Ranger Writings
Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness, CO – 1975
It was August 1975 and I was hiking down the Buckskin Pass Trail after spending a couple of days in the Willow Lakes Basin, a beautiful group of small lakes off the main route of travel for most backpackers visiting the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness. I was about a mile from Crater Lake with my dog Smokii in the lead. She always trotted a few feet in front of me ready to smell an intriguing scent or focus on the chirp of a marmot.
Smokii was an ambassador of good will. Either direction that hikers were hiking, Smokii would be the first one they’d meet. Wearing her dark blue daypack with Forest Service patches on both sides, she greeted everyone with a wag of her curly tail and then let them briefly pet her. She was friendly, but just enough.
On more than one occasion people would ask if they could take a picture. Of course I stood straight and rigid in uniform shirt, hiking shorts, boots and hat, while wearing my eighty pound Kelty Serac backpack.
“Can you move out of the way?” they’d ask. “We just want a picture of your dog with her backpack”.
Nothing like my ego being deflated.
But this day as Smokii and I headed down the trail I heard a young woman’s voice call out, “Smokii! Jon!” The voice was behind me, to my right, just off the trail under a tree.
Smokii immediately stopped, turned around, and trotted right up to the voice. I turned around and looked straight into the face of a pretty young woman and said, Hi.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say because I had absolutely no idea who she was having never seen her before. Then from behind her stepped Lisa Pate.
I had met Lisa, her brother Steve, and their friend Bruce, the previous summer at Snowmass Lake. They were from Nashville and Murfreesboro, Tennessee. Lisa had written to me earlier in the summer and asked if she and a friend could come out and hike with me on a patrol. So Lisa and her friend, Missy Rogers, had arrived in Aspen the night before. They had decided to trek up the trail a ways when they found out at the ranger station were I’d be hiking out.
I asked Missy how she knew it was Smokii and me. She told me she’d seen a photo of us at the ranger station and when she saw Smokii the words just popped out.
So following my four days off, Lisa and Missy joined me. I didn’t know it at the time, but it would be my last ten day patrol of the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness Area as a wilderness ranger. It would be one of the most memorable and strenuous of my backpack hikes. We would start at the trailhead for Capitol Lake and end up being picked up at Conundrum Creek after travelling up and down over seven mountain passes, some over 13,200 feet in elevation. I never judged a trail by miles as elevation gains could slow hikers to about a mile an hour where regular travel was closer to two and a half miles per hour.
My last trek would take us to Capitol Lake below Capitol Peak, over Capitol Pass and down to Avalanche Lake. Then up again and over Silver Creek Pass, down to Geneva Lake, and then into Fravert Basin. From Fravert we would ascend Frigid Air Pass followed by West Maroon Pass with a side journey just short of Buckskin Pass to share camp with Lon Ayers; the other wilderness ranger, his wife and a three person trailcrew consisting of two women and a man. The three of us and Smokii, would then hike down past Maroon Lake, then up the East Maroon Trail. We’d hike over East Maroon Pass, then start the long constant climb to Triangle Pass, over Conundrum Pass, down to the Conundrum Hot Springs, and then out via the Conundrum Creek Trail.
The Capitol Lake Trail is a fairly constant climb, the beginning of which is through stands of aspen. In a few more weeks, with crispness in the air, the now green quaking leaves will become ablaze in a world of color; reds, yellows, oranges, golds. We hike on and up ahead a sign reads, “Entering the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness – No Motorized Vehicles Allowed”. I’ve always enjoyed seeing those last few words posted on a trail. The trail climbs onward now through a dense stand of Engleman spruce. I feel closed and trapped. I long for an opening. My world is the treeline and above. But Lisa and Missy are smiling and happy. They feel at home in the forest. They tell me it reminds them of the Smokey Mountains.
We hear the sound of water and soon cross Capitol Creek. Ahead of us is an extremely steep, but short climb, up over a glacial moraine, which is right before the lake. But the lake, with it’s variety of wildflowers, and the looming granite face of Capitol, a 14,130 foot mountain, soon made one forget the eight mile hike to get there, once the tents were set up and cooking stove was lit. Day One ended.
The Second Day would be a more leisurely hike except for my planned “shortcut” to Avalanche Lake. Plus, it was cold and windy, and the sky was completely overcast. It was a gradual uphill hike over Capitol Pass. I told Lisa and Missy that we’d take a cross-country route rather than the maintained and longer trail. My shortcut consisted of dropping down steep talus slopes and then boulder-hopping with full backpacks.
Smokii was great at hiking except for big boulders. She had short legs which made it hard for her. Sometimes she would disappear by traveling under the boulders. Other times I had to lift her up and over the huge granite rocks. We all safely reached Avalanche Lake, but I had three females that I don’t think were very pleased with me. I opened a bottle of wine with dinner, along with a freeze-dried cherry pie, which seemed to make it better. Since our campsite had only one flat spot, we all piled into my tent. Soon what started as a drizzle, became a genuine downpour. But I was snug and warm, with a girl on either side of me, and a trusted dog at my feet. Then I remembered my water bottle out next to the tree. I jumped out of my warm cocoon, grabbed my water, jumped back in my bag, then spilled water all over myself. I fell asleep listening to giggling in stereo.
Day Three led us up a trail I had never traveled. The trail led to Silver Creek Pass. It turned into one of my favorite trails of all time. It was not shown on the USGS topographic maps, so was little used. Once we reached the ridge that separated the Avalanche from the Silver Creek drainages, the trail contoured along at treeline. We had magnificent views the entire hike of a vast glacial valley rimmed by mountains. Small ponds dotted the landscape and wildflowers graced us with their presence all along our hike. On this trip, and one I did later in 2005, we never encountered another person. A brief thunderstorm persuaded us to cook dinner in the tents. As we finished our meal, the sky broke open, and we watched a beautiful sunset. An hour later, the full moon performed it’s magic on us, illuminating Capitol Peak and our surroundings. I couldn’t resist howling. Smokii joined me.
