At some indefinable point in our friendship, David invited me to go backpacking with him. I didn’t know then what a special gesture he had made, because while he was open and friendly to everyone, he let very few into the sanctity of his wilderness world.

It was to be a hiking trip I will never forget. I had backpacked most of my life, but windsurfing and raising a family (yes, in that chronological order) had kept me off the trail far too long. This was my re-birth into the wilderness. THANK YOU DAVID! As a bonus, we would go to Yosemite’s Cathedral Lakes with some of David’s longest standing buddies, Dennis Motulewicz, who was able to carry 3 six packs in his pack and still climb the falls entry route, and Danny Spiess, the witty and humble organizer of this annual trip.

Some of the highlights included off trail hiking at night with headlamps and a touch of rock climbing just for good measure; having a bear raid the beer in our creek “cooler” causing an “Easter egg” hunt downstream for the beers that broke free ; getting drenched by a surprise thunderstorm ; enjoying that years theme “pico-de-gallo” style dinner and seeing first hand that my new friend David had few, if any , inhibitions, especially when it came to swimming. What a guy! I was in, re-awakened and loving it.

This was the first of many amazing trips into the wilderness with David. We found lots of time for talk, but when it turned to real adventure, one place would always pop up. This place held sacred status, a secretive nature and fish as long as your arm. Or so the stories would go. David spent much of his adventurous life in many special places, but I think Wooley Creek had the strongest pull. Almost as a pre-requisite most of his better friends were veterans of this magical place.

I was a latecomer to the inner sanctum, but my chance finally came in the year 2000. January of course ; raining, of course ; dark, cold, high water, of course ; everything was in place. Magic, of course. Michael Smith got first, biggest and most with a 10 inch trout! That didn’t matter. I’d had a taste of the place and best of all I got to see David at home on hallowed ground.

Wooley Creek stories could fill a book, a damn good book too. I hope this inspires those who have partaken to jot down some memories before they are forgotten. The night of trees, the night of cats, the big snow trips, wading naked into freezing water to unsnag the last silver mepps #3 lure, feeling for the trail on hands and knees in pitch darkness with fishing rod in hand after fish lust had driven us too far upstream and so many more stories that need to be told.

David’s last trip up there was memorable as always, but of course it now holds a deeper meaning. He and I went up on Super Bowl weekend of 2006. As rainy winters go, that was one of the rainier. New Years Day saw 15 inches fall in 24 hours in Marin County, so you can imagine what the Marble Mountains were like. Standing in front of Fowler Cabin, a driftwood line showed the creek had been 10-12 vertical feet higher than its present, blown-out stage.

Fishing was ridiculous. I put my gear away early, but David just refused to give up. After probably fifty trips in over 35 years he knew that patience could be rewarded no matter how bad it looked. So one after another, I followed him down the steep, slippery chutes and thru wet, brushy tangles to secret holes next to water too swift to even think of falling into. David had a story and a name for every hole.

It was fruitless, but that wasn’t important. Fish lust was only the bait that got us here. The drive up and back with unbroken hours of talk, passing through rockslides, Indian reservations, Cinnibar Sams, the hike in and back out-hoping not too many trees were down on the trail and hoping that all our car parts and the car would still be sitting in the muddy parking area upon our return. With David, something interesting happened about every ten minutes. I just kept my eyes open and went along for the ride.

There are a bunch of unnamed step-over creeks on the 10 mile hike in. David had names for them all (Drink Creek, Departure Creek, Green Creek, Quiet Corner) and had a story at every bend in the trail. We soon saw that this year, the usual, easy step-over creeks were taking a bit of figuring out. This meant the creeks with names on the map (not that we ever carried a map) like Deer Lick and Gates would be especially tricky. Upon reaching Deer Lick it was obvious that we couldn’t cross near the trail, but I found a slippery log downstream where we crossed using the sit-n-slide method. A fall so close to Wooley Creek was out of the question.

We took the high route to Fowler Cabin, once again being thankful for the steel bridges over Haypress and Bridge Creeks. Getting to the cabin was always a special time. First to dispel any fears that someone may already be in there (it never happened), then just to sit at the table and soak in the place we had worked so hard to get to. The nice wood stove, the green hue cast by the fiberglass roof panels and the mandatory read of the cabins moldy log book were all part of the arrival ritual.

After a couple days in there we packed up, probably left some witty note in the log book like, “ran out of guacamole dip before half-time, otherwise the Super Bowl party was a big success…GO STEELERS!” and hit the trail. Of course with David you don’t just hike straight out. You have to hit every hole that history has proven productive or maybe just look like it should be. This means that as darkness falls, and probably the rain too, we are still two to three hours from the parking lot. I never hiked with a headlight or a watch until I hiked with David. The reason for the headlight was obvious, but the watch was really just for my own curiosity. It was useless trying to rush Wooley Creek Man.

