The Last Season

by Eric Blehm

  “I told Coffman that Randy’s life was in turmoil,” says Durkee, “though I didn’t go into details with Lo sitting right there next to me.” Durkee also kept quiet about what he described as a “very slight, but unshakable” suspicion that his friend might have gone off to some special place and ended his life.

  After Coffman dismissed them till morning and the other rangers had wandered off to their respective sleeping spots, Durkee made a discreet detour to the door of the station. Randy’s note was still pinned to the canvas. The date he’d written was June 21. But it was July. Everyone else had discounted the mixup of “J” months as an honest slip of the pen, but Durkee couldn’t stop thinking that it was a potential clue to Randy’s mindset at the time. He reprimanded himself for his paranoia and pushed aside the tent flap. As always, Randy’s residence was spartan. “Randy never was much for putting up pictures or drapes to make his stations more homey,” says Durkee. “It was a minimalist base camp.”

  Quickly, Durkee’s headlamp beam found its mark: the steel footlocker where he knew Randy would have kept his sidearm. As expected, it was padlocked. He gave the lock a tug, just in case. Solid. He then turned his attention to Randy’s military field desk—an olive drab rectangular wooden box with a leather handle on either end. The front was a row of drawers and cubbyholes topped by a worn-smooth working surface that folded up to reveal a storage compartment. Inside he found the expected stacks of mandatory reading: the new NPS 9 Law Enforcement Policy and Guidelines binder; a few inches’ worth of backcountry policy, which Randy could recite from memory, mostly because nothing had changed much in the past decade; some EMT refresher manuals; a stack of citations; and the recently proposed, but not implemented, meadow management plan that had been dispersed during training to some of the backcountry rangers. Atop this particular document was a pen, and within the pages were Randy’s notes and suggestions.

  “It was a work in progress,” says Durkee, “which told me Randy intended to come back.” With that rationalization, the mentally exhausted ranger retired to his tent.

  Coffman continued to plan into the night. Dave Ashe was his point man in the frontcountry, to whom he relayed—among other things—the results of the consensus.

  Ashe and another ranger named Scott Wanek had organized an impromptu incident command post at the Kings Canyon fire station. They transformed a dormitory into a planning room and began the process of spreading the word to various state emergency response groups—a network of organizations that included the California Rescue Dog Association (CARDA) and volunteer SAR teams from different counties throughout the state. The military and state highway patrol were put on standby, with potential requests for air support and personnel. The emphasis in requesting personnel was on expert hiker skills. Coffman had told Ashe to make it very clear: “The search area is complicated, dangerous, off-trail terrain.” Ashe, in turn, conveyed that he wanted “quality, not quantity.” The underlying message was “We don’t want to have to rescue the rescuers.”

  Somehow, even with all his other duties, Ashe found a few minutes to prep CASIE for data. CASIE, or Computer-Aided Search Information Exchange, was a program designed to simplify most of the calculations related to managing a search emergency using modern search theory and terminology. Once it has been plugged into CASIE, an overwhelming search area and operation becomes more easily digestible by date or segment. A glance at a computer printout provides basic information about the manner of searching a certain segment (air, foot, dog team, etc.) and how effective the searchers believe they were in “clearing” that area. Using this method to keep track of a large mass of land, the leader of the search—in this case, Coffman—would cross off search segments once he felt confident they were clear.

  This, of course, presumes the missing person is not on the move and has not reentered an area already cleared, the reason for the “hug a tree” strategy preached at wilderness survival classes. Another difficulty is that segments are generally considered surface areas—not underwater, underground, or under a rock slide. In an area as vast as the Morgenson SAR, where only two segments were smaller than 500 acres, the majority were around 2,000 acres, and one segment was initially more than 7,000 acres, a thorough surface search was difficult enough. Compounding the challenge, the high country has a myriad of streams and rivers that empty into hundreds, if not thousands, of lakes. Nearly every peak has dozens of active rock-slide and snow avalanche paths, any of which could bury or otherwise conceal an injured or deceased victim.