Day Four we trudged up and over Silver Creek Pass and headed down to Geneva Lake. We followed an old sheepherder’s trail and passed through a meadow of wildflowers dominated by Indian paintbrush in yellows, pinks, reds, oranges, purples, and even white! I thought we were the only ones to ever experience this wildflower extravaganza until years later when photographer John Fielder came out with his book about the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness, TO WALK IN WILDERNESS. I like John and his support for wilderness, but darn if he didn’t highlight and mark this spot on a map in his book as a wildflower “must see”. We hiked past Geneva Lake, where we joined up with the trail to Trail Rider Pass. A short stretch and then we deviated and headed into Fravert Basin.
I was walking in front of Lisa and Missy when I tripped and fell flat on my face with my large pack holding me down. I felt like a turtle knocked upside down. I quickly regained my feet when I realized both women were trying to get to their cameras to catch a picture of me. I beat them by standing upright before they could get a shot off. They expressed their disappointment.
Near dusk we crossed the crystal clear North Fork of the Crystal River (fitting name) and set up camp near Love’s Cabin. I told them I was proud of them. They had come from the much lower elevation of Tennessee and with only five days to acclimate had done incredibly well. I did not tell them what a grueling day they had in store for them tomorrow. It would be a butt kicker. Three passes to ascend.
On Day Five we started the long trail following Fravert Basin all the way to Frigid Air Pass. At times the wildflowers were literally arm pit high with monkshood and wild parsley. Across the glacial valley were cascades and waterfalls. Except for the reddish-purple Maroon formation of the rocks, the valley was bright and green.
But Frigid Air Pass was like a temptress. We reached it’s saddle only to see off in the distance our next hurdle; West Maroon Pass. To reach West Maroon we would lose some of our elevation only to climb back up. But the worst was yet to come.
I really wanted to reach Lon and the trailcrew as we had planned this end of the season rendezvous. So we kept on. We descended West Maroon Pass all the way down to Crater Lake. Now we had to climb the steep switchbacks of the Buckskin Pass Trail. I will hand it to Lisa and Missy, they were troopers. They made it the entire journey without complaining. Or at least not to me. But after dinner, as soon as they climbed into their sleeping bags, they were dead to the world.
Day Six we said goodbye to our Forest Service friends and headed back down to Crater Lake, around Maroon Lake, and then picked up the East Maroon Pass Trail.
Much of our hiking was lower elevation so now we hiked through aspen. Even though it was late in August, the columbines were still in full color and profusion. I admit, even I was tired after our forced march the day before. So as we started back uphill on the trail on the backside of Pyramid Peak, I realized we could not make it to one of my favorite campsites in the East Maroon Basin.
We picked a marginal spot about halfway along the trail. After a quick and brief supper, Lisa and Missy set up their tent while I laid down a ground cloth followed by my Ensolite pad and sleeping bag. Smokii curled up near my head.
All night long I had a restless sleep, if sleep at all. I’d wake up abruptly and see Smokii sitting up, not growling, but just looking around. I guess she felt it also; the uncomfortable feeling of this location.
Karma is an overused word, but it fit here. This campsite had bad karma. I’ve found over the years of hiking, camping, and river trips that there are certain areas that feel right. They’re comforting. You feel good. There is no way to explain how this feeling comes about, it just does. On the reverse, there are some areas, like this campsite, that feel wrong. Sometimes you swear you hear voices. Sometimes you feel a lurking presence. Again it is unexplainable.
I’ve talked with other wilderness rangers and they’ve felt the same. One of my friends, James Q. Brown, who I’d once worked with in Lone Pine, told me of the time he hiked into the Emigrant Basin in the Sierra Nevada.
“I set up camp. I had dinner. I lay down to go to sleep. And in a few minutes I got up, had everything packed up, and I hiked out of there,” he said. “It just didn’t feel like the right place to be.”
On the morning of Day Seven, I didn’t say anything to Lisa and Missy. We just ate, packed, and headed up to my favorite campsite below East Maroon Pass. We would be staying there two nights. Our camp had a small stream, lush meadows surrounded by scattered spruce, and a profusion of wildflowers. It was back to that good feeling again and I felt uplifted even though tired from a lack of sleep the night before. With backpack off, and the girls setting up their tent, I sat on a rock and watched two deer peacefully graze.
Missy came over to me and said, “Jon. We have a surprise for you”.
She took me by my hand and led to where Lisa was standing. “Lay down on the ground cloth and remove your shirt,” said Missy.
Suspecting a trick, maybe cold water on my back, I hesitated. Then Lisa came over, took my other hand, and led me to the nylon ground cover. For the next half hour I was in nirvana, being massaged by two women. I hadn’t realized how sore my muscles were and soon melted into putty. I would never have got up and moved, if the sun hadn’t started to hide behind the mountains, bringing a chill to the air.
That evening after a salad of wildflowers and greens, and our freeze-dried meal was in our tummies, I told Missy and Lisa my feelings about our previous camp. I told them how I’d pop- up wide awake all night long only to find Smokii sitting up, also wide awake. The two looked at each other then back to me.
“We didn’t sleep at all last night either,” said Missy.
“It felt strange there,” added Lisa. “We just couldn’t sleep.”
I later found out that our campsite was near an area where there are several old cabin remnants. The East Maroon Trail is wide because it used to be the old stage and wagon route between Aspen and Crested Butte. The pass is only 11,800 feet in elevation. It was as if this area still was “spiritually active” one hundred years later.
Day Eight was a day to explore, and explore we did. It feel wonderful to leave behind our backpacks and carry only daypacks. There are numerous remains of cabins and old mines hidden throughout the East Maroon Basin. I was determined to find them all. Finding mines was easy. Look for a dark hole among the green tundra, or rock piled up. To find cabins, we looked for old tree stumps.
Several cabin remnants we discovered were constructed using square nails, thus were built in the 1800’s. One still had the broken remains of an old stove.
We headed towards a large mine tunnel, with an axle and wheel of an ore cart marking it’s entrance. A story had been told that two miners from Conundrum Creek had decided to climb the ridge that separates East Maroon from Conundrum. As they looked down into East Maroon, they spied a dark cave opening. Following their curiosity, they hiked down to the cave, surprised to discover it was a mine adit. Near the mine’s entrance, were several bags of ore.
They packed the ore down to Aspen, where it was assayed, and found to be high in silver content. In checking about the claim, is was unrecorded. The two men became rich, but never found out who had built the mine, or what had happened.
