by Eric Blehm
A year and a half after she’d submitted the request, Judi had legal proof of Randy’s passing. George Durkee put together what he described as a “bombproof” report “proving” that Randy had been killed while on patrol in the backcountry. It included an inch-thick investigation report supplied by Al DeLaCruz, the declaration of death, and the delayed death certificate. In the beginning of March, Park Superintendent Michael Tollefson sent the claim on Judi’s behalf to the U.S. Department of Justice, Office of Justice Programs, Bureau of Justice Assistance.
Seven months later, her request was denied in a letter that read, in part: “The evidence submitted on your behalf is insufficient to conclude that your husband’s death was the result of a line of duty…this office recommends that you provide additional evidence that demonstrates…a line of duty death. We regret the loss of your husband, Ranger Morgenson. If you have any questions, please call at…”
Judi resubmitted a beefed-up version. Five months later, she received an official denial that stated “while the PSOB Act requires this determination, such action does not diminish Park Ranger James Randall Morgenson’s distinguished record of public service.” Attached was a two-page, play-by-play reasoning for the decision, including “Ranger Morgenson’s wallet and duty weapon were recovered from his duty station.”
Further, the denial letter stated that the evidence submitted by Judi “is insufficient to conclude that Ranger Morgenson was engaged in duties which he was authorized or required to perform as a park ranger at the time of his death. Ranger Morgenson’s body was not found resulting in the issuance of a Delayed Registration of Death…. The record, as it currently stands, provides very little for this office to make a favorable determination.”
The letter then referenced a case from 1985, Tafoya v. United States, whose ruling “prohibits the use of conjecture and speculation as evidence or fact when it concerns the cause of an officer’s death.”
In conclusion, “Accordingly, Ranger Morgenson’s survivor is ineligible to receive the benefit authorized by the Act.”
When Durkee read the letter, he began fuming. He could picture a bunch of guys sitting in an office in D.C., utterly clueless about the Sierra terrain. “The fact that Randy hadn’t been found would make no sense to them and was probably reason enough to deny the claim,” Durkee told Judi. “The only way they’ll pay is if we find him dead, in his uniform, radio in hand.”
In essence, the Bureau of Justice Assistance left Judi no other choice but to sue, which would be a battlefield strewn with coils of red tape, endless paperwork, and mountainous legal expenses that would likely eat up a good portion of any benefit she’d eventually get. But she couldn’t look behind the injustice. How could a backcountry ranger, whose job it was to patrol—alone—the most rugged terrain in the country’s most treasured wilderness lands, be denied the benefits he thought existed before committing himself to the wilds?
Of course, there still remained the theory that Randy had staged his own disappearance. What if she fought the battle and Randy happened to show up from Mexico with a sombrero and a “Sorry.”
“Impossible,” would be Judi’s response to such a line of questioning in a court of law.
“Why is it impossible, Mrs. Morgenson?” the opposing counsel would probe.
“Because I just know” would be a difficult response to prove in court, especially with $100,000 on the line.
Then there was the veiled suggestion that because Randy’s duty weapon hadn’t been with him, he wasn’t really on duty.
No backcountry ranger was required to carry a sidearm on cross-country routes—or so Judi had been told. But an astute attorney would point to NPS-9, the 2-inch-thick Law Enforcement Policy and Guideline Handbook that Randy and all law-enforcement commissioned rangers were required to know inside out. As early as 1989, NPS-9 stated, in Section II, Chapter 3, page 2, that “commissioned rangers on backcountry patrol shall keep their defensive equipment readily accessible or, at their discretion, may wear defensive equipment on the uniform belt.” The “minimum” defensive equipment to be worn, as stated in NPS-9, includes “handcuffs and case, a 4-inch barrel revolver with holster, and spare ammunition with carriers.”
And on the next page: “Commissioned rangers assigned to duties without law enforcement responsibilities shall follow local park policy.”
