Waiting for Beaver Fever

Just after I Turned onto the Rim Road and General Crook trail, we stopped for another water break. That's where we found the sign. "It is illegal to grow Marijuana in YOUR National Forest". Paranoid now, I dumped my sack of seeds around the sign. That sign no longer exists. I guess it gave people ideas.
The trail wound around the rim, rising and falling, weaving through the pines. Occasionally, an ATV would blow past, leaving us in a cloud of dust. We walked to the side of the trail, which was made of limestone and cinder. Maya's pads were suffering from the sharp stone and the day was hot, so we stayed off the path and in the shade and soft grass.

Just as I was wondering if my calculations were off and we had passed the first of the mapped water holes, we dropped below a small hill and in the distance saw the small green sign identifying Johnson Spring. My heart raced with anticipation. Would it be flowing? Would it be safe? With the fire ban in place and no filter, I had no means of purification.

My research told me to avoid stagnant or brackish water. Also to watch for white encrustation around the edges that might indicate the presence of poisons or alkali. It took a few minutes of searching through the tall weeds to find the source of the spring.

The water from Johnson Spring seeped out of the ground and formed a tiny pool just shy of a cubic foot in size. A narrow stream bed, dry and overgrown, extended both north and south from the shallow depression. There were a few plants growing in and around the water. The spring looked clean and cool and flowed slowly from the bottom, avoiding stagnation. It had no discernible odor.

Next I looked for the presence of hemlocks, belladonna, or other noxious plants that can leach toxins. I wasn't able to identify the few plants that grew there, but none were recognizably poisonous.

Like with water, there are warning signs that unidentified plants may be hazardous. I saw no furry plants, resinous plants, or plants with red or white berries or flowers. Again, no guarantee.

Maya's canine constitution could handle any likely micro organisms. I let her drink her fill.

The most prevalent danger from untreated water is Giardiasis, a protozoan infestation that wreaks havoc on the small intestine. The Giardia are carried in the intestines of humans, cattle, other small mammals, and is spread to water through fecal contamination. The affliction these little bastards cause is known by the colorful name Beaver Fever. Most animals who carry the protozoa are asymptomatic, as are some people. Hundreds of thousands of people worldwide suffer the symptoms of

Giardiasis.

Symptoms can appear any time between one and fifteen days after ingestion, and begin suddenly. There are gut wrenching cramps, explosive diarrhea, and projectile vomiting. These occur along with loss of appetite, general weakness, and odorous belching. Symptoms can last anywhere from a few days to six weeks and when its all over, it can cause varying degrees of permanent lactose intolerance.

Everything I knew about water, I learned in books before I hit the trail. The one thing all of them had in common was the assertion that untreated groundwater cannot be assumed safe without extensive study and high powered microscopy. Even boiled or filtered water can contain unseen dangers like salinity, alkalinity, heavy metals, chemicals, and pesticides,

I cringe to see people drink untreated water of any kind, and would have preferred another option. The only tracks I saw near the spring were from birds. I saw no sign of cattle, and the dry stream, even at full flow, would too small to support beavers. With the added assurance that it was spring water and only just broke the surface, I drank.

The rural folk I grew up around taught me that the bowels are the barometer of health. I subscribe to this adage and generally pay attention, more so in survival situations. For the next two weeks, however, I would be worriedly monitoring all of my bodily functions. Each fart or rumbling of belly could be cause for concern. I was properly hydrated and feeling fit, but had condemned myself to weeks of apprehension and fear. Time would tell.

We spent the hottest part of the afternoon resting in the shade and hydrating. Maya had some kibble and I mixed the last of my bread crumbs with the last of the gravy mix and had a meager lunch. The only comestibles left for me was a can of Tomato soup.

I had to make the decision whether to continue on or spend the night near the spring and start the next day refreshed and with full bottles. My maps indicated there was another spring three miles distant. There were a few hours of daylight left so after stashing half the gear, we took our chances and moved on. If Kehl spring wasn't flowing, we might have to return anyway.

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 Anasazi Bellows Part II of III First Trip to the Hot Springs

I disembarked from the Greyhound behind a motel in Camp Verde. The sun was behind the mountains and wouldn't show itself until it rose on Easter Morning. I had to go all the way to the other side of town on Hwy 260 and didn't want to be tramping after dark in an unfamiliar municipality. What's more, with my two oversized duffels, I had to hike ahead with one and return for the other; suspicious behavior.

Lacking a government issued ID, I couldn't get a room for the night. I could talk my way into lodging at a mom and pop operation with any number of excuses. “My pocket was picked on the bus” and “I had a fight with my wife and left without my wallet. It's best I wait for her to cool off” are a couple I had used successfully over the years. I particularly liked the one about the pickpocket, because it made me look like a rube. I played the yokel card often. People aren't so wary of hayseeds, yokels, or rubes, and those conditions help cover possible inconsistencies. I often looked to Woody Harrelson for inspiration. His characters in “Cheers” and “White Men Can't Jump” were largely above suspicion with their portrayal of corn fed Indiana innocence; a role I had a face for and can play well. Unfortunately, these motels were all national chains. I learned that if you are poor or on the road, Corporate America could give a shit if they have your business or not. I bet they wouldn't let Woody Harrelson himself stay there without proper documents.

I found a Denny's, left my bags in the foyer, and asked for a booth where I could watch them. I was famished. I hadn't eaten since sun up. I ordered an omelet with everything, well done hash browns, and a side of slaw. I love slaw. Soon, I would have to subsist on hard rations. After my meal, I ordered coffee and asked for the manager.

I told her that I was headed out to hike the General Crook Trail and delays had brought me to town a little late to begin. She gave me permission to review my maps and journals over coffee in her establishment until morning, provided I tip the servers generously.

It was raining when morning came. The waitress who served me most of the night hooked me up with a ride to the other side of town with the night cook. He dropped me off at a combination Shell Station and Indian Tobacco joint called “Ernies”.

I left my bags on the sidewalk in front of the store and went inside. I bought a can of tobacco, rolling papers, lighters, a large cup of coffee, and a six pack of hostess chocolate doughnuts. There were a couple of booths in the store, but I went outside for my coffee and doughnuts so I could have a smoke.

I'm sure I looked bad. My head was sunburnt and peeling and just starting to show stubble. It was my third day on the road in these clothes. My lips were chapped and cracked, and I hadn't slept since Chavez Park. The doughnuts were gone and I was standing under the awning next to my bags with a cigarette and coffee when Ernie showed up. He didn't like the looks of me.