I don’t mind natural caves, but I’m leery of man-made openings into the earth. We could see wood timbers and lots of darkness. We walked in a ways and I found part of a wooden box. I picked up one slat off the box, which I would read, once I was back outside in the sunlight. We followed the tunnel until it’s end, then turned off our flashlights. It wasn’t until we were outside that I learned of Lisa’s nyctophobia, or fear of the dark. Feeling truly compassionate and sorry, I laughed. Glad I did this after I already had my massage.
I then held up the wood slat. It read “EXPLOSIVES”. We decided to end our exploration of any more mines.
It was with some reluctance that we left the East Maroon area on Day Nine. I loved this area and it did not receive the heavy usage like that of Buckskin Pass or Snowmass Lake. Or even that of Conundrum Hot Springs where we were headed to next.
Now that Lisa and Missy were fully acclimated, we had another set of mountain passes to reach. Leaving our campsite, we now had a very long continuous uphill hike to Triangle Pass and then over Conundrum Pass. From Conundrum we looked out at 14,275 foot Castle Peak, one of seven fourteeners in the wilderness. And now with a deep breath and sigh, we started down to the hot springs.
The majority of citations I wrote each summer were for illegal camping at the hot springs. I really hoped this time there wouldn’t be any problems.
We arrived at the hot springs and for once I was rewarded. There were bathers, but everyone had camped at least a mile from the hot springs. It was a good feeling.
I’ve always felt that through education and information the ultimate goal was not to have any violations. My desire each trip was not to have to write any citations. Unfortunately, very rarely did that ever happen. But my last ten day patrol in the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness was ticket-less.
We camped at the Conundrum cabin, one advantage of being the Forest Service wilderness ranger, and reflected back upon our hike. The incredible wildflowers everywhere we hiked, the awe-inspiring mountains that always loomed around us, the spectacular passes with sometimes seemingly endless views, and the wonderful hiking companions, both two-legged and four-legged. We did not see all the wilderness, but we did see and feel a great part of it’s soul and heart.
I knew it was Day Ten, as we were out of food for any more suppers. So on my last hike out with Smokii, Lisa, and Missy on the Conundrum Trail, I found myself in what I call the “wilderness plod step”. I always hated my last day, as I loved being in the wilderness. We hiked through thick, dense stands of spruce. I had read the trilogy “The Fellowship of the Ring” by J.R. Tolken after I had finished “The Hobbit”; all in this wilderness. So now, as I hiked through the trees, I pictured the Ents, Trolls, Elves, and Hobbits of Tolkien’s world, as if this was his Middle-Earth.
Farther down the trail we passed through remnants of Carey’s (Cary’s) mining camp. On March 10, 1884, an avalanche came down and wiped out all the cabins and killed five of the inhabitants.
But there was a survivor. When rescuers returned thirty-three days later to dig out the personal belongings of the deceased, they heard a whimpering. They accelerated their digging and found the lone survivor, a bulldog mix named Bruiser. He had been sleeping next to the fireplace when the avalanche struck. The chimney kept open an air hole plus dripping snow melt provided moisture to the pooch. The dog was deemed a hero to the people of Aspen and he participated in town parades until his natural death. Smokii slept as I told this story to Lisa and Missy.
We arrived at the trailhead and our Forest Service ride was waiting for us. Once at the ranger station I picked up my mail and paycheck. All of the other seasonal employees were there also. Our boss, Dick Cerise, came out of his office and said he needed to speak to all of us.
What Dick said next was a shock to us all.
“There is no more money for the rest of the season,” Dick announced. “All of you are being laid off.”
No one would be working the next two weeks which included the Labor Day weekend. I didn’t know it at the time, but that ended my patrols in the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness Area. I’d already completed my Master of Science degree so there was no returning to the University of Idaho. I was twenty-six and unemployed.
In 1973, I felt on top the world. I was headed to Aspen to backpack one of the most spectacular spots in the world and to get paid to hike. Then I would start my graduate degree work with a paid fellowship in Moscow, Idaho while gathering research in the wilderness for my thesis. Now it was 1975. No job and I was depressed.
I thought of the places I hadn’t hiked. Now there was no time to do so. The Pierre Lakes Basin, a large granite bowl, below Capitol Peak. Electric Pass, highest pass in Colorado at 13,500 feet, next to Castle Peak. It was a place you didn’t want to be during a lightning storm due to the high concentration of iron deposits.
Then I thought some more. Maybe it’s a good idea to always have someplace you’ve never been. To keep it as place in your mind. A place that says “maybe I’ll come back some day.”
So maybe it’s good to leave with a little mystery of places not yet visited. Of knowing a wilderness but not fully knowing that wilderness. Having a place I could someday come back to and explore. Maybe a variation of John Denver’s line in “Rocky Mountain High” of “coming home to a place I’ve never been before.”
Wheeler Peak Wilderness, NM – 1976
I had submitted applications for the 1976 season and had decided not to reapply to the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness. I loved the land, but maybe too much. It was becoming too personal to me. I would return to an area after four days off and immediately recognize a tree that had been cut down for firewood, found newly created firerings in an area closed to camping, or fresh erosion scars where hikers had cut switchbacks on a trail.
After the run-in I had with the couple at Conundrum Hot Springs in the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness the previous summer, I had a bad taste in my mouth. Plus Missy and I were now engaged and we needed someplace she could live with me and also get a job.
Questa District Ranger George Edwards called me and gave me most of the answers I wanted to hear. It was a job offer as a wilderness ranger in the Wheeler Peak Wilderness Area of the Carson National Forest. He said I’d be a GS-05. He said I could bring Smokii with me. He said I could keep my beard. He said that I had a place to live. Now I asked what I thought would be the most difficult question.
“Would my fiancee be able to live with me?” I asked.
There was no hesitation in George’s answer, “Of course it’d be all right. So will you take the job?”
In May 1976, Missy, Smokii, and I drove to the “Land of Enchantment” and I began patrolling one of the smallest designated wilderness areas in the system. Although it was small, I found the area interesting, beautiful, and filled with a variety of experiences.
