This section relates a variety of reminiscences that I believe lessons can be learned from. In reading this stuff, keep the idea at the forefront of your thoughts that they are intended more as a mental exercise than entertainment. Endeavor to learn, and reach your own conclusions.
If you have not read "The Thompson Family Search", in the chapter on Search, read it first, then come back to this page.
The backlash of The Thompson Family search began even before it was over. How the need to rescue me came about is still unclear. The parties involved remember it differently at different times. Finger pointing continues to this day. Near as I can tell, all this confusion is being carefully maintained both to amuse and protect the guilty.
When last we left the search, all had been found, and there was peace in the mountains. Bob Birkett, the Thompsons, and the good people of Team 3 had settled down to a hearty meal, and a pleasant nights sleep.
The signal fire I started was done in the Old Boy Scout Tradition. Close to the rock the hikers had yelled from was a large expanse of dish shaped rock. Into this me and the hikers dragged a notable quantity of dead and downed wood. To get the signal fire going quickly, I swore the hikers to secrecy, and employed a method revealed to me by a paroled arsonist. The WHOMP!! of the ignition was heard for miles, and the flash triggered satellite sensors designed to detect the launch of nuclear missiles. To this day, President Ray-Gun still refuses my phone calls.
I was tired, and the hikers were tired. But we all felt pretty good for what we had done. So as Bob bushwhacked his way to the victims, the hikers and me settled down to a good meal and a brilliant display of twinkling stars and meteors. We talked of wilderness, and mountains we had known.
Towards 22:00, Bob and Team 3 had reached the Thompsons. The hikers had retired to their own camp a ways off from my position. The last thing I heard through the scanner was Basecamp asking Bob what my plans were. Bob answered that my feet were sore, but I was O.K., well equipped, and would hike out in the morning. This was entirely accurate, and was accepted by Basecamp. It was a temperate night, so I eased into my sleeping bag to enjoy a nights sleep under the stars. This was not to be.
I was nearly unconscious when the scanner began to cackle. My mind was foggy with sleep and the contentment that accompanies the happiest of wilderness experiences. The words were clear enough, but were slow to find their way through my half slumber. Eventually I awoke fully and was stunned to hear that someone was coming to get me. This was a truly revolting concept. Friendly folk are welcome always in my camp, but the radio seemed to be saying that I was to be escorted out of the mountains! The last thing I wanted to do was crawl out of my comfy sleeping bag and trudge off through the dark. Besides, my "Signal Fire" was not about to pay any heed to the puny amounts of water carried in Search & Rescue backpacks.
The scanner was pretty staticy, so I got my shoes on and got back up on the rock for better radio. I learned that Loma Griffith and Dave Waine were starting in from Marshall Gulch. It was not to late to stop them.
While I had the time, I just did not have the volume. The intense shouting I had done earlier had left me with no more than a puny and painful squeak in place of the especially loud shout that I am normally fortunate enough to possess. The only thing I had to communicate real information with was my big mouth and lung power. I tried, but got only hoarse and insignificant volume. I almost blew my Acme Thunderer Whistle. But I realized all I would likely do was scare the pants off Team 3 and bring even more rescuers to my aid.
Dave and Loma did not know with any precision where I was, and went by me at first. But with a few whistle toots to guide off of they found my camp, which was well hidden from the trail. The fire, the camp, and the intense star show were all it took to illustrate the value of spending the night where we were. They had come in with light packs, expecting to take my load from me. No sleeping gear. So we dug into my pack and came up with enough extra warm stuff to make them comfortable through the night. We enjoyed hot chocolate and hot cider from my pantry, and cooked a couple of freeze dried dinners to fill any remaining voids. We enjoyed some good conversation, until finally dozing off in the wee hours of the morning.
All were out of the field by 10:00 or so. I never did get to meet the Thompsons, as they got out before I did. But stories of the little girls and their dad abound, and their delight at being found brightens this already happy memory.
