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| May 11, 2020 Shelton Mason County Journal |  |
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ON THE TRAIL
Thursday, June 11, 2020 — Shelton-Mason County Journal Page A-37
The manhunt, the mountain, the mushroom, the muse
in- Hoodsport, you can be sipping
coffee by 8:30 a.m. in sunny down-
town Cle Elum, the unofficial gateway
to Central Washington’s “morel coun-
try,” the Cascade Mountain slopes
where the wild fungus is found abun-
dantly (when moist spring weather
lends a hand).
Morels, even when abundant, are
difficult to find, delicious to eat, and
require an Everest-
-like assault in terms
of hiking gear, tents,
sleeping bags, camp
kitchen and all the
rest if you plan on
living in the woods
to hunt and eat
If you leave your house by 5- a.m.
them over the long
I ' Memorial Day week-
By MARK end — usually the
WOYTCWICH climax of the season.-
However, this
‘ ' past Memorial ’
Day provided a climax of a distinctly
different Sort. My good friend and
mushroom hunting partner, Chuck,
foreshadowed this by mentioning‘tlfat ’
he’d seen a recent Facebook post from
a local mushroom club recountingthé "
brash, daylight theft of a hunter’s tent
and other camping gear.
“That’s not normal,” I said. “People
don’t mess with other people’s camp-
sites.” I
“Well, in this case, they did,”
Chuck said.
“Where did it happen?” I asked.
“Right at Mineral Springs, Where
we hunted last week.”
Totally wrong, I thought, about
inVasions of privacy. I’d been camping
in the wilds for 40 yearsand I’d never
come close to anyone messing with my
stuff. '
We finished our conversation, our
coffee, and drove out of Cle Elum,
Chuck in his car following me and my
wife, Linda. We took US. Highway '
97 and slowly climbed toward Blewett
Pass. ‘
THE MANHUNT
“What the heck is that?” Linda
said, sitting straight in her seat. '
Foreshadow No. 2: the flashing
highway. sign, 6 miles south of Min-
eral Springs, which last week had
wished “Stay home, stay
safe, stay healthy W ,” now flashed
an ominous "‘Do Not Pick Up Hitch-
hikers,” followed by “Armed Suspect
in Area.” ’ .
Within minutes we were flagged
to a halt, long lines of trafficin both
directions being squeezed through a
gauntlet of parked police cars, orange
road signs, orange cones and men in
orange vests. A highway patrolman
with a flashlight looked into our car,
then waved us through.
By the time we slowly motored to
the old resort at Mineral Springs, we
had counted two dozen police cars
parked along the highway shoulder.
At least 30 more waited in the park-
ing lot at the springs, along with a
SWAT armored vehicle, four or five
German shepherds tugging at their
leashes, a helicopter hovering over
the nearest ridge, and men with
clipboards, walkie-talkies and “FBI”
blazoned in White on the back of their
bulletproof vests. The place looked
like a war Zone. .
“This is slightly bigger than a
campsite robbery,” I said.
The most striking image was yet
to come. At the turnoffs to every for—
est road the very roads we had
V planned on taking to our camp, as
well as our mushroom patches ~ now
however, each road was blocked by a
the king bolete, left, and the black morel. Journal photo by Mark Woytowich
sheriff’s car and another pair of pick-
Up trucks, with armed men standing
beside them. '
“Wow, they’re cordoning Off the
area,” I said. ’
Linda managed to pull something
off the internet after typing “Police,
FBI, manhunt, Mineral Springs” into
her phone.
“Turkey hunter missing near Lib-
erty (about 4 miles away), and then
turkey hunter’s truck seen later, be-
ing driven by another man,” she read.
“That’s not good,” I said.
Man goes into woods, never comes
out. Another man seen later, using
his stuff. How many Western movies
needed only that for a premise?
Roadblbcks kept us to the highway
all the way to Swauk Campground,
just short of Blewett Pass. At the
pass, we pulled into the Discovery
Trail parking lot and cooled our en-
gines while we formulated Plan B
with Chuck. '
“Must be a hundred Iawmen and
volunteers,” he said. We can’t go back
down. We’re going to have to camp in
the high country,” he said.
“It’ll be fine,” I replied. “Besides,
this is where we’re supposed to meet
Becky.”
THE MOUNTAIN
Becky, 39, was a new addition to
our extended family, a great hiker,
camper and all-around lover of the
outdoors. Freshly returned to America
after living in Bolivia for many years,
she is the kind of feisty, independent,
outspoken woman that both my wife
and I admire.
We got to hunting right away, ex-
ploring a moist, shady pocket known
for nurturing late-season morels. We
had three hours before our rendez—
vous with Becky and we made the
most of it, scoring a few dozen meaty
mushrooms, Linda clipping the larg—
est.
Becky. and her 1-year-old daugh-
ter arrived right on time and, after a
few nervous minutes of mocking the
“armed suspect” situation, we decided
our immediate priority was finding a
good campsite. V
“Hopefully no midnight visit-from
Mr. Armed and Dangerous,” Becky
said.
Becky Hollender holds two prized 'mushrooms found on the eastern sl
I took the lead up the mountain
'road from the pass, three cars new
climbing toward Haney Meadow, a
long way off. The massive flat-topped
peak northeast of Blewett Pass, some
6,000 feet high, still clung to a few
stripes of snow, and with each turn
opes of the Cascade Mountains in spring:
of the snaking road, {I could see we
were gaining in height, almost pulling
even.
I became concerned for the welfare
of our group, in particular Becky and
see TRAIL,- page A-39
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