Wheeler Peak, at 13,161 feet, is the highest point in New Mexico and part of the Sangre de Cristo (Blood of Christ) Mountains; a portion of the Rocky Mountains. The wilderness seemed bigger than it actually was as it bordered the Taos Pueblo lands. Across the valley one looked out over the immense Philmont Boy Scout Ranch dominated by Baldy Mountain.
The Wheeler Peak Wilderness was not craggy, steep and imposing like the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness, but one with more rounded slopes. It was a wilderness that was easier to become more intimate with over time.
While I was a wilderness ranger there, there were four lakes; Lost, Horseshoe, Williams, and Bear Lakes. Although a geological occurrence could not remove a lake from the wilderness, a political decision would.
The Taos Pueblo considered Bear Lake sacred much as they did Blue Lake, which had been returned to them in 1970. Every summer for one week, the Forest Service closed all visitation to Bear Lake except for members of the Taos Pueblo. A rifle-carrying tribal member of Taos Pueblo Indians stood guard at the top of the trail leading down to Bear Lake.
I respected the pueblo people but like everywhere, some were spiritual and some were not. One afternoon at Horseshoe Lake, I talked with a group of younger men from the pueblo who felt the land should be open to commercial logging. They said the elders were living in the past. Jobs needed to come first.
My first visit to Bear Lake was when the snow melted enough to become accessible. As I hiked closer, it appeared to be a most beautiful lake. Then I reached the campsites. I picked up fresh litter. Beenie Weenie, Vienna Sausages, and other cans. Bait bottles. The evidence was fresh horse tracks leading not from the mountain pass I had come over, but back down to the pueblo. I thought back to the course I took in college on American Indian religion which worshiped the earth and sky. I thought back to my time reading “Black Elk Speaks” in the Sierra Nevada ; of vision quests and the love of the natural world. Now I was looking at trash and freshly cut green tree boughs. At that moment I had a real conflict in my mind. How could a “spiritual” place be treated like this? Was it sacred or did they just want the land? I was torn at that moment. All that I knew for sure was that my spiritual beliefs were still embedded in the wilderness.
Because the wilderness was relatively small, I was on a five day schedule that covered all the weekends and holidays. On one of my patrols, my friends from Tennessee, Lisa and Steve Pate and Bruce Davis, came out to hike with me.
We backpacked into Horseshoe Lake and spent one night before heading to the summit of Wheeler Peak. Just short of the top, in the lee of the wind, we stopped to eat lunch.
A red-tailed hawk soared above us and hovered in one spot. It would use just a twitch of its tail or wing feathers to adjust and keep it fairly stationary. As we watched the hawk, two jet-black ravens whizzed over the top of Wheeler and blew past the bird of prey. As the ravens passed, they started cawing to each other and circled back. For the next half hour we watched an aerial display that F-15 fighter pilots would envy.
One raven would aim straight at the hawk and dive towards it. The red-tail would rotate on its side, never leaving its place in the air, and the raven would speed on by. Then the second raven would try to hit the hawk. The hawk would quickly flip over in the other direction and remain unscathed, with the raven narrowly missing.
We kept watching these amazing aerobatics. You could tell the ravens were playing and having a great time. After they missed they would caw to each other and dive again.
Finally the two ravens, maybe getting bored, quit their harassment of the red-tail and started circling Wheeler Peak. They started cawing in a much more raucous manner and much louder.
In less than a minute, a whole unkindness of ravens flew over Wheeler Peak and began circling. And then like a squadron, several dived together at the hawk. This time the red-tail folded up its wings and went into a steep dive and disappeared from view.
All the ravens, we counted eighty, started circling again in a haphazard way. They then began to caw in a way that can only be described as laughing. They then flew to the backside of Wheeler Peak and landed on the tundra.
I have seen ravens at the top of Mt. Whitney; almost 14,500 feet, and in Death Valley, well below sea level. I’ve had them follow our rafts in the Grand Canyon and play aerial games over our heads in Moab and Santa Fe. They are an intelligent bird, monogamous and caring of their young, tricksters, a spiritual entity to many Native American tribes, and symbols of the wilderness I so love. And do they ever like to have fun! Author and environmentalist Edward Abbey said that after he died he wanted to come back as a vulture. Me, as a raven.
Ravens aren’t the only tricksters. As we got ready to start up on another trail I happened to glance over to see Steve Pate trying to sneak a large rock into my pack while we were taking a break. I walked over and talked to Lisa and Bruce, pretending I hadn’t seen a thing.
Steve, Bruce, and I all had cameras on the trip.
“Let’s have a contest,” I suggested. “We’ll all take a picture of the stream. After we get slides back we can decide who did best.”
That’s all it took to get Steve totally focused. He lay down on his belly. He tried a couple of different lenses. His total involvement allowed me to take the rock out of my backpack and hide it down in his pack.
We had a five mile hike with a few steep places along the trail. I noticed that Steve kept getting farther and farther behind. We reached our camp for the night, at least Bruce, Lisa, and I did. About twenty minutes later Steve arrived, dropped his pack, and plunked himself down on the ground.
After a while we started emptying our bags to get at our foods, cook pots, and sleeping gear. I set myself up so I could casually watch Steve as he dug into his pack. In the middle he stopped. He reached down and pulled out the rock. He slowly laid it down behind his pack and looked around.
I pretended to be busy with my equipment. Steve knew he’d been tricked, but his ego wouldn’t let him speak up. He never once mentioned the rock.
After our trip together, we said our goodbyes down at the ranger station. I shook Steve’s hand and then he climbed into the driver’s seat. I said goodbye and shook Bruce’s hand.
And then I gave Lisa a goodbye hug and whispered in her ear, “Ask your brother on the drive home if he always carries rocks in his backpack.”
The Wheeler Peak Wilderness did not have camping restrictions like I enforced in the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness. But a wilderness permit was required of all groups. They were free, but a party leader needed to have one. The Forest Service primarily used the permit to have a better idea on the usage and where that usage was concentrated.
I only wrote two tickets in 1976 for not having a wilderness permit. It was the first one that always stuck in my mind.
I ran into two young twenty-year-olds camped at Lost Lake. They were nice young men on their days off. Both worked for the Boy Scouts at the Philmont ranch.
When I asked to see their wilderness permit they said, “We don’t have one.”