He told me to leave because he wasn't going to have me bothering his customers. I told him that in spite of appearances, I was no panhandler. I had patronized his establishment and was just finishing my coffee and cigarette before I hit the General Crook trail. He became irate. Actually, he was a giant asshole and threatened me with the police if I didn't leave. Thinking I would have been better off at a booth inside, I carried first one bag and then the other to the edge of a bridge over the Verde River where I would resume my journey. I was tired and angry and distraught. I'd had enough of society for a while. It had been a rough couple of days. All I had to do was make it a few more miles, and I could set up camp and sleep.

That asshole Ernie (he didn't look like an Indian to me), must have called the cops because it wasn't long before a white car pulled up with U.S. Marshall emblazoned on it's side.

I've mentioned before my thoughts on the various branches of law enforcement. City and county cops didn't worry me much, but feds are a little smarter, a little more educated, and have a lot more resources. As Americans, we are subjected to the scrutiny of local law almost constantly. It is a matter of course, for both them and us, to interact in an official capacity. Because of this familiarity, and their limited perspective, I had grown more comfortable in explaining myself to them. Feds, on the other hand, scared the crap out of me.

This G-Man exited his vehicle and asked me where I was heading. I told him and he said as long as my ID checked out, he would let me be on my way. I carried two photo ID's. One was from a swap meet, and the other was from a check cashing joint. Both were stamped in bold letters across the bottom “Data Provided by Signatory”, which is legalese for “These Documents are Bullshit”. I'd used both cards on deputies and city cops, but I reckoned a fed would know better and might be curious. I told him I had no papers.

He said “In that case, let's have a look at what's in the bags”. I had those questionable cards in my day pack, and a little grass in a pipe in one of the duffels. I chose the third bag, which contained mostly groceries, and started emptying it.

I'd gotten about halfway down into the bag when a Mexican guy in a truck came around the corner and took out a couple of the traffic cones that marked the beginning of the new bridge. The fed pointed at me sternly and told me not to go anywhere. Then he jumped into his ride and tore off after the pickup.

I shoved everything back in the bag as soon as he was out of sight and stuck out my thumb at the next passing van. It was a brown conversion van from the seventies or eighties and had a back window shaped like a star. God bless 'em they stopped for me. Noticing a girl in the passenger seat, I got in the side door and offered my thanks as I stowed my gear and closed the door. The trail to the rim and to Fossil Springs was nearly within reach.

As if reading my mind, the girl I had noticed asked me if I was going to the springs. When I answered in the affirmative, she produced a cardboard hitch-hiker's sign that read “The Springs”. I had lucked into a ride with people heading right were I was. I thought.

We blew right by my trail head from the 260 and turned onto a dirt road. The driver offered me a Guiness and the girl rolled a joint. I tried not to be nervous that we had passed my turn. The rain was annoying, but not hard. The dirt road they had turned on though, had become mud. We came to one wide bend where the road was a thick red clay and we slid toward the edge of a ravine and I might have yelled a little. Don, the driver, and Leslie, the passenger, thought this was hilarious. I was terrified. I had another beer.

After nearly thirty miles of this, we came to a cattle guard with a sign that said “Nudity Prohibited”, and they announced that we were home.

Just then a bearded homunculus and a naked hippie kid leaped in front of the van, barring our way. They told us there were rangers in camp and suggested we surrender any drugs or alcohol or extra cash. We told them we would take our chances and they walked along side as we eased our way down the precipitous hill to the camp.

Don parked, and I removed my gear and found a spot about thirty feet away to set up. It was pitch dark and I sat a lit zippo on the low branch of a mesquite tree for the little light it offered. The two would-be highwaymen came to my camp and warned me not to have sex with Leslie. I was really in no danger of sleeping with Leslie. The blond, naked guy told me she had raped his friend Goat (to which the homunculus nodded emphatically). It was then that I noticed another guy, older than myself, lurking in the shadows. “She gave me the fire dick” he said shyly. “Good to know” I responded, not knowing what else to say. 

I had no idea where I was. I crawled in my tent and slept like a fugitive that had been pinballing on the road for three days with no sleep.

Thanksgiving at the Lake 2004

Wednesday November 17, 2004: Apache Lake Resort boat ramp 6:36p.m.

Sunshine and Tyler dropped me here at about 3p.m. I took a short walk (approx. ½ mile) and set up camp right by the ramp. My plan is to scout the area for a couple of days and then load the canoe and move camp to a more secluded spot. For now, I'll enjoy a few of the amenities the resort has to offer, like showers and toilets. I have to be back here to meet Sunshine and family for Thanksgiving. I'll ferry them to my camp in the canoe.

I met some guys who’ve been here fishing for the last couple of days and haven’t caught anything. They tell me the bass don’t start hitting well here until December, but I’m looking for food not trophies and not just flipping spinner baits after bass, so I’m not too discouraged.

Preliminary scouting reveals that with a little effort firewood shouldn’t be a problem. There are many mesquite thickets and much deadfall. I dined this evening on the abundant windfall Jojoba nuts. Note to self: collect a couple pounds of these before the rodents beat me to it. I’ve also found hackberries to be in season, dry and tough, but sweet.

It’s been a beautiful, mostly clear day. The high was supposed to reach 80. I’m guessing 60-65 now with a slight breeze.

Thursday November 18, 2004, 10:45 pm

Spectacular meteor showers to the Northwest during the last two nights. I just saw a ringtail cat. I canoed about 6 miles today (round trip). I visited Saguaro Point, Fox Point, Haystack, Ash Creek, Horsetail Bay and 3 Bar Point. All to the west of my camp near Crabtree wash. I fished the entire time using rubber worms, minnows, diving plugs, spinners, salmon eggs, salty grubs, et,al. I threw everything I had at 'em to no avail. I didn’t even get a nibble.

When I returned, I hiked up to the resort and called my friend Frank in Payson and told him where I’m camped. He told me that my friend Pat, from Chevellon, will be following him down and they will be meeting me Monday. I guess I'll stay here by the marina until then so they can easily find me. I hope Dee and Mikey are coming also.

There were four grapefruits at the base of the tree behind my tent when I got here and I had one for breakfast. Lunch was Jojoba nuts. In the evening a young couple I met invited me to share their campfire and we had mesquite-roasted bratwurst for dinner. They also had Beck’s Dark beer and a doobie!

