked out from under you because of something so wondrous or utterly spectacular. I remember two photos in a magazine taken from Mt. Adams when Mt. St. Helens erupted in 1980. The first photo has a person standing and watching the volcano start to blow. A second later, the second photo shows the same person flat on their butt trying to comprehend what they were watching.
In a way, that was how I felt. I was speechless, not because I was alone, but because all my senses seemed focused together in this moment of time. I felt like time had come to a standstill. I was completely overwhelmed by the spectacular beauty of the moment. And then I felt a warmth and a feeling of calmness as I looked up at the moon which seemed so close.
My deep seated thoughts about the natural world seemed to flow out of me and found myself promising to dedicate myself to wilderness and our wildlands. This moment guided my life towards my next journey. I had joked that my goal in life was to become the oldest wilderness ranger. Now, however, I knew that I didn’t want to just work in the wilderness. I wanted to help preserve and protect the wilderness as a career and a life choice. I knew I needed to take the next step.
Before I took that literal next step, I still had to finish my wilderness patrol. I hiked down to the trailhead to my appointed pickup time for my ride back to Lone Pine.
I was surprised when my supervisor Ernie DeGraff was waiting for me in his truck. He told me all the seasonals were busy so he decided to come himself. He asked how my patrol went, if I contacted other hikers, any bighorn sheep sightings, and did the trail need a trail crew to maintain the path? I gave him a report then told him about the two days of stormy weather. I did not elaborate on my feelings of spiritual power or the promises I made to myself while under the wilderness moon.
Ernie then said, “You know. That was strange. The only storm clouds were centered right over Mt. Williamson and Mt. Tyndall, and no where else”.
I still have my paperback copy of “Black Elk Speaks”, but I keep it safely put away. Maybe I should keep it under lock and key.
Baxter Pass, John Muir Wilderness, CA – 1972
I read reviews by other hikers to see what they said about the Baxter Pass Trail. James Caster (on the website www.sierranevadageotourism.org) wrote on February 20, 2014, “I climbed this beautiful but brutal trail 40 years ago and I shall always remember it as one of the most wonderful experiences of my life”. He continued with, “I watched a herd of Bighorn Sheep (9 ewes and 4 lambs) grazing on lichen, as best I could tell, because there was no soil up there, only rocks”.
The last time I hiked up Baxter Pass was forty-two years ago. And it was both a beautiful and brutal trail. It’s about a twelve mile hike from the 6,000 foot trailhead to Baxter Pass at 12, 320 feet. So basically, like Sawmill Pass and Shepherd Pass, it’s steep. Along the way there used to be oak and Jeffrey pines along Oak Creek until the Independence Fire of 2007 burnt much of the landscape. At a few hundred feet over 11,000 elevation, there is a beautiful meadow near a stream. It was here I set up my base camp.
The next morning I headed for the summit of Baxter Pass. As I was reaching the top I heard the sound of rocks rattling. I looked up in time to see the rear ends of two bighorn sheep. The rams have large circular horns, the ewes shorter stubby horns. And they are horns and not antlers, as these do not shed until an animal dies.
Since I was the California Bighorn Sheep Zoological Ranger I quickly followed what I now saw were two ewes. I tried to keep pace with them. They went right to the edge and then disappeared out of my view. I jogged up to where they disappeared and stopped dead in my tracks. I could hear them as they descended down off a steep, rocky cliff. They made it look effortless. Me? I would have to rope up before ever trying that descent. I was impressed.
When I returned to my camp in the afternoon I found I was no longer alone. There was a group of fifteen high school students and their teachers camped near my tent. It was a strange feeling to suddenly encounter more people than sheep.
One of the teachers asked if I would drop by around dinnertime and talk to the students about the bighorn sheep. I readily agreed. One of the kids asked me when was a good time to see the sheep. Kidding, I told him to look for sheep on the ridge around 7 pm.
Around 7 pm the students called to me, “Ranger, ranger. Look. There they are!”
Sure enough, five bighorns; one a ram, were silhouetted on the skyline as they traversed a ridge above our camp. I casually looked down on my Smokey Bear wristwatch and replied, “Yep, right on time.”
The weather was staying bright and sunny, so I decided to hike over Baxter Pass and take a look at the Rae Lakes within the national park. First I passed by Baxter Lake just on the west side of the pass. Then I headed south and reached the Rae Lakes. Wow! Gorgeous lakes, incredible granite peaks of Fin Dome and the Painted Lady, and a healthy subalpine forest.
Located along the John Muir Trail, a 210 mile trail between Yosemite National Park and the summit of Mt. Whitney, Rae Lakes is a popular spot. I smelled wood smoke and soon came to a park ranger cabin manned by a seasonal backcountry ranger. He invited me for coffee and was impressed that I had been hiking up Baxter, Sawmill, and Shepherd Passes. “I always hike in on Kearsarge Pass,” he told me. “Higher trailhead to start hiking on and lower pass to climb over.”
I then heard the sound of a helicopter coming in to land in the meadow across from his cabin. He continued to sip his coffee and not act interested.
“A helicopter?” I asked.
“That’s how I get my supplies,” he answered. “How do you get yours?”
“I backpack them in,” I said.
As I hiked away from the Rae Lakes and headed up Baxter Pass I decided that I preferred my job as a wilderness ranger over that of the national park service backcountry ranger. And then I thought, I bet he prefers his job over mine.
It didn’t take me long to reach the top of the pass. By this time I was both fully acclimated to the high altitude and I was in great shape from hiking these trails requiring 6,000 or more feet of elevation gain. As I descended down the eastern slope towards my camp, I was rewarded with bighorn sheep grazing on the slope. I guess I was not a threat to them, or maybe I hoped they recognized me as a friend, for they looked up and then continued to graze.
The high school group had left, so I had Baxter Pass again to myself. I settled in, heated up some instant coffee and cooked up my freeze-dried dinner of chili-mac. I looked up on the ridge and there was a line of bighorns . I looked at my watch on my wrist. Seven o’clock. Right on time.
Kearsarge Pass, John Muir Wilderness, CA – 1971
My seasons as a wilderness ranger in the Mt. Whitney Ranger District were filled with incomparable scenery, extreme physical conditioning from steep trails and high altitudes, meeting a variety of interesting and for the most part, friendly wilderness users, and multiple surprises. But the wilderness, with man’s help, can also drum up it’s own form of theatrical performances.
During the 1971 season that I rangered in the Cottonwood Lakes Basin, my boss Ernie DeGraff, decided to send me into the Kearsarge Pass area near Onion Valley for a five day tour. It was a high use area as it contained several lakes, accessed the John Muir Trail, and was fairly moderate in difficulty. The Onion Valley trailhead was already at 9,600 feet and the pass was only 11,700 feet; only a 2,100 feet elevation gain in it’s eight mile length.
Ernie told me to get all my food supplies ready and he would horse-pack my gear to my base camp at Flower Lake. I would carry my personal gear and backpack in with a light load and then meet up with him.
I hiked the trail in while doing some light maintenance; cleaning and repairing waterbars. Anytime now I thought Ernie would pass me on the trail. I finished up and hiked on in to the lake and picked a spot for my camp. I hadn’t had lunch yet and was getting hungry. Ernie should have been here before me with my food. I waited and waited and waited. No sign of Ernie or the horses. Late in the afternoon I decided I’d better hike back to Onion Valley. Just then Ernie rode in along with two pack mules.
After tying up the pack animals Ernie told me why he was so late.
“Both mules must have puffed up when I was tightening their cinch straps,” he said. “As I got up the trail both loads slid under the bellies of the mules and they started kicking. I had to find a place to tie them up, re-attach the pack saddles, collect all your gear that was scattered all over, and repack them.”
Ernie was in a hurry to head back down to Onion Valley as it was getting late so I erected my tent and set up camp my myself. He didn’t even stay to eat a late lunch. I was starved. I opened a package of creme-filled cookies and took a bite. “Blah!” I spit out the cookie. They were saturated in Coleman fuel.
With the load turned upside down on the mules, and supplies scattered along the trail, the fuel must have leaked out and into my gear. Cookies, bread, instant oatmeal packets; all were tainted and ruined. Only my can goods were edible.
So much for lunch. So my dog Smokii and I did a short patrol to check on some of the fishers and backpacker campers around Gilbert and Matlock Lakes. We returned to our camp at dusk.
First I fed Smokii her dry dog food. Smart dog. She wore a dog pack and carried her own food. So none of hers was fuel soaked. I began to prepare my dinner.
DeGraff had packed in a two burner Coleman stove which used white gas. I pulled it out of the wood box along with a Coleman two-mantled lantern and set them both on top the box. It was now dark so I pumped up the lantern to build up the pressure. Set the settings to pre-light. Lit a match. Started to hold it close to the mantles as I turned on the valve. WHOOF!
Up went the lantern in flames from the pressurized fuel. Simultaneously, my tent caught on fire. The floor-less tent, an old dark green, Army surplus canvas type, had a single pole in the center with the outside corners held down with metal stakes. The tent was just about high enough to stand up in – barely.
Smokii was terrified. You could see it in her eyes and the way she was crouched down as low as she could be on the ground. I grabbed her by the dog collar and her rear end and literally flung her out the open flap of the tent. Then picking up a hand towel, I grabbed the flaming lantern and flung it outside. I had selected an impacted campsite that was mostly hard pack dirt, so it was just burning fuel on bare soil. My tent, however, was still on fire.
