Unabomber

by Dave Shors

  OCT. 5, 1996

  Continue search on ridge. I have to find something. Tell Butch about blast I heard. He thought maybe could be seen from the air. I said I’m sure not. Mountains are too steep and heavy tree cover.

  The blast, and what caused it, ate away at me. But it also helped me focus on the ridge. Even if the explosives covered the entrance to a cache or a cave, there must be something visible—disturbed earth or freshly broken stones or tree branches. I was determined to chart my grid search of the ridge as long as the weather held, which wouldn’t be long. Autumn and winter were in a teetering balance. Mornings found hoar frost on the forest grass and leaves. Darkness and evening came too quickly. Days and nights were almost of equal length.

  In mid-November, that first winter storm hit like a blast out of the north. Lincoln and its surrounding mountains were right on the edge of slow-moving molasses, cold air. Higher in the middle than along the edges, the bitter cold dome was centered over west central Canada, but its nose poked into northwestern Montana where it was gradually building up over the mountains. Warm, moist air was also moving in from the Pacific, rising aloft above the cold mass and taking a ride to dizzying heights over the mountains where all the moisture was being milked away, falling back to earth as snow. Mountains are especially good at producing moisture because of the way they lift warm air. They certainly were showing their character on November 17. At the same time, the jet stream was slicing in from northwest Washington, down over Missoula in western Montana, and then easterly toward Great Falls, right along the frontal boundary, where it was energizing the storm. By the 19th, as the cold air stalled, much of western Montana was in its grip, almost paralyzed. Thousands were without power as high winds drove heavy snow and freezing rain, making life miserable.

  Around noon on November 22 near our home along the Stemple Pass Road, there was a slight break in the storm. As I stared out the back window of our house, I weighed whether or not to go out searching again. I didn’t have any piano students scheduled for the afternoon, so I thought I might as well give it a try. What would it hurt?

  I laced my high-top Wolverines, placed matches, a small flashlight, note pad and pencil in my fanny pack, grabbed my coat and headed out the door, realizing that darkness would cloak the mountain valleys by 5:30 P.M. here close to 46° north latitude. Wasting no more time I began my trip up the mountain. The outside thermometer registered just 18° Fahrenheit, but it was finally calm after five days of snow.

  I hadn’t been on the mountain an hour when slight movement ahead caught my attention. I paused, cautiously moved around a large Douglas-fir, and spotted a four-point whitetail forty feet away browsing on a clump of short mountain maple bushes. He lifted his head, ears alert and nose twitching, trying to pick up my scent, and gazed toward me. We watched each other nearly thirty minutes, both frozen in our thoughts. Finally, it was time to get back to my journey, and I moved off in earnest. The buck sprang off to the north, flashing its tail through the trees.

  The day, which had started cold and overcast, stayed surprisingly calm. Barely a breeze blew through the mature lodgepole pine forest, with its scattering of fir, spruce, subalpine fir and junipers. The white snow cover and lack of bushy limbs close to the ground opened up the forest; I could see fifty yards or more in some spots. Huckleberry, wild rose, Oregon grape, red twinberry, and other low shrubs were put away for the winter, all covered by snow. Taller, scattered mountain maple, juniper shrub, alder, and serviceberry bushes stood above snow level, but their branches were arched heavily under the weight of the snow.

  The afternoon wore on and the sky began to blacken as I neared a summit. A Clark’s nutcracker and a Steller’s jay chattered from nearby trees, as if to mock me. The wind started to gust and the temperature was dropping. I reached a small meadow just 200 yards below the ridgetop. I’ve always loved this spot, encircled by huge old gnarled Douglas-fir. Beargrass grows knee-high in large clumps. Deer and elk browse on the beargrass flowers when they bloom in the summer. But the animals won’t touch the long, hollow straw-like stalks; that’s been the bane of many a hunter on a sneak, to have the game startled by a loud snapping sound of the brittle stalks underfoot.

