The Last Season (37 page)

 

PERHAPS RANDY
was having a glorious day in the Sierra when he met his demise. Flowers were blooming along the edges of snowbanks and new grasses were sprouting up. Birds were singing, ground squirrels foraging, marmots lazing in the sunshine, pikas chirping. If so, he may have been lulled into a sense of bliss. For twenty-eight seasons he'd strolled through these mountains—across chasms, along lakes, over snowfields—thousands of times, making such observations as the one he recorded in 1973, when he watched a “small band of rosy finches chattering quietly with their deep voices while running and jumping across gravel and bare sod, between clumps of short haired sedges and grasses, harvesting seeds off the sedge-tops. Watching without disturbing, for these mountaineers aren't readily disturbed, a feeling of goodness about the world comes over me. If things are well for the rosy finches, what ill can befall me?”

For the span of his career, Randy sensed there were messages coming to him while in the mountains. That inspired summer in McClure Meadow in 1973, he wrote, “I am suddenly close to something very great and very large, something containing me and all this around me, something I only dimly perceive, and understand not at all.

“Perhaps if I am here, aware, and perceptive, long enough I will.”

We can never know for certain what occurred in the Window Peak drainage. Compelling arguments all, but can there ever be absolute closure without speculation? The absence of a definitive answer seems appropriate, considering Randy's love of mystery in the mountains.

In his files Randy kept an Albert Einstein quote that his father had loved. His mother had included it in a memorial she wrote for the
Yosemite Sentinel
when Dana died in 1980:

And in Randy's own words, from a logbook dated September 12, 1978: “How can I claim to a greater importance than these alpine flowers, than anything that lives here, or even than the very rocks which eventually become the nourishing soil from which it all has to start? The existence of souls in men? And who can tell me the souls do not take up residence in plants and animals, or even these waters and rocky peaks? A higher evolution for the souls in men? So does that make us more important? Everything has its place, everything supports everything else, everything is important to itself—to its own development—and to that which it supports.

“That a humanoid God willed all this into existence simply to glorify himself (a bit too egotistically human), and/or for us, his greatest creation, and our pleasure, use, misuse, seems not either to fit with the way I perceive the world while living close to it here at Little Five Lakes.

“I wish only to be alive and to experience this living to the fullest. To feel deeply about my days, to feel the goodness of life and the beauty of my world, this is my preference.

“I am human and experience the emotions of humanity: elation, frustration, loneliness, love. And the greatest of these is love, love for the world and its creatures, love for life. It comes easily here. I have loved a thousand mountain meadows and alpine peaks.

“To be thoroughly aware each day that I'm alive, to be deeply sensitive to the world I inhabit and the world that I am, not to roam roughshod over the broad surface of this planet for achievement but to know where I step, and to tread lightly.

“I would rather my footsteps never be seen, and the sound of my voice be heard only by those near, and never echo, than leave in my wake the fame of those whom we commonly call great.”

During the course of researching this book, various people—mostly rangers—asked me how I came upon this story and whether I knew Randy Morgenson personally.

Unfortunately, no, I didn't know Randy, though I wish I had. I began backpacking in the High Sierra when I was fourteen; ten years later, in 1992, I hiked the John Muir Trail solo through Sequoia and Kings Canyon at the suggestion of Dan Dustin, an inspirational professor of outdoor recreation at San Diego State University. In preparation for that hike, my dear friends Kathy and Craig Cupp introduced me to Alden Nash, who was nearing retirement as the Sierra Crest subdistrict ranger. Alden invited me into his home in Bishop, spread a map out on his dining room table, and provided me with invaluable insight on the JMT—including a suggestion: “Stop by the McClure Meadow ranger station and say hello to Randy Morgenson.” Alden said that taking a walk with Randy would be like taking a walk with John Muir himself.