I began scooping dirt and throwing it on the flames. Just as I almost had the fire out I flung on some more dirt. Instead the fire intensified. I had accidentally used dirt that was soaked in Coleman fuel from the now leaking lantern. So I grabbed my shovel while outside, made sure I had “clean” dirt, and smothered out the last of the flames.
I turned on my flashlight and surveyed the carnage. Most importantly, Smokii was fine. Scratch one Coleman lantern. As it turned out, the only significant damage was the tent flap. It was pretty well charred and useless.
A middle aged couple who were camped nearby came right over at the end of the conflagration. We tried to figure out what caused the lantern to catch on fire.
Then it hit me. I checked the Coleman fuel can. The lid was tight. I checked the broken lantern. The fuel cap was loose. It had been the lantern that had leaked fuel onto my food supplies. When I pumped up the lantern not knowing the cap was loose, it built up pressure in the tank, let gas escape, and when I held up the lighted match; WHOOF!
So other than my dignity, all was well. That next day, under sunlight and well away from my tent, I performed maintenance on the lantern. The glass was cracked. I replaced both mantles. I cleaned all the dirt off. But most important, after checking there was still white gas in the tank, I made sure the fuel cap was snug and tight. I went through all the normal lighting processes, lite the lantern, and all worked fine.
My foot patrol that day and most of the next was uneventful. That changed the moment I arrived back at my camp in early afternoon and saw a horse tied to a tree. Walking around my tent was Ernie.
“What happened?” Ernie asked. Before he let me answer he continued, “A couple of backpackers came to the office yesterday and said your tent burnt up. At Onion Valley some other people told me that several trees were burned up here at the lake. So I came up to see.”
“Ernie,” I answered. “remember the pack load you brought in and the problems you had?”
I then told him about the fuel soaked food and let him smell my package of ruined cookies. Unbeknownst to me I explained, “I didn’t realize the Coleman lantern’s fuel cap had loosened.”
Ernie was quiet and I could tell he was thinking. He then offered to make a deal with me. He would tell everyone there was no fire and it was just a mistaken report by someone seeing a large campfire. In return, I would not tell anyone about his mistake in failing to tighten the cinch straps on the mules.
That was over forty years ago. Ernie’s retired from the Forest Service and I’m retired from the Bureau of Land Management. So since I now confessed to the fire, I feel I can finally tell the rest of the story.
Moral of the story; tighten cinch straps and tighten fuel caps.
Forest Supervisor’s Office, Inyo National Forest, CA – 1972
In that summer of 1972, there were three of us wilderness rangers in the Mt. Whitney Ranger District. John Thomas Lansaw, who went by Tom, patrolled the Mt. Whitney trail. Jeff Boyer had my old job hiking the Cottonwood Lakes Basin. And I was in the California Bighorn Sheep Zoological Area. Our boss was Ernie DeGraff.
At the beginning of summer we were shot down by Ernie when we asked him if we could wear hiking shorts. His rationale? What if there was a forest fire? We wouldn’t be safe in shorts. Our answer? We’ll carry a pair of long pants in our backpacks and change out of shorts if needed.
Ernie’s answer, “No!”
We didn’t like it, but he was our boss. We were about the only backpackers wearing long pants.
Towards the middle of summer we got a new forest supervisor for the Inyo National Forest. His name was Everett Towle.
Supervisor Towle wanted to meet with all the wilderness staff on his forest. This meant that Tom, Jeff, Ernie, and I headed up together for a day at headquarters in Bishop. Also at the meeting was staff from the White Mountain Ranger District.
Ernie was nervous before the “big” meeting. He told us he wanted to make a good impression on the new forest supervisor. We were to be on our best behavior.
“10-4 Ernie,” we all said in unison.
“I don’t want you complaining about wages,” he said looking right at me.
“10-4 Ernie,” we said in unison, although with less enthusiasm.
“And finally I want you all cleaned up. Get haircuts, trim mustaches (to me), and no beards (to Tom),” added Ernie.
“Oh crap Ernie. Really?” asked Tom.
Ernie just nodded and said no more. We three cleaned ourselves up; probably clogging up the sink in our barracks. That next day we were all ready in clean clothes and fresh uniform shirt to meet Supervisor Towell. We were soon to learn that Ernie did it to us again.
We left Lone Pine at 6:30 am to make our meeting in Bishop and showed up in the conference room right on time. Supervisor Everett Towle was extremely personable and friendly. This means a lot to a seasonal employee. He went around the room and asked all of the wilderness rangers and their supervisors to fill him in with what was happening in the John Muir Wilderness.
Then it was time for Ernie’s presentation. Ernie talked about the number of miles of trail maintained and the number of burlap bags of trash collected and packed out of the wilderness. Jeff, Tom, and I started biting our tongues and squirming a little in our seats as he continued his spiel.
The previous year we had done a great job maintaining the trails because we had a roving, two-man trail maintenance crew with a pack horse and burro. Thus our trails this season were in excellent shape.
The summer before, especially in the Cottonwood Lakes Basin, I had collected nearly two hundred burlap bags of trash that were packed out by horse and mule. The reason we had so much was I found old trash dumps from the early and mid 1900’s. In those days it was accepted practice to bury, not pack out your trash.
As an aside, we probably removed a lot of historical items in the quest to remove trash. When was the last time you could buy Log Cabin brand syrup in a tin can shaped like a log cabin? I found and packed out at least fifty of those old relics alone in 1971.
The reason we were a little fidgety in our chairs was that Ernie had inflated our figures for this season. He pro-rated what we had done in 1971, and estimated a ten percent increase in our trail maintenance and trash pickup. In truth, there wasn’t much trash left to pack out and remove. We’d already cleaned up the big caches.
Supervisor Towle was very observant. Whether it was the three of us looking at each other and whispering, or maybe just the “deer caught in the headlights” look on our faces, he interrupted Ernie. “I’d like to hear from the wilderness rangers themselves since they’re on the front lines.”
Jeff Boyer started by explaining how hard it was to find trash after I had found most of the trash locations in the Cottonwood Lakes Basin the previous summer. So this season he was spending most of his time with public contacts.
When Tom Lansaw’s turn came up next, he explained an interesting informal case study that he and I conducted on the Mt. Whitney Trail at Trail Camp. Trail Camp is located at 12,000 feet and is the last practical camp on the east side before reaching the summit of Mt. Whitney. That 4th of July weekend, Ernie send me up to work with Tom over the busy weekend. This was before the Forest Service had gone to a lottery system to limit use hiking use on this trail.
Tom was tired of picking up all the backpacker litter left behind at Trail Camp; high above the treeline in a small pocket of alpine tundra set between granite walls and boulders. Every Sunday, he would hike up from his base camp at Outpost Camp just below Mirror Lake. This was the day when the majority of backpackers would be headed back down the trail to their vehicles at the Whitney Portal trailhead. Tom would pick up and bag all the trash left behind.
Tom had an idea. He and I would hike up to Trail Camp late afternoon on a Saturday. In front of all the campers, with their tents literally pitched side-by-side, the two of us would make a big show of picking up and bagging the trash we found. We knew that these hikers, seeing us picking up previous littering, would either be shamed into packing out their own trash, or would take their trash with them when they left after seeing what a physical chore it was for the two of us. It was a brilliant plan. One that could not fail.
Tom and I had a good dinner that night and an even better breakfast. Not because of the freeze-dried foods or packets of instant oatmeal, but how we talked about the problem being solved. We both looked forward to our trek back up to Trail Camp that Sunday afternoon.
Tom then explained to Towle the result, “Jon and I got up to Trail Camp that afternoon after the backpackers had packed up and left. There in front of almost each spot a tent had been erected, was now a neat and tidy small pile of trash. The hikers, seeing us picking up the litter, had collectively decided to place their trash in small piles rather than pack it out. ” Tom continued, “I guess they thought they were doing us a favor. That this would make it easier for us!”
Tom was now on a roll. Before Ernie could stop him, he told the story of the “Odyssey of Baby Homer”.
With so much use of the Mt. Whitney Trail, along with the rockiness and steepness, certain restrictions had been enacted by the Forest Service. Campfires were prohibited both due to lack of fuelwood and to the impact of campfire rings on the fragile vegetation and soils. Horses and pack stock was prohibited due to the rocky trail and concentration of so many hikers on an often very exposed trail and effect of overgrazing.
As seasonal wilderness rangers we could issue citations for minor violations such as illegal campfires, littering, and the cutting of switchbacks on trails. It was the end of June, while Tom was at his camp one night, he recognized a glow against the far wall that could only come from a campfire.
Tom walked into the camp and was startled by what he saw. There was a large campfire burning. And not only that, there was a Shetland pony and a goat grazing nearby.
Tom said he had a hard time controlling his anger with so many flagrant violations in front of him. He strode into what was literally a “hippie” camp. He loudly introduced himself as a wilderness ranger and began telling them of all their violations. One of the men with the group interrupted Tom and softly spoke, “But we have a reason.”
“I was totally speechless,” said Tom. “It was one of those moments in your life where you see something, but you know it can’t be true. That it can’t be happening. Especially in the wilderness.”
“We’re boiling water right now,” continued the man. “Can you help us?”
So Tom Lansaw washed his hands and rolled up his shirtsleeves. The pony had been for the woman to ride. The goat was there to provide milk. That night he helped to deliver the baby named Homer into the world. He also helped the father after he fainted during the birthing.
Afterwards he heard the rest of the story. The family, with their friends, had purposely planned to have their baby in the wilderness. Only they hoped to be somewhere on the John Muir Trail, not three miles up the Mt. Whitney Trail. Probably the altitude and other events made Homer decide to make an earlier appearance.
