Unabomber : the secret life of Ted Kaczynski

by Waits, Chris

  He never said to me: If I only had power and a furnace, it would be so much easier to stay warm and get through the winter. It just didn't seem to matter to him, the cold, the physical work, the inconvenience, anything.

  If he were caught too far from his campsite or either cabin he

  would just roll up in his coat—no matter w here he was, at the edge ot a meadow or in the trees— lie down and spend the night.

  led wasn't intimidated by being out in the deep, dark woods at night. He often traveled and hunted at night. When he spotlighted rabbits, for example, he followed a fresh set of tracks through the snow until the rabbit w ould stop. He'd shine a flashlight at the animal and then try to shoot it in the eye, which would show up in the faint light. If he hit his target, the rabbit died instantly. If he missed, the scared rabbit would bolt away, sometimes zigzagging through the snow for miles before it would stop again. Never giving up, Ted told me he would follow it, even through difficult terrain and deep snow, often crossing other tracks that would make the stalk even tougher. When the rabbit stopped again, Ted got a second chance to bag his prey. Sometimes it was a very difficult way to procure supper.

  Ted was a good shot, and I later learned that he bragged to himself in his journals about how he seldom missed. He kept track of every round of ammunition he had, every round fired, including his misses, and how many rounds of each caliber he had remaining and buried in caches for reserve. He was secretive about his weapons. You never saw him carrying guns near a road or another place where he might be spotted. In addition to knives—G.I. survival and hunting types—and a bow and arrow; he ow ned six guns: a 30-06, 30-30, .25 caliber Raven automatic, 21 rifle, 21 pistol, and a homemade zip gun made from the barrel of an old air pistol with a crude trigger device and firing pin manufactured from scrap metal parts.

  Ted and I never discussed the perilous circumstances one could confront in the forest, especially at night. Though we talked many times about grizzly and black bears, prowling mountain lions, and wolverines, Ted never once indicated he was afraid of wild animals. Most people couldn't be paid enough to spend a night alone in the wilderness, and yet it didn't seem to bother him in the least. If not harnessed by fear, a hunter or hiker could cover many miles on a moonlit night.

  As more people moved to Lincoln and the area around Stemple, they w ere always curious about Ted. They'd see him walking or riding his bike and then ask someone about him. People in town would say, ''Ask Chris, he's been up there longer than anyone."

  When people asked me about Ted they would say, "Who's that hermit friend of yours?" or "What do you know about your friend the hermit?" Hardly anyone who had seen Ted around or had heard about him understood him. Stigmatized by his appearance and lifestyle, he was blamed for every curious or puzzling act reported in the area. If someone's dog disappeared, people would tell me, "That hermit friend of yours probably ate him." If there was an act of vandalism, a theft or even a flat tire on a vehicle parked in the forest—anything—Ted was accused of doing it because he was different.

  I always stuck up for him, saying "A book cannot be judged by its cover." My adamant support probably had an influence on the local public's understanding and tolerance of that "book cover," but my perception changed as time passed.

  In the early years, Ted and I often talked about how lucky we were to have similar properties, lifestyles, locations, resources, and privacy. Both of us had land bordered by National Forest. No one lived above us. Clear, pure water sprang out of the ground and flowed through our properties. Each of us lived in a secluded gulch, where a variety of wild berries and game flourished.

  Even with all the similarities, there were many differences, because the country around Stemple can vary dramatically with changes in elevation and orientation of the land.

  Ted's home cabin was located in an east-west drainage, Florence Gulch. Canyon Creek appears and disappears quickly. It flows to the west less than a half mile from the spring's source to where it is absorbed into the ground at the mouth of the gulch, except during times of high water. The elevation at his cabin was 4,780 feet above sea level.