A definitive answer as to why two rescuers were sent in after me despite Bob's insistence that I was fine remains elusive. Several possibilities seem reasonable to me. SARA's attitude towards trainees has often been described as the "Mother Hen Doctrine". Neither trainees nor full members are to be left alone in the field. If you are forced to have volunteers operating singularly in the wild and woolly you at least equip them with two-way radios. This is followed by dispatching additional people at the earliest opportunity. Perhaps it was this simple and reasonable concern that served as the catalyst by which my situation became so distorted. Another possibility is that no volunteer likes to be left out. Loma has given some indication to me of facts that suggest she and Dave were just anxious to get in on the action. The victims were not located conveniently for this. "But look, there's a trainee out on his own! We gotta go help him!"
This reminds us that one hindrance to good communications is our desire to make the facts fit what we want to do with our time. This echoes the school of thought that proudly and properly proclaims: "Of course the victim needs our help! We want to go hiking!"
Whatever the truth may be, I deeply appreciated the concern of Dave and Loma. For even though I needed no assistance, they cared enough to send the very best; Themselves.
We all get rated, whether we know it or not, by how deep into the wilderness we can travel. The idea here is to address what I see as a great gulf between the "deep woods people" and the "two miles in and then out" volunteers. I'm not degrading the value of the latter bunch, they do the bulk of the work in this business. But they don't get to have the most fun! Since getting there is half the fun, and almost all of the problem, here are some hints at becoming just a wee little bit better at the travel business.
Finding and following abandoned mountain trails is far more art than science. To my thinking it epitomizes the highest evolution in land navigation. I have been an Orienteer, and appreciate the skill and dedication that sport requires. But the art of Land Navigation is only just beginning with such tools as compasses and altimeters. Don't get me wrong, I own and use both compass and altimeter for precise locating of helispots and rescue sites. But most of my wilderness travel is done by developing an intimate sense of the land. For this a map is essential, and a good one at that.
A 7.5 minute topographic map is vital to land navigation because it presents you with the same data that your eyes will give you when you get where you're going. It is a two dimensional representation of a three dimensional world. Once you have learned to orient a map with a compass, you begin learning to orient a map with the reality before you. The shapes upon the map exist before your eyes as the hills and mountains and canyons you've been trudging through. The funny little squiggle on the map is that tight spot you passed through in the last canyon.
Look at the map and see the shapes of the land. See the flow of water and the action of geologic forces. Human routes of travel follow natural lines of least resistance. Noticed any trails going straight up any cliffs lately? Probably not. There is a flow and a linearity of movement to trails that is indicative of human action. Humans move with purpose, and therefore with intelligence (well, mebbe' not all humans!). In this sense the trails on your map are the same ones long forgotten by map makers.
When you are looking at a cross country route where a trail is known to have been there are subtle indications that the patient and experienced eye can discern. If the trail is not too far gone the path of least resistance through the brush will have a peculiar linearity to it. This least resistive path will flow in lines alongside creek bottoms rather than in them. Or it will hug a ridge line as long as it can, and use switch backs to descend steep slopes at an angle to be appreciated by human feet.
A more lost and aged trail will endeavor to do as the last paragraph says. But it will meet with the indignity of plants growing where they will, and to densities that revoke all sense of discretion. Here you seek a somewhat subtler hint of what once was. Seek the tops of the brush. The trail likely ran through a low wavy line defined by the meeting of two sides of high growth. You may not be able to walk through it with any thing less than a chainsaw, but you've found the puppy just the same.
So far I've been talking about trail indicators that result from natures actions to fill the void left by human passage. But people do more than just clearing the brush from where they care to walk. They dig out a treadway to walk on. This is important, for much of a treadway will outlive the cleared lines when brush reclaims the trail. Before the Brush Corral Trail was reclaimed from the Manzanita Monster I tried to follow it with some degree of precision. In several places I could find no evidence of the trail save for getting down on my hands and knees to search for it. And there, hidden from the eyes of lesser travelers, was an obviously constructed treadway running straight and true beneath the thicket.