The family told Tom they’d probably need to stay a few more days before they could move and continue their journey. Their final destination was Yosemite Valley.
Then Tom told the part of the story Ernie didn’t want the forest supervisor to hear.
When Tom got down to the ranger station he told all of us his story. Ernie asked him if he had written any tickets for the fire or the horse or goat? He told him that he hadn’t. So then Ernie told him he needed to do so when he hiked back up. Tom told Ernie that he would not write them any tickets.
So Ernie hiked up to Outpost Camp with the intention of issuing several citations to Homer’s parents and friends. Tom told Ernie that he’d wait for him at his camp.
About an hour later Ernie hiked over to Tom’s tent. “You win,” said Ernie. “I walked into their camp and there was the mother sitting up breastfeeding her baby. She was surrounded by willows and there was this shaft of sunlight hitting her smiling face. She looked like the Madonna and child. I couldn’t write a ticket either.”
Lastly, Tom told Everett Towle that the Mt. Whitney Trail didn’t really fit in with the rest of the John Muir Wilderness. He then told of some of the trail users he met,
“One man was trying to push a wheelbarrow up the trail with food and sleeping gear. Another man’s backpack was a newspaper bag (for those too young to remember – it was a light canvas bag one wore over one’s head like a vest with an opening in front and in the back to carry newspapers). One woman in her 70’s carried a light weight lawn chair. She would hike the trail a ways, stop to open up the chair, and sit down and rest. One man had read Ryback’s book (The High Adventure of Eric Ryback) about hiking the Pacific Crest Trail and was trying to hike all the John Muir Trail while carrying over 100 pounds. He was barely making one mile a day. All of these people I tried to talk into turning back.”
The forest supervisor then turned to me and asked for my perspective. I told him our goal should not be more bags of trash packed out like a quota system. Our goal should be to never have to pick up another piece of litter. I explained that our emphasis should be on educating the users, not taking care of the problem after they leave. I said that I noticed a lot of backcountry users needed to be taught proper wilderness etiquette (later to be known as low impact camping).
Then I told two stories how outside influences such as magazine articles and trail guide books can affect wilderness management.
The Horseshoe Meadows road leading to the Cottonwood Lakes Basin trailhead was not well known in 1969. The following year WESTWAYS Magazine, published by the Southern California Automobile Club, had an article in their section “Let’s Explore A Byway”, about this very road. That next weekend following the article, where normally two to three vehicles would be found, now had ninety-six cars parked at the road end.
In 1971, when Ernie had me patrolling the Kearsarge Pass area, I met a backpacker who started asking me about some lesser known trails or knapsack routes in the southern Sierra Nevada. He asked about some routes in the Sequoia-Kings Canyon National Park. I told him that wasn’t my patrol area. I was strictly a Forest Service wilderness ranger and he’d have to talk with the park rangers.
He then asked if I knew anything about the Cottonwood Lakes Basin. I told him that was actually my assigned area and I had hiked all over the basin.
“Is there any other trail up into the basin other than the main trail,” he asked me.
“Yes,” I answered. “There’s a fisherman’s trail that parallels the creek.”
He pulled out a topographic map which showed this area. I drew the route in pencil on his map then asked him,”That’s a long ways from here. Are you going to hike all these trails this trip?”
“Oh no,” he replied. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Thomas Winnett. I am the publisher of Wilderness Press. I printed the books ‘Sierra South’ and ‘Sierra North’.”
That next summer I switched with Jeff Boyer for a week so he could see some of the bighorn sheep country and I could revisit the Cottonwood Lakes. I decided to hike in using the old, faint fishing trail. I kept running into several hikers on this trail. I finally asked one how he knew about this trail.
“I read it in a trail guide,” he said. “Here. I have it with me.”
Out of his backpack he pulled the newest version of “Sierra South” and showed me. There it was – the fisher trail information I had given to Winnett.
Everett Towle thanked all of us for our insights and honesty. He praised us and explained that for the majority of wilderness users we were probably the only Forest Service personnel they would ever have contact. He stressed how very important it was for us to educate the users both through verbal communication as well as personal example. He encouraged us to use backpack stoves and not campfires, wash our pots and pans away from streams and lakes, and select campsites when available in already impacted sites. And then he hit us with the clincher.
“Look at the wilderness user,” he continued. “they are predominantly young and often have long hair and beards. If any of you wish to grow out your hair and grow beards you’ll be more like our clientele. I highly encourage it. And then maybe they’ll be more receptive to you. Thank you all for what you have done and for what you do.”
All three of us simultaneously turned and just stared at Ernie. I think Tom Lansaw even rubbed his now closely shaven face that still showed razor nicks. So we three, young, clean cut wilderness rangers went to Pizza Hut and made Ernie buy us lunch. Each of us individually ordered a large pizza. And while we ate Ernie said, “Well, I think that meeting went well.”
Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness, CO – 1973
I had saved a little money when I bought my Landcruiser by not getting the option of a car radio. What a mistake. It took Smokii and I three days to drive from El Toro, California to Aspen. First night we slept next to the vehicle outside Beaver, Utah. Second night was off a ranch exit somewhere near Cisco, Utah. This was before present day Interstate Highways so most of the roads were two lane. With an AM/FM radio, I discovered the following year, I could drive the same route in a day and a half.
We arrived in mid-May to clear blue skies, snow covered mountains, and bright yellow dandelions carpeting the meadows as we drove into Aspen. On the corner of West Hallam and Colorado Hwy 82, was the Aspen Ranger Station. District Ranger John Burns openly welcomed me and invited Smokii and I to dinner at his house where I met his family and Smokii met his German shepherd. Afterwards, he gave me directions to Difficult Campground and a key to the Forest Service gate as the campground hadn’t opened up yet. My home would be an old, small trailer. The toilet and water faucet, were outside. I loved it.
Next day I met Dick Cerise, recreation technician, who would be my boss for three years. Dick told me I’d be working the front country for a few weeks as they’d had a heavy snow year so the backcountry wasn’t really open yet.
I helped another seasonal for a while hauling trash from trashcans in the other campgrounds that were open and digging holes to install signs. Digging was not the right word. In the mountains, which were heavily glaciated, to “dig” a hole meant to pry out rocks with a pry bar (also called a bull prick). You could almost be sure on the first attempt using a shovel to hear and feel a rock. Usually it was one large rock. And after prying it out of the ground you had your hole. Of course most of the signs we put up had two posts. Could take a good hour to install one sign.
Then my job shifted. The previous year, two young women had driven their VW bug into a campsite at Maroon Campground. It was a windy day. Many of the aspen were diseased. Just as they parked, a large aspen blew over onto their car. Both were killed.
I became a sawyer. One who fells trees. After a short training where I learned how to sharpen a chainsaw, I went to work. Any diseased aspens I was to cut down in the campgrounds. I wore eye and ear protection and chainsaw chaps on my legs. Also wore steel-toed boots. I learned how to cut notches in the aspen so a tree would fall a certain direction. Yet at the same time I questioned in my mind, should all these trees be cut down?
One afternoon I was cutting trees as a couple in an adjacent campsite were eating their lunch. I went over to apologize for the noise and explained why I was doing the cutting. They were saddened about the two girls’ deaths, but smiled and said I wasn’t bothering them. They looked familiar to me. We talked a little more and they asked me questions about the mountains and my job. As I started to leave they thanked me and introduced themselves as Allen Ludden and Betty White.
At the end of the day, Cerise told me the good news. Next week I’d start my first ten day backcountry patrol into the wilderness. So next day I headed up to Difficult Campground to finish cutting a few more aspen trees. It was getting onto lunch time so I set my chainsaw down next to a large aspen I was planning on cutting after I ate. As I sat at a picnic table a stiff breeze started up. I first heard a creaking like a groan and then a loud snap. Suddenly the tree I was going to cut had snapped off at the base and collapsed away from me. I sat there stunned. To see how little wind was needed and how quickly it happened; now I pictured what the two girls in the Volkswagen never saw coming. And where I had questioned cutting so many trees, now I knew it was needed.
My first patrol would be into the Conundrum Hot Springs area. Dick Cerise would backpack in with me for the first night and point out some of the problems in the Conundrum Valley. Dick had also surprised me earlier with another pleasant surprise. Unlike Ernie back in Lone Pine, I was told that hiking shorts were perfectly acceptable in the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness.
Hiking shorts may not seem like a big thing. One day after a ten day patrol, in uniform shirt and hiking shorts, I stopped to buy a few items at Carl’s Pharmacy in Aspen. As I walked outside to my Landcruiser a man came running adfter me.
“You’re wearing shorts!” he cried out. “You’re wearing shorts!”
I looked down at my shorts, then looked at him a little perplexed, “Yes I am.”
“I’m sorry,” he replied. “I work as a park ranger in Dinosaur National Monument. We have to wear long pants while hiking the trails. I’m going to apply for the Forest Service next year.”
So Dick Cerise and I, both in hiking shorts, got out of the Forest Service vehicle at the trailhead, which was about eight miles from the hot springs. There was a single log crossing Conundrum Creek which was running high and fast due to the snow melt.
“When you cross the log make sure your hip belt is unfastened,” recommended Dick. “If you fall into the creek then you can get rid of your pack quickly.”
I looked at the log. Spray was splashing the middle but it looked crossable. Besides, I was young and had good balance. Young also means invincible. As I was figuring the best way to walk across, Smokii, with her dog pack on, jumped onto the log and ran straight across. Smart aleck dog!
