by Dave Shors
He liked classical music as far as I could tell. I almost always had it playing in my pickup cassette deck, and he seemed to enjoy it when I gave him a ride. He never mentioned a favorite, but seemed to like the minor-key Beethoven sonatas. It was apparent he had a musical background, but he never told me he had played trombone in the school band. I also had played trombone in the school band.
Ted knew music was a huge part of my life, and even though he knew I was a classical pianist and piano tuner-technician, I never got to play for him; I would have enjoyed that. Another common denominator I learned about later was that we both spoke Spanish. As boys, we both had started coin collections.
We had a lot in common. We both used Latin names for plants and animals, we both liked history, exploring and searching the country, and we both were fascinated by the ways nature could provide for a person’s every need. Propagation of wild plants and vegetables and cross-breeding them with domestic varieties to make them more palatable was a shared interest, as was the use of wild herbs, like yampa and chives, in our food.
I almost never saw Ted stray far from his measured and controlled demeanor. I never saw him euphoric, whimsical, elated; he never laughed uncontrollably, acted happy-go-lucky or anything even close. His occasional chuckle or light giggle always seemed to be more of a sneer, or sarcastic laugh, but it was always very controlled.
I’ve never seen a person—obviously so full of anger—who had so much control over his emotions. His mood would become even more solemn as the years went by, something that was very noticeable.
I’ll never forget a conversation we had in 1982. I had just bought two books, Electronic Nightmare by John Wicklein, and Puzzle Palace by James Bamford. There also had been articles in Scientific American and other science publications I received monthly, that discussed in detail new surveillance techniques and street-to-satellite monitoring. All this material included discussions on how a person could be photographed in great detail from a satellite, and how a digital watch could be detected on a person, even if it was worn underground.
Ted’s reaction to this technology wasn’t passive. In fact, this was one of the few times in the early years where he was visibly disturbed. His knotted eyebrows and extremely serious look were clear indications he was diametrically opposed to this Orwellian 1984 invasive surveillance.
Later, I would learn that four years previously he had written:
JAN 24, 1978 [KACZYNSKI JOURNAL]
…There is a psychosurgical operation that relieves people who get angry too easily. They stick electrodes in your brain and burn out the gizmo that produces the emotion of anger. Of course, I would rather be miserable, or dead, than be relieved by that humiliating method. If I think I have a good reason to be angry at something, then I want to be angry, even though it may make me miserable.
Transcriptions of entries from Ted’s journals and other writings have been edited to remove offensive language, which is found throughout the text, and have omitted the names of several Lincoln people, to protect their privacy, along with certain geographical locations. Ted’s spelling, punctuation, and emphases have been maintained.
He was such a deep thinker that even when he smiled I felt as though it was measured and not just because he was happy. It was as if the smile, its size and duration, had been planned. Ted became more withdrawn as the years went by, especially in the ‘90s. Yet he would always wave to me no matter what the weather or where he was. One time he waved so hard he lost track of where he was going, hit a pothole and crashed his bike. He picked himself and his bike off the dusty road and went on his way.
Ted’s clothing varied little during his years in Lincoln. He usually wore shirts and denim jeans. More often than not his second-hand clothes, probably from the Salvation Army or some thrift store, were too big.
Frequently he wore a hooded sweatshirt, usually either dark blue or dark green, with a drawstring around the hood and pockets in front. When it was cold, he wore a green canvas army coat over the hooded sweatshirt. The sweatshirt hood would hang down over his back when it wasn’t covering his head. He always carried a Mead pocket-sized notebook and pencil in his shirt or coat pocket. On rainy days he’d wear one of three ponchos, colored olive green, clear plastic or medium brown. The ever-practical Ted also used his poncho for dry temporary cover, stretching it over a pole or horizontal branch. He had a bright yellow plastic rain coat with a button front, but he seldom wore it, preferring more muted natural colors.
He also experimented with making useful items.