  But my home at the mouth of McClellan Gulch, which runs north and south, sits at an elevation of 4,940, nearly 200 feet higher. My unpolluted year-round water supply comes from many springs that flow from more than five different drainages before they converge at different junctures starting about one mile above the mouth of the gulch. From an elevation of 4,940 feet at its mouth, my gulch ascends to almost 6,800 feet at the top, nearly four miles south, with the highest point being 7,428-foot Fields Mountain on the southwest side.

  So despite the similarities, there are striking differences between our two gulches because of the contrast in elevation and the lay of the

  land. Botli elements hae a hii<^e impaet on xariations of flora and fauna. The area north of 'led's home cabin, with its southern exposure, is more arid and the trees are more widely spaced than in my gulch. The area to the south of Ted's, a northern exposure, is more dense and moist and the predominant conifer species is Douglas-fir.

  In contrast, there's no northern-southern exposure in my main gulch; e en with five main drainages and additional smaller drainages, the predominant exposures of the mountains are east and west. The tree species are far more numerous and varied, plus there is a much wider range of plant species, including wild carrots, onions, and parsnips. The en ironment is more humid and the air temperature fluctuates more. These factors, together with the huge difference in roadless, trailless and uninhabited acres, mean my gulch has habitat for wildlife not normally seen around Ted's home cabin, nor in most other areas around Lincoln. My w ife and I have seen not only whitetail and mule deer, elk, black bears and grizzly bears, but also moose, mountain lions, lynxes, and bobcats. Rough, Franklin, and blue grouse abound. Bird species vary from rufous and calliope hummingbirds, which nest in the willows each spring, to western tanagers, w^ater dippers, pine siskins, and numerous other birds, all the way up the size scale to great blue herons, and eagles.

  This greater variety of plant and animal species proved to be a great attraction to Ted at his secret cabin high up my gulch. The opportunity for him to cross-pollinate wild vegetables from my gulch—carrots, onions, and parsnips especially—with the domestic varieties he grew in his home garden was too exciting for him to ignore. He wrote in his journal pages about his goal of increasing the palatability of the hardy wild plants by crossing them with the more fragile, but much tastier domestic varieties. Such an improved plant would allows Ted to live in the woods indefinitely without suffering through a menu of only wild game.

  Back in the early 1980s, I was placer mining for gold in Poorman Creek about two miles from home. I had dug a discovery hole down through the gravel about fifteen feet to bedrock close to the water at a wide spot just north of the creek. I worked this spot during the summers for several years in my spare time w ith my father-in-law, Leonard Orr.

  Occasionally Ted rode by and watched us work. As usual, if I was alone he'd stop and visit. One afternoon as he pulled his bike to the edge of the road above me, I called up and asked him to climb down the road bank so he could watch and visit. He did. When he got down along the streambed he was very interested in what I was doing. I had moved my smallest dragline, a Northwest with a three-quarter-yard bucket, down to the site, along with a small trommel washer, a device used to separate gold from gravel through washing and tumbling.

  As I continued my work, we discussed the advantages and efficiencies of modern placer mining techniques versus the old hand-methods of the early prospectors. Ted obviously favored the old method over the new, but at the time I didn't pick up on how serious his dislike of machinery was. I said I also favored slower hand methods if the more efficient modern methods weren't employed properly. I went on to explain digging, washing, and reclamation techniques, and how they could be used with minimal impact to the land.

  The conversation shifted from mechanical mining to washing and extract
ing gold by hand with a gold pan. Not knowing whether Ted had a gold pan or not, I explained that placer mining and gold washing by hand didn't require a gold pan per se. Any frying pan, especially one without a handle, would do. I proceeded to grab one of my gold pans, shovel some placer gravel into it and demonstrate how to pan gold.

  I trusted Ted unconditionally, so I pointed out a few likely spots and I wasn't the least bit worried he would pass along sensitive information about how and where you could find "color" in the area.

  Ted didn't appear to be overly excited about panning, but he definitely showed interest. Plus, I could never be sure what was going on in his head. I explained that with patience and a little luck, and by spending enough time in the right place, a person could acquire a surprising quantity of gold flakes.

