WE WERE ON A CROSS-COUNTRY ROUTE,
ascending a gentle g ully, when R ick Sa nger—
or “Ra nger R ick,” as he was known for nea rly
two decades in Sequoia and Kings Canyon
National Parks—bolted past me in a full
sprint. His elbows were pumping, his boots
were kicking up gravel, and the hiking pole in
his right ha nd was pointed sky wa rd, gripped
in the manner that one might wield a sword
while charging an enemy—or hightailing it
away from one.
Startled, I glanced over my shoulder to
see if I should be running too. But there
was nothing behind us with claws or fangs,
only granite and a few old burled snags,
their haunting but harmless limbs reaching
up into the lingering edge of an afternoon
thunderstorm.
I turned to face uphill again and watched
as Rick, in full stride, charged up the rock-
strewn gully. He moved not with the clumsy,
bouncing gait you’d expect from a man run-
ning uphill with a 30-pound backpack, but
rather with the f lowing rhythm and grace of
something freakish, like a genetic blend of
mountain goat and ninja.
I scanned the landscape ahead, search-
ing for whatever had precipitated this
bizarre behavior, and a metallic glint
caught my eye. It was 30 or 40 yards ahead
of Rick, up near the top of the slope and
drifting toward him across a ridge that con-
verged with the gully we were climbing.
It was to that intersection he ran, leaped,
and, with a veritable battle cry, brought his
hiking pole down upon a bouquet of bal-
loons riding the air currents. He pinned the
shiny mylar to the gravelly soil, his chest
heaving as he caught his breath.
I reached him just in time for the coup de
grâce, a fata l downward stab with his hikingpole, both hands on the “hilt” just for effect.
“That was for Randy,” he said with a grin as
he picked up the def lated mass and shoved it
in the side pocket of his pack.
Randy Morgenson had been not only
a legendary wilderness ranger in these
mountains, but a personal friend and
mentor to Rick. Their mutual disdain for
garbage—dubbed “backpacker detritus”
by Morgenson—came from hauling gunny-
sacks full of it out of the backc o u n t r y.
Balloons were, and still remain, a sore
point with rangers. The flying garbage
ends up anywhere and everywhere, usu-
ally crumpled on the windward slopes
of the higher peaks or tangled among
the branches of whatever cedar, pine, or
willow stands in its f light path when the
helium runs out. The metallic versions,
like this one, f lash relentlessly like signal
mirrors. “They intrude upon the most
sacred places with their banal messages,”
R ick sa id. “ To catch one in the act a nd hack
it down is a drea m come tr ue.”
When the adrenaline subsided, and we
stopped laughing, I felt a presence, a silent
observer to our antics. Rick’s efforts had
brought us into view of our trip’s objective—
Mt. Morgenson.T
HE 13,920-FOOT, SOUTHERN SIERRA
peak is unofficially named after
the esteemed Sequoia and Kings
Canyon backcountr y ranger who
had, over the course of more than 30 years
of service, become as famous for the volume
of garbage he lugged out of the mountains
as he was for his wilderness stewardship,
gentle kindness, and an uncanny ability to
find lost or missing hikers and climbers.
Which explains why the ranger community
was shocked when, in July of 1996, Randy
Morgenson himself went missing.
That summer, Rick was a just a second-
year backcountry ranger and considered
Randy the wisest man in these mountains.
When Randy failed to check in by radio for
several days, Rick hiked through the night
to his mentor’s duty station at Bench Lake
(above) and discovered a note confirming
he was overdue from a cross-countr y patrol.
It spurred one of the most intense and emo-
tionally draining search-and-rescue opera-
tions in National Park Service history, in
large part because the rangers were search-
ing for one of their own. Thirteen days
later, the official search, which included
helicopters, dog teams, and dozens upon
dozens of volunteers, was called off. Not aW
JULY/AUGUST 2019
82 BACKPACKER.COM