  The weather turned even worse and I decided to move around the mountain to the south instead of topping out and over. More sheltered, this route was protected from the strong wind and blowing snow on the ridgetop. Continuing south, I contoured the mountain at the top of a deep ravine that had to be crossed. Lodgepole grew thick, on either side of the ravine, making it almost impossible to sneak through. The quarter-of-a-mile-wide thicket is the byproduct of a forest fire that swept through decades ago, pushed by strong, hot summer winds. Flames destroyed the old-growth trees, but at the same time the intense heat broke open the dormant lodgepole seeds, allowing them to grow as thick as hair on a dog’s back. It’s astounding how quickly these trees come back. They can regenerate in huge numbers, and, with no thinning, can completely cover large areas, growing only inches apart. These forests never mature; some eighty- to ninety-year-old trees are barely two inches in diameter.

  The going was really tough. Fallen poles lay scattered every which way under the snow on the 70-degree slope, acting like deadly ski runners underfoot. The only saving grace of falling in such a thicket is you don’t slide far before a tree catches you.

  Tiring, but finally on the other side, I looked down toward a basin with a small creek running through the bottom some 1,500 feet below. A ridge ran to the southwest and I decided to follow it down, meandering back and forth in a continuing search, looking for tree blazes, markers, anything that would help direct my efforts.

  Snow and cold winds were swirling through the trees like the honor guard of another major winter storm. This would be the last search of the year.

  Exhausted, I wanted at least to explore a rock outcropping right below me. It was worth a final try. Formed by red argillite, a clay-based shale rock, the cliffs were cut and split by dozens of natural cracks and caves, much like those I had explored during the summer.

  Working my way down the slope, I cut fresh elk tracks in the snow, probably a small herd of eight or ten. Minutes later, in the middle of a sheltered thicket, three mature bull elk jumped up from beds where they had planned to spend the night. In the dimming light I couldn’t see how many points each had, but I saw a lot of ivory tips on their antlers as they crashed through the thicket. Their yellow rumps disappeared in a flash. I took a deep breath and paused. The overwhelming silence returned. I had dropped only about a third of the way down the ridge, and it was apparent this natural refrigerator was closing its door on another day. It was time to head home, so I picked up my pace down the mountainside.

  Then a strange and spontaneous urge pulled at me to go around the ridge and look out. It didn’t make any sense. It was getting too dark to see and what could I possibly gain by going the wrong way? Standing there, almost as an impartial referee, I weighed the arguments for returning home or to follow the force of some unseen hand to circle the ridge. Turning toward the ridge, I decided not to wait through a winter of wondering about what might be there.

  As I sidehilled along the contour, my thoughts once again flashed back to all the incredible events since Ted’s arrest. Who would have imagined, the Unabomber in my back yard all these years? I began to think about all the bizarre incidents reported in the Lincoln area during the last twenty-five years, incidents unsolved, with no conclusions or answers. I couldn’t help but feel that when it was all over, the investigation, the trial, there would be answers.

  The cold and darkness brought me back to reality. All at once I stopped as the ridge dropped off sharply; I could hardly make out the terrain. As strangely as I had been compelled to follow this path, I was now being pulled to walk back up the mountain.

  I took a few steps up the steep incline, and was just able to see a small natural shelf cut into the 60 degree hillside. I decided to walk to the shelf and then turn back. My wife would begin to worr
y.

  I took a few more steps. Something wasn’t right. Even in the darkness I was seeing what appeared to be a right-angle corner that just didn’t fit in this world of vertical trees. I ran upward, tripping in the snow. There was no doubt, there it was, like a pale gray ghost waiting for me in the darkness, Ted’s secret hideout, a small log cabin.

  It didn’t seem possible. After all these days and months, the object of all my searches, and the FBI’s as well, was inches away.