  The old miners didn't get it all, I said, and even with the hard work involved, a teaspoon, just a level teaspoonful, is approximately one ounce of gold. Even with gold prices down, that teaspoonful was worth close to $300, far more than Ted's entire annual budget.

  Once again, I told Ted he was free to pan in any of my spots. I didn't know if he would try it, even though it would be a perfect, pri-

  ate opporriinity tor him to accjuirc some money. Ciold mi
  FROM P'BI INVKVrORV

  MB120N—One "Calumet Baking Powder" ean with paper label seeured with masking tape, with handwritten notations "Black sand presumably consist[ing] largely of Fe O4 or Fe O5 [iron oxide]."

  MB 137—One small clear glass jar, with red-and-white checkered metal cap, containing two staples (for wood) and a small amount of gold, shiny granuals [sic] and flakes.

  MD49—One metal frying pan without handle.

  Many times over the years Ted was carrying books as I picked him up to give him a ride. I usually didn't see the titles, because he carried them in his pack, with only the top corners visible under the flap, or wrapped in a sack. Early on I explained to him I had a huge library, thousands of books. I went on to explain that my collection was not a normal home library of novels and stories, but most of the titles dealt with science, history, mathematics, chemistry, botany, field identification. I had numerous "how to" books on topics ranging from making fishing nets to building a hydrogen generator. Ted knew where my books were kept and that he was welcome to borrow them at any time.

  In addition to my books, he had ready access to more than two decades worth of at least six science-related publications I subscribed to, some since high school. These magazines included Scientific American, Omni, Science, Mechanix Illustrated, Science Digest, and Popular Science. Most of the back issues are stored in boxes, in chronological order. When Betty and I married she wanted to throw them all away. I resisted because of all the good articles and projects in the magazines.

  I knew Ted had some of his own books, and I assumed most of the ones he carried were his own and didn't come from the Lincoln Library. The library was reluctant to let Ted take out certain new books because they weren't always returned in the same condition as when checked out.

  Ted had complete access to my library, before Betty retired in 1986. I see how many of my books would have been useful to him, books like The Charcoal Foundry, How to Build a Metal Working Shop from Scrap, The Blasters Handbook, Metallurgy, and Metal Casting.

  Ted always was reluctant to accept any help. He would let me work on his bike, but if I said, "Ted, if you need any help with anything up at your cabin just let me know," he would respond with a nod, and never once asked me to help with any specific project. He never said, "Chris, can you come up and help me set up some beams across the creek.'^" I would have done that, and he knew it, but it was as though he didn't want to impose, or he didn't want me to see what he was doing.

  There was only one way Ted would allow me to help him, and that was in the area of information. All he had to do was bring up any topic of discussion in my fields of interest and then leave the rest to me. I would openly and readily tell him everv^thing I knew about the subject, from nature to welding. On the other side of the coin, if he stopped by and I was unloading something from the pickup or doing some other chore, he would pitch in.

  I'll always remember an episode that took place about 1980. The mail had just arrived and I w as on my way to my Lincoln shop. I usually picked up my mail in the evenings, but this day I had gone home to grab some parts I needed. It was just before 11 A.M. While I was there I saw the mailman pull away from my box, so I thought I might as well get the mail. As I headed toward Lincoln I saw Ted w^alking to town, so I stopped and gave him a ride. That day I had received an unusual amount of mail, most of it advertisements and solicitations. I brought up the subject that all the junk mail was a huge waste of resources, and a nuisance to boot. Ted said he never received any junk mail.

  In fact, he seldom received any mail at all. There were many times I gave him a ride to his cabin from town; I'd usually let him off at his

  b:)

  mailbox. Most of the time he wouldn't cen open it. If I droe him fartlier up the side road to his cabin I'd offer to stop at his mailbox so he could check it. He always declined, saying he wouldn't ha e any mail.