Tread does eventually disappear to rain and wind. The tread may run in short sections, or be only wide enough for one boot. At this stage it may be difficult to separate human from animal trails. When confronted by this it's important to consider the difference between human and animal movements. People travel to get somewhere fairly distant. Deer and such travel between safe places to sleep and sources of food and water. People trails tend to be long and bypass lesser water sources in favor of larger or more conveniently spaced ones. Animal trails tend to be short, moving from protected pockets of trees on the lee side of ridges down to small water holes and sources of food.
Humans also leave signs behind. No, not the great big wood and metal wonders found today. Rather they do things to the land that animals can't do. I refer to cairns and blazes. A cairn is a pile of rocks that says a trail was once there. Many conventions and attitudes exist towards cairns, so I'll not try to explain them all. The typical cairn is made of three rocks stacked along the trail edge. Frequently the small rock on top falls off, and is lying next to the other two. Also, the cairn is usually aligned to the direction of the trail. But the passage of man and beast alike may move cairns, so this is not always a good indicator of trail direction.
Blazes are cuts through a trees bark all the way down to the wood. They are no longer inflicted upon trees. This means that except for recognizing the actions of lesser forms of humans, you will need to recognize old blazes. Look for wounds that have healed over. The bark will appear as if it has reflowed over a wound, which is actually what it does. Peering closer you should see old hatch marks deep in the wound where the bark has not yet managed to close it. Blazes are usually done in pairs. One large and a smaller one above or below it. When a tree grows sufficiently to completely heal blazes all you will see are two vertical areas of ripple in the bark. Even with complete healing, the hatch marks may still be found beneath the bark. I've found this in downed trees felled by storm or fire. Indeed, I've found the remains of hatch marks on old stumps that were all but destroyed by fire. It may be the blazes on trees that are the longest lasting indicators of a trails presence.
Another thing to look for is the stonework sometimes done to hold a tread in place. This is rarely very sophisticated, usually just a linear pile of rocks cleared from the trail and placed to hold back dirt. Often such things are found where switchbacks had been. I have found such stonework reinforcing switchbacks on both the Little Window and Brush Corral trails. But even this stonework will eventually be disassembled by the action of time and running water.
To get back to maps for a bit, I hate to say it but damn few people ever truly learn to read a map. Most can use one to a certain level of navigational sustenance. But most never see the fine detail a topo map provides. Seeing these details separates the Truly Skilled from the Merely Abled. You need not be a member of the Merely Abled set. Nothing is stopping you from learning to navigate with precision by the use of Map & Brain other than your dependence on a compass. Consider this; when Map & Compass is being taught there is almost always the admonition that to read a map well you must sit down with a properly aligned map and proceed to identify surrounding peaks. Most people stop when they get the map aligned to north and south.
These are the Merely Abled folks. The Truly Skilled folks follow up by first identifying the peaks and other features. Then they take it a step further. They do it again! The more of this you do the less you will find need for a compass. With enough practice and a wee bit of perseverance you will someday be astounded that all you need to locate yourself is a good map and a good look at the surrounding terrain. Spend ten minutes aligning map and shooting bearings to plot? Ridiculous! The finest of Land Navigators require only a map and their own two eyes to nail down their location in less than a minute.
Take a hike! And while you're at it, look ahead to where you are going. Study the terrain on the map and come to know its general lay and features. No need for minute detail just yet, simply look at the map and figure what you will see over the next couple of miles. When you get good at that, try saying how many minor little drainages you will cross between here and there. Or try saying that over the next mile the trail will climb thirty feet, then drop twenty about halfway along and remain level for the rest.
Next try thinking not so much in precise terms of degrees and minutes of angle, but rather in terms of where the trail goes and how it gets there. There are north-south trails in the Catalinas that spend notable miles going east-west. I think more in terms of northerly, southeasterly; or for the yuppie crowd how about westish? Remember, these are not the precise directions of a compass. But they are the directions that people travel in, and they are the directions by which nature lays out the maze upon which we all so merrily dance.
