Unabomber

by Dave Shors

  The FBI agents were anxious to find at least one of the caches. Its discovery, along with that of the secret cabin, would help prove in court that Ted’s journals were valid and reliable descriptions of his life.

  Such evidence would also lend credence to some of Ted’s other writings, that is, if he wrote about burying an ammo can and it was there, then when he wrote about sending a mail bomb to somebody it was arguably a fact and not just fantasy or a symbolic entry.

  We all were convinced that what he wrote he meant, down to every ounce of salt he used.

  The irony of it all! In spite of his efforts to live in obscurity, his methodical practice of recording nearly everything now exposed his entire life to the very FBI team he had just a few years before called a joke. The agents were definitely enjoying this role reversal.

  As we reached the creek bottom Max stopped for a second and pulled out more notes, descriptions, and drawings and began reading them slowly. One particular passage caught my attention and I told them it fit a spot nearby.

  We headed up the next mountain, split up and began to search small caves and crevices located within some rock outcroppings.

  The next hour or two passed slowly. We found nothing. Spirits were still high though and we knew if we could find even one cache it would be a major victory.

  As I neared the edge of a ridge that ran like the tail of a T. rex upward to the summit of the mountain, I spotted quite a few small animal bones strewn about in the soil and duff of a crevice in the rock outcropping.

  I picked through the bleached remains and noticed something out of place, a small plastic bottle.

  I shouted down to Max and Dave, “I’ve got something, come on up.”

  As they neared, I said it wasn’t clear what I’d found and that I couldn’t take all the credit for the discovery because some digging and burrowing animal had helped reveal the buried stash.

  We stared at the small cylindrical plastic bottle, translucent white in color, but nobody wanted to touch or move it, fearing it might be one of Ted’s hidden forest booby-traps.

  Finally Max grabbed a long stick, stepped back as far as possible and nudged the bottle slightly. Nothing happened, so his confidence grew and he carefully slid it onto a rolled-up piece of his notebook paper and then onto the top of the notebook.

  Max removed the waterproof snap lid from the container, which was about three to four inches in length and an inch and a half in diameter, and we all stared in amazement at what we saw inside.

  Bomb components! Along with small coils of solder the small bottle was packed with miniature wire connectors, the uninsulated, flat, fold-over type designed to crimp two wires alongside each other. The thin exposed edges of the connectors also would have doubled as deadly shrapnel in an explosive device.

  “This is exactly the kind of thing that Ted would have and carry,” Max said.

  He was convinced Ted had stopped to rest and scan the country from atop the large rock outcropping directly overhead and had accidentally lost the container from his shirt or coat pocket.

  Max’s theory made sense. But there were a couple of other plausible scenarios.

  I thought back to the late afternoon of October 1, 1996 when, after shutting down the dragline, there was a loud blast that sounded like it came from the exact area where we stood. Had this container been thrown through the woods by the explosion?

  It seemed unlikely Ted would have been careless enough to lose the bottle, since he obviously kept meticulous track of every item in his possession.

  A second theory was logical as well. The small bottle of bomb parts could easily have been part of a larger cache carefully buried for future use, and a small animal burrowing through the earth brought it to the surface.

  Later we scanned the area with a metal detector, but didn’t find anything. The search wasn’t conclusive, though, as it’s difficult to obtain detector readings from metal items stored in heavy plastic containers.

  Even though Max made up his mind Ted had accidentally dropped the bottle, I was determined to return another day. One way or other I would solve this mystery. Not only was the site located on my property, but I had vowed to the agents earlier that by the time we were finished Ted would have no remaining secrets in my gulch.

  Max and Dave encouraged me to send Ted a package with pictures of his secret cabin with the three of us posing in front of it, pictures of his secret camps, and a letter describing our discoveries.

  I thought about it, but knew he would continue to deny the truth.

  Max carefully placed the small bottle of parts into his pack, and as we continued our search around the ridge our conversation turned to Ted’s firearms and the types of ammunition he used.

  Earlier, while I studied contents of an ammunition cache listed on one of the daily journal pages, one entry had stood out. It pertained to the number of rounds in a cache for his 30-30 rifle and it made me think of a discovery many years before.

  It was clear at this point that Ted always meticulously described the caliber, bullet weight, and most of all, the number of rounds in each cache.

  Yet this particular entry read:

  …log lying along a contour line of the hillside. About fifty, .30-30 cartridges are buried under…

  The word “about” jumped right off the page. It wasn’t like Ted. Unless he arrived at the site and discovered his container was open and later, when he made the journal entry, thought he might have lost a round or two as he hiked through the woods.

  I told Max that years ago I had been walking in an area near where I now thought this cache might be located and had found a single 30-30 round lying in the rocky gravel alongside the game trail. It was a live round and I picked it up, curious about its origin since I didn’t own a 30-30 and nobody but Ted and I had been in the gulch for years.

  “I wish that you still had that round,” Max said. “Maybe we could match it up not only to other unfired rounds, but to spent bullets recovered as well.”

  Both Max and Dave were amazed when I told them I had run across that very bullet a couple of weeks earlier while cleaning out an old camper where parts were stored.