Friday November 19, 2004, 6:21 a.m.

I awoke today just before dawn to the hooting of an owl in a eucalyptus tree above me and chest pains on the right side of my body. (The owl is traditionally a portent of death or extreme change). Last time I had an owl in camp, Maya, my faithful companion of 13 years was dying. I pay attention to the owls, man. Upon rising I determined that my pain is of muscular origin, from rowing against the wind and current all day yesterday. The owl was simply a neighbor saying good-morning. I also saw a ringtail cat at about 1a.m. while out for a moonlight hike and resin toke. I’m going to give my aching ribs a break and stay out of the canoe today.

7:45p.m.

Well, I couldn’t stay off the lake. I rowed down to Needle Cove, again caught nothing. I’m starting to wonder if there’s even fish in this lake. I’ve seen huge bass skeletons on shore, but not only have I not had a nibble, I haven’t seen or heard of anybody catching anything. I haven’t even seen any minnows or crawdads. Frank can really fish. He’ll catch ‘em if anyone does. Brunch: Jojoba nuts and coffee. Dinner: the last of my grits.

Saturday November 20, 2004

11:34 am

I grabbed a piece of steak out of the dumpster at the resort last night and fished with it. I got 2 bites but didn’t catch anything. I’m going to row west and shoot me something today. Breakfast: grapefruit and coffee.

Now to digress a bit, which I’ll probably do a lot. I get overwhelmed sometimes with the awesomeness of what I’m doing. I feel like I’m the richest man in America. I mean wow! Just look at my front yard! Sure am hungry though, and the jojoba are starting to upset my stomach. They are very high in tannins.

7:30p.m.

I wore myself out rowing against the wind again . I talked to Dave today. He owns Apache Lake Resort and Marina. He says there hasn't been a fish caught for a while. Didn’t shoot any varmints as I found a tub of worms, but I still haven’t got anything. Horrible stink turtles are stripping my hook without even ringing the bell. I caught one, but it smelled so doggone bad, I couldn't fathom eating it. Dinner: 3 small pancakes and coffee. Ran out of flour. I have one grapefruit left. Not looking good for Apache Lake. The Forest Service fishing report said Apache had the best fishing of the three lakes, but they were obviously wrong.

I wish I'd stayed on the Verde again this Winter. I not only survive there, but thrive. No matter. It’s best I start out with the hard part anyway. Quite cloudy out tonight.

11:00p.m.

Took a late night hike and surprised a couple of fellas at the cove on the other side of the marina. When I turned the corner on them, they turned off their flashlights and hustled off in different directions. One was a guy I've seen pushing a broom at the resort. If they were getting high, I wish they hadn't been spooked. I'm almost out of resin and my pipes are pretty clean.

Sunday November 21, 2004, 11:30 a.m.

About 10p.m. last night I put my rain tarp up, and that was just in time. It’s been raining on and off all day. I just talked to Sunshine and she did an interview about me with News Zap or Newzap or something like that. We think it’s an online newspaper. She’s supposed to take a picture of me for them on Thursday when she comes.

The receptionist at the resort just told me they had a fishing tournament yesterday. I guess, out of 17 boats, only one caught a single fish. Game and Fish blames an algae bloom, (see westernbass.com). I gave up today and had lunch at the Apache Lake Resort. A double swiss burger with French fries and an apple pie ala mode.

Latest report had the dead fish at Apache the result of both the algae bloom and runoff from fires. I asked Sunshine to check Game and Fish to see of the other lakes in the chain (i.e. Roosevelt, Canyon, and Saguaro) have suffered similar fates. If so, she’s going to check with the Cave Creek ranger station and try to get me an extended pass for Bartlett Lake.

I just talked to a guy who works here and he told me they opened the turbines at Roosevelt and that let a bunch of fire retardant flow down and it killed all the lakes. Also, he said there was a type of algae that got in from India somehow. I’ve heard a lot of reports about these airplane contrails and seen a lot of them here. On a clear day with no wind, I’ve seen them settle down as a mist, creating a fog through the entire valley. My local sources tell me they’ve seen smallmouth bass with open sores.

Another theory is that the crawdad population was wiped out and being the major food source for the bass, they starved. Fishing reports in the Arizona Republic and on the internet say the fishing through here is good. I don’t know where they get their information. The locals know better. It would seem they are trying to hide something. I’ve noticed that people cover things up for 3 reasons: Legal, political, or commercial. It’s 7:00 and the rain continues. I hope it’s done by tomorrow when my friends arrive.

Monday November 22, 2004, 10:25a.m.

And then the wind changed direction.

Its coming from the west now and that end of my tent is bent to the ground.

My rain fly ripped and one of my poles snapped. I repaired it with a hose clamp. The radio says it’s snowing in L.A. and Vegas. Feels like the temperature just dropped 10 degrees. The radio says its 49 degrees in phoenix with rain on and off today and tonight. That means it's much colder here.

Frank showed up, but nobody else wanted to come out in this cold rain. He started a fire using wet ground score willow during a downpour and then told me he had dry firewood but wanted to see if he could do it. We smoked some of his grass and drank a few beers and climbed a spur of Crabtree Wash to watch the fire. Then we went to the bar and had a few beers then I had a Martini and very strong White Russian.. Bad move on the white Russian after no food all day. I was up heaving out the tent most of the night.

Tuesday November 23, 2004, 5:15 p.m.

I awoke at 8a.m. and hiked up to Frank’s camp, only to find that he cleared out early. I hope he and his dog are okay. It’s not like him just to disappear like that.

Apache Lake and Resort is owned by the Schuster family and boasts 3 separate motel structures, a marina, boat shop, boat rental dock, several boat ramps, camping, RV sites, restrooms, showers, restaurant, grocery, bar, tetherball courts, horseshoe pits, ping-pong tables, volleyball court, sheriff’s station, and heliport. The lake itself boasts largemouth, smallmouth, and yellow bass; as well as rainbow trout, crappie, sunfish, bluegill, channel, flathead, and bullhead catfish, walleye and carp. (See Sunday’s entry) The elevation here is 1,900 feet, and claims 17 miles of shoreline encompassing 2,568 surface acres of water. Although the lake is situated within Tonto National Forest and administered by the Forest Service, it is owned y the Air Force. The maximum water depth is 253 feet. More information is available by calling (602)467-2511 or (928)467-2511. The resort website is www.apachelake.com.

