Unabomber : the secret life of Ted Kaczynski Read online

  silence returned. I had dropped only about a third of the way down the ridge, and it was apparent this natural refrigerator was closing its door on another day. It was time to head home, so I picked up my pace down the mountainside.

  Then a strange and spontaneous urge pulled at me to go around the ridge and look out. It didn't make any sense. It was getting too dark to see and what could I possibly gain by going the wrong way.'^ Standing there, almost as an impartial referee, I weighed the arguments for returning home or to follow the force of some unseen hand to circle the ridge. Turning toward the ridge, I decided not to wait through a winter of wondering about what might be there.

  As I sidehilled along the contour, my thoughts once again flashed back to all the incredible events since Ted's arrest. Who would have imagined, the Unabomber in my back yard all these years.'^ I began to think about all the bizarre incidents reported in the Lincoln area during the last twenty-five years, incidents unsolved, with no conclusions or answers. I couldn't help but feel that when it was all over, the investigation, the trial, there would be answers.

  The cold and darkness brought me back to reality. All at once I stopped as the ridge dropped off sharply; I could hardly make out the terrain. As strangely as I had been compelled to follow this path, I was now being pulled to walk back up the mountain.

  I took a few steps up the steep incline, and was just able to see a small natural shelf cut into the 60 degree hillside. I decided to walk to the shelf and then turn back. My wife would begin to worry.

  I took a few more steps. Something wasn't right. Even in the darkness I was seeing what appeared to be a right-angle corner that just didn't fit in this world of vertical trees. I ran upward, tripping in the snow. There was no doubt, there it w^as, like a pale gray ghost waiting for me in the darkness, Ted's secret hideout, a small log cabin.

  It didn't seem possible. After all these days and months, the object of all my searches, and the FBI's as w^ell, was inches away.

  It took just seconds to catch my breath as I scanned the cabin. It was a complete one-room structure with a slanted roof, built from small logs. Cautiously peering through the open entrance I could see a home-made wood stove, built from a five gallon oil can. A bed fashioned from a board and covered w^ith small poles for a mattress stretched

  the entire eiu;ht feet across the hack. A pair of hght bhie denim pants hiini^, half through the roof corner, probably pulled there by a scjuir-rcl or rodent lookin;::; for warm nest-building material. Even though snow had blown through the doorway and covered the floor, I could still make out cooking utensils and a coffee cup inside near the stove. Coils of rope hung from the walls.

  I didn't dare step inside. It felt like Ted might be there, even if it wasn't possible. Or there might be a booby trap, which was very possible. Plus, I didn't want to disturb any evidence.

  With head spinning and thoughts racing I turned and headed home, knowing there would be one more trip very soon, no matter how cold and snowy, so I could photograph the secret cabin and visible items inside.

  Would this discovery^ change the course of the investigation, and even the trial.^^ Time would tell.

  The path home was one quickly follow^ed. I remember stumbling through deep snow, follow ing ridges until I hit the old mining road at the bottom of the gulch. I didn't notice the cold, or mind the wet pant legs starched stiff with ice. My thoughts were in another dimension. I knew I couldn't fully explore the cabin until spring, maybe late March or early April, when the snows would melt off. How^ could I possibly wait.^ It w ould be a long w inter, wondering what was inside.

  Nearing home, I could see lights through the frost-covered windows, and smoke billowing from the stovepipe. What would my wife say.^ After all, she had told me more than once to give up the search until spring. Don't get me wTong, she had always encouraged me. She knew as well as I that Ted had spent long periods of time up the gulch. She had seen him or crossed his tracks on many occasions.

  But how would I tell her.^ I'd take it slow. I reached the porch, took off my wet coat and opened the door to the smell of stew^ being kept warm on the stove.

  "You're sure late," she said.

  "Bingo!" I said. "I found it."

  She paused, looked puzzled, stopped, and then everything clicked.

  "Really.^ You're kidding.'^"

  We stared at each other in disbelief.

  "Ted built a secret cabin, vou should see it. There's stuff inside,

  pants hanging out of the corner, a stove, things hanging on the wall, cooking pans on the floor..."