Any future court case would be a matter of interpretation of the law and would no doubt get ugly, according to Durkee, who was working closely with two different legal firms representing Judi—both of which had been recommended by the Fraternal Order of Police. The first firm had to drop the case for economic reasons when the Department of Justice made it clear that DOJ law prohibits representation on a contingency basis. Attorney Kenton Komadina of Yen, Pilch, & Komadina in Phoenix, Arizona, reviewed the case and agreed to take on Judi Morgenson as a pro bono client in late 2000.
Shortly thereafter, Durkee put together a comprehensive list of points for Komadina to review, the first being that PSOB law did not include any guidance for situations in which an officer’s body is not found. The law had apparently been written with urban, or at least civilized, settings in mind, settings in which a peace officer killed in the line of duty would certainly not, for example, be covered indefinitely by a rock slide or an avalanche, or be missing in such a vast landscape as to be in effect erased.
Debbie Bird has studied the act scrupulously and feels that “the intent of Congress was that someone like Judi would be eligible for the benefit.” But the reality was that “the law governing the eligibility is unforgivably vague.”
Beyond the benefit itself, Judi had a cause to stand up for: she wanted Randy to be acknowledged for his years of service. Though his life as a ranger had been a strain on their relationship, she’d always respected his tenacious dedication to the wilderness. That he had died while on patrol and was not being officially recognized angered her. Furthermore, there were other rangers who might benefit in the future from the legal precedent this case could set.
Judi appealed the decision in March 2000. Subpoenas were scheduled to be sent out in early January 2001 for a hearing date slated for January 25, 2001. Komadina had a dream team of witnesses lined up to testify, including Randy Coffman, Cindy Purcell, Debbie Bird, and George Durkee. But there was a problem: the hearing was in Phoenix and the witnesses’ travel expenses would not be covered by the NPS, which left Judi Morgenson unable to afford what amounted to thousands of dollars. Durkee volunteered to pay his own way, but his testimony alone wasn’t worth the gamble.
A last-minute motion delayed the hearing and thus bought some time to consider different options. Though this was potentially a longer road, Komadina was optimistic that a more political route might be the best way to influence the DOJ to reverse its decision.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE DEVIL’S ADVOCATES
Here, where death waited behind each tree, he had made friends with loneliness, with death and deprivation, and, solidly against his back had stood the wall of his faith.
—Margaret Craven, I Heard the Owl Call My Name
Am starting to feel a little sad at the prospect of leaving this fine place and this fine living, for the days become finer the deeper we edge into autumn. But there are other good things ahead and nothing remains forever, not even these eternal hills.
—Randy Morgenson, Crabtree Meadow, 1974
IT WAS LATE MORNING ON JULY 14, 2001, when backcountry ranger Nina Weisman was packing a backpack to hike away from her duty station at Bearpaw Meadow. The night before, she’d received news of a death in her family, and she was anxious to get on the trail. Her gear laid out on the picnic table in front of the A-frame cabin, she glanced at the sun-faded, barely legible Missing Ranger bulletin she had pledged to keep posted until Randy’s mystery was solved. Five years had passed.
As she stood to leave, she had an overwhelming sense that “We’re never going to find Randy.” So strong was this conviction, she unshouldered her p
ack, unlocked the cabin door, went back inside, and took down the bulletin she had taped to the window. Then she headed down the High Sierra Trail to attend a funeral.
On that same morning, 32-year-old California Conservation Corps (CCC) supervisor Peter Martinez from Los Angeles was on a backpacking trip with three young corps members—Evan Ramsey, 19, from Nevada City, California; Mike Noltner, 20, from Middleton, Wisconsin; and Gretchen Haney, 20, from Olympia, Washington—to a little-traveled spot called Window Peak Lake on their weekend off. After camping out the night before, the group worked its way around the lake to its inlet, where Martinez headed up a loose and rocky knoll on the east side and above the creek. The other three bushwhacked up the same gorge where Ranger Bob Kenan had come face-to-face with two mountain lions more than a decade earlier.
