by Waits, Chris
In the surrounding mountain gulches can be found several hundred independent folks who call Lincoln home. They mushroom the registered voting base to 730, but they rarely come to town, unless supplies are needed from Garland's or the Blackfoot Market, or if they want to check out a book at the library.
While he wasn't a registered voter, Ted Kaczynski was one of those loosely connected Lincolnites. His independent lifestyle and his dreams of living off the land certainly melded here better than they would in most places in the United States. Lincoln was a place where he actually could follow a nineteenth-century lifestyle. It was a place where people left him alone.
Most were friendh; but respected his need for privacy and kept their distance. Some avoided him as they would a tramp—and he gladly avoided them—occasionally crossing the street so they wouldn't have to say hello to the bearded, often unkempt and sometimes smelly recluse. He adapted, almost like a crooked Douglas-fir along a high-country stream bottom. A little different, but there's no reason to cut it down, no reason to damage it, because it never really takes too much water or gets in the way. Then again, you can't really look under the bark to see what vital juices flow and pulse through the cambium layer.
People ask how Ted could live in Lincoln almost twenty-five years and never be suspected of being one of the most cunning and notorious criminals in this country^'s history.
The answer is quite simple: The Upper Blackfoot Valley was a perfect place for Ted to blend into the landscape. Then it became a perfect hideout. He'd probably still be here today plotting his acts of
terrorism, construcrin^Lz; and rcstin.i; his deadly bombs if his brother, David, hadn't hnked notes from a 1971 essay written in Lineohi to seetions of the Tnabomber Manifesto.
Changes
in McClellan Gulch
When Betty and I were married in a simple ceremony on November 19, 1981, in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, it put a subtle damper on my membership in Ted's fraternal order of single mountain men.
I wasn't aware at the time it would strain our friendship, at least from his perspective. Who would think the sincere bonding of two human spirits would be threatening to one of their friends.'^
During the first decade Ted and I knew each other, we had a steady and somewhat predictable relationship.
I dated several different women during the 1970s, but still maintained a single lifestyle much like Ted's.
We talked and saw each other more before Betty and I were married and she moved into our McClellan Gulch home. In the old days, Ted and I were the only ones hiking, hunting, and exploring in my gulch. Then suddenly here was Betty, petite, but an athletic Lincoln native who also loved outdoor activities, and maybe more importantly, here was her dog. Jigger.
Jigger was a once-intimidating 120-pound male black Labrador retriever who soon became protective of his new home. While we were away working Jigger would lie on the lawn or the porch and guard his domain.
Betty was usually the first one home each day, around 3 P.M., since her work day started at 7 a.m. Jigger would be waiting patiently and then he'd jump up and run out to greet her. He took his watchdog job seriously, and even though he was good natured and loved to chase sticks, he was on guard for intruders and quickly sounded the alarm.
Jigger's and Ted's first encounter w hile Betty and I were away workini; must hae startled them ecjually, because they immediately established a mutual dislike. Jigger had no way of knowing Ted had permission to be in the gulch, and Ted didn't realize this was now Jigger's home. The dog loved everyone except Ted, w^ho provoked an immediate growl and a flash of sharp yellowish teeth. Jigger didn't pretend to hide his feelings; neither did Ted.
Ted had made it apparent the first time we talked about Betty and her dog that something had changed. The mention of the two mustered little comment. Instead of warm congratulations, there seemed to be resentment toward us and animosity for my new wife, later confirmed in the way Ted treated her.
He continued to catch rides and I'd weld his bike as needed in my Lincoln shop, but it gradually became apparent Ted didn't want to talk to me or accept a ride when Betty was along.
At first the strange behavior was discounted as just another manifestation of a "Teddism": If I met him w^hen I w^as alone he felt comfortable, and if anyone else was around he w^ouldn't speak other than to exchange his usual succinct on-the-street greeting.
But Betty never even got a simple "hello," other than during one unavoidable encounter with her in the gulch when he w^as forced to act friendly and talk to her. She thought his reticent behavior was curious in the beginning, but when it continued she was offended. She saw^ Ted often, but he always ignored her, even when they w^ere standing together in the check-out line at the grocery store. Betty said it hurt her feelings that a friend of mine wouldn't extend the simplest effort to be nice to her.
His reaction was amazing because she was neither an outsider nor a city girl. She w^as right at home in the mountains, having spent her entire life in Lincoln.
After everything we've read since Ted's arrest about his reaction to his brother David's marriage, we now can see parallels with our own union. Ted's reactions seem strikingly similar, except for one important difference: Ted couldn't cut me off completely as he did his brother. He was forced to maintain a relationship so he w^ouldn't jeopardize his unlimited access to the safe haven and home away from home, McClellan Gulch. Whatever anger, disdain, or animosity he felt about
W
my logging, road construction, and mining—or even my marriage— he kept hidden away. He needed to.
His reaction to Betty, though, caught me off guard. Not so much with Betty's dog, as plenty of people don't like dogs.
