The Thief of the San Joaquin by David Huebner
I stumble down the hill toward my cabin, straining under a gigantic backpack full of food. I shopped without really remembering that I would have to ski and hike it all home, just shoving things into my pack—bottled beer, a loaf of bread, bags and bags of bulk grains and cereal, a bottle of wine. I'm carrying my skis painfully over my shoulder—I know I’m close to home—and I trip over a log, hurting my shin—I’m getting desperate for the cabin. Finally the buildings of the empty resort I am caretaking for the winter materialize out of the woods, and I limp in the back door of my little wood cabin. Laying my pack down I start a raging fire in the in-house sauna, everything aching—that must have been an eighty or ninety pound load. It doesn't take long for the small sauna to heat up, and once it's ready I strip off my clothes and climb up onto the wooden bench that is the only real seat. I lay back against the walls, and sweat soon starts running down my forehead, my skin beginning to ooze into the wood. It feels incredible. After an hour or so I sort of pour down off the bench into a shower of cold water slowly returning to a solid state. Feeling renewed, I put some clothes on and start unpacking my new supply of food.
As I bend down to add a jar of pasta sauce to one of the kitchen shelves, I notice that my other cans of organic pasta sauce are gone. Huh. Maybe I did already eat those, I think, looking around the rest of the shelves. But then I notice more things missing: those Tasty-Bite dinner packages are all gone, a big jar of raw honey, some Thai Kitchen instant rice boxes—what the hell?! I’m startled, my pulse starting to rise as it hits me that someone has robbed my cabin. Being a nice guy, I thought I shouldn’t leave the back door of my cabin locked, even if I went out to town for a few days—some feeling of a woods ethic—door always open? The road is completely snowed-in up at the pass, there haven't been any bears, and no trace of people since it closed to vehicle traffic a month ago. I hadn't even considered the possibility that someone would rip off a cabin this far in the backcountry when it’s obvious someone’s living here. Looking around the rest of the house I thankfully don't find any material items missing—just the food.
So I call up the owner of Red’s Meadow to see what he thinks about it, and surprisingly he knows of a possible suspect. A particular tyrant who’s spent years living at and maintaining various camps in the surrounding backcountry—he tells me his name is Buck Tyree. He's doubtful that it could be him this time of year, but he tells me that Buck has ripped off many of their pack-stock camps, as well as backcountry ranger cabins. So it's certainly possible that it could be him. He's a pretty old man now, but he's been living this way for a long time. Whoever the thief is, they must be on foot, and there's a fresh trace of snow from last night so I might be able to find footprints. I decide to investigate the following day, go for a good long walk around the valley.
I head down the paved road, looking in the fresh snow patches. I remember a particular dirt side road further along where there'd been a mysterious set of tire tracks exiting during the storm that had snowed everything in. I remember seeing the tire tracks and asking Park Service John whether he'd driven over there as part of his routine to close up and he'd said no, so maybe someone had been dropped off there—it could make a good camp spot—but that was a month ago now. I don't see anything along the road as I walk, but after I turn off onto the dirt road, fresh foot and dog prints appear in the snow. I stop suddenly and look around, fearful of staring straight into the face of this mysterious thief. It's quiet and seemingly deserted. I follow the numerous prints and find the remnants of a camp: a square tent spot bare of snow, a small wood cook fire. So the thief was just here, moved on yesterday. I pick around in the ashes of the fire and find a foil remnant. Traces of graphics and writing confirm it to be part of a Tasty-Bite package. Oh boy, I feel spooked.
Following all the footprints I can’t figure out where they go from the camp. There’s one set that disappears uphill from the snow into loose dry ground that doesn’t hold prints well enough to follow. Obviously this person’s trying not to leave a road map to their next camp.
Stumped, I hike up the road for a few miles to the next lake with no further discoveries. Turning back I’m disappointed—I was so close, where had he gone? Having checked the woods thoroughly on the same side of the road as the camp I am amazed that I could not find where the thief might've crossed the road or where else he could've gone. Then it hits me that there’s one bare patch of pavement on the road near enough to the camp that he could have crossed without me even noticing. Why hadn't I thought of that before? I'd been so consumed with looking for prints in the snow, that I'd forgotten to notice the places where no prints could be left. Hurrying along I get to that patch of pavement and walk into the woods on the other side and immediately run right into a set of the same boot prints and dog prints. The nervousness returns. So he is sneaking around. Is this ol’ Buck that I’m following, or is it someone else? Will I actually find him sitting there eating my food? What’ll I say if I do? I wonder if he's "crazy"?