These CCC members were part of a special backcountry trail-building unit based near Woods Creek Crossing in Kings Canyon. They were a typical group of strong, motivated youths between the ages of 18 and 23 who, after completing the Corpsmember Orientation Motivation Education Training (COMET) and other specialized training, had hiked into the Kings Canyon backcountry with everything they’d need for their summer job in a backpack. For most, it was the biggest adventure of their young lives.
Modeled after, but not to be confused with, the Civilian Conservation Corps created by Franklin Roosevelt in 1933, the modern CCC was formed in 1976 by California governor Jerry Brown, who saw the program as “a combination Jesuit seminary, Israeli kibbutz, and Marine Corps boot camp.” In 1979 the CCC’s director, former Green Beret B. T. Collins, coined the still-standing CCC motto: “Hard work, low pay, and miserable conditions.” Yet in spite of the grueling work, most of the corps members spent days off exploring the mountains rather than relaxing.
Corp members were warned that these mountains are no joke. “People get lost here,” NPS trail-crew leader Cameron Aveson told them, “and people die. There’s a backcountry ranger who got into trouble out here somewhere in 1996 and they still haven’t found him.” The camp cook, NPS employee Kris Thornsbury, had been working with trail crews since 1997. She perpetuated the mystery of Randy Morgenson and always reminded the young and fearless men and women of the corps, before striking out on their weekend adventures, to have fun but be careful.
About the same time Weisman left her cabin on the other side of the park, Ramsey was zigzagging back and forth across the creek in the “mountain lion” gorge, moving up as the pools and waterfalls allowed. Once he was above the thickets of willows, areas of grass and wildflowers appeared, veins of green in the granite mountainside. A few hundred yards above the lake, he observed a weathered-looking backpack on the left side of the creek, a couple of feet out of the water. A coffee mug and a pair of green shorts were within a few feet of the torn, sun-bleached pack. Ramsey had been instructed by Martinez to collect any trash found in the backcountry, so he put the mug and shorts inside the pack, along with a water bottle that Haney had found lower in the drainage. They stashed the tattered pack and continued their hike.
After climbing Pyramid Peak, the group retrieved the pack and camped on a flat bench above the gorge. Following a leisurely start the next morning, Martinez took the same route as before, over the knoll on the east side of the creek, while the others went down the more difficult ravine. Around 11 A.M., Mike Noltner discovered a hiking boot in the water at the edge of the creek. Upon closer examination, he let out a yell.
Protruding from the hiking boot was a leg bone. Inside the boot, the perfectly preserved skeleton of a foot.
Martinez scrambled down into the gorge and placed the boot and bones in a plastic bag. They looked deeper inside the old, torn pack they had been carrying back to camp to discard as trash and found a fuel bottle with the initials “S. D.” on it.
They built a rock cairn to mark the spot where they’d found the boot, then combed the ravine in a slow descent, hoping to find something else, yet dreading it at the same time. By the time they reached the lake, they’d picked up a thermometer, a granola bar wrapper, what they believed to be a piece of a skull, a large leg bone, a fragment of a pelvic bone, and a bottle of sunscreen. They put everything in the plastic bag.
Shaken by the morbid discovery and anxious to report it, they rushed back to camp. At 2:15 P.M. Martinez showed the pack and its contents to Kris Thornsbury, who noticed that the green shorts looked like Department of Interior issue and deduced, with Martinez, that the gear might be that of a ranger. Thornsbury tried to contact the closest ranger, Kay Edens at Rae Lakes, without luck. She then contacted the Kings Canyon dispatcher.
Subdistrict Ranger Scott Wanek was in the Cedar Grove Visitor Center when a radio behind the counter crackled to life. He’d stopped in briefly and was listening with only one ear when he heard “I think we found Randy Morgenson.”
The park interpreter working behind the counter picked up the radio and handed it to Wanek, saying, “You probably want to take this.” Wanek quickly suggested that Thornsbury not repeat what she’d just said and advised her that he was en route to her location via the park helicopter.