  Max asked if I could find it, and I replied I was sure I’d be able to as soon as we got home.

  It was late afternoon so we decided to work our way back down the mountain and search along the way.

  Max continued his questioning about the flora on the mountain.

  While pointing out the variety and abundance of wild herbs and vegetables in the area, I identified, among others, the lomatium, erythronium, and yampa nearby.

  “Yampa, Ted liked yampa,” Max blurted out after recognizing the name.

  He said Ted had written in his journals about using yampa in some of his stews.

  SEPT. 8, 1975

  Today I went up in the meadows west of here to get yampa. Digging was tough, but I got perhaps 3 cups anyway.

  I dug some of the roots to let Max and Dave taste them. The lomatium (also called biscuitroot), and yampa (also called Indian carrot) smell just like carrots, but are bitter and pithy. Cooking removes some of the bitterness. The roots also can be cleaned, dried and ground into a flour for making cakes.

  Ted had experimented with cross-pollinating some of these wild varieties of carrot with domestic ones. He found fair success with one cross-strain he called “Wild Carrot Big Yellow.” He gave away some of the seeds obtained from his field experiments.

  Max was especially fascinated by the abundance of wild herbs, vegetables, and plants and the idea they could provide not only excellent vitamins and nutrition, but were tasty in salads as well.

  Those facts, coupled with the medicinal values of many of the plants—e.g., willow bark tea contains salicylates (compounds similar to that used in aspirin), an effective wilderness analgesic—proved to both Max and Dave the importance of understanding the endless larder and pharmacopoeial supply the wilderness could provide.

  We finally reached the bottom of the gulch and wor
ked our way back to where the agents had parked their vehicle.

  Betty greeted us as we walked into the yard and asked questions about the day’s excursion and what we had found.

  “We weren’t skunked,” I said smiling.

  Dave and Max started to share stories about the day and I disappeared for a minute to find the 30-30 bullet.

  It didn’t take long and when I walked back to where the three were talking, Max jumped up, looked in my hand and exclaimed, “Is that it?”

  “You bet, do you want to take it with you?” I replied.

  He nodded enthusiastically as I handed it over to him.

  “It may not mean much to you, but it certainly does to us,” Max explained.

  We wrapped up the day with a lengthy discussion about our discoveries and then talked about our plan for the next day.

  Being an eternal optimist, I was confident we’d have continued success. Max and Dave, both more conservative, tempered their optimism with a healthy dose of reality.

  After they left, I wrote out detailed notes of our conversations and pages we had read from Ted’s journals. Betty and I talked into the late evening hours. When we finally went to bed I was mentally mapping all the places we could go the next morning.

  I got up early, prepared my gear and waited for Dave and Max to arrive. After making their morning phone calls they drove the seven miles from town to our house, ready to hit the trail.

  Our agenda included plans to explore some of Ted’s secret camps, several of which I had already located. I also knew about many of his favorite haunts since I had cut his tracks frequently or had seen him at other times, without his knowing I was anywhere near.

  Ted shouldn’t be surprised I was watching him. If our roles had been reversed and he had owned the gulch, he would have watched it and me like a hawk as well. But he must have been shocked and surprised to learn how much I knew about his secret places and trails.

  I marvel to this day how Ted, the person who once said “Who’s Chris Waits?” could begin to convince anyone, even a total stranger, that he never knew me. Having heard a rumor that I might write a book, he wrote from his Colorado prison in 1998 to a television journalist in Denver, changing his story and admitting that he accepted a few rides from me and visited occasionally, but playing down everything else. It takes quite a leap of faith to believe that, considering he virtually lived in my back yard for more than twenty-five years and owned his home cabin nearly across the road from me in 1971 when only three other people besides Ted and me lived in the area. And he wrote extensively in his personal journals about the many places he loved and often frequented in my gulch, the gulch that he penned had “special magic” and “is a glorious place.”

  The more I learned and read from Ted’s own pen in his journals only confirmed what I had suspected since he refused to see me at the jail in Helena. He wanted to distance himself and discredit me so authorities would not search and find the many secrets in my gulch.

  I marveled even more when I read that when Ted arrived back in Lincoln after his long absence in 1978-’79, after returning from Chicago and his early bombings, the first place he went for peace and solitude was my gulch. As his journal entries show he immediately reacquainted himself with areas in and near my gulch.

  TUESDAY, JUNE 26, 1979

  I started out before dawn this morning and am now at an old campsite of mine overlooking McClellan Creek. It feels very good to be in the wild country again. I especially value the silence here. (It is now so noisy around my cabin.) The only disruptive sounds this morning have been caused by the 9 evil jet planes that have passed within my hearing.

  WED. JUNE 27, 1979

  Am now camped at another of my old campsites in the McClellan Creek drainage, high up.

  TUESDAY, JULY 10, 1979

  This morning moved to my camp on the other fork of McClellan. Took a walk up on hillside, then climbed up through beautiful parks of old Douglas firs. Shot a big blue grouse rooster. On the ridgetop enjoyed the magnificent views. The one good thing about this campsite is that it is especially well hidden from the eyes of man. It is also comparatively good picking for wild herbs, for this altitude.