  It took just seconds to catch my breath as I scanned the cabin. It was a complete one-room structure with a slanted roof, built from small logs. Cautiously peering through the open entrance I could see a home-made wood stove, built from a five gallon oil can. A bed fashioned from a board and covered with small poles for a mattress stretched the entire eight feet across the back. A pair of light blue denim pants hung, half through the roof corner, probably pulled there by a squirrel or rodent looking for warm nest-building material. Even though snow had blown through the doorway and covered the floor, I could still make out cooking utensils and a coffee cup inside near the stove. Coils of rope hung from the walls.

  I didn’t dare step inside. It felt like Ted might be there, even if it wasn’t possible. Or there might be a booby trap, which was very possible. Plus, I didn’t want to disturb any evidence.

  With head spinning and thoughts racing I turned and headed home, knowing there would be one more trip very soon, no matter how cold and snowy, so I could photograph the secret cabin and visible items inside.

  Would this discovery change the course of the investigation, and even the trial? Time would tell.

  The path home was one quickly followed. I remember stumbling through deep snow, following ridges until I hit the old mining road at the bottom of the gulch. I didn’t notice the cold, or mind the wet pant legs starched stiff with ice. My thoughts were in another dimension. I knew I couldn’t fully explore the cabin until spring, maybe late March or early April, when the snows would melt off. How could I possibly wait? It would be a long winter, wondering what was inside.

  Nearing home, I could see lights through the frost-covered windows, and smoke billowing from the stovepipe. What would my wife say? After all, she had told me more than once to give up the search until spring. Don’t get me wrong, she had always encouraged me. She knew as well as I that Ted had spent long periods of time up the gulch. She had seen him or crossed his tracks on many occasions.

  But how would I tell her? I’d take it slow. I reached the porch, took off my wet coat and opened the door to the smell of stew being kept warm on the stove.

  “You’re sure late,” she said.

  “Bingo!” I said. “I found it.”

  She paused, looked puzzled, stopped, and then everything clicked.

  “Really? You’re kidding?”

  We stared at each other in disbelief.

  “Ted built a secret cabin, you should see it. There’s stuff inside, pants hanging out of the corner, a stove, things hanging on the wall, cooking pans on the floor…”

  She interrupted me, telling me to slow down.

  “Get your wet clothes off and tell me all about it,” she said firmly, but she obviously was just as excited as I.

  “We’ve got to go back and take some pictures,” I said, knowing that it was starting to snow hard again, and I’d probably have to return alone.

  “Where exactly is it?” she asked. “Why haven’t we found it before now?”

  I told her the cabin was built in a very carefully chosen, and secluded, shelf of land. I was sure Ted chose the spot based on the many conversations I had with him over the years, talks about the places I visit the most, hunting haunts, historical locations, and favorite hiking places.

  Ted would always listen intently about these places without really letting me know which were of interest to him. It was a perfect situation. Ted knew he had permission to be in the gulch, he knew about all my favorite places, and he knew the areas I seldom or never visited. He came and went as he pleased. So he used all this information to help him pick a spot where he’d never be bothered.

  As I described the exact location, my wife said: “I’ve never been up that high in that area of the gulch.”

  I also reminded her that this was one of the largest, roadless, trail-less areas left around. Even the Lincoln backcountry, the Bob Marshall and the Scapegoat wilderness areas have much more traffic—hikers, backpackers, and hunters—than our gulch and surrounding area.

  “Ted’s secret cabin site,” I said to her, “has none of the qualifications of a campsite, but all of the qualifications of a hideout.”

  I’ve repeated that observation to FBI agents, and others.

  Located on a very steep mountainside away from water, in the thick lodgepole and fir forest, on a shelf, it’s the kind of place you wouldn’t ever hike to, but what a place to go hide and live undetected!

  Ted knew if anyone might accidentally find him up there, it would be me. And what would I say to him? Nothing. He knew he was allowed.

  My wife and I finally sat down and finished supper, and then she went to bed. It was getting late, but I decided to call Butch and tell him about the discovery also, because he still had open lines of communication with the FBI. He was excited and we talked about the next move.

  “Butch,” I said, “tell no one until I figure out what to do.”

  He agreed.

  The house was uncommonly quiet as I sat by the fire, thinking, and I made my daily journal entry.

