My Breif Career as a Vigilante Mormon Cop

Bear Canyon Lake, August. '04 or '05

There was a Mormon family that I met my first year out at Bear Canyon, and when all is said and done I will have referenced them many times in other stories The paterfamilias was head of security at a utility installation to the west of Phoenix; a pretty intense assignment in light of the terrorist fears of the time. I saw him several times a year, mostly with a large group including extended family and friends.

Mormons aren't supposed to have caffeine, so whenever he was in camp I would hike to his kitchen with my coffee pot and I would have coffee and he would have green tea and we would chat. Mostly we talked about the forest, but often strayed to politics. Mormons, for all their rules and strange underwear, are really Libertarian at heart. It wasn't hard for us to find common ground and become friends. The irony of his police background wasn't lost on me.

This particular year, his brothers had come with their families and before they arrived he warned me that they were Phoenix police officers, in the event I wanted to make myself scarce. He didn't know my legal status, but I think cops are just used to people who don't want to hang. I had no such compunction, He was a good guy and fine friend and I assumed his brothers would be as well. They were.

It was late August and getting cold. I had turned in with the lantern and a book. I was camped about a hundred yards south of the road to the lake, shortly after turning off of Forest Road 89. That area is off limits to camping now.

The Mormons were camped directly across the road (north) and again about a hundred yards back. There was a ditch about four feet deep that ran along my side of the road for about a hundred and fifty yards to the east, ending at the shitter.

Corona Brian had loaned me a copy of “Over the Edge: Death in Grand Canyon” by Ghiglieri and Myers. It tells the story of all known deaths at the Canyon. It's a fascinating read and I recommend it to anybody who is going out to camp in the wild. It is at times tragic, and at others a monument to stupidity.

I was about three chapters in, when I heard heavy footfalls near my tent. I turned out my lantern and listened. Soon, I heard a moaning, followed by giggling.Then a growl. I didn't take it seriously, I assumed it was some asshole kids; maybe drunk. Then two voices said they were going to kill me and cackled. I heard them walking away and I reached for my revolver.

I climbed out of my tent and moved a little ways off into the brush where I might not be seen and I watched for movement. I sat there a pretty long time. Just as I moved to return to my tent, there was a sharp report and a flash of light from the shitters and somebody yelled that they had been hit. I flattened myself on the ground. My camp was uphill and southwest of the toilets. It was quite visible in the moonlight.

I figured it would be better for me to watch those people, than for them to watch me, and the threats I had fairly dismissed earlier seemed more pressing now. I crawled like GI Joe the hundred yards north to the ditch and threw myself into it. I hunkered there, listening for any indication of what was going on. My Heritage Rough Rider clutched in my right hand. I waited. I heard footsteps, and three forms vaulted into the ditch behind me. The Mormons had arrived.

My friend, the security man, asked if I had been firing my revolver. It wasn't until I answered him that I noticed the 357 Glock each man was holding. As we reconnoitered, they told a familiar tale. Somebody had crept up om their camp as they were sleeping and made scary noises and threats and scared the women and children. “I don't need to tell you”, he said, “They picked the wrong kids to scare”.

I told them I had chosen the ditch as a way to sneak up on the shitter unseen to investigate. “Lead on”, he said, “Let's get the drop on them”. I was scared and thrilled and honestly almost giggled on the spot at the idea of three armed cops allowing me, a fugitive with sidearm drawn, to lead them on what was certainly an illegal out-of-jurisdiction raid. This is the west.

We got to the end of the ditch and peered over. There were three young Hispanic men standing around a Dodge Pickup. “Follow us” the security man said, “and keep your gun on them”. We hopped out of the ditch and I tried to emulate their movements, walking fast and kind of squatted down with my revolver extended. In all honesty I probably looked more like Janet Jackson than Samuel L.