  She interrupted me, telling me to slow down.

  "Get your wet clothes off and tell me all about it," she said firmly, but she obviously was just as excited as I.

  "We've got to go back and take some pictures," I said, knowing that it was starting to snow hard again, and I'd probably have to return alone.

  "Where exactly is it.^" she asked. "Why haven't we found it before now.'^

  I told her the cabin was built in a very carefully chosen, and secluded, shelf of land. I was sure Ted chose the spot based on the many conversations I had with him over the years, talks about the places I visit the most, hunting haunts, historical locations, and favorite hiking places.

  Ted would always listen intently about these places without really letting me know which were of interest to him. It was a perfect situation. Ted knew he had permission to be in the gulch, he knew about all my favorite places, and he knew the areas I seldom or never visited. He came and went as he pleased. So he used all this information to help him pick a spot where he'd never be bothered.

  As I described the exact location, my wife said: "I've never been up that high in that area of the gulch."

  I also reminded her that this was one of the largest, roadless, trail-less areas left around. Even the Lincoln backcountry, the Bob Marshall and the Scapegoat wilderness areas have much more traffic—hikers, backpackers, and hunters—than our gulch and surrounding area.

  "Ted's secret cabin site," I said to her, "has none of the qualifications of a campsite, but all of the qualifications of a hideout."

  I've repeated that observation to FBI agents, and others.

  Located on a very steep mountainside away from water, in the thick lodgepole and fir forest, on a shelf, it's the kind of place you wouldn't ever hike to, but what a place to go hide and live undetected!

  Ted knew if anyone might accidentally find him up there, it would be me. And what would I say to him.^ Nothing. He knew he was allowed.

  My wife and I finally sat down and finished supper, and then she

  went to l:)cd. It was Li^cttin^ late, hut I decided to call Butch and tell him ahout the discoxery also, because he still had open lines of communication with the VM. He was excited and we talked about the next mo e.

  "Butch," I said, "tell no one imtil I figure out what to do/'

  He agreed.

  The house was uncommonly quiet as I sat by the fire, thinking, and I made my daily journal entry.

  Friday, Non. 22 [Waits journal]

  Bingo! I found it! Finally while hunting in new area on my last search of the year. Ted's secret cabin! I can't believe it. loo dark to see much inside. Now^ I finally know what the FBI has been looking for. I call Butch and tell him, after calling Bobby D. I wonder how to go about telling the FBI. Butch says make the FBI earn it and don't give it to them too easy. He won't either. They are the ones who broke communication w ith me. I agree. Still snowing and cold.

  I also called Bobby Didriksen, one of my closest and most trusted friends in Lincoln. He had been my confidant from the beginning, and the only one I shared information with other than Betty and those directly in'oh ed with the case. He was astonished.

  I decided to think twice and act once. I had no concept how this single discovery might change not only our lives but also the potential course and outcome of the entire prosecution.

  I finally dozed off in my chair, exhausted, at about 2:30 A.M.

  I
was awakened by my wife, calling from upstairs.

  "Hones come to bed. Tomorrow is another day."

  I dragged myself up the stairs and fell into bed. Moving in and out of a restless sleep, I kept repeating to myself, "Is this a dream.^ How can it be real.'^ What do I do next.^ Why me.'^ Why me at this point of time, here in this place.'^"

  Saturday, Nov. 23

  I want to get pictures of Ted's secret cabin so bad, but

  the weather is terrible and still snowing and cold. I will have to wait. Haven't heard from the FBI in months.

  Sunday, No. 24

  Still can't go back. When this storm gets over I will go back up, no matter how deep the snow is. I hope that Dave Weber calls. Got to get pictures.

  Welcome

  to Florence Gulch

  When Ted Kaczynski had moved to Lincoln and purchased his small plot of land on June 19, 1971, with his younger brother, David, as a co-owner, the area surrounding his 1.4 acres was virtually uninhabited. Only two seasonal cabins, seldom used, and the remnants of one old miner's cabin upstream were located near small and narrow, secluded Florence Gulch, where he built his little one-room home cabin.

