Tom Schmidt, Citizen Detective!

Snow, snow and more snow!  Well, if you can’t beat it, ski it, we decided, and off to the mountains Tom and I schooshed last Saturday.  Our plan was to have a little high fat breakfast at the Kettle in Enumclaw and then buzz up the highway to our favorite–and convenient–Nordic ski area, Huckleberry Creek.  As is our practice, Tom and I got up later than we planned, then bumped and thumped our way around the house and garage trying to find gloves, boots, liners, mufflers, and other assorted ski accessories we failed to round up–as we had planned–the night before.  Predictably, but annoying nonetheless, we managed to get out of the house by about 9:30 AM, and out of the Kettle more than an hour after that.  Our day of skiing was melting away, but not the snow.  By nearly noon, when we finally arrived at Forest Service Road 72, the turn-off to Huckleberry Creek, the true early risers had filled up what little parking was available.  Usually, the parking is ample at the trail head, but because of the copious snow, the parking lot had not been cleared, leaving only a dozen spots at the entrance, now crowded with subarus and four-wheel drive pickups.  We took our toyota down the road, wondering what our alternatives might be.

Another ten miles or so toward Mount Rainier, we saw the turn-off to Buck Creek.  Since this area is popular with snowmobilers and other motor-toy gearheads, we would usually avoid it.  Determined to have fun in spite of our setbacks (to be honest, Tom was determined.  Susan would have been content to continue pouting for the rest of the day), we pulled into the turn-off.  The area was pretty much car free, except for a chained-up Volkswagon van trying to back out of the turn-off.  Across the bridge leading from the turn-off was a Mac truck-sized Potelco service truck blocking the entrance to the recreation area.  Tom talked to the second generation hippie kid driving the van and learned that the parking area was closed off because of downed trees and wires.  Not to be deterred, Tom decided that parking along the road worked just fine, and we could ski across the bridge and skirt the coned off “danger” area.  Being the cheery kind of person I am under those circumstances, I grumbled unintelligibly while I put on my gear and imagined all the horrors that could befall us when flouting danger.

Suited up and skis attached, we took off over the bridge, a structure barely recognizable encased in weeks of accumulated ice and snow.  Just crossing it lightened my mood since the bridge had that kind of winter wonderland cum Dr. Zhivago theme going on.  We’d have a nice ski after all, I believed.  At the end of the bridge we turned left toward the trees and the airstrip to avoid the coned area and were surprised by a cleared parking lot entirely occupied by one truck, two young men, a campfire, and a  strafing of trash.  Stuck in three feet of snow near the truck were about ten sets of downhill skis in a variety of sizes.  It was as if a family of alpine skiers had chucked their stuff and disappeared.  Weird.  The young men, likely in their twenties, greeted us dully for a moment, then turned their attention back to their campfire.  Slumped in camp chairs and snacking on baked potato chips (baked chips?  Boys?), their lassitude appeared incongruent with the brisk outdoor conditions…and the skis.  Maybe they had already spent the morning on the slopes and poky Tom and I were looking at folks already done with their daily exercise.  We kicked our skis on by the boys and headed into the woods, sighting the white snake of a trail slithering among a stand of dark firs. 

Tom and I skied through the woods to the airstrip and then along its length for about an hour.  Coming to the far end, and seeing no other trail, we decided that we’d at least met our goal of skiing, though a brief run, and should get back to our exposed truck at the side of the road.   We found our trail through the woods, and came upon the young men’s camp once again.  Tom stopped and struck up a conversation.

“So, you guys been skiing?”

“Yeah, kinda…we wait until Crystal’s closed and then hike up and ski down,” said the more corpulent of the two boys. 

“Oh!  So you like to ‘earn your turns’,” said Tom, using an expression familiar to telemark skiers who hike the back country and then ski down.  The young men looked at him quizzically.

“Uh…I dunno.  I”m new at this,” sullenly said a dirty blond head sunk into a black parka.

The boys really weren’t interested in talking; when Tom asked if either of them telemarked, he got little response.  We said some sort of “have a good day,” and they waved us on.  Tom and I were back at the truck in a snap, loading our gear and peeling off layers of fleece, now sweaty from our ski.  Once we were packed up, stripped down, and ready to pull out, I said to Tom, “Something’s not right about that scene back there.”

“What do you think is going on?” he asked.

“They’re stealing skis from Crystal,” I asserted.

“Yeah, that’s my impression, too.  Why would anyone have a ‘Load Here’ sign from a chair lift?”

“Oh!  I didn’t even notice that,” I said, now recalling the yellow sign by the skis.

“I’m going to turn them in to the police,” Tom said.

“What?  We don’t really know they’ve done anything.  There might be an explanation for what we saw,” I said weakly, hating the idea of pointing a finger at some kids who just seemed suspicious.  After twenty-five years of working in schools, most kids seem suspicious to me.

Tom conceded that we didn’t really see anything illegal, but he hates the idea of anyone using wilderness land for dubious purposes.  He was certain that the boys were a couple knuckleheads up to no good.  I concurred, and speculated there was another accomplice.  Someone shipping the skis down from Crystal.

Not more than a mile down the road, we spotted a Forest Service Law Enforcement truck pull off the road on our right.  We pulled off after him, and Tom told the officer what we had seen.  He took Tom’s name and cell phone number and turned his truck around.  Tom and I drove on toward Green Water, and then home.  A short ski behind us, but now we know where our ski stuff is and maybe we’ll get on our way earlier for the next outing.

By the time we had unloaded and cleaned up at home, Tom received a phone call from the officer.  We had nailed it.  The two boys at Buck Creek and a third, an employee of Crystal Mountain Ski Resort, had been running a ski theft ring.  The situation was pretty much as we had surmised.  Kudos to Tom for being willing to report.  I’m sure if I were alone, I’d have dithered over that decision, afraid of tattling based on an impression.  But Tom was resolute from the start.  His passion for the sanctity of the outdoors wouldn’t allow him to dismiss an odd scene as nothing more than an odd scene.  If I could sew, I’d make him a brown suit and green cape, in gore-tex, to wear as we hike, paddle and ski.  Tom Schmidt, Nature’s Super Hero…or at least mine ( :