One added, “I didn’t know you needed one.”
I asked them if they’d ever hiked in the Wheeler Peak Wilderness before. The one whom seemed to be the leader replied, “No. Neither of us has ever been here before.”
I told them I’d go ahead and issue them a permit. I explained how they could send for or pick up a permit at the ranger station. They thanked me and said they would do so in the future.
At the end of my patrol, I got picked up at the trailhead by another Forest Service seasonal employee and taken down to the ranger station. Call it a gut feeling, but I decided to go through previous wilderness permits we had issued. And there I found it. The same name of the Boy Scout who denied knowing a permit was required. He had been in the wilderness three weeks prior.
I mailed a citation with a $25.00 fine along with a note. I did not use the word lying, but instead the phrase “not being truthful”. I added that as long as the fine was paid, I would not contact the director of the Philmont Boy Scout Ranch. A week later, I received a letter of apology and a receipt of his check for $25.00.
Missy took a few days off from her job as a waitress in Red River and accompanied Smokii and me on one of my last wilderness patrols of the season. Since she wasn’t a Forest Service employee or volunteer, we took my Landcruiser and parked it near the Lost Lake Trailhead.
It started out as a great trip. We hiked up through a spruce forest for four miles until we came to a burned-over area of whitish-gray colored snags. A short way before reaching Lost Lake was the boundary sign for the Wheeler Peak Wilderness and the posted regulation stating no motorized vehicles. We spent our first night at the lake. Next afternoon we moved our camp up to Horseshoe Lake at treeline. The following morning we headed to the top of Wheeler Peak, enjoyed a lunch with a view, and then returned to Horseshoe. Our last full day we dropped back down to Lost Lake and set up camp.
Over the years I’ve had strong feelings. I don’t know if the word “premonition” is correct or it is some subconscious awareness. A heightened sense of something about to happen or to make a connection after death. One of those “somethings” was about to happen.
Wheeler Peak Wilderness, NM – 1976
Back in the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness I’d had a strange uncomfortable feeling at a campsite that I later found had also affected the two women hiking with me. That same year, while hiking with the other wilderness ranger as he told me how he had ruined a woman’s life back in Arizona, I blurted out her name before he could. That same woman I had met two years before in Yosemite Valley and she had told me about a man who hurt her badly. Only she never told me his name. I was about to have another mysterious experience in the wilderness.
When Missy and I arrived at Lost Lake, we had the pick of campsites. We chose one with a view of the lake. There was only one other set of campers. The afternoon thunderstorms had already passed and the day went by uneventfully.
I was soundly asleep in the early morning hours when I either dreamed or else heard the sound of motorcycles. I bolted upright in my sleeping bag now fully awake.
My abruptness awoke Missy. “What is it?” she asked.
I listened intently. I couldn’t hear anything but a bird. Even the air was still.
“Did you hear anything?” I asked. “I thought I heard a motorcycle. The sound stopped just as I came awake. Maybe I just dreamed it.”
It kept nagging at me, so I knew I would have to check. I got dressed in my Forest Service uniform, told Missy I’d be right back, and Smokii and I quickly hiked to the outlet of the lake to the trail. There was nothing there. No motorcycle. No tracks of a motorcycle. And no sound of one. It was a dream. Smokii and I returned to camp.
Missy was up and we started preparing breakfast. This meant priming and then lighting my Svea stove to boil water. With everything ready, the water having reached a good boil, I turned off the stove. Instant quiet.
Instant quiet which suddenly burst loose into the unmistakable sound – motorcycles! I grabbed my ticket book and portable radio and Smokii and I sprinted to the outlet of the lake. They didn’t know I was there until I was right upon them.
“Shut off your bikes!” I commanded. “Take off your helmets!”
I was always required to take a portable radio with me, but it was rare that I could ever reach anyone. It was strictly line of sight from the wilderness. This morning I tried, and with the three motorcycle riders listening, I actually reached one of the Forest Service seasonal employees who was driving in the Red River area. The riders thought I was talking to the sheriff’s office.
Lost Lake was within the boundary of the designated wilderness area. I could tell by their faces they knew they weren’t supposed to be here. But they also hadn’t planned on being caught. They were extremely nervous and rightfully so.
As I questioned them, they admitted seeing the wilderness sign and the “NO MOTORIZED VEHICLES ALLOWED” sign. And then I asked if they had heard of the story of the Jeepers caught in a wilderness area in southern New Mexico. The three men literally turned white. They were very aware of the story.
Recently, two men had driven their four-wheel-drive Jeeps into the Gila Wilderness Area. They had been caught by the Forest Service, cited, and made to leave their vehicles until the Federal court made a decision. The story I was told is as follows.
The judge found both men guilty. They were ordered to pay a fine and write a letter describing that what they did was wrong. Rumor has it they each submitted, word for word, the same letter; so the judge added another fine of contempt of court (may or may not be true, but adds to the story). But the real kicker, and this is what scared the three motorcyclists, was that the Jeeps could not be driven out of the wilderness. The two violators had to pay a horsepacker, once the Jeeps were dismantled, to be packed out. This at great expense.
I told them I wasn’t going to seize their motorcycles, but I would issue each a citation. In addition, I told them they would walk their motorcycles back to the wilderness boundary sign. I was surprised when they asked one favor.
“Would you walk with us to the boundary sign?” one of the bikers asked. “We passed some backpackers on the way up and they weren’t too happy with us. We’d appreciate your protection.”
So I did. As we hiked out we passed the backpackers coming our way. When they saw me and my ticket book, I got smiles and thumbs up from them.
When we got to the sign, I told them they could ride out. But I had one more question I needed to ask.
“Did you ride up the trail an hour earlier?” I asked.
They all replied, “No.”
I then asked if they had just come in on the trail, or rode anywhere else, or if they’d seen another rider. They answered that they’d started up from the trailhead, stayed on the trail, and the only people they saw were the backpackers.
I then asked, “Would you like to know how I caught you?”
I told them they wouldn’t believe it, but I had “dreamed” I heard a motorcycle an hour before their arrival, and came wide awake. But it wasn’t really like a dream. It was like I had been brought out of a dream by the sound of a motorcycle. A motorcycle that wasn’t there.