  FRIDAY, NOV. 22 [WAITS JOURNAL]

  Bingo! I found it! Finally while hunting in new area on my last search of the year. Ted’s secret cabin! I can’t believe it. Too dark to see much inside. Now I finally know what the FBI has been looking for. I call Butch and tell him, after calling Bobby D. I wonder how to go about telling the FBI. Butch says make the FBI earn it and don’t give it to them too easy. He won’t either. They are the ones who broke communication with me. I agree. Still snowing and cold.

  I also called Bobby Didriksen, one of my closest and most trusted friends in Lincoln. He had been my confidant from the beginning, and the only one I shared information with other than Betty and those directly involved with the case. He was astonished.

  I decided to think twice and act once. I had no concept how this single discovery might change not only our lives but also the potential course and outcome of the entire prosecution.

  I finally dozed off in my chair, exhausted, at about 2:30 A.M.

  I was awakened by my wife, calling from upstairs.

  “Honey, come to bed. Tomorrow is another day.”

  I dragged myself up the stairs and fell into bed. Moving in and out of a restless sleep, I kept repeating to myself, “Is this a dream? How can it be real? What do I do next? Why me? Why me at this point of time, here in this place?”

  SATURDAY, Nov. 23

  I want to get pictures of Ted’s secret cabin so bad, but the weather is terrible and still snowing and cold. I will have to wait. Haven’t heard from the FBI in months.

  SUNDAY, NOV. 24

  Still can’t go back. When this storm gets over I will go back up, no matter how deep the snow is. I hope that Dave Weber calls. Got to get pictures.

  Welcome to Florence Gulch

  When Ted Kaczynski had moved to Lincoln and purchased his small plot of land on June 19, 1971, with his younger brother, David, as a co-owner, the area surrounding his 1.4 acres was virtually uninhabited. Only two seasonal cabins, seldom used, and the remnants of one old miner’s cabin upstream were located near small and narrow, secluded Florence Gulch, where he built his little one-room home cabin.

  Ted’s place, located on the very fringe of private land bordering Forest Service property, was the perfect spot for a man who wanted to live in solitary harmony with nature. With the hustle of the twentieth century buffered and filtered by thousands of acres of rugged mountainous terrain, Ted, as a vigorous young man in his late twenties, was determined to carve out a nineteenth century l
ifestyle.

  A crystal clear spring, Canyon Creek, gurgled through the undergrowth less than 100 feet from the small, flat spot where he built his roughly framed cabin. That first summer, while leveling out an area and laying timbers for the wood floor, he broke ground on the west side for a garden. It was one of the few spots with an opening in the canopy of lodgepole pines, Douglas-fir, quaking aspens, and dense undergrowth where sunlight could penetrate.

  It was perfect: With everything nature and the land provided, and more, there was total privacy. Little did Ted know just how drastically all that would change in the years ahead.

  I first met Ted shortly after he moved to Lincoln, within the first year or two. At that time, besides me, only Ted, Kenny Lee, an older man who lived below Ted, and the Halls, an older couple who lived across from me, resided in this area along or near the Stemple Road.

  My lifestyle at that time wasn’t much different from Ted’s, and in some ways, it was even more primitive. I lived in a tent and then a camper during those early years, until I moved a mobile home onto my land at the mouth of McClellan Gulch.

  Our first encounter was brief and uneventful. I was driving my blue and white Chevy 4X4 pickup into town when I spotted Ted walking along Stemple Road. Dressed in dark blue denim pants, a green canvas army jacket and hiking boots, he was headed toward Lincoln, a little more than three miles to the north. He carried a small pack over his shoulders, but he didn’t appear to be a vagrant. His dark brown hair was short, cut up over his ears. He wore no beard. Because he was walking and was unfamiliar to me, I thought he might need help. I stopped and offered him a ride. He cordially declined, so I went on my way.

  Not long after that I saw him walking again, not far from the spot where I saw him the first time. I pulled over again and offered him a ride.