The cops started yelling like a pack of dogs and the next thing you know we had them all lined up and reaching for the sky. Security took the lead and identified us as police officers. I remember thinking "well, there's a serious felony". I think he was the older brother. He questioned them and they denied having a weapon. He walked behind them and kicked their legs apart and searched them. All the while we were holding them in our sights. He didn't find anything and I suggested they might have ditched a weapon in the shitter. He instructed me to take a look.

First I checked the men's side. I looked in the trash and overhead in the rafters, I even looked down the poop hole. I was turning corners and leading with the Rough Rider like Kate Jackson. When I looked behind the door in the Ladies' room, I found a fourth young man, and tried not to look as startled as he did. He put his hands up of his own accord, and I marched him into line with the rest.

Security was searching the truck. The fattest of the four was visibly shaking and asked if he could put his hands down. “Only if you want to get shot” one of the brothers replied. He found nothing in the truck.

With their hands still in the air, the brothers took turns berating them for their juvenile behavior and for scaring their women and children. They must have told them three times how they could have shot them for making threats toward our camps. The perps were scared shitless. I'd never been on this side of things before, and the juxtaposition was fascinating to me.

In the end, there was a lot of “Yes Sir” and “We didn't realize” and the kids were told to get in their truck and never return to the forest. My police buddies went back to their families, and I sat outside my tent for a while and had a smoke. To this day I'm not sure if I was a Deputy, a Vigilante, or an Indian Scout, but that was the extent of my career in law enforcement.

The White Wolf (I Know a Coyote When I see One)

Nearly every year on the Mogollon Rim I crossed paths with a white wolf. The last time I saw her was in 2005. I say “her” because I didn't ever see any wolf-balls or related genitalia. I've told the story around many a campfire, often to the ridicule of those who believe there are no wolves on the Rim. Nobody made more good natured fun of my wolf stories than Tim, Marc, and Becky.To be honest, I couldn't blame them. Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I would be skeptical as well.

The first time I saw her, I didn't think there were wolves on the Rim either. Mike, “The Man in the Tower”, had given me the census numbers on large mammals in the Bear Canyon area and wolves were not included.

About a mile north of the lake on Forest Road 89 is a wide cut through the Ponderosa Forest that extends from the northeast, southeastward toward Star Valley and Payson. In the middle of this cut runs huge towers, crackling powerlines, and a rough road that services them. Certain times of the summer, elk gather here of an evening to browse on the grasses that grow in this open area.

At the southeast corner of the Powerline Road and FR 89 is a meadow with a few large Ponderosa. It is a favored campsite of large families and RV campers who wish to avoid the crowds of the lake, but feel safer with the open environment and proximity of traffic. Beyond the power lines, FR89 becomes worse and greenhorns become fewer. Bivalve fossils, three to four inches in diameter, are abundant beyond the power lines.

It was a Tuesday. The weekend warriors had pulled out, leaving me to my forest. Often the RV folk left behind bags of store bought firewood. They sold splits of alligator juniper at Woods Canyon and it was good for cooking. It was better than pitchy old pine for sure, and with the recent rains, drier than the dead-fall oak I preferred to grill with. I walked FR89 toward the power lines, mentally marking the camps who'd left the dry bags of juniper and taking one-hits from my dugout.

Between the trees in the corner meadow, I saw something gleaming in the sunlight. It was a small reflection and didn't look like a beer can. I'd become an expert at recognizing beer cans littering the forest. I maintained my focus as I crossed the hundred yards of meadow so I wouldn't loose sight of it.

When I was twenty five feet from the object, I caught a movement in my peripherals and stopped. Twenty feet to the left of the object, and on an intersecting path, was the white wolf. She was also looking at the object and didn't appear to have noticed me. Not wanting to surprise a large white wolf, I coughed. I coughed in as friendly and nonthreatening a manner as I possibly could.

