My Dad decided to make a trip into the Superstition Mountains by himself. I was in the Army and stationed in Korea, and there were some places he wanted to explore. He understood the risks and he knew the kind of people who lived in the mountains. Just earlier that year he had been in a prospector's camp when one of the men came back in, handed a .30-30 to the camp leader and said, "That red-headed SOB won't bother us anymore!" He never asked any questions or even let on like he heard anything. Some things were best forgotten.

One dark morning he loaded his backpack and his gun into the truck and set out for the mountains. Light was just breaking in the east when he parked near the base of what is called Battleship Rock. He strapped on his gun, settled the backpack, and started out. He wanted to get up off the desert floor before the heat came on.

The climb was uneventful. The trail winds up the side of the mountain on a series of ledges, sometimes only feet wide. To one side is a drop-off of varying height. To the other side a cliff. Often the ledges are yards wide, in some places nearly 30 yards, and fairly thick with brush. Cattle, wild critters, and humans have made a trail that is easy to follow up the rocky slopes. Winding around through the brush and rocks each turn gives you a fresh view of the land and the wild mountain interior. As he made his way up and the sun climbed in the sky the country unfolded below him. He later related to me, "I was standing on a ledge looking out over the country, enjoying the view, when below me a few miles out, an airplane went by. It made you feel like you were on top of everything."

It was after noon by the time he reached the top and he stopped in the shade of a large outcropping rock for some lunch. After eating a bite he began to make his way across the top of the mountain. There were some Indian markings he wanted to check out and he wanted to see the view from several places. He spent several hours poking around and as he told me later, "The time nearly got away from me." When he saw how late it was getting he immediately started his return trip down the mountain. He was not afraid to do it in the dark - he carried a flashlight as normal part of his gear. But he knew how easily a trip in the hills can turn bad and he did not want to risk more than was normal.

He always went armed. Everyplace. This day was no exception. His gun was a well-worn Ruger flat-top .44 Magnum 6 1/2" and he had it loaded with his standard load using the Keith semi-wadcutter bullet. He had used that bullet for years, over a dose of 2400 powder, and he was good with it.

Coming down off Battleship he took his time, not wanting to rush things and possibly have an accident. The first part of the trail down was fairly easy. Then there was a section that was heavy with brush. This area was fairly expansive. As he made his way through it he began to realize he was being followed.

He told me later on, "I was coming down the side of the mountain in that area after you go across the ridge tops. The ledges there are 20 - 30 yards wide and one section is maybe a quarter mile long going down the mountain. It's rocky and cut up some, but easy enough to handle. As I was going along I began to realize I was hearing someone behind me, moving through the brush off the to side. Well, I slowed down and so did they. When I would stop I would hear some movement and then they would stop. They did not move until I started moving again. You know how hard it is to be quiet in that brush, what with the catclaw grabbing at your clothes and scraping on the twigs and stuff? Well, they could hear me and I could hear them."

I wondered aloud if it was maybe a cow or some critter following. He said it could have been, but he was not sure. He did not think it was a Mountain Lion for they just don't make that kind of noise. And it "..seemed as if it was a 2-footed creature.." though he could not be positive about that. But one thing he did know. Every time he moved, it moved. And whenever he stopped it stopped. Whoever or whatever was following him, they had no good intentions in mind. If it was a human you just do not do that kind of thing in that type of country! If it wasn't human it had no business stalking him.

This game went on for a few minutes until he had it fixed in his mind where the follower was in the brush behind him. Then, he told me, "I started to walk and as I did I slipped the .44 out of it's holster. When I heard the movement behind me I turned and fired at it." He said he aimed the gun so as to hit about waist level and that he fired 4 shots, moving the gun from left to right ever so slightly so as to cover an area about 6 feet wide as he fired.

He reloaded quickly and waited a bit, crouched down by the trail. After some time, and not hearing anything he then made his way on down the trail. He said he never heard anyone or anything behind him the rest of the way down the mountain. He got back to his truck after dark with no problems.

I asked him if he ever thought about going back to see if there was anything in the brush there on that mountainside. He was brief but absolutely clear in his reply. "I would rather not know." he said.

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Ele era velho.
Ele era corajoso.
Ele era feio.

Great story, thanks for sharing.

If you knew your Dad, you don't forget him.

Shame there aren't many wild places left in the lower 48. I have to go further and further into the desert to escape the side by sides and dirt bikes these days.

Dave

Thanks!