When I passed through McClure Meadow, I found a note on Randy's cabin door that read “Ranger on patrol, back this evening.” Being a trail pounder on a schedule, I moved right on through and never had the chance to meet Ranger Randy. If I hadn't been in such a rush, I'd be recounting that meeting right now.

The following year, I joined Alden and Craig for the first of what would become annual August or September sojourns into the High Country. Inspired by these trips, I pitched an article to
National Geographic
that I titled “The Backcountry Rangers of the John Muir Trail.”
At the time, I was a journalism student with one published article under my belt. Needless to say, my query was turned down.

In 1996, we hiked in over Bishop Pass after Alden informed us that Randy Morgenson had gone missing and that we would be on the lookout for his body. Randy “may have gotten into some trouble in wicked country,” he told us. The route he chose was exceptionally gnarly; we traveled cross-country for seven days to ultimately exit the mountains at Taboose Pass. It was just weeks after the official SAR had ended; Randy's Overdue Hiker bulletin was still posted at trailheads.

Each summer thereafter, Craig and I joined Alden as he continued his search for Randy's remains, and as Alden revealed bits and pieces of “Morgensonia,” I took notes with the faint notion of writing a magazine article, maybe even a book. After three years of covering “Randy routes,” we hadn't found a single clue, though we often scrutinized skeletal remains that always proved to be those of an animal. In 1999, Alden lent me a copy of Randy's 1965 Rae Lakes logbook. He called it an “artifact” and joked that it was protected by the Antiquities Act, his way of saying that he wanted it back after I was done.

The entry that captivated me the most was read at both of Randy's memorial services and is found on page 269 of this book. The emotions and descriptions Randy conveyed during his first season as a backcountry ranger were so pure and genuine, I could only imagine what prose he had created during ensuing years, when age and experience had strengthened his bond with the mountains.

The writer in me wanted badly to read the other twenty-eight years of logbooks that Alden told me were scattered “all over the park,” in backcountry ranger stations, buried in file cabinets and drawers of desks, piled in closets doomed for Dumpsters, and filed away in the Sequoia and Kings Canyon museum archives. The rest, he told me, could be found in Randy's attic in Sedona, Arizona, “guarded by his widow.”

By this time, Alden had introduced me to a handful of rangers who encouraged my interest in the “Morgenson Mystery” by adding to Alden's storytelling and rattling the skeletons in Randy's proverbial
closet. I was told of the affair and the pending divorce and that Judi Morgenson had been fighting the Department of Justice for denied death benefits. I was made privy to various theories regarding Randy's disappearance: suicide, a new life in Mexico, the morbid idea that an irate backpacker had murdered Randy and packed his body out of the mountains in pieces. The possibility of an alien abduction was relayed to me quite seriously.

All this, though very intriguing, wasn't exactly an inviting topic to discuss with Randy's closest friends and family and especially Judi Morgenson, who was the link to accurately portraying Randy's life story. At this point, Judi hadn't been afforded even mildly comforting closure. I surmised that she certainly wouldn't want to talk to a complete stranger about her missing, presumed-dead husband.

On July 15, 2001, I received an e-mail message from Alden that consisted of three words: “They found him.” I knew immediately who “him” was.

I waited four months after the second memorial service to introduce myself and the idea of this book to Judi via e-mail. She thanked me for my interest and brushed me off with kind regards. I didn't follow up for another five months. Without Judi's blessing for this project, I told myself, I'd just walk away from it.

Almost a year after Randy was found, Judi called me and asked about my experiences in the Sierra. I babbled on for nearly an hour before she said, “You're already halfway there.” I asked her what she meant, and she explained how knowing the Sierra was half the battle of understanding Randy. For the other half, she invited me and my wife, Lorien, into her home in Sedona, where she told us that Randy's writings, records, photographs, and belongings had “squeezed” her between the attic and basement for “far too long.” For three days, she allowed me to sift through boxes and bookshelves and let me into the darkest recesses of her memory while Lorien camped out in front of a photocopier. We left Judi with little more than my promise to tell the story accurately. Her wish was that I convey the magic and mystery of the Sierra that called Randy back into the mountains for twenty-eight
seasons. She also knew that I could not tell the story without telling the
entire
story.