Startled, she stopped and turned her head toward me, just for a split second, then she bolted straight across the meadow and disappeared into the thick pines. She was mostly white, with just a touch of gray at the shoulder and haunch. Her head reached my waist. This was no coyote. I put my dugout in my pocket and stared after her.

I'd seen a wolf only once before, high in the Rockies on Mt. Elbert. This one was larger, and more white. I wondered if she didn't see me because I was stoned and vibing with the forest. It seemed odd to surprise a wolf in an open meadow. I'd heard they had released wolves near the Arizona and New Mexico border, but that was half a state away.

The shiny thing that drew me into the meadow was a child's compound bow. I fashioned an arrow from a hollow piece of tent pole with raven feathers and a handle-less phillips screwdriver (for the point). It would drive the arrow into a log enough to make it hard to pull it out. I gave to bow to the parents of Gavin Dvorak the next time I saw them. He was about to turn four, I think, and was maybe a bit young yet.

That winter at the river, I think Grizz, Lee, and Rusty were the only people who didn't try to convince me I saw a coyote. I know what a coyote looks like. Grizz said he thought they had released some wolves in the White Mountains.

Fourteen months later, I had my second sighting.

About a third of the way down the western side of Bear Canyon Lake is a still, shallow finger just before the shore curves to the left. There's a steep ravine that ends in that finger. At monsoon times, that ravine feeds the lake. I had some success floating homemade flies on the calm water there.

On the morning in question, I was maybe forty feet from the point of the finger, having a smoke before trying my luck. My most recent creation was a red dragonfly I made with a rooster feather. There was a mother duck and ducklings up at the point, and I was watching them to see if they shed any feathers. Suddenly, the white wolf sprang from an unseen spot in the tall grass, snatched a duckling up into his mouth and trotted up the ravine and out of view. The remaining ducks made quite a commotion and hastily retreated further into the lake and around the corner.

The activities had no harmful effect on the fishing, I caught three nice trout on the dragonfly. That night I tied up three more.

That winter, the gang at the Verde could barely keep contained in their mirth that I would think a coyote was a wolf. Tim said he'd seen some pretty big coyotes, and I should realize they get bigger in the mountains than the scrawny desert variety. I know what a coyote looks like.

In July, one year, Marc was camping with me at the northernmost camping area by the west side of the lake. He didn't like that spot because it was so populated, but Tyler had my fishing gear back in Phoenix and I had to spend long hours at the lake to keep fed on crawdads and dandelions. Marc had the idea to have a fourth of July party out there and invite our friends from the Verde. When the time came, we'd move out to Marc's usual spot at near where FR89 merges with FR91 near Willow Creek.

We invited about thirty people in all. Maybe half that showed up. Early on, it was just Becky, Marc, Grizz, Trapper,  Rusty, a friend of his, and Janine. One night just before dark, we drove out to the rim's edge to get a cell phone signal and call some people with specific directions to the party. I think everybody rode along but Rusty and his friend. Somebody was following us. Maybe Corona Brion and Dave the Pirate.

About a quarter mile from the lake turnoff the white wolf raced across the road, the meadow on our right, and into the forest's edge where we lost sight of it. Marc hit his brakes and said “Did you see that? That was a big white wolf!”

“Oh, no!” I replied, “That was just a coyote.” They believe me now.

The next year, toward the end of the summer, I was walking south on FR89 toward the Bear Canyon Loop Trail (a favorite of mine). I wasn't planning to hike far. I didn't have my day pack or any water on me. Then I saw the white wolf yet again. This time she crossed the road at almost the same place we had seen her the previous year, only this time she stopped at the forest's edge and looked back at me. I put my hand in one of her tracks and her paw was nearly as big as mine. Certainly not a coyote. I know a coyote when I see one.

She hesitated as if waiting for me to follow. I was high again, just like the last three times. That's actually pretty remarkable as I look back. It wasn't often I had grass on the Rim. Anyway, I got the idea that if a possibly magical white wolf wanted to show me something in the forest, who was I to refuse?