I returned to camp and told Missy that this time I had a real encounter and told her the story. We had an enjoyable journey the next four days traveling to Horseshoe Lake and camping near treeline, to the summit of Wheeler Peak for a lunch with a view, and then back down to Lost Lake. But that enjoyment ended when we hiked down to the trailhead and saw my Landcruiser.
Three flat tires. At first I laughed to myself as I kept an electric tire inflator in my vehicle. When I got closer I got angry. I rarely swear, but I did then. Three of my tires’ valve stems had been cut off. So much for the inflator.
And then, the second miracle of our trip: I tried my portable radio and couldn’t believe my luck. I again was able to make contact with a Forest Service seasonal employee. He said he would come up and get us.
All of the seasonal employees working at the Questa Ranger Station, with the exception of Chat Campbell, the other wilderness ranger, and myself, were of Spanish descent and all locals. It was interesting at times being the “minority”, but never once was I treated with anything but kindness.
And the warmth of the friendship my co-workers bestowed unto me that day was incredible. Once everyone at the ranger station heard about my three flat tires, a whole chain of events came into play. Many of which I didn’t learn about until after the fact.
When Missy, Smokii, and I were picked up we were taken to Red River. We drove right past the camp where the three motorcyclists were camped. Three flat tires. Three motorcyclists. A coincidence?
Meanwhile in Questa, my amigos had acquired three tires and wheels off another Landcruiser. I later learned they “borrowed” these from an out-of-state tourist’s vehicle. I knew better than to ask. The tires and wheels were brought up to us and we drove back to my disabled Landcruiser.
Since it was parked at an angle, we couldn’t use a jack. Three of us lifted the body while the fourth took off my flat tire and wheel and replaced it with the “borrowed” replacement. So all three had been changed.
As we drove out we met a sheriff’s deputy interviewing the three motorcyclists. They denied doing the vandalism, and there wasn’t any proof without a confession.
My co-workers had me follow them to a gas station in Questa. The owner replaced all my valve stems, balanced, and remounted my tires and wheels. I asked him how much I owed him.
“After all you’ve been through,” he said, “nothing.”
Meanwhile, my co-workers returned the three “borrowed” tires and wheels. What at first had felt like a horrible situation turned into a remarkable display of kindness and generosity. It also was a wonderful feeling to find out that both Missy and I were considered part of the community of Questa.
Several days later,t the “end of summer” picnic, I found out how accepted we were. When my co-workers heard my vehicle had been vandalized, possibly by the motorcyclists I had cited, several grabbed ax handles, chains, and other assorted “tools”. Then, they were on their way to drive to the motorcyclists’ campsite. George Edwards, Bob Runnels, Tom Tarleton and some other Forest Service employees stopped them and finally talked them out of their proposed “attitude adjustment”.
At the picnic I thanked everyone. And then I especially thanked everyone for not going up there and busting heads. Muy bueno!
Forest Home, CA – 1976
After getting laid off with all the other Forest Service seasonal employees in August 1975, the “what would I do now” turned out not to be so bad.
Immediately, I took a temporary two-week job as a sawyer cutting hazard trees on the shore of Twin Lakes, on the east side of Independence Pass. Following that, I was offered a job with the Forest Service in the Cleveland National Forest in Southern California. I would be a member of a fire tanker crew at the Dripping Springs Station near Temecula. I would make good money for two and a half months plus have a bunk to sleep in.
A couple of weeks later I found out how I had come by my job. A vacancy had occurred when one of the crew walked away from the station depressed over a relationship. They found him hanging from a tree.
When we weren’t fighting the occasional small grass fire, we had a lot of mindless “busy work” around the station. We’d rake leaves to one end of the compound. The next day we’d rake them back.
I was temporarily detailed to the Palomar Hot Shot Crew for a couple of weeks. We were sent to a large 180,000-plus acre fire on the Angeles National Forest. At fire camp, after a good long 16-hour day cutting fire line, we’d eat (usually two steaks and potatoes), then climb into our paper sleeping bags. It felt like I’d only slept ten minutes when our foreman would be waking us up to head back to work. Actually, we’d slept six or seven hours.
The fire season ended in early December when we got a good dumping of rain and snow on the mountains. So with a good paycheck from fighting fires, I needed something to kill time before I went back to being a wilderness ranger come summer.
I was getting unemployment benefits, but I was bored. I took a job as a camp counselor for 6th graders at Forest Home in the San Bernardino Mountains. The representative at the unemployment office told me I didn’t need to take the job as it paid less than my unemployment benefits. I told him I wanted to do something rather than just get paid to do nothing. So I took the job that paid $1.30 an hour, minus my food and lodging. What a deal! But it was a fulfilling job.
As a camp counselor, I shared a cabin with a dozen twelve-year-old boys. I would have a new group of kids starting every Monday for five days, weekends off. I was told you could never threaten or strike a child. My first week was hell.
One large room of the cabin was full of bunk beds for the kids. I had my own room with bed and bathroom, with a door separating the two rooms. As soon as I shut off the lights and closed the door to my room, the voices would start. I was up most the night trying to get them to be quiet and go to sleep.
During a break, I told my problem to the other counselors. One of the male counselors told me I needed to threaten bodily harm in a way they would believe it.
“But I was told not to hit or threaten a child,” I explained.
The counselor replied, “Jon. Do you want to survive and to sleep? Or do you want to go through the same thing every week?”
That night I started my new approach. I told the kids goodnight and not to make a sound. I turned off the lights. I closed my door between the two rooms. I waited with my ear to the door and listened.
A whisper, “Bob, are you awake?”
“Yes,” answered Bob.
Suddenly more whispering and laughter.
BAM! I smashed open the door and turned on the lights.
“Bob!” I yelled.
I reached up on the top bunk and grabbed and tucked him under my arm. I opened up the front door of the cabin and carried him outside.
Then I whispered to him, “I am going to make it sound like I am hitting you.” I said. ” You are going to cry out as if it hurts. I guarantee that if you don’t cry out than I will really hit you and make you cry. Do you understand me?”
Of course I would never do that, but I hoped he didn’t know that.
He nodded yes and I proceeded to slap my hands together and Bob expertly cried out in pain. I then carried him inside, again under my arm, and set him on his bunk.