5:45p.m.

No rain today, although there has been a great deal of thunder. As I sit here in the lobby of the resort (batteries are dead in my flashlight, so I am taking advantage of the electricity). Several people have walked past complaining of the cold. A Phoenix radio station is calling for temperatures in the high 30’s overnight in “outlying areas”. Lunch today was a cheeseburger and fries. Dinner: coffee. I catfished with night crawlers from 1:00 to 4:00, but gave it up when I didn’t even get a nibble in three hours. Earlier I hiked out a ways and did some target practice with my 22-revolver. Tomorrow, Sunshine, Tyler, and Gavin will be here and they’re thinking of buying a flatbed bass boat that’s for sale down by my camp. It’s probably the ugliest boat I’ve ever seen, but it’s priced reasonably and comes with an outboard and trolling motors.

11:27p.m.

Since my batteries are wiped out in my radio, I went over to the tables by where I had seen the ring-tailed cat hoping for another glimpse of it. If I couldn’t fish, at least I might see some wildlife. That’s when I noticed the guys sneaking around, following me. It’s disquieting having people lurking about bushes, whispering in the dark. I don't know if they are security, or those dudes I surprised the other night. They eventually left. One guy, on foot with a dog, the other on a quad and I waited around maybe for another hour, but I think the dog spoiled any chances I may have had of seeing the ring-tail tonight. I wonder if those guys were nosing around Frank’s camp and that’s why he left early. I wonder if they think I’m casing the joint, always hanging around the lobby taking notes on my clipboard around closing time. I also tend to use the restroom up there, rather than the one near my camp. It’s cleaner and warm.

Wednesday, November 24, 2004, 4:45p.m.

Some guy who I've seen around here in a white pickup with a short wheel-base and no bed just backed up to the rocks by my camp and stared me down in his rearview mirror. I smiled and waved, and he pointed at me with a scowl. I guess I get the message. He’s walking purposefully toward my tent. I’m in my tent writing. I’m going to call Sunshine and see if she’s on her way as soon as he leaves.

5:15p.m.

I was unable to reach Sunshine on her phone. They must be on their way.

A little later

I hiked to the resort and back about a dozen times, hoping to see Sunshine driving in. They finally showed and I suggested we load my camp and move to Roosevelt Lake in hopes the fish are alive there. They brought a full thanksgiving dinner with all the fixin's for tomorrow. Yippee! I haven't had a Thanksgiving dinner for years.

Thursday November 25, 2004, Thanksgiving Day Roosevelt Lake. 2:00? (Tyler says 12:50) 

Walnut Canyon game enclosure is 1 mile west of Bachelor Cove camping area (our camp). It’s part of research being conducted on the 3 Bar Wildlife area by the Arizona Game and Fish department in cooperation with the U.S. Forest Service. Within the enclosure the department is studying the population dynamics, habitat requirements, and pathology of mule deer and javelina.

Tyler used his 4 wheel drive to “flex his man muscle” upon the dynamics, habitat requirements and pathology of the many mud puddles.

Roosevelt lake (named for Teddy, not Franklin), was once the largest man-made lake in the world. It covers more than 17,000 acres. The lake is formed by the junction of the Salt River and Tonto Creek. As I’ve mentioned our first camp here is called Bachelor’s Cove, and is a fee site. $4.00 for tent camping. Fortunately for me, many of the campgrounds require the fee for parking, not camping. So, when the Dvorak’s leave, I won’t have to pay.

Bachelor’s Cove reminds me of Bartlett Flats, lots of RV’s and boats, and you can launch right from your camp. Last night was pretty cold and dewy. I’d say it’s in the mid to high 70’s now. I’m in shorts and a t-shirt now. We drove to the Punkin Center for gas (13 miles north). Regular was $2.04 and Tyler called that reasonable. I guess I’ve been in the woods awhile because it doesn’t seem reasonable to me.

Local vegetation includes saguaro, barrel, pincushion, and prickly pear cacti, as well as Palo Verde. Some mesquite and salt cedar trees, Jojoba, desert broom, and cockleburs. Firewood is scarce, but we scored somebody’s old stash on a jeep trail. I’ve also seen grackles, ducks, doves, and egrets. Geese are plentiful.

Breakfast: blueberry pancakes and coffee with real maple syrup and butter. Lunch: chips and soda. Dinner: Smoked turkey, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, and mashed potatoes. I ate more today than I have all week. I may not need that extra belt hole after all. Wait! There’s pie! We drove up to Tonto cliff dwellings after dinner, but it’s gated and closes at 5p.m. (ruins close at 4p.m.). so, we went further east about ½ mile and did some more 4-wheeling. About 1 ½ miles up a wash we passed an old windmill and then got high-centered on a rock. All we had was a scissor jack, a tripod, and the kid’s compound bow I found when I met the White wolf years ago. I gave it to Tyler for Gavin when he's old enough.

The boulder was fortunately a sedimentary conglomerate. Had it been gneiss we’d have been in trouble, but despite its enormity it was light enough to dig and crumble a bit and muscle out with our legs. We’re back at the fire now. Tyler’s playing guitar and I’m thinking about that pie…coffee’s ready. Fishing report is better here. Folks are catching bass, smallmouth and cat. More importantly, the folks nearest us are using soft rubber bait not live bait, so that means I can catch’em.

We met some great folks who spend Thanksgiving here every year. I played guitar and sang for beers and had great fun. I ran out of songs I would normally think were appropriate for families, but the kids were asleep and they insisted I continue although I warned them all I had left were bluer or drug related tunes. I was a hit. They all sang along with the choruses of “The Ballad of Verde Hot Springs” and “Drinking after Midnight”.

Before I forget, I promised Frank I'd post this in case anybody is reading: “The Oxbow in Payson is the funnest place in town.”

Note: I believe The Oxbow is no longer open (2014)

"I Am Pan! Lord of the Forest"

The western edge of the outside hot spring is formed from the natural stone of the mountain. The rest of the tub is bordered by concrete slab poured generations ago and overlooking the Verde River. On the mountain side, there is an undercut beneath the stone going back about three feet.

I used to dive down into this hollow space and come up with Kaolin clay. Kaolin is a high quality ceramic clay that's used to make china and also in the cosmetic industry. I've been unable to find these deposits since the major floods of '04-'05.