We went west, for the most part, and slightly north. We crossed out of familiar territory and down ravines and over meadows for a couple of hours. Just when she would be almost out of sight, she would stop and wait for me to halve the distance between us. We were miles from the lake, far beyond any trails or fire roads. I knew that the rim road was to my left (south), FR91 was ahead, and the power lines to the right. FR89 was behind me. Even if I got lost, I knew how to find camp.

Eventually, I began to speculate on my lack of water and the wisdom of allowing a wild carnivore to lead me deep into the forest. I couldn't discount the possibility that she was leading me to her pack for dinner. I didn't have a flashlight or jacket and it was growing dark. Insert whatever excuse you want, I quit following and rolled a cigarette, Thinking again how thirsty I was and how good that water was going to taste back at camp. I turned to head back to FR89.

Between the roots on the west side of a pine tree facing me were two water bottles and a pair of binoculars. I didn't see them on the way past because they were on the other side of the tree. Did that wolf just lead me to water and binoculars? It was obvious they had been there a while from the dust and dirt. I assumed a hunter had forgotten them last fall. I opened a bottle and drank. It tasted like the bottle. It was obviously old, but I was glad to have it.

I thanked the wolf and went home. It was dark when I crossed FR89.

The following year was the last time I saw her, and I saw her several times over the course of my last week ever at Bear Canyon. I was camped in the forest between FR89 and the lake, about a mile and a half north of Rim Road 300. I wasn't more than a quarter mile from the place I picked up her trail the previous year. My camp faced east toward the lake, and sat about two hundred feet from the top of the ravine leading down to that fly fishing spot.

Each morning, that wolf would trot right past my camp, as I sat there with my coffee and morning puff. Sometimes I'd wave and say “mornin'”. She was never in a hurry, traveling along with that familiar trot. Neither of us were afraid. I wondered if she recognized me as I did her. One morning, on my way to the lake, I saw her trot right through somebodies camp while they were fixing breakfast. They didn't even see her.

I watched her wind through the forest among campsites and up and down that ravine to the lake and never saw anybody even look at her. I stopped to ask a few people if they'd seen a wolf but got the same derisive comments my river buddies used before they saw her. There is much that goes on, sometimes within feet of ourselves, that we do not see.

In 2012, ten years or so from my first sighting, wolves appear on the census as living on the rim. I found an article dated 2002, that says wolves were released in Apache-Sitgreaves Forest. This is where I saw the white wolf.

I know what a coyote looks like.

 For more information check out The Mexican Grey Wolf Recovery Program at: http://www.fws.gov/southwest/es/mexicanwolf/brwrp_home.cfm

The Man in the Tower

    After 60 days on the Mogollon, I had reason to celebrate. My previous record for consecutive   camping days was 45. That trip was in the Rockies near Paonia, Colorado in 1992. I was feeling optimistic about my journey.  I'd been cleaning up campsites after folks left and occasionally found loose change that dropped from  their pockets around the fire. I thought it was funny that people would have money in their pockets up here. It's not like you can run down to the Circle K. I was also tremendously amused when I saw fishermen on the lake with cell phones on their hip. There's no signal. At least there wasn't back then and its doubtful there is now, so deep in the valley.
   
I heard form a few people that there was a camp store at Woods Canyon Lake, about a dozen miles east once you hit the Rim Road. I had amassed a tidy little nest egg of a dollar and seventy cents and like I mentioned, I had a milestone to celebrate. I deserved a soda pop and a candy bar. A newspaper would be nice.

      I set out along the lake, working my way south with the idea of cutting through the forest to bisect the Rim Road and eliminate the three or four extra miles I would have to walk if I took Forest Road 89. I like to deviate from the beaten path at times. There are more interesting sights. You don't often find shed antlers, artifacts, or Bigfoot when walking the beaten path.