A last note of caution. The above applies to mountainous terrain. Forested flatlands are altogether a whole nother critter.
This tale, every word the absolute truth, is offered for two reasons. First is that it has a thing or two to say about the fun to be had from Land Navigation. The second is that I enjoyed writing it down almost, but not quite, as much as I enjoyed doing it.
I enjoy following trails that others claim not to exist. Old trails offer a certain sense of history and adventure. Dense underbrush and decades of non-use seek to hide all evidence of an old trails presence. People who can see these trails are among those whom I most admire for their wilderness skill and spirit. My fondest wilderness memories extend from these most challenging of navigation exercises. Finding and following an old and abandoned trail is tough work, but most satisfying when you do it well. This tale relates a trail finding trip which I would not care to refer to as one of my best efforts. Whoops! comes to mind as a descriptive term appropriate to the events of the first day. Keep in mind that the goal is not simply to navigate between two points. Rather it is the trail that is the goal. As such it is a continuous goal that is achieved moment by moment, and lost just as suddenly.
In the Catalina Mountains are a great many old trails that have long been retired from maps and the general awareness of the hiking public. I have had the good fortune to follow a number of them. In this case, the trail has recently been restored to its prior glory. I wanted to follow the Knagge Trail before its restoration could be completed. In the late spring of 1989 I set out alone from Incinerator Ridge along the short portion of the Knagge that was still followable. My plan was to connect the Knagge with Brush Corral Trail using Davis Canyon and a reported route over Evans Mountain (a trail has since been constructed connecting these points). Loma Griffith would meet me at San Pedro Vista in the evening of the second day to provide a ride back to Incinerator Ridge.
The upper section of the Knagge begins by taking you steeply down into heavy forests with much old growth. As the old growth is left behind the trail comes out to a small overlook on a rocky ridge with views of the San Pedro River valley. The trail turns off the ridge just before the point, and drops into a small hanging valley. It descends through this short section, crossing the drainage and contouring out onto the opposite ridge line. Then along the curve of this ridge line and into the next drainage on a mostly easy grade. In wetter seasons this next drainage often holds varied and lush undergrowth. The trail may be indistinguishable from the tangled ferns and underbrush.
Crossing this drainage the trail turns down towards the opening of the ridge. Along the way the remains of a small corral are passed in a leveled area. Then, as the trail comes out into the open and exposed hillside, Knagge Cabin is reached. The cabin stood for many years until a large tree came down and brushed the side of one wall. The cabin was not smashed directly, but the roof was caved in. Debris was scattered widely and there is much junk about. Below the shelf on which the cabin sits is a large expanse of rock with great views and occasional water.
The trail peters out at the remains of Knagge Cabin. But the route is obvious for a short ways down a few old switch backs, past an old mine and back across the drainage. The last of the obvious trail is lost as you turn out onto the ridge. The going on this ridge is quite easy as the trees are of fair size and the underbrush very sparse. The trick is to avoid wandering off on some minor finger of the ridge other than the one which you are supposed to wander off. This is wandering with a plan, remember?
The route crosses over the ridge and continues on its lee side. Here a tread appeared, along with old blazes in large trees. This lasted barely a hundred yards. After a while, and as elevation is lost, the big trees begin to give way to the scrub of dense manzanita bushes. This is where things begin to get interesting. By this point the day grows hot, and finding indications of old tread or blazes is ever more difficult. As the work increases in difficulty so too does water consumption.
I worked the manzanita along the ridge as long as I could. From time to time I would find old cairns or other indications that I still had the Knagge Trail in reasonable proximity to my hiking boots. All at once I came upon a large clearing with big shady junipers. Here I stopped for lunch. The junipers had old blaze scars deep in their bark. I was solidly on the trail, of that there could be no doubt. I left my pack to reconnoiter the immediate vicinity. The trail appeared to curve off one side of the ridge. This did not make sense with the map, but by golly there went a tread plain as day!