That first summer Betty and I were together, I was welding on a neighbor's truck in my Lincoln shop when Betty called crying, in great distress. She had driven up into the yard after work and Jigger hadn't run out to welcome her. She found him lying hurt on the grass, unable to get up.
I quickly locked up and headed for home. Ten minutes later I found Betty in tears, cradling Jigger's head and comforting her companion of fourteen years. Jigger was crying and groaning, tearing at our souls as only an animal in misery can do.
After a careful examination, I found someone had repeatedly stabbed and gouged the entire area under his tail, shredding his colon, hips, and rectal area. Whoever attacked Jigger may have tried to make the wounds look like he had been in a fight with a bear or coyote, but unmistakably the cuts were made with a very sharp knife or spearlike instrument. There were no other marks or wounds anywhere else on the dog.
Aging and suffering from hip dysplasia. Jigger wasn't very agile anymore. He must have been stalked, pursued, and stabbed many times while he tried to run feebly back to the safety of his porch.
The poor dog wouldn't live long enough to make it to the veterinarian's office in Helena, an hour away, so I went into the house and got my pistol. After we said our good-byes and shed plenty of tears, Betty went into the house and I put Jigger out of his misery. We took him up the gulch and buried him in a beautiful spot near some maple bushes. The household was especially quiet the rest of that evening.
Jigger had been successfully removed from the gulch by someone. But other dogs would take his place and he would not be the last canine of ours to meet a mysterious fate.
Several weeks later we bought a purebred female Alaskan mala-mute pup to raise, not only to fill the void left by Jigger's absence, but also to be our watch dog. We named the new arrival Tasha, and she soon felt right at home.
I told Ted about Tasha and the sad mystery of losing Jigger. Ted
showed little compassion and didn't indicate he knew anything about the events.
After Tasha turned two, Betty still missed her Lab, so we adopted two, year-old male Labs from the Lewis and C^lark Humane Society in Helena. Soon after, we purchased a purebred golden retriever pup and named him Boomer.
Our stable of dogs was growing, but why not.^ We both loved animals
and they had plenty of room to roam. Tasha had a great time with the new retriever pup, and with Buddy and Lucky, the pound mates.
Not only did the dogs play outside every day, but it soon became impossible for anyone to enter the gulch w ithout their giving ample notice, whether it was us arriving home from work, the UPS truck or the Montana Pow er Company meter reader driving up to the house, or Ted hiking through. Although Ted traveled a discreet route when entering the gulch, he was unable to enter from the west and walk along the steep hillside above the tailings, his usual path, without the dogs howling.
Four dogs just didn't seem like enough, so we bred Tasha with another malamute. After we sold all the litter except for a male and female, the McClellan Gulch canine forces reached six. So, by 1986, a dozen alert dog eyes were constantly watching every area of the low er gulch. Sneaking in would prove to be an exercise in futility.
When I explained to Ted the dogs wouldn't bother him and he was always welcome, he passed it off as no big deal. But it wasn't hard to imagine his frustration as the pack berated him for fifteen or twenty minutes every time he walked along the mountain trail above our home. We could sense the intense animosity he felt for our dogs, knowing they infringed on his privacy and anonymity.
It seemed like the dogs had a special bark for Ted, and they'd sound it often. Ted's movement through our area was apparent and became a usual topic of conversation. The dogs would run, barking madly, over to the west side of the stream and follow his scent along the trail.
Fd say to Betty, "Oh, that's just Ted going on up," and Fd walk out the door and whistle, calling them back—at least when we were home.
Betty and I didn't have any problems with our pets again until 1987, when strange incidents increased both in frequency and in evil.
After Betty's retirement in August 1986, she and all the dogs had fallen into a routine of walking up the gulch together. The daily pattern was fairly predictable. They'd either move up along the bottom and the small streambed for the first mile and then backtrack down on our road along the east bank, or switch and hike the routes in reverse.
As our Stemple Road neighborhood continued to become more populous—new cabins, more people—the dogs informed us of Ted's increased presence in our gulch. It was easy to understand why he wanted to avoid the noisy weekend gatherings at the cabins scattered in the small pockets of private land across from our gulch. No longer was he able to hike the area near his cabin without seeing four-wheelers and motorcyclists scooting across every trail and open spot that could be found.
In McClellan, only the dogs were an infringement on Ted's privacy.
One July day during 1987, when I arrived home from working in the woods Betty disgustedly told me the dogs had crossed the gulch and later returned covered with human excrement, smeared into their coats more deeply than if the animals had merely rolled in a find. She had just given them all a bath, and said there was little doubt it was from a human rather than a wild animal. It's easy to tell the difference.
Betty thought out-of-town campers were responsible for this mysterious event. That didn't make sense to me, especially when it happened again and again. Our dogs were irritating someone who had an incredible mean streak, and it was about to get worse.
In 1988, we took a short trip to Helena to shop. We arrived home to fmd one of our two-year-old malamutes lying in the yard, paralyzed. He died before we could do anything for him, a victim of poisoning.