I over confidently started across and did fine until I reached the wet portion of the log. Next thing I knew I was underwater with my pack holding me down. I thought of the waist belt I had stupidly fastened and now couldn’t find it to release it. Then I felt someone grab me. It was Dick. He jumped in and pulled me up onto the other side of the shore.
“You OK?” asked Dick.
“Yes. And feeling stupid right now,” I answered.
“Well, I’m already wet. Might as well get my pack and bring it across.”
So Dick waded across Conundrum, grabbed his pack, and came back over to me.
It is amazing when you have a burst of adrenaline, you cannot feel the icy cold of the snow melt creek. But now I did. So I began the process of drying out and warming up. I removed my sleeping bag and hung it out to dry as well as clothing and other items in my backpack. Then Dick and I climbed up the hillside, mainly from other hikers, and stripped down to our underwear and sat in the sunshine.
Dick, who often cracked jokes with a dry sense of humor commented with his “Cheshire Cat” smile, “Usually I like to take a bath after I’ve been out hiking several days, not in the first few minutes.”
Once dry we headed up the Conundrum Trail. The first part alternates between spruce and aspen and then opens up into occasional meadows. The wildflowers were coming out in all their glory, yet hadn’t yet come close to their peak. The trail began to climb and the Englemann spruce became more dense and the primary species. We reached a spot in the trail and posted a Forest Service regulatory sign on a tree.
NO CAMPING ALLOWED WITHIN ONE MILE OF CONUNDRUM HOT SPRINGS
He then suggested we hike up slope into a sunny spot and eat lunch. As Smokii lay on her belly and fell asleep, we ate our lunch and Dick told me about some of the reasons for the regulations in the Maroon Bells – Snowmass Wilderness.
He explained that the hot springs was a very popular spot for backpackers and was very fragile as it was in the subalpine zone just below timberline. The pools themselves had been “improved” in the early 1900’s so were concrete and rock with plastic pipe. He said they restricted the hot springs to day use otherwise people would erect their tents immediately among the hot springs. There was also a Forest Service cabin that we could use for administrative purposes.
As we ate we watched three backpackers, two men and a woman, hike up the trail and stop at the regulatory sign. One man with shoulder length hair glanced up and then down the trail.
“Watch this,” said Dick.
The man reached up to the nailed-in sign and began rocking it back and forth. I started to stand up and Dick put his hand on my shoulder and stopped me. He put his finger to his lips to shush me. The man pulled the sign off the tree then flung it off behind the trees. The three then continued to hike up the trail.
“Why did you stop me?” I asked.
“We know where they’re headed. There’s no hurry,” replied Dick, again with that smile of his.
After lunch we recovered the sign and re-installed it. We continued on up the trail. In the darkest spot of the forest Dick pointed out a wooden post just off the trail.
DICK RENOLDS JULY 9, 1881 REST
He had been killed and eaten by a grizzly bear. Every time I hiked by that grave marker I felt the hairs on the back of my neck tingle.
Soon afterwards, we arrived at the Conundrum cabin and dropped off our backpacks.
“Let’s have some fun. Ready to see what’s in store for us at the hot springs?” Dick asked.
We hiked in to an absolutely beautiful spot for a hot springs to be located at 11,200 feet. The dark green of subalpine trees, the bright, freshness of willows, multi-colored wildflowers popping out where the snow patches had melted away, the reds and oranges of Electric Pass, and looming over us was 14,275 foot Castle Peak. And next to the hot springs were two tents. One tent had the opening so one could slide directly in and out of the hot spring. Soaking in the buff, were the two men and woman we had observed while eating lunch.
We were both wearing Forest Service uniform shirts so we didn’t need to announce ourselves, but Dick went ahead and introduced us to the threesome. He was again wearing that Cheshire cat smile.
“You know there’s no camping within one mile of the hot springs?” began Dick.
The woman answered, “We didn’t know that.”
The long haired man added, “Yeah. We didn’t see any signs or anything.”
I could feel that Dick was really enjoying himself and was taking his time getting to the punch line. “Well, there is a sign posted on the trail that states there is no camping within one mile of the hot springs. Didn’t you see it?”
The long haired man looked towards his friends and asked them, “Did you guys see any signs?”
They both shook their heads no and the man said, No. We didn’t see any.”
Dick turned to me and asked, “Jon, you remember seeing the sign don’t you?”
Dick and I became Abbott and Costello, Johnny Carson and Ed McMahon, bad cop good cop.
“I remember you holding up the sign when I nailed it to the tree this morning,” I said. “Then I remember it was still on the tree when we climbed up the hillslope and ate our lunch.”
Dick turned and stared “long hair” right in the eyes. “You remember the sign now don’t you? It was the one you pulled off the tree after looking up and down the trail, then flung if off into the brush.”
“Long hair” turned pale. His two friends just looked down at their feet in the water of the hot spring.
“Jon, why don’t you go ahead and issue them a ticket. I’ll just watch them as they pack up all their camping gear, ” said Dick.
He turned to me and smiled, “Welcome to Conundrum Hot Springs. This is what it’s like.”
The word conundrum means a confusing or difficult problem or question. Percolating up immediately adjacent to the hot spring was a cold spring. One natural conundrum. The other conundrum involved wilderness management. How does one manage a portion of the wilderness that draws concentrated use that’s not totally wilderness oriented?
My patrols all through 1973 through 1975, ones which included Conundrum Hot Springs, became one of my least favorite spots. Some late afternoons I’d sit at the springs and talk with various users. Here was an incredibly beautiful spot and I would overhear conversations that turned my stomach every visit.
“Wow. Too bad we didn’t brings drugs up here with us.”
“Wish I had some LSD.”
“Where are all the naked girls you said would be up here?”
My biggest confrontation in the wilderness would take place here. But that hadn’t happened yet. That would be in 1975.
But this was 1973 and my first ten patrol of the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness. Cerise left to hike out the next morning and I continued to get drenched. Not from stream crossings but from rain. The next thirteen days it rained day and night. This was becoming very different from my experiences in the Sierra Nevada.
In the Sierras, if clouds build up from the west, I would expect afternoon thundershowers followed by a clear, star-lite night. But if I detected clouds starting to form in the late afternoon from the east, I’d set up my tent and expect rain that night. The Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness was much wetter and as yet unpredictable to me.
When I finally hiked out on my last day from Conundrum, I went out via East Maroon Valley. My rain protection was a poncho. With only a poncho my legs were soaked. My Lowa Alpspitz boot soles, which I had myself resoled that spring, started to come off of both boots. I tied cord around my boot and boot soles to hold them together. My Camp Trails backpack shed some water but I did not have a pack cover. I was cold, miserable, and tripping over my boots when the cord would wear through. The trails were wet and muddy. I crossed a stream and gave up trying to keep my socks dry. I just found myself getting into a plod step letting my mind go blank. Even Smokii’s curly tail started to straighten out with all the rain.
Catching my Forest Service ride at the trailhead, I picked up my paycheck at the ranger station, took a hot shower, and went on a shopping spree on my four days off. The shops in Aspen were very supportive of the wilderness and the seasonal rangers. I was given a twenty percent discount at all the backpack/climbing stores.
For rain protection I purchased The North Face cagoule and rain chaps in dark forest green. I bought a new pair of boots. Galibier Vercours. The Galibier Super Guides had full steel shanks. While the Vercours had a lesser steel shank so flexed for hiking. I never had a break-in problem with them. John Burns let me purchase an excellent backpacker tent, Trailwise Fitzroy, that kept me dry those three seasons in the wilderness.
There was one other item I purchased that would later become part of a story. An ice axe. The snow was still piled on the mountain passes so one reason was for safety. But I soon found I used it as a walking stick and to prop my backpack up whenever I took off my back.
And then I fell in love. I saw a Kelty Serac. This was the largest Kelty backpack made. An external frame pack, it was the same as the Tioga but included a lower large pouch for a sleeping bag. It too was dark green. I believed in using muted colors in the wilderness. And I thought the best way to educate other users was to “practice what I preached”.
I looked at the price tag. $75! I was making maybe $3.50 an hour. They threw in a Kelty rain cover and I walked out of the store with a new pack. I was ready for my next ten day patrol and the next few seasons patrolling as a wilderness ranger. Forty-one years later I still have that pack.
Southern Califonia – 1973
The year was 1973. I had my Bachelor of Arts degree in geography but there was a hiring freeze for full time jobs in the Federal government. I had saved up after my last summer season in Lone Pine and purchased a brand new ’72 Toyota Landcruiser. Color was listed on the sticker as Colorado beige. My payments were $59.03 a month. My personalized license plate read “IM WILD”.
I had mailed out several summer seasonal applications. I knew if I went back to Lone Pine, Ernie would hire me as a GS-04 again. It was time for a change. My old friend Tom Highberger had switched from the US Forest Service to the National Park Service and was telling me I should do the same. The past summer he had worked as a backcountry ranger in Mount Rainier National Park. So I applied to some national parks as well. It wasn’t long until I started getting job offers.