[FROM KACZINSKY’S SPANISH-LANGUAGE JOURNAL, TRANSLATED BY LANGUAGE SERVICES UNIT]
JAN. 14 [1982]
My gloves are fingers made from marmot skin they have suited me well last year and they have suited me well this winter until now. The skins are strong and resist survive [sic] to friction better than I thought; although they have been repaired a few times, generally at the seams. But I have observed that by tanning with smoke it does not turn out well that survives forever the wetting and drying. In the beginning, when the gloves were wetted, upon drying they would be almost as flexible as before they were wetted. But I would wet them almost every time that I used them, and little by little they would begin to turn stiff upon drying…
This may sound like a man living in harmony with nature, but later I learned the truth was quite different. Even though Ted was the intruder in the wild country, he demanded that the natives act as he wished them to.
KACZYNSKI JOURNAL
July 18: [1974, written at a camp away from home cabin]:…More woodrat trouble last night. A rat kept running over me, tugging at the blankets, etc., and so kept me awake half the night. Couldn’t get a shot at it, because it disappeared every time I stuck my head out of the blankets to look. Worse, I found in the morning that it had chewed up my knife sheath so badly as to pretty well ruin it. I have set 2 deadfalls, with figure-4 triggers, baited with raisins, sugar, and oil, in the hope of catching that rat tonight. If I catch the [expletive] alive I will see that it dies a slow, painful death….
July 19: Last night the rats chewed a piece out of the edge of my blanket and tarp, and ruined another piece of string. But I caught one in one of my deadfalls—worked like a charm. Most regrettably, this rat was spared the auto-da-fe, because the rock smashed its face so that it died soon. Bait was partly eaten on other deadfall, but I don’t know whether rats or ants ate it. I have set up the deadfalls again. This time I have foxed the ants, I hope, by putting insect repellent on the stick they’d have to crawl over to get to the bait. In a short time I will learn what rat tastes like. Ha! Revenge is sweet! Later: According to Kaphart, it is the testimony of gourmets who survived the siege of Paris that cats, rats, and mice are the most misprized of all animals from a culinary point of view. If domestic rats are up to woodrat standards, I quite agree. That rat was [expletive] good eating. Provided about as much meat as a red squirrel.
July 31 (if it exists—otherwise August 1) [1974; written at different campsite from above entry]
…I hadn’t previously been troubled by rats around here, but I just discovered that my pack has been chewed up so badly that it is nearly ruined, though I guess I can patch it up well enough to get my gear home…. This means some deadfalls are going to be set. I hope I catch one of those [expletive] alive—I will torture it to death in the most fiendish manner I can devise.
Ted’s shoes were of several different styles. He usually wore sneakers, work boots or hiking boots, but I often saw him wearing armylike laced dress shoes, black, short-topped, but usually without socks, especially when riding his bike. The low shoes always looked too large.
His hats were for all seasons, usually a pullover stocking cap or wool face mask for winter. My favorite, though, was a wide-brimmed summer straw hat. It was originally white, but most of the paint had worn off, allowing the natural straw color to show through the faded white. The hat brim was weakened from age and use and didn’t have much of a curl, especially on the left side
. Originally, the hat had a lanyard cord that could be pulled tightly under his chin to keep the hat from flying off when he was riding his bicycle in the wind. The original light, white cord gave way after a couple of summers to one that was darker, probably a shoelace cord.
Ted had several pairs of glasses; all protective in nature, needed to keep wind, rain, dust, sleet or snow—depending on the season—out of his eyes. Sometimes when riding his bike he wore a full, dark, rimmed pair that looked like reading glasses, or corrective lenses, but he didn’t need glasses to see. Occasionally he wore a pair of dark green plastic sunglasses, the type designed to go over prescription glasses, or a pair of oval sunglasses.
One of his favorites, though, was a solid-plastic pair of sunglasses. They were dark-green, the one-piece wrap-around protective type that might come with a brazing or soldering kit purchased in a hardware store. There wasn’t anything fancy about these glasses with their horizontal front and a small nose indentation. The bows, part of the same piece of plastic and bent off the frame at ninety degrees, tapered from lens height to about a half inch at the ear pieces.