Below the sand, gravel, silt, and rich black organic matter, the clay began. The first layer was gray from the humus that rested above it. The second layer had yellow streaks, and I used to make pipes from it in the coals of my fire. After several dives, digging with my hands, I would come to the third layer of pure, white, kaolin.

I used to sculpt the clay into little figures and sit them in the sun on the rocks above. I remember one day, meeting two hippie girls from Tennessee and we played with the clay, afterward smearing it all over each other before hiking back to camp. On hot days I would thin it with water and cover my nose to prevent sunburn.

One Friday in April, I went to the tubs early (as I liked to do on weekends). I had a new book I wanted to read while I soaked. Springer had stolen some magic mushroom chocolate from me and, by way of restitution, was providing me with beers and buds. I was well stocked when I reached the spring.

The sun was just coming up over Ike's Backbone when I got there. I had the place to myself. The morning proved to be too groovy for my book. Wildflowers were blooming yellow all along the mountains to the north and east. It was going to be another perfect day. I lit a joint and floated around on my back for a while, enjoying the sun.

I had a crew cut, and my head was sunburned and peeling. I applied my mixture of clay and water, but it kept flaking off so I put a LOT of clay on, covering my entire face and head. I made a long hooked nose and pointed ears and topped it all off with a large horn that shot up nearly a foot.

During this process, Rusty had come up from the trail to the south and Pat and Springer appeared from the direction of the ranch road a little later. Springer announced that he had prayed to God, asking that he send us thirty single women. Rusty aptly remarked that thirty might not be enough of a pool for Springer to find one that could tolerate him.

We spent the next hour or so drinking cheap beer, smoking cheap grass, and comparing notes on the summer camps we would soon be leaving for when the temperature rose. From the Spring, you can see traffic on portions of the road leading down to the Verde Valley. That morning, there was an endless line of trucks bouncing down the road. I was glad to have gotten there while it was still comfortably underpopulated. Looky-loos and weekend warriors were about to descend on our paradise.

The first to make the journey from camp to the springs were an unlikely coupl of city slickers from Chicago who called themselves Dan and Marge. They were easily in their late sixties. Dan didn't say much. He just sat on a concrete pillar and sipped from a flask. Marge was more gregarious. She stripped down to a one piece and joined us in the water. She was what we call a “Peter Gazer”. She couldn't stop staring at our Johnsons.

Finally, Rusty told her “Hey sis, my eyes are up here”. He also told her we were expecting a mule train with tobacco, ammo, and liquor. She believed him and pleaded with Dan to stay and see the mules. Later, back at camp, Dan went from camp to camp asking if anybody had any Viagra for sale. I told him that I could find grass and mushrooms, but knew noting of pharmaceuticals. He later scored some from a source I won't name and drove his mini van to a secluded spot.

They only stayed at the tubs for about an hour. Shortly after they left, Springer's prayers came true. Thirty single women came marching down the path. It was unbelievable. Remaining clothed, they lowered themselves into the outside tub with us, retired to the hotter, inside pool, or lounged around the patio. Seeing my clay mask, one of them asked if I was a Chupacabra. “No” replied as I got out to fetch another beer. “I am Pan! Lord of the Forest”!

One of the women gasped and three looked away with enough speed to cause whiplash. The gasper told the woman beside her they should warn the new people. Wanting to make her more comfortable, I offered her a beer. That's when I found out they were a lesbian Alcoholics Anonymous group.

I told Springer the next time he prayed for women he should be more specific and maybe not so greedy.

You Never Know What You Might Find at the Verde Hot Springs

I'd spent a couple of winters at the Verde, and thought I'd seen it all. I know now what an understatement that can be.

Spring was coming. I remember that because more people were showing up on the weekends and it was still a little cool in the mornings. Janine was there sleeping in a hammock. There were a couple of schoolteachers, fellas from Colorado, camping near her. Other than that, there was only one other truck in camp. It was unoccupied and parked in the Hackberries.

I woke at 6 O'clock on that Friday morning and decided to hike up and have a nice soak before the crowds rolled in. I packed my canister stove, coffee, water, and a worn copy of “The Monkey Wrench Gang” a hippie girl had laid on me. The river was a little high, so I took the old ranch road to the One Crossing. I approached the springs carefully, having heard a single gunshot when I was passing the old corral.

When I arrived, I found the tarp from the roof of the inside tub had been removed and hung across the doorway. I assumed a couple was in there and wanted some privacy, so I left my pack on the steps and lowered myself into the cooler outside pool.

After about an hour, I was eager to leave the breeze and 98 degree water for the warmer spring. After two hours, I began to get annoyed. There hadn't been a sound coming from the stone building just feet from where I sat. That was unusual. The water in there is pretty warm, and people usually have to at least stand up now and then to cool off. If somebody was camping in there, it was time for them to get up. Nobody has the right to monopolize the building like that. The other option that crossed my mind was suicide; that single gunshot I heard.

I had enough. I climbed out, naked and shivering, I stood at the door listening through the tarp. Nothing. “Hello”, I called. No answer. I carefully pulled back the tarp and nothing could have prepared me for what I found.

Next to the wood stove was a pile of dirty laundry about three feet high. Who in the world could have carried so much up the trail from camp. It wasn't there the night before. Odd as that was, it was nothing compared to what else I saw.

The inside tub is roughly six by eight feet. A shallow rectangle of hot water with a few steps leading down. The entire thing was covered in carefully placed sheets of glossy magazine pages. Closer inspection revealed it to be lesbian porn. In the middle was a large beach ball. Next to the steps was an empty wine bottle on it's side, a large purple rubber dildo, and a set of false teeth.

Who in the world would leave their teeth? Nobody. That’s who.

There's a cave on the other side of the outside pool, and the smart money said that whatever wackadoo owned this collection was probably in there, possibly armed, and likely didn't want to be found. I gathered my pack and my clothes and dressed on my way down the trail to the river.

About halfway back to camp I passed the schoolteachers, who shared some tasty blond hash. They asked how my soak was and I cautioned them about the gunshot, false teeth, dildo, beachball, and thirty pounds of laundry. They laughed and said they'd keep an eye open.

Later that afternoon, I was visiting with Janine and they came over. They said they thought I was just kidding. They were surprised to find everything exactly the way I described, with the addition of a little old man who appeared, packed everything up, and split.