First I received a call from the Petrified Forest National Park in northern Arizona. I would be on a horse patrol part of the time. I declined. Didn’t want a horse and didn’t want to spend a hot summer in the painted desert guarding petrified wood. Next call was at four o’clock in the morning. I was offered a job with one of the national forests in Florida. I would supervise a youth corps. I declined. Didn’t want to supervise teenagers. Didn’t want the heat and humidity of Florida. Didn’t want the mosquitoes. And didn’t appreciate that the interviewer called so early from Florida not concerned that I lived in California at the time. Then I received a call from Death Valley National Monument (which in 1994 became a national park). Was I being offered a winter-spring job? Nope. Middle of summer. I would be issued a rifle and was to shoot any feral burros I encountered; sometimes from a helicopter. Suddenly northern Arizona and Florida didn’t seem too hot. I declined. And no I wasn’t going to shoot burros in 130 degree temperature. From hot to cool, I received a job offer from Mount McKinley National Park (became Denali National Park in 1980). I would be manning an entrance station for five days a week. Any chance of getting out into the backcountry? None. How about getting out of the entrance booth a day or two? Not a chance. So I declined Alaska.
I was about to tell Tom what I thought about the Park Service when I received a call from North Cascades National Park in Washington. I would be a backcountry ranger. The national park was created in 1968 and my job, in the northern portion, had never had a backcountry ranger patrol. Wow! My reporting date would be mid-June. I would be in a spectacular wild world near the Canadian border.
At the time Tom was working in Yosemite National Park as a ski patrol ranger at Badger Pass Ski Area. When he heard of my offer he congratulated me and told me to head up to Yosemite and visit him for a while. It was March and there was fresh snow. Tom shared lodging with a couple who were also winter seasonal employees.
He had to work during the daytime so I had free time on my hands. I drove up through the tunnel and looked out at Half Dome and El Capitan, striking granite monoliths. I parked my Landcruiser and stood out at the overlook totally stunned to silence. Fresh snow was on the rocks and tree limbs, Bridalveil Falls was plunging water, mist, and ice, and Yosemite Valley spread out before me. No wonder John Muir loved this place!
My focus on nature was interrupted by the sound of spinning tires in the snow of the parking area. I walked over to a blue Datsun 240Z and rapped lightly on the driver’s side window. A young woman opened the door and got out. She told me it wasn’t her car and that she really needed help. I had a tow strap and four wheel drive. So I lay down in the snow, hooked my tow strap to the frame of the 240Z, attached the other end to my vehicle’s frame, and pulled her to dry asphalt.
She introduced herself as Kathy Priestnitz and said she was a nurse at the Yosemite Medical Clinic. One of the doctors had loaned her his Datsun so she could drive to the overlook. I told her I was visiting a friend and seeing Yosemite for the first time. We talked a little more and seemed to really enjoy each other’s company. She had to head back to work, but then asked me? “Do you know how to cross-country ski?”
“No I don’t, ” I replied.
“I have two days off and I signed up for cross-country ski lessons tomorrow,” she continued. “Would you be interested?”
After finding where the lessons would be the next morning and promising to be there, I said goodbye and headed over to the ski area to catch up with Tom. When he got off work I sat with him in the ski patrol office while he changed. He told me he felt bad that he had to work while I was visiting. I just smiled at Tom and said, “No problem.”
Maybe it was my smile, or the way I said it, but Tom stopped pulling off his ski boots and stared at me.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“Well I met this nurse today at the El Capitan overlook and we’re taking cross-country ski lessons together tomorrow morning,” I casually explained.
“What! You dog!” Tom said laughing. “And I was feeling bad for you!”
The next day I met Kathy and we joined about eight other novices and an instructor and learned the basics of cross-country skiing. It was a lot of fun, a lot of falling, and all in one of the most beautiful spots in the world. After our lessons she had to fill in a few hours for another nurse at the clinic. But we planned to meet again the following day around noon.
Yosemite Valley with fresh snow is unspeakably beautiful and dramatic. At times I would stop, look up at the surrounding landscape, and be overwhelmed with the rock, the waterfalls, the trees. We spent the day together talking, walking, and laughing as we threw snowballs at each other and made snow angels.
I told her about my life so far at the age of twenty-three. My beliefs in nature. How I had decided to go back and work on a masters degree if I could afford the cost. I had applied to the University of Montana, California State University at Chico, and the University of Idaho.
I then told her about my upcoming job in the North Cascades. I was excited but as I talked with Kathy I realized I did have some concerns. First, this would be my second season in a row when I couldn’t take Smokii with me. No dogs are allowed in the backcountry of a national park. Second, when I was offered the job I asked about my living quarters when on my days off. The ranger said that I didn’t have an assigned room or even a bunk. And third, I had just started growing a beard and the ranger said there were grooming standards. A mustache was allowed as long as it did not go below the corners of your mouth, but no beards. And your hair had to be kept trimmed and couldn’t go beyond the top of your shirt collar.
Kathy told me that one of the reasons she got into nursing was the ability to work anywhere as everyone needed nurses. I then asked her how she ended up as a nurse in Yosemite Valley. When she spoke I could hear the sadness and bitterness in her voice. She told me she’ d been a nurse in Arizona. The man she lived with deeply hurt her and she realized she had to leave. She saw the job opening in Yosemite Valley and here she was. She was starting a new life getting away from him and the memories.
We had pizza and wine together. Since it was late she invited me to stay in her small studio apartment. I was a perfect gentleman. She slept on her bed, me in my sleeping bag on the floor.
I left Yosemite Valley and a week later found myself in Death Valley. After three nights camping in Texas Springs Campground, I discovered my friend, James Q. Brown, from my Lone Pine days in 1969 and 1970, had been camping the last three days in the same campground. We had driven by each other in the early morning hours without realizing each other was there.
“Have you ever heard of the Kofa Mountains?” Jim asked.
“No I haven’t,” I answered.
“Would you like to see some desert bighorn sheep? Can you go next week?” he replied.
So in March I went from Yosemite Valley to Death Valley. Then in April I found myself with Jim camping in the Kofas just north of Quartzite looking for bighorns. He told me Kofa stood for the King of Arizona Mine. I didn’t realize at the time how all these trips would somehow mesh together.
We set up our camp and hiked up into the hills. It had been a wet winter and spring and the wildflowers covered the hill slopes. Jim looked back at our camp and just stared. “There’s another vehicle down there parked next to yours,” he said. He pulled out his binoculars, looked, then handed them to me. It looked like someone was bending down near my rear tire.
Jim stated, “I think we’d better hike down there.”
When we arrived at our camp and my Landcruiser, parked was an old International Scout. An older man got up from his folding chair and smiled at us as we walked into camp.
“My name is Bob. Bob Bosshard,” he said holding out his hand to shake. “I actually have these mining claims here, but I don’t mind you camping here. Also, I noticed some broken glass under your tire. I scraped away most of it and it doesn’t appear your tire has lost any air.”
We both felt a little foolish for previously thinking he was vandalizing my vehicle and now even more so finding we were camping on his mining claims. He got out a map and laid it on the ground.
All three of us got on our hands and knees and started looking at the topographic features. Suddenly, a black, curly haired mongol of a dog walked onto the map. Then a shadow blocked the sun. I looked up and saw a silhouette of a woman haloed by the sun.
“Nancy!” Bob called out. “Jon and Jim. Meet my daughter and her dog Mogul.”
We ended up camping all together. Bob and Jim talked about mining and rocks and the history of the Kofas and were having a great time. Me, I was having a great time talking and getting to know Nancy.
I learned that she had grown up in Southern California with her mom and dad and went onto college. She had been an airline stewardess (now called flight attendant) for Continental Airlines. Nancy said that after a while she was getting tired of the job and feeling lost and uncertain what she wanted for her life. The best time she said was when they brought the soldiers back from Vietnam. One day she met a young woman who told her about a wonderful place in the Colorado mountains. Nancy left the airline and moved to Aspen where she did bookkeeping and more importantly, downhill skiing.
I told her about my forthcoming job in North Cascades National Park. I also mentioned a few of my misgivings just like I had told Kathy Priestnitz.
“Why don’t you come to Aspen and work? Nancy asked.
I told her,”I didn’t apply to Aspen and now it’s too late.You have to apply the beginning of the year for a Forest Service seasonal job.”
Nancy and I hiked in a wash and talked long into the night. There was a full moon, so as we hiked the moon would disappear behind a higher hill, then reappear once again. We got to watch a dozen or so moon rises in one night that way. Nancy told me she would be in Southern California for a few more weeks. I told her I would like to spend some more time with her after this Kofa trip.
The next day we said goodbye to Bob and Nancy and Jim and I played around the Kofas for a few more days. Never saw any desert bighorn, probably because there’d been so much in the way of rain, water was not scarce. But I enjoyed hiking into the palm canyons and seeing all the saguaros, barrel, ocotillo, and cholla cactus. I dropped Jim off at his house and headed home to my parent’s condo in El Toro, California.
When I drove up into the carport, my mom and dad walked out through the back gate and met me. Smokii ran up and greeted me wagging her curly tail. My parents had smiles on their faces.
“What is it?” I asked.
“You had a phone call while you were gone,”answered my mom.
“Who called? Where was it from?”
“Colorado”.
“Where in Colorado?”
“Aspen”.
I had forgotten. I applied to the supervisor’s office of the White River National Forest based in Glenwood Springs, Colorado. The Aspen Ranger Station was part of the White River. My mom gave me the phone number and said I was to call District Ranger John Burns tomorrow morning.
I was nervous next morning. What kind of job would I be offered? Other than the North Cascades job, all the others were uninteresting to me. Only one way to find out. I dialed the number. Very few times does one sit though a phone call which gets better and better. This was one of those calls.
John said the job was a Wilderness Ranger in the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness Area. I would be backpacking ten on with four days off each pay period. This was way before GOOGLE so I didn’t realize the significance of this wilderness. I just knew it was Colorado and it was based out of Aspen. Without even asking, John said my first season would be a GS-04 and if I returned, he would guarantee a GS-05. I thought now I should ask.