  Randy could be a few yards from a shouting search team, yet not be discovered. The same team could be employing an air-scent-trained search dog but if Randy was downwind, the dog would not catch his scent. A search-dog handler described the nature of a SAR in the High Sierra as an “organized search in chaotic terrain.” That description didn’t even begin to explore the depth of the chaos if one other possibility was included.

  What if Randy didn’t want to be found?

  CHIEF RANGER DEBBIE BIRD was saddle-sore and weary when she arrived at the Road’s End trailhead just after dark. The horseback ride from Vidette Meadow, where she’d last seen ranger Lo Lyness, was about 16 miles. She’d seen the helicopter activity and even without a working radio had deduced that a search-and-rescue operation for Randy had been initiated.

  She drove immediately to Cedar Grove, where she saw the fire station lit up and alive with activity. She looked for Coffman, figuring he’d be in charge of the search, but instead found Ashe, who brought her up to speed on the few details currently available. “Coffman,” he told her, “is at Bench Lake.”

  This wasn’t what Bird wanted to hear. She felt that Coffman and Ashe weren’t thinking far enough ahead—not treating this as a major incident. She sensed the search would “evolve into something more,” she explains. “Once these things get going, it becomes very difficult to catch up logistically.” As the chief ranger, Bird could pull rank and issue an order to use an incident command system (ICS), but with Randy Coffman, “who is a, well…a very talented SAR ranger,” she says, “it was much more effective to work at making your idea become his idea, rather than issuing some kind of order.”

  With this in mind, Bird radioed Coffman, whom she hoped would be receptive to an ICS.

  The incident command system was developed in the 1970s in response to a series of fires in Southern California during which a number of municipal, state, federal, and county fire authorities collaborated to form FIRESCOPE (Firefighting Resources of California Organized for Potential Emergencies). During that firestorm, a lack of coordination and cooperation between various agencies had resulted in overlapping efforts and, worse, major gaps in the response. Consequently, some areas were overstaffed with firefighters, while undermanned property nearby was destroyed. From this experience came the original ICS model for managing wildland fires and emergencies at the city, county, and, eventually, federal level. In 1985, the Park Service adopted and pioneered the ICS for search-and-rescue and other emergency operations and is widely credited with honing the system.

  Whenever the evening news reports that a search-and-rescue operation is in progress for a missing person, in wilderness terrain or otherwise, an ICS is almost certainly the skeleton that is moving the body of the search.

  Bird was concerned that Coffman was initially performing the duties of incident commander, operations chief, and planning chief, which was “way too much for one person to handle effectively” for any length of time.

  “I wanted Randy [Coffman] to stay in the frontcountry and plan the search, not go into the backcountry himself and be part of the search on the ground,” says Bird, who explained it like a military battle: “The general doesn’t go out with the troops and lead the charge. Instead, it’s his job to stay a ways back and plan the execution of the battle plan, including factoring in events as they change. This means collecting intelligence, ordering the tanks and aircraft that are needed to execute the plan, and making sure you have enough troops to do the
job and have a way to transport, feed, and house the soldiers.”

  The chief ranger wanted Coffman to either assign the incident command position to someone else or “come out of the backcountry and start thinking about planning the full-scale search,” which included delegating duties to qualified personnel.

  When Bird heard Coffman’s voice over a static-filled radio connection, he was receptive to the idea of an ICS but had no interest in relinquishing his command of the SAR. At this point, it was personal—he felt a sense of responsibility to see this one through. Incident commanders often wear numerous hats initially in a SAR, and for good reason. The ICS was formulated around the basic principle of accountability. In the end, the weight of the operation’s success or failure was on his shoulders.