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 Flood of '04 (Part I)

Sunshine and family brought me from Roosevelt and we camped on the flat sandy strip to the southeast of the cliff. We chose that spot for maximum sunlight. Back then, you couldn't get a car to my hidy hole. They left the day before Christmas.

I stuck around that site for a few days before moving back to my favorite spot. On the twenty eighth, a steady mist began falling while I trekked back and forth setting up a more permanent camp further out of sight. I set up two tents. I was staying in the new Coleman tub-bottom tent Sunshine gave me for Christmas. I used my old Walmart tent as a supply depot and kept my non perishables and fishing gear in there. The canoe was beached behind it. Due to the weather and the holidays, there weren't many people around except for day trippers.

Mr. Hole was set up in the middle of the campground about 30 feet above the river. He'd been straining and cooking prickly pear fruit for days and had a couple of five gallon buckets ready for making his famous pies. I gave him a Mensa Puzzle a Day Calendar Book for Christmas. I told him this way I could mess with his mind 365 days a year. He gave me a sack of buds. Woo Hoo!

On the way to the hot springs the twenty ninth, I walked past Mr. Hole's truck and chatted a minute. He showed me a wooden golf club he had carved and was gluing the head on the handle. He asked if I thought the river was going to break the banks. “Nah”, I told him. “Maybe in a few more days. The last time it flooded over the lower sites, it took three days of solid rain for the water to roll down from Chino Valley to the north”. I didn't realize it had been raining harder and longer in Chino.

The river was up and running swiftly at the one-crossing, so I traversed at the Dugas road high water fjord to the north. Once across, I backtracked toward the springs and found FBI Al's Toyota on the trail where I'd never seen a vehicle before. Al was at the springs, and welcomed me back for the winter. He had a half gallon of Kentucky bourbon that we sipped as we caught up on each other's recent adventures.

I had some of those buds Mr' Hole gave me back at my camp, and we returned to partake. Al, the hardcore maniac, was all for swimming the river at the springs to cross. I refused, citing the strength of the second crossing, and we returned the safer way I came.

My firewood was tarped, and I had no trouble starting a fire in spite of the light mist. At dusk, Al left me with the little remaining whiskey and returned to his truck. I walked with him as far as the mulberries, and noticed Mr. Hole had his truck jacked up and was crawling beneath it. I remember stepping on damp sand and puddles appearing around my feet. When I would raise my foot, the puddles would soak back in the saturated ground. 

Dave crawled out from under the Chevy and pointed out the old cans and other garbage that was suddenly littering all the roadways. He said he had spent the evening with his new golf club knocking litter out of the high weeds throughout camp. "Tomorrow" he said, "in the daylight, we can bag it all up." We had our work cut out for us. 

Back at camp, I stoked my still burning coals and fixed some dinner. Having recently arrived, I was well stocked. I fixed mashed potatos and gravy and opened a can of green beans. For dessert I had a Little Debbie pecan pie. 

In order to save firewood, I opted to spend the evening reading in my tent. I carried my lantern inside, removed my boots, and crawled into my bedroll with my headphones in and soon was immersed in the story of the Krupps Steel family. I picked up the massive biography because I thought it would be boring and it would last a while. It turned out to be fascinating. I was surprised to read about Haile Selassie attending parties along with Adolph Hitler in pre-war Germany.

I had a whole pickle bucket full of what I considered “Bad Fiction” that I bought at five cents per novel in a discount bin in Camp Verde. When I had “Good Fiction” I was at risk of just sitting in camp and burning through it at a novel a day.I ended up developing a taste for dry biographies and pulp novels.

Over the sound of the am radio, I kept hearing the snap and crash of large branches. I assumed it was deadwood succumbing to the weight of accumulated moisture, a circumstance I had witnessed many times during my years in the forests. I made a mental note to collect the deadfalls in the morning. From the sounds of it, there would be plenty of mesquite for cooking. The new Coleman tent was leaking like a siv. The tub bottom, rather than keeping me dry, was collecting the rain from the leaky seams. I made sure everything was off the floor and stacked on milk crates.

At about midnight, I marked my place in the book, removed my headphones, and was preparing for sleep when I heard Mr. Hole faintly and frantically yelling my name. Worried that his truck had fallen from the jack in the soft sand and trapping him, I hurriedly put on my boots and stepped out of the tent into about eight inches of rushing water!

The river, normally about eight feet below the rise that held my tents, had risen in about an hour and cut off the only trail to safety. I stood there for a minute, like an idiot, looking back and forth between my two tents in what seemed like a stage pantomime. The upside down canoe that was rocking in the current and about to wash away. Trees four feet around were roiling downstream and taking out everything in their path. I realized the sounds I had been hearing were massive logs crashing into the trees along the shore and uprooting them. I also realized I was in trouble and didn't have time to think about my next move.

The trail to the campground was no longer an option, neither was swimming against the current. For a minute, I thought of getting in the canoe and trying to make my getaway by water, but the huge amount of debris and the destruction it was causing changed my mind. 

The steep slope of the mountain and cliff faces were my only hope. I couldn't decide what to grab, and feared that any minute there would be a mudslide or rockslide to bury me or cut off my escape. I tied my canoe to a tree and set off up the slippery slope. I envisioned myself either washing out into the raging river, or becoming stranded on the side of the mountain hoping for a helicopter rescue.

I tied the canoe to a tree and began picking my way up the slippery mountainside.

I imagined Al, whiskey drunk and washed out from his spot on the bank up by the Dugas road. Mr. Hole had quit yelling, and I figured he was lost as well. Judging from the river, his truck as well as Alan's were probably completely submerged.

It was very dark, from the cloud cover, and I had to feel my way along the cliff faces back toward the road in. It seemed like hours that I was clinging to those cliffs, constantly fearing an avalanche, but it was probably only about thirty minutes. The wash that runs alongside the road at the entrance to the campground was rushing and several feet deep. I had to travel further up towards Ike's ridge to leap across the ravine and backtrack to the gates of Childs.

I looked down, fearing to see Mr. Hole's truck as it disappeared beneath the deluge and saw nothing. Slowly and cautiously, I made my way down the road towards the shitter and there was the old Chevy, parked at the water line, which had almost reached the shitter door.