  SATURDAY, JULY 14, 1979

  Today I had the most wonderful morning I’ve had for a long time. At this beautiful dark, densely wooded spot, the Wisp began calling me, so I followed it to an oxen meadow. I slowly climbed to the top of the mountain through this strip of magic meadow. I gathered some mint along the way and felt as if it would bring me luck to drink tea from mint gathered in this enchanted landscape. (I didn’t believe it, of course; it was just a feeling.) At the top of the mountain I looked down on the ridges below and contemplated the sight for some time. Then I climbed down through the Douglas Fir parks, over to the meadow strip again, and sat for awhile looking at the blue lupine and yellow flowers of some plant of the composite family, both of which dotted the meadow. Then I climbed back down to camp, looking at the plants. Only 2 jets passed, and those when my walk was nearly over, so that I was able to forget civilization and the threat it poses to these wonderful solitudes. Thus I was able to drink in the things that I saw with full appreciation. This gulch is a glorious place. It has special magic. I never get tired of seeing these fine old parks of Douglas firs around here.

  As Max, Dave, and I embarked on the second day’s journey, I described the places we would be exploring, starting in a side gulch that was one of Ted’s favorite campsites. I had already given them a map showing the location.

  We talked at a steady pace as we moved through the forest, talking about all the wild plants and all the pertinent information.

  Max mentioned Ted’s diet and how he was extremely health conscious. He said that when Ted was first arrested and taken to Helena by agents, Max asked him if he was hungry and if he needed something to eat.

  Ted surprised Max by replying he wanted a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. His selection was unavailable on the jail menu, so he had to settle for grilled cheese, a sandwich he said he hadn’t tried for years.

  He ate the grilled cheese with gusto, Max said.

  Dave started to talk about Ted’s teaching career and said that his former students who had been interviewed said he was a poor teacher. They disliked him because he didn’t explain things well and had no patience for slow students or ones who asked for extra, one-on-one, after-class assistance.

  We were probably a mile and a half up the mountain when we saw a huge, very fresh pile of bear scat. I explained it probably was left by a grizzly bear while Dave knelt down, bent over to within several inches of it with his camera and snapped a picture. A scat pile was something they weren’t used to seeing.

  I chuckled and asked Dave what the FBI crime lab would think of a close-up picture of a wild forest beast’s defecation.

  They laughed, too, and Dave replied this wouldn’t be the first bizarre picture sent to the lab for developing.

  As we moved on after the photo shoot, Max explained how Ted had driven the FBI lab experts crazy with all his home-blended alloys. Metallurgists had an extremely difficult time breaking down the composition of the metals used in the devices.

  At one point, technicians in the crime lab, with Ted’s own blueprint at hand, decided they would re-create one of the devices. Using power tools, it took them more than twenty hours, while Ted had created the original device with crude hand tools.

  Ted had taken the old tried-and-true term “handcrafted” to a new level.

  Just down the trail a short way I showed Max and Dave a rock pointer, a triangular piece of granite, about ten inches long, six inches wide and five inches tall, that sat atop a natural stump at least four feet high and pointed off to the west. The top of the stump had been leveled by hand.

  The arrow-shaped stone had been placed there for a significant reason, because rocks just don’t fly, and Ted had been the only one in that area besides me. When we moved on I said I’d come back later and check it out.

  It c
ould be something was buried nearby, Max said. Ted was a great believer in the secrecy and safety afforded by a few feet of Mother Earth. Back at his home cabin FBI agents had literally uncovered a great many items, including ammunition under a corner post near his garden and other bullets near a large tree. Things were even found buried in his garden.

  Max talked about the difficult time the FBI language translators had with Ted’s Spanish, which was used in some journal entries as well as to label containers of chemical mixtures. They were so used to interpreting “street Spanish” that they had a difficult time deciphering Ted’s.

  FROM FBI INVENTORY OF ITEMS SEIZED AT KACZYNSKI HOME CABIN

  B-163—One metal can, with aluminum foil pressed over the top, with white paper label secured with masking tape, with handwritten notations. “Cuidado muy sensibilizado mezcla C de exp. 90 esta esta la misma que la mezela [sic] #5” [Chris Waits translation: “Be very careful of the sensitiveness of the mixture C of Exp #90 this, this what is the same mixture of #5”]

  But why would he write anything in Spanish in his own journals?

  Even though he did correspond with Juan Sanchez Arreola, a friend introduced by David Kaczynski, in Spanish, his motive for using a foreign language as he wrote to himself within the pages of his journals was much different.

  MAY 6, 1981

  From now on I think I’ll write my confessions on illegal hunting in Spanish because it’ll be safer in case someone sees these notebooks by accident.

  * * *

  I was amused by this entry, knowing that the “someone” Ted referred to was probably me. And Ted didn’t have a clue that this someone also knew Spanish.

  The two agents and I eventually dropped off the game trail we had been following, just down the mountain from one of Ted’s old campsites. I pointed out the hard, red Douglas-fir stump where he had often cut kindling. We found many dead, dry poles, large limbs that had been hatcheted into small lengths and stumps, all signs of Ted’s firewood gathering.