Wanek then spoke with Chief Ranger Debbie Bird, and an hour later he and the current Sierra Crest subdistrict ranger, Debbie Brenchley, flew to the trail-crew camp, viewed the items, and interviewed the CCC members. Both Brenchley and Wanek were familiar with the Morgenson case: Wanek had been part of the original search effort and Brenchley had reviewed the 4-inch-thick file documenting the effort. As they looked over the collected items, three “potential clues” jumped out at them. The pack matched the description of Randy’s, a blue Dana Design, as did the hiking boot—a Merrell. The initials on the fuel bottle, S. D., stood for “Sierra District,” which had been the backcountry district involved in the Morgenson search.
One of the most enigmatic clues was the waist belt of the backpack. It was “attached when we saw it,” says Brenchley. “The CCC member who found it confirmed without a doubt that he had found it that way, meaning the individual was almost certainly wearing it at the time of death.”
Chief Ranger Bird contacted Special Agent Al DeLaCruz to alert him that human remains, believed to be those of Randy Morgenson, had been discovered in the backcountry.
Both DeLaCruz and Bird had stayed in contact with Judi Morgenson over the past five years and understood the emotional stress she’d been under. “A lack of closure is sometimes worse than knowing, because the wounds never heal, they just stay open for years,” says DeLaCruz, who had quietly followed up on two John Does fitting Randy’s description since his disappearance—one deceased and one with amnesia. Now, DeLaCruz didn’t want to contact Judi unless they were absolutely certain the remains were those of her missing husband.
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, a cadre of rangers, led by DeLaCruz, were flown to the shore of Window Peak Lake. DeLaCruz, who had investigated body recoveries in the past, organized a carefully orchestrated event. He had enlisted the help of proven frontcountry law enforcement rangers to perform such tasks as photographing the scene, taking measurements to document the remains, and collecting remains. DeLaCruz had thought it would be too close to home for the backcountry rangers, most of whom had taken part in the Morgenson SAR and were Randy’s friends, to join the investigation, but at Debbie Bird’s suggestion, he requested their assistance. Nobody turned down the request. Bird had felt that their inclusion might be helpful in bringing closure. For the backcountry rangers, closure was only half of it. They wanted to understand exactly what had happened.
Two search dogs aided them as they began the morbid process of searching the gorge that drained into the lake.
By noon, the site was speckled with evidence tape, each swatch of yellow marking either a piece of equipment or human remains. DeLaCruz was most interested in a gravelly, flat area at the top of the gorge, not far above a series of waterfalls. There, on the eastern edge of the creek, embedded slightly in sandy, wet soil next to a patch of grass, was a park-issue Motorola MT1000 radio—the uppermost piece of evid
ence. The radio was switched on, “which meant Randy had either been monitoring radio traffic or attempting to transmit,” says Bob Kenan. “That much was immediately certain.”
The minute Kenan was flown in, he recognized the gorge—not only from his mountain lion encounter but also because he had been part of three ground teams and two dog teams that searched this drainage, Segment M, on two separate occasions. He was also familiar with the exact location where the radio was found, because it was where he—and all the rangers—crossed the creek when traveling from Bench Lake over Explorer Col and south toward the John Muir Trail. He had used the same route during the SAR to get from the upper part of the drainage down to the lake. Apparently, it was the route Randy had followed as well.
Here, the gorge’s walls mellowed into gentle banks of broken granite and gravel sloping inward to a wide section of the creek where grasses and mountain flowers made a living in patches of silt and rocky soil. The creek was either an easy wade or a no-brainer rock hop, depending on the water’s level, which, by reading the water marks on the rocks, Kenan confirmed “never got more than a couple of feet deep.” It was a cosmic spot where a tired ranger could lean back against his pack, look at the flowers, and have lunch while listening to the roar of the falls beginning 50 feet downstream.
It appeared that the radio marked the spot where Randy had met his end, which utterly and completely perplexed Kenan. If his memory was serving him, he and his team had done a thorough job searching the location during the SAR. “And,” he thought to himself, “there were dogs.” His memory had not failed him. After searching the area on July 31, 1996, his team’s debrief form stated: “Thoroughly covered area; would not go back into this area.” If Randy had been right there where Kenan always crossed the creek, how could he have missed seeing at least something?