“Who’s next?” I angrily asked.
There was not one peep. I told them I didn’t want one more sound. Again I shut off the light, closed the door, then listened. No whispers or voices. I had won.
I learned new techniques with each class of sixth graders I counseled. Once, I took my group on a short nature walk after lunch. I brought along an orange. I wanted to impress upon them the need to stay in single file and not “horse around”. I gathered them around a yucca plant and dropped the orange onto one of its pointed leaves.
The spiked leaf went completely through the orange like a sword. The kids were awed. I was awed too. I had no idea it would penetrate clear through. I vowed silently to myself to never “horse around” yuccas.
One night I told the kids that I enjoyed my morning sleep. I told them that if they woke up before I got up, just to lie quietly in their bunks. Of course I was setting them up. I knew they wouldn’t be able to keep quiet.
That next morning I was already awake, up, and dressed; but I didn’t open up the door between the two rooms. I waited. Then I heard a whisper or two, then giggles. That was my cue. Like before, I suddenly pushed open the door and literally jumped into their room.
“Okay. Everyone out of their beds,” I roared.
I gathered them together, opened the front door, and had them all stand outside on the covered porch. I then told them they were to remain outside and be quiet. After I finished my morning chores, and if they’d stayed quiet, I said I would bring them back inside.
What helped was situated next door. The adjacent cabin was an all-girls’ cabin. So my crew were in their pajamas and underwear shivering together on the porch while the girls all stood outside “cat calling” to them from their porch. Meanwhile, I sat on my bed and read a book and smiled.
After lunch the principal called me to his office. Uh oh.
He said he’d heard about what I’d done that morning with my sixth graders. I was ready for a chewing out or my termination.
“That was a great idea,” he said taking me totally by surprise. “Good job.”
I never had any problems with noise after that. I told the story to new groups and none wanted to either be embarrassed or to try me out.
Ninety-nine times out of a hundred I had fun with the kids. It was great to have them in an outdoor experience and to feel you were teaching them to respect the land. I also had fun surprising parents too.
One couple, when they dropped off their son for the bus ride to Forest Home, took me aside.
“Our son can’t sleep unless he has his transistor radio turned on under his pillow,” the mother said.
“I hope it doesn’t bother the other kids, but he has to have it,” said the dad.
I thanked them for telling me and then we loaded up all the kids. When we got to Forest Home I took my group of twelve to our cabin. I told them to take about ten minutes to unpack their belongings and then meet outside so we could go get lunch. I watched to see which bunk belonged to “transistor boy”.
As we gathered outside on the front porch, I told them to stay there; that I needed to get something out of the cabin. Quickly, I went to his bunk and lifted up the pillow. There sat the transistor radio. I opened the back and reversed the batteries. Then I closed it and placed it under the pillow.
We headed up to the cafeteria with all the kids and counselors for lunch. The meal was grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. It was all the kids’ favorite lunchtime meal. Mine too. Today, when ever I have a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup I still think of Forest Home.
That night I told my “quiet” story to the kids, said goodnight, and turned off the lights. The next morning was a bright, sunshiny day. I checked on all the kids and specifically asked “transistor boy” if he slept well.
“I sure did,” he answered.
When he went into the bathroom I quickly lifted up his pillow. I clicked on and off his radio. It didn’t work.
When he came back out I had them make up their beds. He picked up his radio and carried it over to his locker and put it away and then made up his bed.
Thursdays was a visiting day for parents. The parents of “transitor boy” came and once again pulled me aside.
“I hope he hasn’t been too much trouble,” said his father.
“Yes, I hope his radio wasn’t a distraction to the other kids,” added his mom.
“He’s never had the radio on at night,” I replied. “And he slept the whole time.”
The parents looked at me like I was crazy.
Then I told them what I’d done and that I watched him put away his radio like it was nothing after that first morning.
Just then the boy came running up to his parents all excited, “Mom, Dad, this is my counselor Jon. I’m having a great time! Stay for lunch. We’re having grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup!”
I just smiled and walked away as their son dragged them off to the cafeteria.
There was one other lesson in life I learned as a camp counselor. Lying. Not me. But how young kids can lie.
Some construction work was taking place at Forest Home so I told my group as we walked to the cafeteria, “Stay in single file and do NOT walk off the sidewalk.”
I walked at the back of the line. Suddenly, one of my sixth graders broke from the line and ran up onto a pile of sand.
I walked right up the sand pile to him and placed my hand on his shoulder.
“I told you to stay on the sidewalk,” I said.
“I did.” he replied.
“No you didn’t. You’re right here on the sand hill.”
“No I’m not. I didn’t do it.”
“Look what you’re standing on.”
“I didn’t do it.”
I was trying not to laugh. There he was standing next to me on a sand hill completely denying he was there. I looked forward to my break to share the “latest” story with the other counselors.
On my last day as a camp counselor, the principal had a close-out session with me in his office. He tried to talk me into staying. He said they were getting approval to waive the food and lodging deductions. But he said they’d still be paying $1.30 an hour.
I thanked him but told him I had a job as a wilderness ranger starting in May. I’d received an offer in the Wheeler Peak Wilderness Area of northern New Mexico. It was in the Carson National Forest out of the Questa Ranger Station about forty-five minutes from Taos. I was not returning to Aspen.
New Mexico – 1977
There’s an excellent art program at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque. After all, New Mexico was a home of Georgia O’Keefe, the Taos art community based around Mabel Luhan Dodge, and a canvas for landscape photographers such as Ansel Adams and Eliot Porter.
Missy applied for admission and was accepted. While she went back to college, I hired on again with the Cleveland National Forest as a late season fire fighter. At first I was assigned to the El Cariso Hotshot crew. The crew foreman and I didn’t hit it off well right from the beginning. I was making more money than him. I had a beard and he wanted me to shave it off even though it wasn’t required to be clean shaven.
When the forest supervisor’s office heard I resigned from the hot shot crew, I was immediately rehired and sent to Palomar Mountain with a tanker crew. A forester at the supervisor’s office later told me he was sorry I got hooked up with El Cariso.
“They’ve been in hot water since this spring. Earlier they got into a fight with a tanker crew,” he said. “Then some of the members later slashed tires on the tanker truck. They’ve been given every crappy job all this season.”