The tracks wind through the woods, stopping at various logs to rest their load—yeah those pasta cans and quart-size honey jar aren't light, eh?—then they drop down a short hill where the pack was let to slide on its own and retrieved at the bottom. I keep following them until I see a road through the trees, and realize that I must be nearing one of the campgrounds. Slowing down, I look around more, and stop dead in my tracks—there's a camp fire blazing, and an old man sawing wood at a picnic table! There’s a tent set up, split wood by the fire, and a dog running around. Holy shit! I hide behind a tree to collect myself. Now what do I do? I think about leaving. But I can’t, I’ve got to see this through. Why am I so scared anyway? I guess I don't know how crazy this guy might be, and I'm freaked about confronting him for stealing my food. Plus I’ve been thinking that this valley was completely empty, that I was happily alone with the bears and coyotes and deer, and suddenly I’ve found this other guy sneaking around.
It takes a few moments to calm myself enough to walk out onto the road and start towards the camp. I'm hoping he'll just look up and see me coming, but the old man just keeps sawing. I get to about 40 feet away and he still hasn't noticed me so I call out “How’s it going?” No response, the man is sawing noisily with a bow-saw so I guess he can’t hear me. I walk another several feet closer hoping he'll notice me, but he doesn't, so I call out again, “How’s it going?” He looks up startled, a briefly angry expression on his face that dissolves. Fear is stabbing me bad, my stomach cramping. Leaving the wood on the table, he walks towards me, his dog hurrying forward after a short bark, thankfully friendly. I pet the dog, and it takes all the strength of will that I have to stand my ground while he walks over to me, bow-saw in hand—Why am I so damn scared? He's a thin, tall man, with sunken cheeks, a wrinkled face, and lively eyes. A halting limp slows his steps. He's wearing a tattered down jacket, and ragged khaki pants that help to fill out his light frame—wisps of grey-white hair sneak out from his knit cap. “You out hikin?” He asks.
“Yeah just hiking around.”
“That all you bring with you?” Referring to my day pack.
“Oh yeah, well I live over at Big Springs.”
I look for a reaction in his eyes, maybe a twitch of body tension, but he doesn't give me anymore than a familiarity—maybe a wariness, can't tell. He asks, “Who’s that kid who was living there, what’s his name?”
“Oh uh, Bob Sollima?” (Bob is 60 years old—hardly a kid.)
“Yeah, yeah, Bob Sollima, I didn’t like him much, he thought he was some mountain man sittin’ on his ass in that cabin all the time...you know he accused me of starting the Rainbow fire...I told him better watch what you say when you accuse things like that...and do you know he tracked me down once—I was up the trail back there a ways,” gesturing over his shoulder toward the Ritter Range, “and I told him 'better leave me alone', I didn’t like him, accusing me like that, tracking me down...I’m 76 years old you know, been out here a long time, pretty tough old man.” He wanted to impress me, and imply that no one should really attempt to mess with him. He smiled.
“Yeah you’re doin’ pretty good for 76 I’d say, why would Bob accuse you of starting the Rainbow fire?”
“Well I have a camp down there near Rainbow Falls, and he thought it was my camp fire, I told him you better watch what you say accusing someone of something like that, like I don't know about campfires, that fire was lightening, thunderstorms...I never liked him, he wasn’t a real mountain person you know, livin' in that cabin...”
“Yeah, I hear he watched a lot of movies.”
“Just sat on his ass in that cabin.”
And we continued talking about recent history and what had happened with the owner's recent wife, and I was amazed that he knew about any of that, and then I mentioned the weather, telling him a big change was expected in about ten days, so he should maybe think about heading lower, or out to town. “Well, I was thinking about heading north, but I guess you say there’s snow coming, so maybe I’ll head south. I don’t know, Farmer’s Almanac says it’s going to start big and end with a fizz.”
“Yeah, I don’t know, I’ve heard it could be a big winter, El Nino and all that.”
“It’s been cold, real cold, don’t stay as warm as I used to...my lungs 'er botherin' me, and my leg...but if it snows, like it did back 'round three weeks ago—you know I thought I was going to be stuck for sure, was camping out there at the hot spring, and then it turned to rain...but I just hole up anyways, wait it out."
This surprises me, but I keep my reaction guarded I hope—he's been hanging around for at least a month and the whole time I just thought the valley was empty. While we’re talking—about fifteen minutes—he still holds the bow saw, either behind his back, or gesturing with it, and despite the rather friendly talk, I'm fixated on that blade, my fear getting me still—picturing his arm easily swinging the bow-saw and slicing me savagely—and I just decide not to confront him, or "accuse" him of anything regarding my food, unsure of how he might react. Afterall, he's just spent most of this conversation telling me how much he didn't like Bob for accusing him of starting the fire. For some reason I just can't help my fear. Is he crazy, and if so, how crazy? I'm alone out here, I can't afford to risk it. As the conversation winds down, I tell him my name and ask his, “Buck Tyree,” he says, “now uh you won’t tell the Forest Service about me being here will ya?”