“Would it be possible to bring my dog. She’s a Norwegian elkhound.”
“I wouldn’t go anywhere in the wilderness without my German shepherd,” John replied.
“Is there housing on my day’s off?” I asked.
“Yes. You’ll have access to a trailer in Difficult Campground. It’s about five miles out of Aspen.”
Now I thought to myself. Shall I risk it and ask? “What are the grooming standards?”
John continued, “I don’t care if you have long hair. And if you have or want a beard, just as long as it’s trimmed is all I ask.”
I was floored. I was being offered a Wilderness Ranger position in one of the most spectacular areas in the wilderness system. Seven peaks topped 14,000 feet. Being slightly west of the Continental Divide, these lands were known for incredible wildflower displays. And as District Ranger John Burns described the job and amenities, I asked one last question.
“When would you like me to start?” I asked keeping in mind that my reporting date for the North Cascades was mid-June.
“I’d like you to start mid-May. So what do you think? Would you like a couple of days to think about it?”
“No,” I quickly replied. “I mean yes I want the job, no I don’t need time to think about it.”
I thanked John and told him I looked forward to working for him. I hung up the phone and immediately called the ranger at North Cascades. He was not happy with my decision. I decided after the call I’d probably best not apply for a Park Service job for a long time.
I then called Nancy and told her the news. She was ecstatic for me.
My parents and I went out to dinner that night in celebration. Don Jose’s Mexican restaurant. I ordered the combination with cheese enchiladas and a chili relleno. I was twenty-three so I had my first margarita.
As we were driving home a song played on the radio. It sounded like John Denver was singing to me as he sang”Rocky Mountain High”. At that moment I knew exactly what the song was about. I was high on life. I was going to the Rocky Mountains. I was, “coming home to a place I’d never been before”.
Smokii and I were packed up and close to ready to leave for Aspen, but I received another phone call. It was from Idaho. At first I thought it was another seasonal job offer. Didn’t think anything better could happen after being offered the Wilderness Ranger job in Aspen. I was wrong.
I realized I was talking to Dr. Sam Scripter, chairman of the geography department at the University of Idaho. Not only had I been accepted into their graduate degree program but I was offered an Idaho Bureau of Mines and Geology full fellowship that would pay my tuition, room and board, and a monthly stipend. Not only would I have a paid summer job in the spectacular Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness Area, but would have my Master of Science degree in Geography fully paid. Plus it would be fun to be able to tell people I attended graduate school in Moscow (Idaho of course). Dr. Scripter suggested that I might use my seasonal job in the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness towards my masters thesis.
Quite a year 1973, and it was still only early May.
Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness, CO – 1973-1975
To this day I still cannot believe how beautiful or how breath taking is the wilderness of the Maroon Bells-Snowmass country. Before becoming a designated wilderness area in 1964, it was administratively declared a Forest Service primitive area in 1932.
In 1873, Dr. Ferdinand V. Hayden and his US Government Survey team witnessed the Elk Mountains including the Maroon Bells, today the most photographed mountain in Colorado. He had already surveyed the Jackson Hole country and the Grand Tetons. Hayden wrote that the Tetons were spectacular, but Maroon Mountain far outshines them.
Located west of the Continental Divide, these mountains often get more snow and rain than do other areas in the Colorado Rockies. Wildflower displays in the summer border the absurd. In places like Fravert Basin purple monkshood and yellowish-white wild parsnip literally stand chest high as you hike the trail. A favorite spot of mine between Silver Creek Pass and Geneva Lake, and later I found also of photographer John Fielder, was a meadow full of nearly every imaginable color of Indian paintbrush. I even found albino paintbrushes and elephant head flowers.
The mountains of this wilderness, seven of which exceed 14,000 feet, are unique among themselves. There is the vibrant, maroon colored sedimentary sandstone of Pyramid Peak and the Maroon Bells and the sometimes blinding silver of the granite of Capitol and Snowmass Peaks. And between them all, high alpine mountain passes.
I realized That I was a “pass bagger” rather than a “peak bagger”. I loved to be hiking up one of the passes; whether it be Buckskin, East Maroon, Triangle, Trail Rider, or East Snowmass, and keep my eyes down the last few feet. When I reached the top, I’d quickly raise my head. What an eyeful I would see!
Most of the passes provided wide open landscapes in the wilderness. Rugged mountains covered in snow, alpine lakes, lush green meadows, and occasionally a herd of elk or band or bighorn sheep would be laid out before me.
My dog Smokii always focused on her two favorite sports. On snow slopes she would run up to the top. Then on her belly, with her hind legs trailing out behind her, she’d slide down the snow. But if she heard a marmot chirp, off she would chase. Only one time in all our years together did she ever catch one. She had a soft mouth and all I did was yell, “No!” She immediately released it unhurt. But if you can read joy in a dog’s face, she did have fun.
The most heavily used trail was a mile and a half in length. This was the trail from Maroon Lake to Crater Lake, with the Maroon Bells as a magnificent backdrop. There was a regulation at that time which prohibited camping along this trail or within one-half mile of Crater lake.
There was one seemingly hidden “illegal” campsite along Minnehaha Creek tucked in the willows. I so often came across illegal campers at this site that I attached a “NO CAMPING HERE” sign on a tree.
Once I checked on this campsite and found a lone backpacker who tied one end of his tent to that very tree with the posted sign. Before I could say a word the man blurted out, “It’s all right to camp on this side of the tree isn’t it?”
In 1975, my third season as the wilderness ranger, I again found a lone backpacker with his camp set up. I asked him why he camped there with the posted “NO CAMPING HERE” sign.
“I talked with the ranger last year,” he answered, “and he said it was okay.
I told him that I was “the ranger” from last year and, “No I didn’t say it was okay.”
He then came back with, “I’m sorry. It was the year before.”
“Try again. I was the ranger then too.”
He just laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “I tried,” he said resolved now to his citation.
Most of the hikers I met were wonderful, interesting people from all walks of life. Some were at first, people I thought I could ever like. I found my opinion was to change..
I had just hiked out of the Snowmass drainage and reached the summit of Buckskin Pass in time for lunch. Smokii immediately picked out a snow patch, and with her dog pack still on, went to sleep. Never understood the phrase “cat nap”. Always found “dog naps” much more satisfying.
Two men were already sitting on rocks sharing lunch. I thought one of them looked familiar but couldn’t place him. Then the other man called him, “Bob.”
“Bob,” I thought to myself. Then my mind kicked into gear as I recognized Robert McNamara, former Secretary of Defense under President John F. Kennedy and now president of the World Bank.
I made up some powdered lemonade and offered some to McNamara and his friend. They readily accepted then offered me a treat I had never before tasted; Toberlone chocolate. It would become a staple on many of my future backpack trips.
The three of us talked about mountains and various knapsack routes. Suddenly the man I had so associated with the Vietnam War, I discovered was a lover of wilderness and of hiking. We talked about backpacking foods and how I had finally hit my ninety-ninth packet of instant oatmeal and gagged.
My following ten day patrol took me up the Snowmass Creek Trail to Snowmass Lake. About half way up the trail I again ran into McNamara, along with his wife, and a female friend. They too were on their way to the lake.
I learned a lot about people in the backcountry. For the most part it didn’t matter if someone was a bank president, a lawyer, a plumber, or a school teacher. In the wilderness even a wilderness ranger making $4.53 an hour (1975) was given the same respect. We were all on equal terms. People were relaxed, enjoying themselves, and the stress of their work and life back home was nonexistent up in the mountains. This was a time when people read the topography off topographic maps, not GPS units. And my sole source of outside communications was a hand held portable Motorola radio, with very little reception, not a smart phone.
One of my favorite trails to hike was East Maroon Pass, It was under 12,000 feet in elevation, rare in the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness, and provided access to a large subalpine/alpine basin and routes to Conundrum Hot Springs via Triangle and Conundrum Passes or on down to Copper Lake. It was fairly gradual as it used to be the stagecoach and wagon route between Aspen and Gothic/Crested Butte in the 1800’s.
I had a favorite spot just off the trail below East Maroon Pass. There were a few old cabin remnants left from gold and silver prospectors in the previous century. A small creek flowed nearby and my camp was hidden from the main trail.
One late afternoon, a herd of elk came crashing out of the spruce forest and ran no more than ten feet from my tent. Smokii and I were sitting outside were I was cooking supper on my Svea stove. Smokii stood up with her tail tightly curled and just stared at the elk. Not one bark. I stood up quickly and also just stared. It was so sudden. And then it was over and they were gone. I don’t know what spooked them.
Then I started to remind Smokii that she was a Norwegian elkhound and wasn’t it her duty to protect me from thundering herds? I will admit, both of us were fairly alert all night.
Most of the time the wilderness seemed comfortable and welcoming. I loved the life of a wilderness ranger. I would wake up one morning in August to a freak snowstorm which covered even the wildflowers in white. Backpackers would pack up their camps and head for the trailheads and their vehicles and home. Me, it was my job to stay up there. And by late morning the sun would come out, the snow melted, and I would generally have most of the wilderness to myself.
But sometimes the mountains would quickly remind me that they had another personality. I found a tent set up illegally on the upper side of Crater Lake. No one was around so I dropped the front tent pole and left a note instructing the occupants to pack up and move at least one mile away.
The next morning I awoke to the sound of a helicopter flying low and then landing next to the lake. I quickly dressed and hurried down to the chopper. A sheriff’s deputy and Aspen search and rescue were loading into the helicopter.