On that high run-off trip of 2006, our creek crossing moves had become crisp and strong. Luckily there weren’t too many downed trees, so we could save our energy for the creeks. The trail traverses a steep slope where trees seem to fall in two directions, either straight across, or worse, all along the trail. The first are relatively easy to get over or under, but when the main trunk falls along the trail its lush branches form a long green wall. Sort of like climbing the tree while it is lying down. As we entered the challenging obstacle, David would call out “use your swim move”.

Shortly before dark with David in the lead, we came to a fairly benign crossing. There were no rocks to hop across and it was too wide to jump. We could easily have found another way across, but apparently David was feeling frisky, he turned to me quickly and said, “I’m gonna pole vault this!” Reaching down, he scooped up a petite log about 6’ long and placed it mid-stream. Without hesitation he launched himself, pack, new camera and all for the far shore.

It was the smoothest, cleanest move I have ever seen. That big man made the distance with no visible effort. My heart soared as his boots just cleared the water and found terra firma. The creek crossing bar had been raised.

That’s when his pole snapped. With his weight not yet over his feet, David’s back side found the creek in slow motion. Cold, clear water slurped up his chest as he clutched the useless upper half of the stick that had tricked him. “Someone left that there on purpose”, he said.

He rolled out of the pit, his trusty, patched olive drab wool pants draining onto the trail. Then he noticed a single drop of water inside the lens of his new camera. An incredible photographer, he became fixated on that evil intruder and the bad things it could bring to his art.

There was nothing I could do, and I just really needed to chuckle somewhere that he couldn’t hear me. So I hiked ahead, my trail active mind beginning to fill with the humor of the event. For weeks to come the Threlfall mailbox would be filled with camp brochures, equipment catalogs and even a Pole Vault Academy t-shirt listing the top 20 excuses for missing a vault. ”My stick broke” wasn’t one of them, I had my chuckle.

After a short bit I turned and waited for David to catch me. “We have to get out in front of this” he said with a grin, “if it gets back to town it will just be ridiculous!” I turned to hike on with an off-handed “what do you mean WE?”

The next creek was Deer Lick, by far our toughest crossing. A couple hours earlier we had run into the new caretaker of Hoover Cabin. We discussed crossing Deer Lick and his advice was to go above the trail where it was easier as the stream spread out in spots. We took note. With this “local knowledge” in mind we approached our last hurdle. When you think of a deer licking something, terror does not usually come to mind. It can for those who have ventured into Wooley Creek Land.

Deer Lick. The crossing was scary to me, tho David, river man that he was, probably didn’t think so. He just didn’t want to get wet again. The sit-n-scoot log was the proven method, but we had the “new info”. We were going high in search of the easy step-over and we weren’t coming down until we were across.

We didn’t see the easy crossing as advertised, so I decided to throw my pack across a section I figured I couldn’t jump with it on. Pole vaulting was out of the question. David took aim with his camera for a photo that would never happen. I flung my pack across. It stuck, then slowly rolled back into the swift current, speeding toward Wooley Creek and oblivion. I leapt across and sprinted after it in hopes of catching my small, floating world.

By a miracle my pack caught on something just above the trail crossing allowing me to finally outrun it. I stood on the trail just out of reach waiting for it to break free so I could grab it. Suddenly, to my surprise, David appeared across the creek from me. He had dropped his camera and pack and sprinted down the other side. Then, without even looking over at me, he lunged for the pack.

His feet slipped and he went in up to his waist. He was back up as fast as he had gone down with my pack in his hands. Then, over the creeks roar, I heard him scream and grab his hand. A few weeks later he would finally go to the doctor and learn that his finger had been dislocated. We wrung out his 10#, soaked polar fleece top, mounted our headlights and scooted across the log for the last time.

We had each failed. David at pole vaulting, me at pack tossing. So we should have been even, but I was fine and he was hurt and wet, twice. It wasn’t fair. He said he thought my car keys were in there, but I know he would have rescued that pack no matter what. He was a man who understood the importance of such a thing. In the wilderness a pack is like an old friend who he would do anything for.

We made it back. In the dark of course. The car was still there and it started. It was Monday night, David had a tick embedded in his chest. Then we realized we were probably the only two people in America that didn’t know who had won the Super Bowl.

We could not have been happier.

( Kurt Feeter, July 4, 2007, Desolation Wilderness)