“No, no definitely not, I don’t care if you’re here, you’re fine, man, really.”
“They probably wouldn’t like it if they found out about me being here.”
“Don't worry, I’m not a cop, I don't care at all, I won’t tell anyone, I'm just living down here like you are you know.”
“Well, if I go to town, 'cause I may go, need to get some more food for m' dog here, maybe I’ll pick up some of those Schat’s cookies, you ever had any of those?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Best cookies y' ever ate, those Schat’s cookies, if I pick up some in town maybe I’ll drop off some over for you.”
“Cool, yeah, that’d be great.”
We say our goodbyes, and I walk back up the road toward my cabin. Well, I found the thief, and he was a 76 year old mountain man. My fear finally subsides, and I realize how irrational it was to begin with. The stories the owner had told me of so much stealing, combined with the fact that this man apparently lived out here most of the year, just camping out in the woods for decades, had produced the idea that he must be crazy, and possibly dangerously crazy. Notions of a 21st Century mind I didn't think I still had. I thought I'd ditched those prejudices years ago, but there they are. Really that's how our society treats individuals like Buck, whether they're actually looney or not. Anyone that goes so far as to just camp in the woods away from all the wonderful amenities of modern culture must surely be nuts right? Off their rocker, we might say. But there's really nothing crazy at all about being a hermit in the woods—living off the land is far from being a crazy concept. Writers have long celebrated the works of Chinese Buddhist hermits. Human beings lived quite well that way for millions of years before we started exploiting agriculture and spending all our time thinking about ways to accumulate sheets of green paper.
Really, people like Buck aren't crazy at all—they're probably the sanest people around, seeing modern culture for the entirely manufactured money-making-money-taking amusement park that it is. He even makes me feel like a sham—even though I am isolated in the woods eight months out of the year, not driving my truck at all, and generating less than a dumpster full of garbage, I still drive my truck around all summer, and my cabin has a phone line and I have a computer, and cds and movies and skis and surfboards and all kinds of modern stuff. I'm still part of the damn amusement park, I'm just occupying a very small, lost random corner of it, and really the park owners aren't too happy with me for not pitching in a bit more to the overall cost of keeping the park running, and the whole time I'm just eyeing the wall, deciding whether to hop over and out of it for good—and the park owners really hate people like Buck, who sneak through, and around, in and out of the park, never paying any dues and stealing what they can—building little fires to keep warm and dodging the security guards—very few of us have ever really been outside of the park, but of course we've heard the stories now and then—that there's crazy people out there with no homes and no jobs, no athletic clubs and no sushi restaurants, just wanderers—"they like to sneak in over the wall and steal from you when you're asleep," I can picture people warning, "do you have an alarm system on your house?" And I laugh at all this as I go tromping on down the road back towards my cabin.
I have heard stories of other folks like Buck. The old western Sierra legend known as Shorty, and all of Shorty's cabins built throughout the westslope backcountry. Many of them are still there to be stumbled upon. I wonder if Shorty was a happy man. Is Buck happy? I wonder about my own happiness for that matter. What is the root of happiness, or should I say, what is the seed from which it will always grow? Hopefully these mountain men have found happiness out here, but who knows. They are inspiring nonetheless. I just hope that my good demeanor, and non-confrontational friendliness will keep Buck from ever stealing from me again. I worry though that he will see my tracks following his through the forest and become upset or suspicious. I decide I should grab some frozen meat from the massive stockpile left for me by the summer crew and round up some canned stuff and backpacking food that I don't need, and bring it by his camp tomorrow—maybe see if I can negotiate a trade. That way I won’t just be confronting him, I’ll be offering something in return.
I sleep in too late the next morning, and it’s probably ten-thirty by the time I stroll into the campground with my pack of food. All that remains is a tarped pile of wood and left over things from the summer campground hosts. Smoke still rises from hot coals in the fire pan. I track his prints all around the camp spot till I finally get on a set that takes off heading south. He actually must've passed right by Red’s Meadow earlier in the morning. He’s likely gone from the valley, for the time being at least, since it seems he would've had to pick one of the major trails heading out of Red’s Meadow, and they all lead out of the valley. Maybe he didn’t trust that I wouldn’t tell the Forest Service, or maybe he just wanted to get a move on somewhere to the south, or out over the Pass to town? Whatever the answer, he's gone.
Author’s Postscript: Rumor has it that Buck may’ve passed away. No one has seen or heard about him since I saw him that day in December three years ago.
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