During 1988, we acquired a breeding pair of Shar-Peis, the wrinkly dogs from China bred as guard or fighting dogs. The first litter of puppies arrived the following summer. By this time all our dogs, including the more aggressive Chinese breed, were well aware of Ted's habits and the places nearby he frequented, especially the trail above the old miners' ditch where he crossed into the gulch.
It wasn't lon.i!; before the lIou^s had worn a trail reseml^liniz; a cow-path on that hillside just from running back and forth between our house and the old ditch and then along the ditch sniffing for led.
We were forced to build kennels for the stud dogs because they were too aggressie, especially when a female would come into heat. But e en w hen the males were locked up all day, the first thing they'd do when released would be to run up to the ditch to see if fed had passed by that day. The young dogs learned from the older dogs and were quick to follow suit. If they caught his scent and followed it up the gulch, we knew he was around. If they ran up and right back we knew^ he hadn't passed that day or he was staying up in the mountains for a while.
I felt bad the dogs interrupted Ted's solitude, but there w as little that could be done. He knew^ why we had them. The dogs weren't only for Betty's protection, but also to help keep us from being vandalized or robbed, as many of our neighbors had been. At the time, I didn't know^ my pity w^as ironic.
The dogs continued to be the targets of mean-spirited acts. Quite often, one or more of them would limp home with cuts or deep rock bruises.
And on occasion w^e'd have to scrub them thoroughly. Betty's theory of who was plastering them with feces still didn't make sense to me. I said to her: "Honey, I don't have an answer for you, but I have a hard time believing people would drive all the way to Lincoln just to make our lives miserable by smearing our dogs in that w ay."
The next two dogs to meet their demise w^ere both Shar-Peis, a male and a female. The two incidents occurred within the same year. After refusing to eat, they both died the same day they became sick, also victims of poisoning.
One of the hardest losses for me to deal with was the death of our aging malamute, Tasha. Betty told me one summer afternoon Tasha had stopped eating and was lethargic. After going to the porch and checking her over, I told Betty there wasn't anything w rong w ith her and attributed her lack of movement to the heat.
Tasha's condition deteriorated rapidly. I tried to hand-feed her roast beef, but she refused even that and just lay on her side with lungs working heavily in the summer heat. I stayed w ith her and com-
forced her. She tried to twist her head back and lick herself, so I checked the area and found a small string of loose hide where she was trying to clean.
What I then saw made me extremely furious. There was a small-caliber bullet wound in the rectal area. It seemed someone had carefully shot Tasha with a .22 caliber sized bullet there, perhaps thinking the wound wouldn't be noticed. She was bleeding internally, intestines pierced by the slug, and she was dying a slow and agonizing death.
It was late that night before the wound was discovered, and I planned to take her to the vet first thing in the morning. But she didn't make it through the night.
Who was responsible.^ There were similarities between the ways Tasha and Jigger died. I blamed everyone possible except Ted. But I couldn't find motive or proof that any neighbor or weekender had committed these acts. Everybody loved Tasha, and after quizzing each person who either lived close or visited on weekends I didn't have an answer.
Our dog population held steady for a time after we lost Tasha. We didn't want to add any new pets until we could find out what was happening. A couple of years passed without any more losses. Everybody in the area, including Ted, knew how upset I was over Tasha and that I was keeping a close watch on our remaining pets. But with them running daily up to the ditch and along the trail they'd still have occasional run-ins with whoever was smearing them with human feces.
Then during the early 1990s we lost four more dogs, all poisoned.
In the spring of 1996 all the gruesome dog incidents stopped. Since that time we've never had any of our dogs plastered with human waste nor have we had any injured and die from strange wounds or poison.
The heavily used dog trail that was so prominent leading up to the old miners' ditch has now begun to grow over, barely noticeable. Our dogs have lost interest in running up there anymore.
One summer day a few months after Ted's arrest in 1996, neighbor Butch Gehring and I talked about our dogs while out hiking together. He said one of his dogs
got violently ill, but he managed to get it to the vet for treatment in time. The vet examined the dog, took blood samples, and discovered it had been poisoned with strychnine. Even
though the dog's life was sacd, its immune system was destroyed and up until its death it was neer the same.
As we talked about symptoms and how many of our dogs had died, I reahzed their deaths must have been caused by the same poison.
Then something clicked in my mind, jarring loose a detail I hadn't thought of for at least fifteen years. There was a small bag of strychnine-laced oats I brought home from a farm where I had done a lot of welding years ago. Strychnine wasn't illegal at the time and there were many pack rats nesting in my equipment and chewing up and destroying fan belts, \iring, and hoses, so I placed a small dish of poisoned oats in each machine that fall.
Other things took priority and I didn't plant more of the poison. But a year or two later I went to the old an where the oats were stored, away from the house, and they were gone.
I had removed the oats from their canvas bag because it was rotting, and then poured them into a plastic bottle and capped it securely. I didn't want to spill any for fear squirrels or birds might eat them and be killed.
I remember writing in bold letters on a piece of paper, "Poison— Strychnine Oats," and taping it to the outside of the container.