  Confident that the search was on track, Bird called Randy’s wife, Judi Morgenson, with whom she had worked as a wine steward at the Ahwahnee Hotel in Yosemite during the early 1970s. Bird, who had begun her career with the NPS well after Randy’s first summer seasons, was proof positive that a high-level permanent position was attainable in the Park Service if you had the skills, the desire, and a willingness to jump through hundreds of hoops. Here she was in 1996, filling the boots of the once male-dominated chief ranger position at one of the country’s wildest national parks. In the past, she’d dealt with a lot of unsavory duties in her rise up the duty chain, from arresting drunks to being bitten, stepped on, and kicked by mules, to recovering bodies to shooting human-attacking coyotes to dealing with the mountains of paperwork in constant upheaval on her desk.

  But it was a phone call like this, regarding the uncertain well-being of a ranger who ultimately was under her command, that proved to be one of the most difficult duties she had performed in her entire career.

  RANDY HAD PACKED his gear for the 1996 season with the belief that Judi would not be welcoming him with open arms at their Sedona, Arizona, home come October. He loaded his Toyota truck with more boxes than usual, intending to store favorite books from his parents’ library, his camera equipment, extra clothes, ski equipment, and photo albums in Bishop, California, on the eastern side of the Sierra.

  He had always given Judi books as gifts, often before heading into the backcountry. Generally, they held deeper meaning than just a good read—a message to Judi, something he felt strongly about and wanted to share. In seasons past, they had provided her a measure of comfort on the lonely nights spent at home while he was away for months at a time. “It’s hard to explain, but reading a book Randy left me was kind of like having him there next to me,” she says. “After so many years, we were in tune with each other. Books that spoke to him usually spoke to me too.”

  Even with divorce papers stashed in his backpack, Randy continued this tradition. He had given Judi I Heard the Owl Call My Name, a novel by Margaret Craven. The gift had been an unexpected and tender message, despite the pending terminus of their marriage. It reminded her, if only for an instant, how charming and sweet her partner in life could be. But it was a short-lived respite. After Randy drove off, she placed the book on her nightstand, where it sat unread.

  Almost two months later, on the evening of July 24, she still hadn’t cracked the cover when the phone rang and a familiar voice greeted her.

  “Judi,” said the chief ranger, “this is Debbie Bird at the park. You haven’t heard from Randy recently, have you?”

  The last time Judi had heard from Randy was during ranger training. “Not since late June,” she responded. In that phone conversation, Randy had pleaded with Judi to join him in the backcountry. He wanted to make things right—if she would have him. But Judi had held her ground, letting Randy know that it wasn’t that simple.

  Bird informed Judi that Randy was overdue from a patrol, and a search was in progress. “He could just be having radio problems,” said Bird, “but it’s been four days.”

  “Four days?” said Judi. “He’s trying to worry me.”

  Judi then told Bird that they had separated and she had filed for divorce. This was news to Bird, and she became concerned that perhaps Randy had hiked out of the mountains. If that were the case, the well-being of the searchers was unnecessarily at stake.

  “Is there anyplace he’d go? Anybody he’d call?” asked Bird.

  “Alden Nash,” said Judi. “Or maybe our friend Stuart Scofield.”

  “We can contact Alden,” said Bird. “You might want to follow up with your friend and let us know if he’s heard anything.”

  Bird gave Judi her direct lines at headquarters and at home and told her she’d call with an update the following day.

  Judi ended the conversation by telling Bird, “It wouldn’t be like Randy to leave the mountains. That’s where he needs to be right now.”

  Judi wasn’t overly concerned. On the contrary, she was perturbed. She became fixated on the suspicion that he was merely taking his time on the patrol, lollygagging around, looking at wildflowers and purposely ignoring the radio. His motive? To get even with her for not coming into the mountains. For not giving him another chance.

  “Randy would have known I’d be the first call they’d make when he was overdue,” says Judi. But he was mistaken if he thought this stunt was going to make her lose any sleep. Picking up the address book she and Randy had filled over the years, Judi searched for Scofield’s number.

  In the living room of their home, she sat in her reading chair and reached for the phone. As if on cue in a campy horror flick, thunder rumbled and lightning flashed, lighting up the desert. Randy always loved storms—in the desert and the Sierra—and for a moment she was taken back to another storm they experienced early in their marriage.