       To my surprise, a quarter mile south of the lake was a small primitive camping area. I followed the road that led into it, and ended up at the Rim Road. A quarter of a mile east brought me to a fire tower and small cabin. Outside of the cabin was a fifth wheel camper and a Chevy truck. The base of the tower was surrounded by a high chain link fence and gate.

       Forest service offices are usually pretty cool places with pamphlets, maps, and information on the area they maintain. Hoping that's what the cabin held, I knocked. There was no answer, so I crossed the gravel drive to the tower and read the signs there. The most obvious was posted on the gate and over the words “Keep Out” was a sheet of notebook paper, duct taped, that said “Come on up”. I left Maya inside the gate and began the climb.

       The tower at Promontory Lookout is 110 feet high. That doesn't sound that high, but when you climb up it, you can feel it sway in the wind. At the top of the last flight of stairs is a hatchway. I lifted the hatch and announced my presence as I was unsure if I should be there or not. A voice from above replied “Come on in”. That voice belonged to Mike, the fire watcher.

       Mike was full of information and he was happy to share. The original tower there had been built in 1913 from logs harvested and milled on the spot. It was erected without the aid of machinery other than simple block and tackle. Mike said that ironically, that first tower burnt down. It was replaced in 1924 with the structure that stands today. In 1988 they added the cabin, but Mike said he would have had to pay to stay there. He also said his position was voluntary and he received no pay.

       The cab at the top of the tower is a seven foot square with shelving that runs around the perimeter at the base of the windows. In the center of the cab is a large table with a brass instrument mounted on a swivel that looks like a sextant. Mike pointed out a location a good ways off and asked me to guess the distance, then checked with his device. I was off by two miles. He said not to sweat it, he was frequently wrong when he first started the season and the firemen would yell at him for sending them to the wrong coordinates.

       We chatted for about an hour and when I left he followed me down. I said I was hiking to Woods Canyon and back and he was incredulous. “Do you know how far that is?” he asked. “Yeah, about twelve miles” “It's twelve miles back too!” When I told him I was backpacking, and camped at Bear Canyon, he said if I didn't have a tent I would probably be killed. He worried that a snake would curl up with me and warned me of the Arizona Black Rattler, which has neuro-toxins in the venom and is deadly. He showed me a stick with a loop of leather on the bottom that he used to catch the snakes that he claimed were abundant in the area. The botto of the stick was covered with a shiny varnish that he claimed was venom. Mike was obviously very afraid of rattlesnakes. When I left I cut across the woods, rather than use the driveway and he shouted a warning after me that I would surely be bitten and die if I didn't stick to the roads.
  
 I visited with him several times that summer, and each time he was more paranoid than previously. The last time I saw him, he claimed people had been shooting at him, and suspected the firemen. I learned later that he didn't finish the season but packed up and disappeared, leaving an extensive list of grievances and attacks against him. I hear that Promontory Lookout is only used in emergencies nowadays. I can still hear him calling his catch phrase after me: “You're gonna to die!” I wondered if Shattsworth had met him.

    I made it to the store, and a dollar seventy didn't go as far as I hoped. I managed to buy a can of Diet Coke and a stick of Banana Taffy. I found a newspaper on a bench and rationed it out to myself over the course of a week. It was hard not to sit and read it all at once. I saved the crossword for last. The simplest things delighted me. I savored the soda, fighting the urge to guzzle it. It was cold and bubbly. It felt like Christmas. That trip to Woods Lake complex was the first real civilization I had seen in months. I'd have liked to hang around a bit, but I had a long walk back to camp

           On my way back, a couple of old timers stopped and offered me a lift. They asked if I had broken down. I told them I had walked to the store for a soda and some candy. The fella driving said he'd have at least bought beer if he hiked all that way. I told him people frequently invited me to their camp for beers. Everybody brings beer to the forest. It's not so easy to find Diet Coke and Banana Laffy Taffy. Sweets are hard to come by.