An elderly gentleman of some acquaintance had told me of a mysterious stone marker along this ridge. He had been a ranger back in the late thirties and early forties. He knew many of the people that had explored these mountains around the turn of the century. He had been told that this marker was known to the old timers he knew as a boy, and related how they found it to be buried in wilderness when first they encountered it. The belief being that this six foot pile of rocks predated the arrival of the white men. I went looking along the very top of the ridge line away from the trail but where the marker was reported to be. After thrashing through dense cover for ten minutes or so I came into a small clearing carpeted with dead fallen branches all bleached white like so much skeletal remnants. In the center stood a tall pile of rocks, easily a foot over my head. I don't know if the reports of the markers antiquity are accurate, but it was a real kick to find it buried in the deep manzanita.
I returned to the clearing and picked up my gear. I charged down the treadway I had found, but it did not last long. In hindsight I realize that it was not curving off the ridge, but rather it must have angled the trail towards the finger of the main ridge from which the trail would enter the canyon bottom some distance away. But that is hindsight, for I soon found myself in deep manzanita again. My error was a simple one. I was on the south facing side of a ridge where the trail should be, but the ridge I was on was actually just a minor finger of the real one. The manzanita was too thick to see landmarks that would have alerted me to being just a few dozen yards off course. I continued along the wrong finger of the ridge, doing my best to weave through the thinnest sections of manzanita while keeping the ridge line close to my left. This would keep me at the approximate elevation of where the trail was supposed to be as it descended the ridge. At least that's the way it was supposed to work.
The manzanita thinned as elevation was lost. With landmarks now visible I found myself in the wrong place; although not disastrously so. The ridge I should have been on was obvious to the south, and my ridge was falling nicely into the same watershed. This I determined by studying the land shapes on a topographic map and comparing them to what lay before me. It was clear that the lay of the land was not correct for what the map indicated for my believed location. But by considering the topography from a perspective of one minor ridge to the north of the correct one, all fell into place.
Too far off course to take time for backtracking, I decided to connect this ridge with the trail which lay across the canyon to which the drainage off this ridge was a feeder. I expended considerable energy on stray manzanita, and water began to run low as the day grew hot. But previous excursions on the Potato Patch Trail had brought me to a year round water hole close to my present location, and alongside the lower portion of the Knagge. I sighted a sandy wash below my ridge which ran out to where I wanted to be. I busted through the manzanita along the wash and dropped happily onto the flat open sand. I charged down this super highway and around a slight bend. Whamo! Cliffed Out!
Well, not really cliffed out. The wash tumbled down steep rocky steps and boulders for perhaps fifty feet. On the north side it was possible to down climb a little and traverse along a wee shelf to the opposing slope. From there it was a simple hike down into the big wash, crossing a large flat covered with ocotillo bushes. On the slope opposite I should find the Knagge Trail again. A short ways down this section would bring me to the needed water hole.
I crossed the stream bed of rolled and polished stones, most thankful for the shade its trees provided. The stream bed was bone dry and dusty at this point, but the trees were quite healthy which suggests underground water. Knowing that the trail should be up high on the opposite slope I moved anxiously to recover it. I pushed through moderate brush and encountered a nifty surprise.
There before me was spread out a freshly cut tread, with chain sawed tree stumps and horse track all about. Apparently someone had started on the lower section of the Knagge. I hopped up onto the trail and proceeded downhill at a refreshingly rapid pace. Within five minutes or so the trail dipped down again to the stream bed, and my water hole. I had consumed all but my last quart of water at this point.
The water hole is a truly wondrous place to find in high foothills of low trees and hot winds. It is surrounded by magnificent cottonwoods and great green growery stuff. The stream bottom constricts above the water hole, and comes down through a cut in a dense rock shelf. At the base of this cut the rock dives under the sand, with the stream bed opening out over a very wide area. At this point a sizable trough is created into which water is constantly supplied.