There was a light shining out the open back door. And I walked around the truck to the back. Inside, Mr. Hole was on the Ham radio, keying the mike. “Mayday, Mayday, Camper down!” he exclaimed. “Mayday, Mayday, we have a camper washed away in the flood at Childs! We need rescue!”.

“Who's missing Dave? Did you see Al's truck wash by? Was somebody else here?”

“You! You're missing, How'd you get out of there? I tried to come warn you when the water came up, but the trail was washed out and too strong to wade through.”

“I edged along the cliff” I replied, My site down there is the highest point in camp. What about Al? He was camped at the edge of the river just this side of Dugas. We'd had a lot of whiskey and he was going to bed.”

“Lets go!” Mr. Hole said. “We've gotta get out of here while we can. There's nothing we can do for Alan tonight.”

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.

Journal Day 6 (Getting Less Lost, Vaseline Popcorn, and Maya)

My hike to the lake today left me feeling like an idiot. As usual I put Maya on the lead so she wouldn't wander after me and headed up the hill for my shortcut. Again, there were no new bear track. I descended the hill and followed the fire road to FR147, and FR147 to the lake.

On the way back, I wound around the forest road until I got to the culvert with the Mountain Dew and Bud Light litter. On this occasion, the area looked more familiar than it ought to.

Curious, and no longer worried bears were going to molest Miss Maya, I decide to explore a little bit. I turned and headed up the primitive road. It led to my camp. I have been doing a big circle around the forest on FR147 before following it to the lake. On the way home, I've been blowing right past the turn to my camp to travel around and come up the back way. I'll need to look on a map to figure out exactly how this works.

I've always prided myself on my sense of direction in the wild, this is humbling and a bit embarrassing.

I should be able to knock nearly an hour off the trip from now on.

5:00pm

Maya and I agree, Zataran's Dirty Rice Mix is excellent camp food, even without the meat. Shoulda known Louis Armstrong wouldn't steer us wrong. Saw a lot of Grasshoppers today. Maybe tomorrow we'll roast some up.

7:00pm

Elk due east fifty yards.

Speaking of food and all, lets say you find yourself in the woods with five pounds of popcorn and no oil. A little dab of Vaseline from the first aid kit will do just fine. You don't even taste it. I assume it's safe enough, I saw my sister give a spoonful of the slippery stuff to my niece once for constipation.

9:00pm

Maya has been more active tonight. Her pads are looking much better. We went for several walks tonight through the thick pine needles and she seemed unfazed when we hit gravel. Tonight, with the last rays of sun, she headed toward the warmth of the tarps as she usually does. Halfway there she stopped and gave me a look to see if I was following, like I was crazy to be out in the cold. It occurred to me that she might not understand fire means warmth. I called her back and fixed her blanket by the hearth. She dug it, and later, wasn't so eager to go to the tarps.

I worry so much about her. I know our time together is growing short. About five weeks ago, I returned home to find a growth the size of a tomato protruding from her girlie parts. She didn't seem bothered by it as much as I was. Not knowing what else to do, I wrapped my hand in Saran Wrap and gently pushed it back in. The next day we saw a vet. It's cancer. I wish I had known, but if female dogs aren't fixed, the vet told me, they almost always end up with reproductive cancer. They said it's not a good idea to try and operate because of her age. 

So far, the tomato has not made another appearance. I'm hoping for the best.

Maya came to me in the desert when she was only 5 weeks old. A nearby rancher had lost her. He said her mother was a Labrador and her father was a Coyote who had an ongoing, seasonal relationship with the lab. He said this wasn't the first litter they produced. Maya was the runt, and the others kept tossing her out of the box. He said I should keep her, otherwise he feared she would be harmed by her litter mates. 

I didn't want a dog. Being a fugitive isn't a stable profession, but I couldn't resist.

She was raised on the desert and mountain trails in and around Tucson. We'd been in the city for years. Its good to be back out where we were both happiest. When she is gone, I don't know what I'll do. All these years, I've had to take care of myself and remain free so I could take care of her.

The Redemption of Shattsworth

A year to the day from the time the mysterious van pulled in and parked, I found myself back at Bear Canyon. This time I was camped to the west of Forest Road 89, tucked way back in a little used part of the forest at the end of a fire road. This made for a longer hike to the lake, but also hid me from the prying eyes of the Feds.

This year, I had no forest closures to blame for staying in one region beyond the fourteen day limit. I had to avoid the scrutiny of not only the Law Enforcement Officers (LEO's) but of the Rangers, Toilet Rangers, Game and Fish Wardens, and Wildlife Rangers.

I maintained contact with the Fire Rangers, known as Hot Shots, because they didn't care how long I stayed in the forest. They said they saw a difference between recreating and residing in the forest and even though I overstayed the regulations, I was obviously recreating and that was cool with them. I fished and explored and always had adventures to share with them. They often told me they wished they could do what I was doing. They had become friends and often provided me with useful information on the state of the forests, fire bans, and forest fires. I met these guys the previous year. They were all in their twenties and expressed appreciation for my continued journeys.

So I was cutting through the main camp area toward my hiding spot with a stringer of fish when I saw a maroon Dodge van pull up behind the shitter. The driver got out, opened the hood, and checked the radiator. This couldn't be Shattsworth, could it? I thought maybe it was just the color of the van and the location he pulled into that reminded me of him. I circled along the ridge and came up from the other side for a better look. It was him. I stole out from the cover of the trees and silently moved up behind him without being noticed.

From about a foot away, I said “Don't tell me you have a hole in your Radiator!” loud enough to startle him. He turned and smiled and said he was hoping to find me here. He suggested we go to my camp and talk. Having learned my lesson from previous experiences, I told him I was camped a few miles away, in a spot where he probably couldn't get his van. There were some fallen logs nearby where the Forest Service had recently downed some trees that were victim to the Bark Beetles. We could sit and talk there. I hung my fish in a tree and he brought out his bong.

As we smoked, his story unfolded.

Shattsworth had a girlfriend once, and a house and a job. He lost them all. The girlfriend got hooked on Meth and hooked up with a friend of his. His birthday was approaching and he got an idea from watching a movie. That movie was “The Life of David Gale”. He was always talking about Kevin Spacey movies. The David Gale film, and “American Beauty”. I had not seen either. Apparently, in the movie, Somebody kills themselves by taping a bag over their head and handcuffing themselves behind their back after swallowing the handcuff key.