He often wore those when he rode his bike, especially on hot days while his unruly nest of hair was capped by the straw hat. Then, to make this summer outfit complete, he’d wear a classic western red neckerchief tied around his neck. The neckerchief was tied just loosely enough so it could be pulled up over his face and nose when a vehicle approached on the dusty, gravel road. He looked like a kid on his broom horse playing cowboy, or a masked bandit, depending on whether the neckerchief was up or down.
Ted always tried to steer his bike to the upwind side of the road when a vehicle approached, to avoid the dust. When there was rain or snow, though, he couldn’t escape the mud or ice.
His bicycle, which evolved over the course of time, was a dirt road machine, stripped down for efficiency and maneuverability on the primitive roads where it was always used. He removed all the unnecessary weight—fenders front and back, chain guard—allowing a very fit Ted to pedal this one-speed custom mountain bike all the way to the top of Stemple Pass and beyond, even in the mud. He tried several different handlebars over the years, the last ones extending up and back similar to the high handlebars of a Harley. Occasionally, the frame would need welding repairs because of the extremely rough places Ted rode. It was a far cry from the modern mountain bike, with ten speeds or more, knobby tires, and a comfortable seat.
The last winter before Ted was arrested, Betty and I were talking about Ted’s bike and its poor condition. Betty said we should give Ted her old three-speed, which was just sitting in the shed anyway. We decided to surprise him with a reconditioned, cleaned-up three-speed. But Ted surprised us before we could surprise him.
Ted’s one-speed favorite had its advantages, and its disadvantages.
Its major disadvantage was most apparent in rain, sleet or snow, when the lack of fenders, especially a rear fender, would mean Ted would be plastered across his back and his head with every drop of rain in a puddle and each glob of mud on the road. I saw Ted many times with a mud streak up his back, clear over his head; large mud balls would hang from his hair, swinging back and forth as he pedaled down the road. Often in bad weather he’d have to stop to clean the mud, rain or snow off his glasses. Ted rode his bike year around, in all types of weather, except on the foulest days.
I could always tell when he was out on his bike. Winter, summer, wet or dry, I could see his tracks along Stemple Road, weaving all over the place like a child who was just learning to ride. I knew he was an experienced rider and it was never clear to me why he rode that way; he must have gone to any extreme to miss a pothole or bump.
Ted nearly always wore a pack when he was on a ride, usually an army-green canvas one that he’d either carry frameless or attached to an altered aluminum tubing frame with white cord criss-crossing the bottom. He also carried a small pack when traveling out of Lincoln.
Ted always guarded his pack, as if it held something precious. There were a few times I saw the inside, almost exclusively at the store when he had emptied it so he could load his groceries. When I gave him a ride, he would sometimes put his pack in the back of the pickup, but usually he’d hold it on his lap; he’d never put it on the seat between us. It was usually loaded with something.
In the early years, he’d prepare for winter by laying in a large supply of groceries, mostly canned foods. After his gardens developed and he built his root cellar, Ted relied less on store-bought groceries and more on his own crops and game. When he went to town for groceries, he wouldn’t ever buy junk food. He loved graham crackers, though. One time he bought six boxes of generic graham crackers, loaded them into his pack and rode home.
Among his favorite foods were canned fish, sardines, and kippered snacks, all high in protein. Ted enjoyed the tins of fish, plus they supplied much needed fat calories. As health conscious as he was, Ted had a real problem getting enough fat calories, just the opposite of most Americans. Wild game—rabbits, grouse, deer, elk, even porcupines—which Ted ate along with home-grown, wild or canned vegetables—has very little fat. Ted would eat canned fish or use cooking oil, which not only helped with his cooking, but boosted his fat intake as well. He also liked peanut butter, but only the natural types.
He’d buy only whole-wheat flour without preservatives. He also ate rice and took vitamins. He kept track of how much salt he used and kept his teeth as clean as possible.
Ted ran on the nearby inclined Humbug Counter Road on a regular basis just to stay in shape, as if he didn’t get enough exercise in his daily routines of hiking and pedaling all over the country, cutting all of his wood by hand with either a bow saw or hatchet, and packing water uphill to his garden in buckets.