  They’d been hustling north on the John Muir Trail, rushing to make it back to Randy’s Tyndall Creek cabin before the storm was upon them. To the west across Kern Canyon lightning strikes were hitting the jagged teeth of the Kaweah Peaks as menacing dark clouds closed in overhead, growling and illuminated with pulses of electricity. When they moved quickly through a sparse scattering of foxtail pines, one exploded with a deafening crash. The trees thinned as they climbed, and Judi grew terrified when they emerged onto the treeless 11,300-foot Bighorn Plateau. They squinted in the howling wind, watching snow squalls blow across the tundra. The safety of a distant treeline and a lower elevation was more than two and a half miles across completely exposed country. Judi hiked as fast as her legs could carry her, wanting to pass Randy, who strolled casually ahead, enraptured by the tempest.

  The rain and snow turned to hail, which pelted Judi and stung her face. Frozen granules accumulated in the indentation of the trail, rendering it a white line to safety that she was fixated on.

  But a quarter mile out on the plateau, Randy’s aura soothed her and she was able to relax into the experience. Even though lightning was striking the plateau and the hair on her neck stood on end from the static, she suddenly felt safe. Judi observed that the world was coming down around Randy, yet he was calm and composed in the face of the storm, not unlike a battlefield hero seemingly immune to flying bullets. They made it to Tyndall Creek wet, exhilarated, and happily unscathed—an initiation for Judi, but for Randy just another walk in the park.

  Phone in hand, Judi dialed Scofield, repeating in her mind what she’d told herself every summer for more than two decades:

  “Randy can take care of himself in the mountains.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  AFTER THE RIOTS

  But ever since I was old enough to be cynical I have been visiting national parks, and they are a cure for cynicism, an exhilarating rest from the competitive avarice we call the American Way…. Absolutely American, absolutely democratic, they reflect us at our best rather than our worst.

  —Wallace Stegner, 1983

  Randy could make a swarm of mosquitoes seem like the most romantic thing in the world.

  —Judi Morgenson, 2002

  AT THE END OF THE 1971 summer season, Randy came down from the mountains tanned, lonely, underweight, and hungry
for his mother’s cooking.

  Esther Morgenson was managing The Art Place, one of Yosemite’s art galleries, which also sold homemade cards, candles, and other crafts. Randy wandered in looking for her, but was sidetracked by the resident candlemaker, Judi Douglas, a self-proclaimed “city girl” from Orange County.

  “So, what brought you to Yosemite?” asked Randy after he had introduced himself. Judi, instantly smitten by the dashing young ranger, explained how she’d taken a year off from studying art history at San Jose State University to travel, party, and see the galleries and cathedrals of Europe with her best friend, Gail Ritchie. Then, with a couple of months left before the next semester, she’d decided to follow Gail to Yosemite, where Gail had helped Judi get this job at the gallery. Randy nodded his approval and told her she’d been wise to leave the best for the end of her journey. The look he gave her conveyed that he meant something more than Yosemite. “Yeah,” says Judi, “he charmed the socks right off of me from the start.”

  Judi had gotten to know the tourists’ Yosemite, but Randy took her to hideaway beaches on the Merced River that weren’t on tourist maps; they also had drinks in the rustically romantic Ahwahnee Hotel and shared stories of their travels. “Randy could paint pictures with words,” says Judi. “He’d take me on trips to India, Nepal, and Japan in one conversation.”

  A little more than a week after they’d met, Randy rendezvoused with Judi and Gail at the art gallery to view an exhibition of Asian artwork that made for another night of easy conversation. This was Judi’s domain, and Randy listened intently as she explained some of the history behind the pieces. “He made me feel important,” says Judi. “That what I wanted to do with art was important—not just special, or neat, but important. And he never made me feel rushed, which wasn’t easy to find back then. Most guys couldn’t wait to get out of an art gallery. Randy just strolled through soaking in the art.