Three years ago, I joined Alden Nash and retraced what he felt were Randy's final steps from the Bench Lake ranger station to “the spot” in the gorge above Window Peak Lake. I realized then, after chasing Randy's ghost for more than eight years, that the telling of his story began and ended with Alden. I can't claim to know what it was like walking with Randy, or John Muir, but I imagine either would be something like the hundreds of miles I've hiked with Alden, who sat on the rocks above the falls where Randy's body was found and shook his head and said, “What a beautiful place to die.”

Shortly after I returned home from that trip, George Durkee called to tell me that Randy's name had also been added to the Peace Officer Memorial in Tulare County, where Sequoia and Kings Canyon are located. With chagrin, he said that Randy had officially been recognized for his service more in death than in life. He also told me that the National Park Service still has no nationwide program to award seasonal park employees—backcountry rangers or otherwise—for length of service.

I submit Randy's story to those in a position to implement such a program, so that others with his dedication don't slip through the cracks.

 

THIS BOOK WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN POSSIBLE
without the unlimited, candid, and brave contributions of Judi Morgenson, Alden Nash, and George Durkee. I simply cannot thank them enough.

Other brave souls who were critical in the telling of this story include Dave Ashe, Debbie Bird, Tina Bowman, Al DeLaCruz, Sandy Graban, Lo Lyness, Doug Mantle, Cindy Purcell, Stuart Scofield, Barbara Sholle, William Taylor, Carrie Vernon, and Scott Wanek. Nina Weisman, Bob Kenan, and Rick Sanger hosted me in the backcountry for multiple days. Two years after Randy's disappearance, Rick was awarded the highest honor for a public safety officer—the Medal of Valor—by President Clinton for his role in the rescue of a drowning
man not far from the Window Peak drainage. Also notable is Bob Kenan's recently produced documentary of life on the John Muir Trail. You can learn about it via his Web site: www.messagefromthemountains.net. Ward Eldredge in the Sequoia and Kings Canyon museum/archives department and Bob Wilson in the SEKI law enforcement department deserve special mention, as they did everything short of allowing me to set up camp in their offices, putting up with my constant requests for documents, photographs, and historical records. David Kessler of the Bancroft Library at UC Berkeley made a daunting task less daunting.

Robin Ingraham's emotional interview in which he recounted the death of his best friend awed me. As a result of Mark Hoffman's death, Robin eventually hung up his climbing gear and now photographs the Sierra with large-format cameras. His gallery on Yosemite and Sequoia and Kings Canyon (www.robiningraham.com) will take you visually to the heart of the land you've just read about.

Dozens of National Park Service personnel (some retired, some still in service) contributed time, memories, and guidance through uncharted territory in the search for archives and data. Some were included in the narrative, but many were not. Many thanks to Peter Allen, Cameron Aveson, Gail Bennet, Paul Berkowitz, Debbie Brenchley, John Dill, Kay Edens, Joe Evans, Butch Farabee, Greg Fauth, Kris Fister, David Graber, Terry Gustafson, Sylvia Haultain, Walt Hoffman, Ned Kelleher, Steve Klump, John Kraushaar, Ralph Kumano, Mark Magnuson, Rachel Mazur, Jeff McFarland, Bob Meadows, Paige Meier, Bob Mihan, Eric Morey, Jeff Ohlfs, Chris Pearson, Paige Ritterbusch, Tim Simonds, Rick Smith, Peter Stephens, Jerry Torres, Bill Tweed, and Scott Williams.

Darren Chrisman, April Conway, and Erick Studenicka of the Nevada National Guard helped me portray a critical component of the search-and-rescue operation, as did Linda Lowry with her thorough explanation of a search dog's role in a SAR. Thanks as well to the Mariposa County High School records department for the history lesson.