Ted and his bike are forever interwoven in the folklore of this small mountain community and the surrounding country. Some of his episodes of bike travel are almost epic in the mere distance covered, other incidents are just plain humorous.
I remember one midsummer afternoon in the ‘80s when I was driving up the road in my pickup. Ted was pulled off at a wide spot, crouched over his bike in a strange position. As I pulled up, I could see his dilemma: the right leg of his too-large jeans was caught in his chain. With no chain guard and pants too long and big, it was obvious what had happened. He was stuck. He couldn’t go forward or back.
As funny as this scene appeared before I got out to help, I became serious because the predicament was no laughing matter to Ted. I helped him free his pant leg from the jaws of the sprocket teeth and chain. He thanked me and we both went our separate ways.
A few days later I saw Ted riding along, and wearing the same pair of pants. The right cuff was quite shredded, so I knew he had caught his pant leg several times since I last saw him. I passed him and waved, and the tattered pant leg whipped around in the wind as he pedaled toward Lincoln. He waved back.
Perhaps a week later, I spotted Ted riding toward Lincoln again, still wearing the same pair of pants. This time a red rubber band held the now extremely tattered right pant leg above his right calf just below the knee. He was wearing the black army dress shoes, partially laced, and no socks. The rest of his dress included a light-colored shirt under his dark blue hooded sweatshirt, his straw hat, wrap-around dark plastic sunglasses, and his red neckerchief pulled up over his face.
As he pedaled along, his squeaky chain sang a high-pitched rhythmic song. At times Ted’s bike chain would squeak so loudly I don’t know how he could stand it. Whenever he rode up Stemple past my home and I was out in the yard, I could hear him coming long before I’d see him. Since he was afraid of our dogs, his pedaling, speed and squeaking would pick up tempo as he neared my driveway, until it reached a frenzied pace.
Butch Gehring told me another funny bike story. Butch’s sister had pastured her mule in his grass field near the sawmill. One day as Ted rode from his home cabin down along the fence line on the south end of the field, the mule trotted over and began to chase him. Ted tried to
outrun the mule, but the critter was faster and started to catch up. While looking over his shoulder to see how fast the mule was gaining, Ted hit a hole in the road and piled up his bike. Butch and a couple of friends who were watching laughed, but Ted wasn’t amused.
Ted’s bike was serious transportation, and the distance he covered on it was amazing. Many times I saw him on his bike, or his bike tracks, straight up to the top of Stemple Pass and on both forest roads that led north and south along the Continental Divide, but never over the pass toward Helena. One day while Ted was parked just below the pass, an arduous eleven miles from his home, I stopped to visit him.
We started to talk about different forest roads and trails around Stemple and where they went. At one point I said a person could go all the way to Helena, some thirty miles away, without ever touching pavement. Ted was intrigued by the thought, so I described a route: From the top of Stemple Pass head south to Granite Butte and then down Marsh Creek to Little Prickley Pear Road. From there you can head southwest on Little Prickley Pear Road toward Ophir Creek, turn southeast on a back road that takes you to Marysville. From Marysville there are a couple of back ways to get to Helena, either through Birdseye or along the Mullan Pass Road where you can follow the rail line or a couple of other back roads. Either way, you end up on the west end of Helena and you probably won’t see a soul along the way.
Our discussions about back roads, trails, and out-of-the-way places were always detailed, and intriguing.
I remember another conversation when we talked about old mines in the area and what was extracted during the glory days at the close of the nineteenth century. As I told Ted about one mining district in particular I asked if he had ever been up to the Seven-Up, Rover or Columbia mines.
He said he didn’t think he had, so I explained about the discoveries of gold and other minerals and how easy it was to get to the abandoned old mines from the top of Stemple Pass. You just head north on the pass road that goes toward Crater Mountain, I explained. All the mines are close to each other at the top of a basin and drainage to the north of Crater, at the head of Seven-up Gulch.