A sign was posted on the trail near Maroon lake that referred to these peaks as “The Deadly Bells”. Due to the rotten, tilted, and loose sandstone rock, several experienced climbers had died over the years. In 1965, eight people died in five separate instances.
One of the search and rescue volunteers told me he’d never reached the summit of the Maroon Bells. “We always find the climbers’ bodies about 1,000 feet below the saddle of the two peaks. Wish they’d be closer to the top.”
I found out the illegal tent belonged to two climbers, a man and woman. It was the woman’s body they were attempting to recover.
I had my own brush with the unstable Maroon sandstone formations on nearby 14,018 foot Pyramid Peak. But that is a separate story to be told. A story that involved my ice axe.
Pyramid Peak, Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness, CO – 1975
It was early August of 1975, and the previous winter had been lacking in snow. I looked up at Pyramid Peak from the Maroon Lake parking lot and made an instant decision. Tony Faulhaber, another Forest Service seasonal and I, would be on rotten rock, but the snow pack looked negligible. I decided I could leave my ice axe behind in my Landcruiser.
Back in the 1870’s, there were two prominent government surveys going on in Colorado. One was led by Lt. George M. Wheeler and the other by Dr. Ferdinand Hayden. Neither of these survey teams would reach the summit of 14,018 foot Pyramid Peak. A member of Wheeler’s team got within 200 feet of the top but decided that to continue on was, “mere recklessness”.
So with daypacks and climbing helmets, Tony and I started our climb on a cloudless, warm day. Most of the scramble up was uneventful. Tony had been working on a trail maintenance crew and I as a wilderness ranger, so we were both acclimated to the high altitude and in excellent physical shape.
We were making great time. We were near the “reckless” 200 feet from the summit when small rocks and then larger chunks began coming down towards us from above. Our rock climbing helmets still on, we closely hugged the rock wall and cried out loudly, “Hey!”
We were answered with, “Sorry! Didn’t know anyone was below us!” A group of four climbers had already been to the top and were on their way down.
That was a close call.
As they were safely past us, Tony resumed the climb. He grabbed onto a slab of maroon colored sandstone rock larger than he was and started to pull himself up. All of a sudden Tony yelled out, “ROCK!” The whole slab pulled out from the wall and tumbled down past the two of us. When I looked into Tony’s face his eyes were huge and his color somewhat ashen. I could only imagine what I must have looked like.
That was an even closer call.
I guess I should have considered the old saying that “trouble comes in threes”. But that wasn’t on Tony’s or my mind when we found ourselves standing on a rock platform with a 360 degree view. We were on the top.
We took photos. We soaked in the view. We could see the other six fourteeners within the wilderness as well as many mountains off in the distance. I looked down at my feet and picked up a rock shaped like the state of Idaho. This felt like a connection to my graduate school studies at the University of Idaho where in the spring I had graduated with my Master of Science degree. I unzipped my North Face daypack and placed it inside.
Tony suggested we descend via a couloir where there was still snow. This would be faster as we could both ski in our boots or dig steps into the snow and walk down. Plus, we wouldn’t have to spend time on that rotten rock. That was the biggest selling point.
I started down. All was going fine. Then I hit a segment of the snow slope which stayed in the shadow of the mountain. Suddenly no longer in the sun, the melting snow had created an icy layer. Before I knew what happened to me, I was careening down the snow on my butt, feet first.
I’d had similar experiences with my senses slowing down when faced with a dangerous situation. When I was ten years old I fell headfirst off a garage roof. My fall felt like slow motion and I remember putting out my arms just before I hit the grass lawn. It seemed like I stood on my hands for a few seconds before hearing my legs hit as I fell over. I broke both my wrists but never hit my head.
As I cascaded down the snow slope I was very aware of my surroundings. I remember thinking to myself, “Why didn’t I bring my ice axe?” I saw a scattered rock pile below me and thought that when I reached it I could simply stand up and come to a stop.
As I neared the rocks I realized I was traveling too fast. My mind immediately went into survival mode. I leaned back onto my daypack and lifted my legs into the air.
I didn’t feel a thing as I careened over the rock pile and continued down the steep snow chute. Then the slope started to level out and I stopped. My 1,000 to 1,200 foot descent was over. I lay on my back with my right leg tucked back under my left leg. By this time Tony had reached my immobile form and dropped down to my side.
“Jon, did you break anything?” he asked with visible consternation on his face. Later he told me, he thought I was going to die, as he watched me slide down the snow field.
I answered truthfully, “I don’t know. But let’s find out.”
I knew I had to move my right leg that was still hidden under my left. This was the moment of truth. I slowly unwound and straightened out both legs. They seemed to be okay. I had some gashes in my right thigh but snow had packed the wounds and clotted the bleeding. So far so good.
I then pulled off my daypack to get to my water bottle. My Idaho rock, which filled the length of my pack, had protected my back from the rocks. Then I removed my white climbing helmet.
I held my helmet in my hands and stared. Tony let out a gasp. On the back of the helmet, about three inches up, was a golf ball sized divot. I never felt my helmet hit rock, but it saved my head from being cracked open like a watermelon.
Now that really was a close call!
I was sore but I could stand and hike out unaided. It was a much slower trip out than in, but I made it back to the parking lot and my Landcruiser. I opened the rear hatch and set my pack down next to my ice axe I had left behind.
The next day I started out on another ten-day backpack patrol into the wilderness. I hiked one and one-half miles to a secluded campsite I used near Crater Lake and stayed there for three days. My whole body felt stiff and sore.
When I met people at the lake or on the trail those next few days I’d be asked about the bruises and scars on my legs.
I just smiled and said, “You know how wild those Aspen women can be.” And then I pointed up at the mountain and said, “Her name is Pyramid.”
Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness, CO – 1975
I had a lot of life changing lessons and experiences in 1975, in what would become my last season as a wilderness ranger in the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness Area.
My first two seasons, I was the sole ranger. This season the Aspen Ranger District hired a second wilderness ranger. His name was Lon Ayers.
Lon had worked at Grand Canyon National Park previously. Our schedules were such that we’d mostly work opposite ends of the wilderness and rarely overlap. I liked Lon and he seemed to fit in with all the other seasonal employees.
Dick Cerise, who was our boss, sent us up West Maroon Pass on a day hike to check on the snow conditions. On the way back down the trail we chatted about various subjects. Lon was presently married to Jan, a nurse at the Aspen Hospital, and they owned a studio condo in the town of Aspen.
“I left Arizona and the Grand Canyon after a really bad breakup,” Lon told me. “It was all my fault. I was a real jerk. Her name was…”
“Kathy Priestnitz,” I blurted out.
Both of us stopped dead in the trail. Lon just stared at me incredulously.
After several seconds of silence, “How did you know?” he asked.
“I don’t know why I said her name. It just came out without thinking.”
And then I told him how I had met Kathy in Yosemite Valley and how she had gone there to get away from a horrible relationship with an “asshole of a boyfriend”.
“That would be me,” said Lon.
In a few days, Cerise sent us out our separate ways for our first of the season ten day patrols. I was given Conundrum Hot Springs.
The Conundrum Valley was beautiful and an idyllic setting for a hot spring. But a hot spring drew people and a different kind of people who often could care less about the wilderness experience. Many hikers I met were not into the ethics. It was the one part of the wilderness I often had to collect litter. I often found willows with “blooms” of toilet paper. Of course willows meant the water table was almost on the surface so guess where the human waste ended up? Wildflower patches were crushed flat or damaged by illegal campfires. I was also constantly battling illegal campers who tried to have me look the other way.
My first trip to Conundrum Hot Springs each season was the worst. I’d have to replace the regulatory signs that had been torn down. Once I reached the hot springs I’d always find a camp set up illegally.
The first trip that summer of 1975 was no exception. I learned a valuable lesson that I carried with me later in life. One that I later taught other rangers.
On this trip I arrived at the Conundrum cabin and dropped off my backpack. I then headed the short distance to the hot springs with my daypack and ticket book. There were three people soaking in the hot springs and two tents set up.
It always amazed me the different reactions I received when I wore a uniform that represented authority. To the majority of people, they enjoyed seeing me and knowing someone was out patrolling. And even more so when Smokii was wearing her dog pack with Forest Service emblems.
But other times, when someone violated a law or regulation, the reaction to my entrance was as if I’d stepped in fresh cow manure. One of the men in the pool, who was traveling solo, had the “oh shit” look on his face. The other two, a couple, were from Tucson. The man also had an “crap we got caught” look. The woman however was openly defiant in her cold, hard stare she gave me.
I sat down and addressed all parties. Essentially what I said was,”This is my first trip of the season and I hate starting off in a negative manner. I’m willing to give you a break. First option, pack up your tents and gear, set up your camp a mile away, and all you’ll get is a verbal warning. Second option, stay here, I’ll issue you a citation, and then you’ll still have to move. What is your choice?”
The solo hiker apologized to me and said he’d pack up and move right now.
The couple didn’t budge and the woman continued with her hateful stare. Then she spoke, “There is another option.”
“And what is that?” I asked.
“You can just let us stay here.”
I told her that was not one of the options and replied, “I’m going back to my camp and will return in one hour. It’s your choice.”
I returned in two hours. I always tried to give people more time. I reached the hot springs and found both tents were gone. Problem solved, or so I thought.
The following day I day hiked to Conundrum Pass and around the basin. When I returned back down to the hot springs I saw the three people from the day before, plus another group of backpackers all soaking. There were no camps set up nearby.