My wonderful agent, Christy Fletcher, who was by my side from this idea's conception, put the proposal into the hands of a number of
editors who believed in the project. HarperCollins and editor Mark Bryant—the former editor of
Outside
magazine who had worked with such writers as Jon Krakauer and Sebastian Junger—were the perfect fit. Mark has a superb knack for guiding writers down their own storytelling paths. I was disappointed when he moved on from Harper- Collins, but he handed the baton to seasoned editor Henry Ferris, who continued to invoke my confidence as a writer and saw the manuscript through to completion without so much as a speed bump. He and his assistant, Peter Hubbard, fielded my calls and caffeine-induced e-mails with style, grace, and always a cheerful attitude.

Many thanks to Henry Arnebold, Liza Bolitzer, Laurel Boyers, Tim Brazier, Melissa Chinchillo, Chris Cosgriff, Bob Douglas, Linda Eade, Mark Fleishman, Emily McDonald, Marilyn Meyer, Jane and Jim Morgenson, Marc Muench, Sue Munson, Bruce Nichols, Dale Oftedal, Holly Russel, Randy Rust, Kate Scherler, Norma Snelling, Peter Stekel, Beth Sullivan, Pat Wight, and Nancy Williams-Swenson. Frederick Ludwig of Procopio, Cory, Hargreaves & Savitch guided me through the maze of intellectual property rights; Page Stegner granted permission for the lengthy excerpts from his father's letters; and Esther Shafran and the Ansel Adams Publishing Rights Trust allowed me the use of letter excerpts.

My support group of colleagues and friends helped me see the forest through the trees—or in some cases, the trees through the forest. Thank you: Matt Baglio, Alison Berkley, Kevin Blakeborough, Andy Blumberg, Lee Crane, Aaron Feldman, Tom Gonzalez, Scooter Leonard, Richard Leversee, Derek Mathis, Marcelle and Pete McAfee, Lisa Miscione, Joan Nash, Stephanie Pearson, Norman Peck, Torey Piro, and Dean Zack.

A number of writers whom I respect very much found time in their schedules to read advance copies of the manuscript. Thanks go to Greg Child, Daniel Duane, Butch Farabee, Nora Gallagher, Jennifer Jordan, Amy Irvine McHarg, Bill McKibben, Aron Ralston, Gene Rose, and Jordan Fisher Smith. Photographer Bill Hatcher also volunteered his time to read.

Very special thanks are in order for:

My on-call editor and muse, Randolph Wright, and tireless copy editor Rita Samols, both of whom donated long, long hours critically reading the manuscript at different stages in order to save me from myself.

My father, Clayton Blehm, who has shown enthusiasm for my endeavors without prejudice my entire life and is likely my biggest fan. My mother, Jacqueline Blehm, who passed away when I was seventeen and who has continued to guide me with her eternal advice: “If there is something you want to do, do it today, because you don't know about tomorrow.”

My entire family and family-in-law for their unconditional support, wisdom, and for accepting “the book” as my excuse for nearly all of my shortcomings and canceled plans over the past few years: Beth Cloud, Nick Cloud, Debbie and John Cloud, Lori and Rick Hennessy, Shannon Hennessy, Amber Warner, Evan Warner, Heidi and Jeff Warner, and Judy and Fred Warner. Additional thanks to my brother Steve Blehm, who tediously tallied logbooks, and to my niece and nephew Madison and Mitchell Tybroski, who photocopied mountains of research material.

My escape to Neverland: Merrick, who spent the first part of his life being spoon-fed “Morgensonia.” Perhaps this has instilled some of the love for nature that Randy had. And my incredibly supportive wife, Lorien Warner—my constant sounding board, my closest confidante, and my most critical editor, who painstakingly scrutinized every word.

Last, but not least, I must acknowledge the book's main character— the High Sierra. Thank you for calling out to me.

—Eric Blehm, September 2005