  Ted's place, located on the very fringe of private land bordering Forest Service property, was the perfect spot for a man who wanted to live in solitary harmony with nature. With the hustle of the twentieth century buffered and filtered by thousands of acres of rugged mountainous terrain, Ted, as a vigorous young man in his late twenties, was determined to carve out a nineteenth century lifestyle.

  A crystal clear spring. Canyon Creek, gurgled through the undergrowth less than 100 feet from the small, flat spot where he built his roughly framed cabin. That first summer, while leveling out an area and laying timbers for the wood floor, he broke ground on the west side for a garden. It was one of the few spots with an opening in the canopy of lodgepole pines, Douglas-fir, quaking aspens, and dense undergrowth where sunlight could penetrate.

  It was perfect: With everything nature and the land provided, and more, there was total privacy. Little did Ted know just how drastically all that would change in the years ahead.

  I first met Ted shortly after he moved to Lincoln, within the first year or two. At that time, besides me, only Ted, Kenny Lee, an older man who lived below Ted, and the Halls, an older couple who lived across from me, resided in this area along or near the Stemple Road.

  My lifestyle at that time wasn't much different from Ted's, and in some ways, it was even more primitive. I lived in a tent and then a camper during those early years, until I moved a mobile home onto my land at the mouth of McClellan Gulch.

  Our first encounter was brief and uneventful. I was driving my blue and white Chew 4X4 pickup into town when I spotted Ted walking along Stemple Road. Dressed in dark blue denim pants, a green canvas army jacket and hiking boots, he was headed toward Lincoln, a little more than three miles to the north. He carried a small pack over his shoulders, but he didn't appear to be a vagrant. His dark brown hair was short, cut up over his ears. He wore no beard. Because he was walking and was unfamiliar to me, I thought he might need help. I stopped and offered him a ride. He cordially declined, so I went on my way.

  Not long after that I saw him walking again, not far from the spot where I saw him the first time. I pulled over again and offered him a ride.

  "No, thank you," he replied.

  "Okay" I responded, and then went on to say, "I'm Chris. I live just up the road in McClellan Gulch."

  He nodded, but turned from the truck and started to walk again, so I pulled away, heading down the washboard gravel road to Lincoln.

  I had heard someone had moved into Florence Gulch and had built a cabin. After several other chance encounters, I assumed he was the one.

  Each time I saw Ted along the road, Ld stop and offer him a ride. He always declined, but each time Ld tell him a little more about myself. I also was asking around and found out from a friend, Butch Gehring, that the Kaczynski brothers had purchased their land from Butch's father. Cliff. Butch didn't live near Ted at the time, so he didn't know much else about him.

  Then one afternoon in mid-summer of 1972, ever persistent, I stopped one more time to offer him a ride.

  Much to my surprise, he accepted.

  Even though I was always the dominant talker, I learned my first details about Ted during that ten-minute ride to Lincoln. His voice was high pitched, slightly nasal, almost whiny. It didn't take me long

  ro i;ct used to it, though, and I didn't think anything more about it. l^ut it was the kind of xoice I could still pick out in a crowd of thousands.

  He talked about the cabin he had built by himself, his garden, and some of the places where he liked to hike. I was amazed by the distance he co ered on foot, een though he looked strong, lean and sinewy. He said he had even explored Copper Creek Basin, more than twenty miles away. He obviously was in excellent shape.

  When Ted first mo ed to Lincoln he drove a Chevelle, which he sold or traded later for an early 1950s dark blue Chevy pickup. After that broke down, he didn't drive it anymore. I offered to fix it for free, but he said he liked to walk and would rather travel on foot. He later sold it for a pittance, $25, to a man who had moved into the area. Within a few years of arriving in the area, Ted had rid himself of motorized transportation.