I enjoyed my time at Palomar Mountain. We were literally next door to the Palomar Observatory. It was a beautiful location in the pines, on top the mountain, overlooking San Diego. A Class B movie was filmed using our fire station briefly. It was a horrible science fiction horror movie, with Jack Elam was in it, called “Creature From Black Lake”. But they didn’t use any of us as extras.
Early in 1977, I went back to Albuquerque. While Missy was taking art classes, I was submitting queries to magazines in an attempt to sell some of my photos and/or stories. I also was sending off applications trying to get on full time with the Forest Service.
That winter/spring was a restless time for me. I knew I could go back to my seasonal job in the Wheeler Peak Wilderness, as I had a starting date in early April. But here I was with a masters degree going into my ninth year as a seasonal employee. I wanted more. I wanted to feel like I did something that mattered. Being on unemployment insurance, I continually had to seek out and apply for jobs and record all my attempts.
My low point came when I received an “interest form” from the Forest Service in Joseph, Oregon on the Wallowa-Whitman National Forest. It asked if I wanted to be considered for a GS-04 campground caretaker. Although the job would be for about eight months of the year it was considered a permanent position. It would get me established both with medical and retirement benefits and the ability to apply for future jobs.
Three weeks later, without even an interview, I received a form letter stating they had selected someone else for the job. I felt lower than low. What did I have to do to get on full time?
I met with a personnel officer at the Regional Office of the Forest Service in Albuquerque. He told me I had great experience. But he said that even though I had a masters degree, I needed to go back to college.
“You need to have at least twenty-four semester hours in a forestry major,” he told me. “Without that, we can’t hire you.”
So even though the leading researchers for the Forest Service in the field of wilderness management had their degrees in geography, I was told I could not he hired unless I took the forestry classes. And then the personnel officer said something that I would always remember.
“We could care less about seasonals,” he said.”We use them to do certain jobs, but we have no concern for them.”
Now I truly felt even lower and depressed.
I did partially succeed in getting published. I wrote a short filler for “Mountain Gazette” on desert fever. My article and photos were published in “Four Wheeler” about a four wheel drive trip into Savage Gulf, Tennessee. And I met with the editor of “New Mexico magazine” who published my photos of the Wheeler Peak Wilderness. I also wrote an article about the Sierra Ladrones near Socorro, New Mexico which “Desert Magazine” published along with my black and white photos.
It was the end of March and I was packed, ready to head back to the Quest Ranger Station. I had just returned from downhill skiing at the Sandia Ski area and lay down on the bed for a nap. The phone rang. I was halfway between sleeping and being awake in that uncomfortable zone of trying to function coherently.
All of a sudden my adrenaline kicked in. I was being interviewed for a full-time job as an outdoor recreation planner for the Bureau of Land Management in Riverside, California. I do not remember much of that interview. I do remember asking when a selection would be made. I told the interviewer that all my boxes were packed and I was leaving that coming weekend to return to my seasonal Forest Service job starting Monday.
He promised he would get back to me by Friday before I had to leave.
I remember that after the call ended I probably sounded out of it. I thought back to some of my answers to his questions, thinking now of much better replies. Now, all I could do was wait for his call on Friday.
Friday came and I stayed in the house throughout the entire day. I didn’t want to miss that call. The morning came and went. No call. Lunch came and went. No call. Five o’clock came. No call.
In my doziness during the interview, I not only didn’t remember the name of the interviewer, but I didn’t write down his name or phone number. It was still four o’clock in California, so I called information and got the telephone number for the BLM office in Riverside.
I dialed and got the receptionist. How stupid I felt calling to talk to whomever had interviewed me, yet I didn’t know his name. She read off some of the possible names, but none sounded familiar. She checked a couple of employees, but they were all out of the office. I thanked her and hung up.
I told myself that they probably offered the job to someone else and had given them a few days to decide. It looked like I’d be a full-time seasonal.
That Sunday I loaded my boxes into my Landcruiser, said goodbye to Missy and Smokii, and I headed north to Questa. At least I was going back to a job where I would be outdoors and hiking and with people I liked.
Monday morning I greeted my friends and co-workers from the season before. It was about ten o’clock when my boss, Tom Tarleton, recreation technician, came out to the warehouse. He told me I had a phone call and could take it in his office.
I picked up the phone. John Heywood, district outdoor recreation planner for the BLM Riverside District Office was on the line. He was the one whose name I couldn’t remember. John apologized for not calling on Friday as promised. He unexpectedly had to fly to Sacramento, the BLM State Office, and hadn’t returned until late that evening.
With that out of the way, John asked, “So how soon can you start?”
I was taken totally by surprise. First, I’d been under the impression that someone else had been offered the job. And now I was being offered a full-time position, not as a GS-04 campground caretaker, but a GS-09 outdoor recreation planner in a professional series.
This time I immediately wrote down John’s name and phone number.
“Since I’m already here, could I have at least two weeks?” I asked.
John laughed and said of course I could. I accepted the job.
I walked outside and George Edwards, the district ranger, Robert Runnels, the forester/range conservationist, Tom Tarleton, Lupita, the secretary (before they were labeled administrative assistants), and all the seasonal employees were all standing there smiling. They knew I’d been offered a job.
I gave them the news that I’d be working for the BLM as an outdoor recreation planner. Then Tom, who was a GS-05, asked me what grade I was starting out.
“A GS-09,” I said.
There was dead silence. Then everyone started clapping and cheering and congratulating me. I felt like I’d just won a lottery.
Right after lunch I received another phone call. A National Park Service ranger from a civil war battlefield national monument offered me a job. It would be a full-time permanent position as an interpretive ranger at the GS-05 level. I thanked him but told him I’d just accepted a job with the Bureau of Land Management.
He paused then asked, “What grade are they hiring you at?”
I told him, “A GS-09”.
There was a much longer pause. “Do you know if they’re hiring more people?”
I called Missy and then I called my parents. Once again my life took a turnaround. I was getting ready to start my thirty-two year professional career with the Bureau of Land Management.
At the time I had no idea of the incredible journey I was about to begin. Nor could I foresee all the wonderful directions both my career and life were to take and the changes that would occur. Of course sadness would also play a part.