The solo hiker spoke to me as I sat down, me being the only person wearing clothes. He again apologized and told me that he’d thought about what I’d said regarding the fragile nature of the area around the hot springs. Also what I said about the enjoyment of others by not seeing tents surrounding the springs. He agreed with me and told me he found a good camp a little more than a mile away. I told him I appreciated what he told me.
I felt a shadow and turned towards it. Standing directly in front of me, stark naked with her pubic hair at my eye level, stood the woman from Tucson.
“Well I still think you’re being a jerk about this whole thing,” she said. “There is no reason you couldn’t have let us stayed.”
I lost my temper. I stood up and told her I wasn’t going to argue anymore. I know when I spoke next I should have fought it back.
I turned to her husband/boyfriend who was still soaking in the hot springs and said, “Don’t you have anything to say? Do you let her do all the speaking for you?”
I then said that I was not going to discuss this matter any further with a naked woman in my face.
I left and went straight to the cabin. I learned another valuable lesson. Do not end your day with a bad encounter. Years later if I had a miserable situation with a violator, I’d try to find a nice family or group to drop in and chat. When I left I’d always feel better. Like getting a bad taste out of your mouth.
At the end of my ten days I hiked out of the wilderness. Usually another seasonal would be my ride out. This time Dick Cerise was waiting for me. I had a bad feeling.
“What the hell happened up there?” Dick started out on me. “A couple from Tucson drove all the way to Glenwood Springs and personally complained about you to the forest supervisor. He wanted to fire you! So tell me what happened.”
I told Dick my story and he just sat and listened. Then he asked me, “Why did you tell them you were Bob Lawton?”
“No!” I said. “I had my name tag on my shirt. I told them they could talk to you or Bob Lawton (Bob was a full time forester in the office). I didn’t say I was Bob Lawton.”
Then Dick asked me if I’d given them a ticket for illegal camping.
I told him I hadn’t and my reason why and the options I had given them.
Dick held his head in his hands then looked back at me, “Shit. If you give someone a ticket then it’s easy to understand why they’re mad at you. But if you didn’t, why would they still be so mad as to try and get you fired? Jon, I believe you. But next time you meet someone like that, make sure you give them a ticket.”
That was a big lesson I learned. Non law enforcement supervisors have a problem understanding why someone would complain about a ranger if they weren’t cited. I always felt it was as if someone was going after a weakness. If a violator could get off with a warning, they could take it a step further and try and penalize an officer. A few times later in my career I gave some people breaks, that later came back to haunt me.
Dick told me that George Morris, the district ranger who replaced John Burns who had been promoted, stood up for me and kept me from being fired. But the rest of my Federal career, when ever a supervisor said they needed to talk to me, it always felt ominous. Even though most of the time it was just to discuss things or even give me a compliment, it was hard not to think the worst.
So the conundrum, or puzzle I faced at Conundrum Hot Springs, seemed quite appropriate.
Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness, CO – 1975
I had set up camp at Capitol Lake with my Tennessee friends Lisa Pate and Missy Rogers. It was the beginning of my ten day backpack patrol of the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness Area. Our camp overlooked the lake and straight at the 14,130 foot granite massive of Capitol Peak. Capitol is one of the most notable of Colorado fourteeners to climb. From the lake one goes up onto Daly Pass overlooking Moon Lake. From there one continues onward until reaching the infamous knife ridge. Traversing this ridge requires one to move along on hands and feet (or knees or butt) for about one hundred thirty feet with a 1500 foot drop off on one side and 1000 foot drop off on the other. Not for the faint of heart.
The next morning was a fairly leisurely hike to Capitol Pass and then down, via a not so leisurely shortcut, to Avalanche Lake. When we arrived on top the pass I stopped so all could rest. A man was sitting by himself so I went over, sat down, and talked with him. He was traveling solo and was a minister from Pennsylvania. As he shared some of his M&M’s with me he asked about a knapsack route over Siberian Pass that took off from Avalanche Lake.
“I thought it might be a quicker route to Geneva Lake. Is it?” he asked.
“It can be,” I replied, “however, unless you have an ice axe I would not attempt that route.” I told him he would be on boulders and steep snow fields. Not a place for a solo hiker nor one without an ice axe. He thanked me and said he’d be spending another night at Capitol Lake to acclimate.
We hiked on and spent the night at Avalanche Lake. I was kept busy in my wilderness ranger role striving to educate a group of Boy Scouts in wilderness etiquette. After speaking to some about not washing their dishes in the lake, and not breaking limbs off trees, I spoke to their leaders. I invited myself to talk to their group at their camp about low-impact camping. I answered their questions and left feeling maybe I got through to some of them.
That morning we had an early breakfast, packed, and were ready to start up a trail I’d never hiked. Silver Creek Pass. It wasn’t even on some maps and received very low use. According to the topographic map, we would climb up onto a broad ridge and then the majority of trail would contour around at treeline before reaching Silver Creek Pass.
The trail up the ridge first had to be conquered. The trail was narrow as we kept climbing upwards. We’d make it up a switchback or two then take a brief “wind break” to get our breathing back. Truthfully, I’d been hiking all summer long and at altitude so this hike didn’t really bother me. I could tell it was hard on the two Tennessee girls. Then we reached the ridge top and were rewarded with an incredible wide open view of the wilderness.
Lisa and Missy took off their packs and sat down upon the ground. I took off mine, dropped it gently to the ground, and started to prop it upright with my ice axe.
What ice axe?
I momentarily panicked. I did not have my ice axe. Then I remembered. Back at Avalanche Lake I had stuck it into the dirt and stood it upright while I helped the two women shoulder their packs. I could picture it in my mind and could imagine it with the tip jammed into the ground.
I took off Smokii’s dogpack and told them I’d be back.
“You’re going to hike all that way back down?” asked Lisa. I knew she couldn’t even imagine going down and then having to climb back up again.
“Enjoy your lunch and the view,” I said. “I’ll be back as quick as I can.”
I fast hiked down that trail in record time. I headed straight for our last night’s campsite and had a sinking feeling as soon as I reached it. My panic became disappointment.
No ice axe. Gone! Just a tiny hole in the ground where I had placed it.
My first thought was of the group of Boy Scouts. They were headed out to exit via the Alalanche Creek Trailhead down valley. I knew I would never see my ice axe again. My ice axe had been my companion as both a walking stick and then “third leg” to allow my backpack to stand upright when no trees were around.
Smokii and I turned around and climbed back up the trail to Lisa and Missy. I told them I had not found it and it was probably now in the hands of a Boy Scout.
I couldn’t mourn long the loss of my axe as the countryside we now hiked was so spectacular. Although August, the tundra was still lush and green. Wildflowers were scattered all along the trail. We were at treeline so the subalpine firs were stunted yet healthy. Small ponds dotted the landscape. The large glaciated valley was hemmed in by twelve and thirteen thousand foot mountains. And since we left Avalanche Lake we had not seen one other person.
After a well deserved rest, next morning we started our ascent above treeline over Silver Creek Pass. We had an energetic day before us as we descended on our way to Geneva Lake. Before reaching the lake, the barely discernible trail took us through a “once in a lifetime” meadow. Everywhere were Indian paintbrushes. I was used to seeing this wildflower in the typical reds and oranges. But now I saw yellows, whites and purples and various shades in between. I lay on my back and turned my head sideways taking in all the colors. It was one of those cherished moments. I would probably never witness this explosion of colors again, and although it was but a brief moment in my life, it would forever be embedded in my memory.
We ate lunch then reluctantly left the wildflowers and headed for Geneva Lake. We picked up the main trail which leads one over Trail Rider Pass or into Fravert Basin; our destination. As we hiked past a tent set up on the edge of the lake I saw something.
It was just a quick glimpse and it was at a distance. But somehow I knew. There was my ice axe!
I must have said it out loud for the tent’s flap opened and out came the minister from Pennsylvania. He saw me then smiled and waved. We walked up to him he told his story:
“I woke up that morning at Capitol Lake and hiked towards Avalanche Lake. The whole time I was trying to decide if I should take the Siberian shortcut or not. And then I felt as if I received a sign from God. Stuck in the ground, in a campsite with no one around, was an ice axe.
“At that moment I made up my mind and decided to traverse Siberian Pass. I thanked God again. I really don’t think I would have made it safely to Geneva Lake without your ice axe on those snow slopes.”
He then picked up the ice axe and put it into my hand and said, “Thank you”.
We said our goodbyes as we still had several miles to hike to reach our camp on the North Fork of the Crystal River. Near dusk we crossed the sparkling clear waters of this perfectly named river. And as I took off my backpack I happily propped it upright using my ice axe as it’s third leg.
This story is almost over, but not quite. In the summer of 1981, I backpacked on an overnight trip to Capitol Lake. Along with me were Smokii; my longtime friend Nancy Bosshard, who first encouraged me to come to Aspen; and Missy Rogers, whom I married in 1979.
The next day on our way down the trail I stopped to take some photographs of bleached-white, dead trees from a long ago fire. They were gnarled and interestingly shaped.
Below us on the downhill side of the trail next to Capitol Creek was a backpacker tent. As I was making photographs a man and two women came out of the tent. The inquisitive man walked up to me and asked, “What are you photographing?”
“The trees,” I answered. “I’ve always loved these white snags and their shapes. I haven’t been back here for six years so I just stopped to look at them again.”
The man said, “It’s been six years since I was here too.”
“I know,” I said smiling. He stared at me a moment then I continued, “You were the one who found my ice axe.”