  The more I thought about it the more I began to realize just how invisible he w as in Lincoln. He didn't recei e any junk mail and he wasn't on any mailing list. Everyone who has a credit card or orders things from a mail-order catalogue ends up on a mailing list. Mailing lists are sold or shared with other firms. Few escape the cycle.

  I don't know for sure, but I don't think Ted ever filed an income tax return while he lived in Lincoln, since he neer worked and he basically lived off the land.

  He first had a post office box in Lincoln and later a mailbox on Stemple Road below his home cabin. Knowing he picked up his mail only eery few weeks, I always wondered why he even had his post office box, w here he had to pay box rent as long as he did.

  Ted's neighbor. Butch, didn't really like Ted after he walked off the log-peeling job and the tw o had several arguments about spraying weeds—Ted was adamantly opposed to spraying—but Butch still tried to help Ted. Being neighbors, they had their share of strange encounters. Butch told me about one involving logging work.

  Butch had cut and moved some trees on the upper end of the gulch above Ted's cabin. Later in the summer Butch piled the brush and limbs quite a distance past Ted's and then later that fall walked up to burn the slash pile. Ted approached and asked Butch not to light the fire, saying he would clean up the brush. Butch replied that picking every^-thing up by hand w ouldn't be nearly as clean as burning it. Ted insisted, saying he w ould pick up everv' branch—to which Butch agreed.

  Ted carried even' scrap of branch and limb all the way down to his cabin, a huge task. Even though Butch told me Ted couldn't get all the small pieces and the pine needles, I marveled that he w ould want to take on a task of such magnitude, making countless trips earning all that slash. Peeling logs w ouldn't be nearly as hard.

  The old saying "One man's junk is another man's treasure" certainly applied to Ted, w^ho was the biggest pack rat I've ever seen. He saved everything he found in the woods. Whether it was a metal scrap

  from an old mine, a discarded piece of rope, a glass or plastic container found along the road, Ted would pick it up and take it to his cabin.

  Ted's favorite water jugs were nothing more than discarded large plastic soda jugs, bottles with a fluted dark plastic base, a clear plastic container, and a screw-on top. He didn't drink pop but he didn't discriminate against any brand, using any jug he found, whether it was Coke, Pepsi, or Dr. Pepper. The last one I saw him toting around was a Dr. Pepper. These pop jugs are tough and make great water containers.

  He even saved different types of wood. I saw many t
hings up my gulch that were moved, as if they had been mentally catalogued and set aside, or just taken. What did he want with all that stuff.^ Was he just eccentric or did he have a use for pieces of wire, aluminum scraps, electrical components, and other things.'^

  Ted's life was a complex array of puzzles and contradictions. He was so isolated at times he would lose track of all those things modern man has programmed into his life. If I picked him up after not seeing him for a while, he would promptly ask statistical questions like: "What time is it.^" "What is the date.^" "How cold is it.^" He didn't wear a watch but I thought he probably had a battery powered or wind-up clock at his cabin.

  I always kept a stick-on calendar, given each Christmas by a local fuel business, attached to the dash of my pickup. I also had built a digital clock and installed it into the dash panel. Whenever Ted rode with me he would check both and ask me to confirm the time and date. It didn't make much sense at the time why a man who lived off the land should be concerned with anything but the seasons of the year so he could be prepared for them.

  Even though Ted lived his life almost entirely in the outdoors, he wasn't what you'd consider a sportsman. If he went fishing, which I rarely saw him do, it wasn't with a fly rod and a dry fly for sport and recreation. It was with a spool of line and a hook to catch fish for food.

  FROM FBI INVENTORY

  MF36—Plastic bag with two fish hooks, string, and two boxes of matches.

  When he hunted he wasn't interested in stalking the bi^^est buck deer or bull elk. A trophy meant nothin<^ to him unless the horns could be made into a useful item like a tool, or be sold. When he hunted or fished it was solely for the meat he needed, and not for the outdoor experience. I realized that early on, and it was always a mysterv' to me.