He said he came to the woods to do this, once his supplies ran out, but then he met me. He said he wanted to thank me and invited me to stay with him, should I find myself in Phoenix. He gave me his extension number at work and said he had a present for me in the van. I felt bad for having judged him so harshly. Still, I found it hard not to do so.

His bong had a huge bowl, and after he would load it and each of us would take a hit, he would dump the rest out. The first three times he did this, I kept quiet. It was killing me to see such waste. It was just regular Mexican, but still. I jonesed on the rim. Grass is hard to come by up in Mormon Country. It's not like the river, where pot is plentiful.

Finally I said something to him. It was along the lines of “What the hell are you doing, grinding good buds in the dirt?” He replied that he had plenty, and only wanted the green hits. I was flabbergasted. I had never seen such behavior. I told him so in vivid and voluminous detail. I entreated with him to at least dump the bowls on a plate or a rock as I could smoke a week or more on what he had wasted. He said nah, if he was going to smoke green hits, he wasn't going to make me smoke the remainder. “Remember” he stated, “I told you I was sorry I didn't share with you before, and promised to take care of you if I ever saw you again”.

I thanked him as humbly as I could, but damn! He didn't have to throw Marijuana away right in front of me! He demanded that we change the subject, which is quite assertive for that guy, and asked me if I liked creamer in my coffee. “Sure” I said, “but I'm out of coffee right now”. He went to his van and returned with a number 10 can of Creamora and asked if I wanted it. Sure, I said. I was thinking I might use it like I did powdered milk and add water and sugar and pour it over greens. “If you don't want it”, he teased, “you don't have to take it”.

“I want it.” I replied, “Thank you”. He tossed it to me and I pulled back the lid to check the seal and left it at that. I wasn't about to accept food from Shattsworth that wasn't sealed for my safety. I thanked him again and sat it down on my right side. With a sly look, he asked “Aren't you going to open it?” “Why?” I queried in return, “Is this a joke? Are snakes going to jump out when I open it?” “It's no joke”, he said, “Maybe you should give it back if you don't like it.” “I like it! I thanked you twice.”

He appeared not to be convinced and said I'd better just give it back. He said he was sorry he didn't have anything better for me. I handed it back to him, wondering what kind of sick Shattsworth game he was playing. First he was throwing away grass that he KNEW I was dying for, now he was making a weird issue of my not opening the Cremora.

He stood there examining the canister, removed the plastic lid and showed me the unbroken foil seal. He put the lid back on and turned the can over and over in his hands, muttering things like “mmm, let me see...how does this work”. Finally he unscrewed the bottom a quarter turn and tossed it back to me. As he did so he said “I'll need the empty can back.”

I opened it and inside was a quarter pound of the Mexican buds we'd been smoking. That magnificent twisted bastard! “Did you really think I'd drive all the way up here to bring you four pounds of creamer? How weird do you think I am?” “Pretty weird, Jeff, but wow! Man, thanks!”

We chatted a while about my adventures since he had last seen me. He told me he still carried the Bear shit (dog crap) he found in his camp. I asked if the ranger had arrested him or threw him out and he said “No, I left because you said I poisoned you. I didn't know what you might do.” I still think he poisoned me, just to see what would happen. I'd love to get my hands on his juvenile records.

We didn't discuss the poisoning much further than for me to express my conclusion that he fed me something that made me sick. In the end, We thanked each other, and before he headed back to the city, he extracted my promise that if I needed to come to town for any reason, I'd look him up.

God help me, a year later I did just that.

Journal Days 4-5

Day 4

I just noticed I've been writing in this book upside down from the back so I turned it over and started at the other end.

I got up and the sun was high again today. I don't know if its the altitude or the cold, but I've sure been doing some sleeping. I breakfasted on canned green beans, mashed potatoes, and Knorr's Mushroom Hunter gravy. I have a big canister of the gravy mix and it has chunks of dried mushrooms.  Its very good and the 'shrooms rehydrate nicely. I'll have to remember that. I found it in the trunk of my old Oldsmobile. I've never seen it in the stores. I hope they still make it.

Maya and I walked down the track we're camped on to Forest Road 147. It was only a few hundred yards. Maybe a quarter mile give or take. Her feet are improving, yet tender. We stuck to the trees and walked on the thick, soft, pine needles. She wanted to go farther, but I noticed her react if she stepped on rocks so we'll have to wait a bit before we do any real hiking.

We returned to camp and I polished off a can of yams before napping from three to six. I wonder how long before I get used to this thin air. It doesn't seem to affect Maya, but she doesn't smoke like I do. We're above 7,000 feet up here. I had to turn my lighters up to get them to work properly.

Dinner was soups. Cream of Mushroom and Cream of Celery. Smoked my last cigarette and picked some Mullein. Mullein makes a decent tobacco substitute in a pinch. The herb books say that smoking it is actually good for the lungs. The trick to smoking Mullein is to remove the veins in the leaves. That makes it taste much better. I'm carrying a few dozen packs of rolling papers.

Just before the sun went down, we were serenaded by three different Ladderback woodpeckers. I hope they are eating Bark Beetles. With the drought, the beetles have wiped out a lot of the trees. At night, I can hear the click click click as the beetles munch away. During the day you can see patches of rust throughout the forest where the trees have died. We hit the sack at nine and within a half hour there was an elk barking within feet of our tarp. It's another cold night. My breath has been visible since dusk.

Day 5

Again the sun was high when we crawled out of the tarp. I hiked up the ridge to the northwest with Maya. We were scouting the area for a place to retreat for the upcoming weekend where we might be seen by less people, and not visible from the road. I guessed I could wait another day to fetch more water. Maya was looking and walking well, but I didn't want to walk her down the rough gravel roads to the lake. I cooked spaghetti at about four o'clock.

At about seven, I followed last night's fresh elk track up the ridge behind us and found the fresh elk himself. He was a young fellow, and had four points still in velvet. Maya was riveted, and the creature allowed us to watch it for a bit before crashing away through the brush. That was her first sighting and she learned the word elk that night.

We climbed down and had a dinner of macaroni and mozzarella with tomato sauce. Afterward, I reconfigured the tarps to be tighter and warmer. By time I finished, the first three stars of the night were out and we heard coyotes in the distance. An hour later, as I was pulling the last pot of coffee of the night off the fire, we heard an elk bugling. This wasn't the same sound as the warning barks we had been hearing. It was similar to the sound a pool hose makes if you swing it over your head.