  Ted continued to walk everywhere he went until he got his first bicycle in the mid-'7()s. Even after he started to travel on the bike, he still spent most of his time hiking. The scope of the areas he covered on foot w^as astounding. He thoroughly explored entire sections north and south of Stemple Road to the top of the 6,376-foot pass and far beyond, east and west, rugged and heavily timbered areas fifteen to twenty miles from his cabin.

  He was methodical and calculating, plotting every^ trail he explored on topographical maps that were found after his arrest in his cabin hidden among thousands of pages of documents. As we got to know each other better, we often shared information about the areas around Lincoln. Whenever I talked to Ted about trails and special places I enjoyed that were unfamiliar to him, he would listen intently. He wouldn't usually tell me if he had been to a certain spot I described, but I knew if he had or not by his almost imperceptible signs of interest, usually a slight nodding of his head or his attentiveness.

  Ted's most distinguishing trait was his demeanor. He was the most solemn and serious person I had ever met. Like the rest of the world I now^ study the famous "hooded sweatshirt" sketch and the photographs from his university days. Others may look for the madness or the brilliance. I look for the Ted I knew. I search for the somber lean face I grew^ accustomed to seeing on the passenger side

  of my truck, the high cheekbones and thin neck that held his head high, with chin jutting forward. His seriousness was much less noticeable in the early years; as time passed it became far stronger. He was always friendly and spoke cordially to me, but he was always deep in thought.

  His reasons for walking everywhere or riding a bicycle instead of driving a vehicle became evident after he told me one day he could live on less than $200 a year after paying property taxes. I was amazed. Anybody who was able to exist, literally, on less than $20 a month in this era was to be commended. How could he do it.^ I admired him. It was then I realized that license plates, insurance and upkeep, even on an old pickup, would greatly exceed his annual budget, not even considering fuel and oil expense. Not only did he believe in his way of life, he lived it.

  I had learned a lot about Lincoln and the surrounding country as a boy growing up in Helena, Montana's capital city some fifty miles up and over the Continental Divide to the southeast. My best friend's family owned a cabin in Lincoln, and we spent many summertime weeks and months together there fishing, hunting, and exploring. We even fished the ponds located on the north end of the property I now own. How could I have known as a boy I would end up living on the very property we had explored.^ All that time spent fishing and hiking as a child gave me a desire to live in the Lincoln area. After buying
the lower end of the gulch before Ted arrived in Lincoln, I too spent countless hours hiking and exploring, especially in the Stemple Pass area southeast of town.

  All the experiences in the woods, plus time spent working for the Forest Service in the mid-'70s as a slash crew^ foreman, gave me a great foundation of knowledge about the mountains around Lincoln, information I was happy to share with Ted.

  I also had collected a large library on the history of the area and the early pioneers and miners, their ways of life and how they survived; these topics always captivated Ted. He'd listen intently, especially when I'd describe wild edible and medicinal plants and the places where they grew nearby.

  We often talked about old mines in the Stemple area. I also shared a lot of information about "my" gulch, McClellan, spots and cabins

  scattered from the top of McC'lcIlan (iulch to its mouth near Stemple Road, an area nearly four miles lon^^.

  I told Ted more than once how much I loved my gulch and how it was blocked off to preserxe it, to keep it pristine, private and unspoiled. And most of all, I made it clear I would neer sell it. I'he gulch is its ow n wilderness area that spreads out from its mouth on Stemple Road like an outstretched hand into five drainages, each with a small stream that quenches its initial thirst in the shadows of the Continental Divide.

  During the first few years, our conversations centered mainly on history; survival techniques, food gathering, hunting spots and food preseration. While Ted felt comfortable and would talk freely about the land and how to live off it, other topics were clearly off limits.

  He was vague about his personal life, his past, places he'd lived, and his family. Ted always became tense when asked anything personal; his deep-set eyes, dark brown and penetrating, shut out such conversations immediately. The reaction was so obvious, I was careful not to probe too deeply, respecting his space. Ted never once, in twenty-five years, mentioned anything about his mother, which was unusual. Guys always end up talking about their moms. It's a natural thing. I never pried into his family life or questioned him about his mother. I thought perhaps she had died, maybe even in childbirth, and it was a painful event in his life.