Off side of the water hole and perhaps 75 feet away is a natural shelf above the stream. Ranchers had built a small line shack there, with old corrals and much debris about. Being behind schedule and rather dry I had been thinking of the line shack as a good place to camp for the night. Also the time I had lost thrashing about in the manzanita had thrown my Brush Corral circuit onto the scrap heap of previously brilliant ideas. There would not be time to pull it all together the next day. This loss of time dictated a less lengthy navigation for the next day. The Potato Patch Trail sprung shining to the top of the "Plan B" list.
So I set down in a cool shady spot by the water hole to relax a bit before filling water bottles. While the stream bed above and below the water hole was dry, water flowed steadily into the pool. Within yards of the pool the runoff would disappear entirely, leaving only a dry wash in the high Sonoran Desert.
I had just stood up to start filling some water bottles when I heard some very curious sounds. I almost shrugged it off when, for want of a better term, I heard what could only be described as "The Fart Heard Round The World". I turned to look in the direction of the noise and saw a line of short dark shapes running across the stream bed perhaps a hundred feet off. Seeing that there were pigs in the area I figured that they were likely seeking the water hole. I tooted on my whistle and gave a yell of "Hey pig faces!" to make sure they knew a humanoid was about.
I hurried to get bottles filled up and get out of the pigs way. I had just bent over to fill the first bottle when a movement and commotion caught my attention at the extreme edge of my vision. I looked over my shoulder to see a line of pig faces running fast and with snouts down straight through the brush towards my position.
Whenever I hike alone I carry a Smith & Wesson 9mm pistol. I carry this weapon in a manner which provides for rapid deployment. A quantity of Collard Peccary moving rapidly upon my person encouraged a most speedy response. While turning to face them I drew the pistol, thumbed the safety and, in my best John Wayne style, fired the first double action round at the lead piglet. I was in a poor stance to hit a fast moving target and actually fired nearly over my own shoulder. But the round threw dirt in the critters face less than 15 feet from where I stood. As the gun went off I had turned a good 120 degrees and settled into a better shooting stance, prepared to wreak damn serious havoc on the charging critters, of which seven or eight were in uncomfortably close proximity.
Fortunately further gun play was not necessary. At the instant of detonation the lead pig spun in his tracks, nearly falling over. The second pig side swiped the first and spun to run away. I could have easily killed several of them at this point, and probably should have just to get even with them for testing the acceleration rate of my heart!
It was obvious that my plans to relax in the line shack and kick back for the night were somewhat faulty. There had been a serious drought, and the pigs were likely not the only critters who would be wandering through during the night. Indeed, the gun fire did not send them scurrying off for parts unknown. They simply retreated into the brush uphill of the water hole and proceeded to raise a hell of ruckus. Snorting, pawing the ground and farting up a storm! I hurried to fill my water bottles and get the hell out of there!
Keeping one hand close to my pistol, I repositioned to fill bottles while looking directly towards the pigs. At the same time I kept making lots of noise so piggies would not think me too docile. When done I threw on my pack and with gun in hand hurried down the trail. The trail took me close to the pigs for perhaps a hundred feet until it turned to recross the stream. I did not stop until I reached the Potato Patch Trail. I finally stopped to camp at this junction. All the way my thoughts were focused on all that nice cold water I stuffed into my pack. Without time for so much as a swig.
The night was spent under the stars in a bivy sack. A tolerable meal of freeze dried backpacker food, day old bagels, too warm cheese and a very noisy pistol contributed to a good sleep. I hiked out the next morning along the only somewhat visible Potato Patch Trail. The route out was without incident of an animal nature, but was easily as challenging in terms of route finding. The adventure ended in the early afternoon of the second day when I reached the Butterfly Trail and rendezvoused with Loma Griffith who was out for a day's trekking before picking me up.
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