Stranger than Fiction
November 20, 2023
By Jerry J. Jacques & CS Norwood
© 2023 Jerry J. Jacques & CS Norwood
Strangers often make strange and dangerous things happen in the frozen north. To know that’s true, read the book titled The Mad Trapper of Rat River by Dick North. Between that tale and this story of The Mysterious Skier in the Talkeetna Mountains eerie similarities in the behavior of the trapper and the skier come to light. Both were ultimately brought to justice, and, while I wasn’t born at the time of the mad trapper, I played a significant role in apprehending the Mysterious Skier in the Talkeetna Mountains. Here’s what happened…
For me it started on a spring bear hunt in the Talkeetna Mountains with a fine gentleman from Salt Lake City named Theron Jolly. It was a spring hunt in a late spring and deep snow. We were flown into Frenchy Lake via ski-plane by Don Lee and had already hunted eight days in that location.
On April 10th, my birthday, Theron and I were walking back to the cabin when I heard something behind me. Before I realized what was happening, I was knocked face down over the top of my snowshoes into the snow. Don Lee was celebrating our birthdays (which is on the same day) had bought a pizza for me from the newly created Talkeetna deli and flown it out, airdropping it to us. His aim was spot-on.
Don found our tracks from the air, followed ΄em, spied us in the distance, dropped power on the airplane, made a stealthy descent at the last moment, and just before he was gonna pass us, threw the pizza out the open door of the airplane.
The pizza box hit me square in the middle of my backpack and had enough momentum behind it to knock me face first down into the snow. The pizza was still warm but had rolled itself up inside the box Don had duct taped together like a pizza roll. But that did not affect the taste whatsoever! That was one great tasting birthday pizza!
A few days later, Don picked us up and flew us back to Talkeetna. We were still unsuccessful after ten days hunting. Theron and I regrouped, got showers, and chose another location to fly into for our hunt.
Larry Rivers flew us into the new location at the headwaters of Iron Creek. This camp overlooked both Iron Creek and the headwaters of Sheep River. After we’d set up camp, I noticed another camp about five miles from us on the opposite side of the drainage. I scoped it and realized there was a mountaineering tent set up in a location where hunting season was not yet open.
Later that day, Theron spotted two skiers making their way to the tent. Putting the spotting scope on the duo, I decided they were not outfitted for hunting. They weren’t dressed like hunters, and they had no rifles. They were just backcountry skiing in the remote Talkeetna Mountains. This was sort of an odd sporting proclivity for the mid-80s, but not unheard of.
Theron and I spent the next seven days looking for a bear with no success, although we hunted diligently within range of our camp.
From our second day out, though, I began feeling a little uneasy about our neighbors. Aside from the oddity of camping in such a remote wilderness for backcountry skiing, after that second day, we only saw one skier—never again the second person. Theron and I thought it was a little odd, but we were occupied with our own camp and our hunt. We didn’t talk much more about it at the time.
At the pre-arranged time for us to be picked up, Jim Oceanic flew in his Super Cub on skis and picked us up. Our hunt was over, and Theron returned to Salt Lake City, planning to come back in the fall and hunt with me again.
Theron returned in September. He and Ed Wick and I floated the Talkeetna River above the Susitna, and he was able to take an exceptionally nice bull moose on that raft trip.
The next winter, I decided to try to do some wolf hunting and visit my friends in the Talkeetna Mountains farther north. Like most places in the far north, there are no roads leading in. The only modern-day access to the four year-round residents around Stephan Lake is via airplane. In the olden days, you packed in on a very long, hazardous journey. On this visit, I chose my own modes of conveyance.
Prairie Creek joins the Susitna River above Devils Canyon to the Talkeetna River at roughly 62º33’ N and 149º16’ W. The lively creek widens into Stephan Lake just a few miles below the Susitna River.
From altitude, the long narrow Stephan Lake looks somewhat like a slightly bent leg with a nice-sized foot attached toeing off to the west.
Bob and Myrna are the caretakers for Stephan Lake Lodge, a beautifully remote lodge boasting its own airstrip. The lodge sits on the eastern shore just below the lake’s ‘kneecap.’ At the downstream toe-end of the lake lives Tom McElroy, an old-time, retired guide who had purchased all hunting-guide-legend Oscar Vogel’s cabins in the Talkeetna Mountains and his house on the end of Stephan Lake.
At this point, the lake narrows again into Prairie Creek. The water in this slough is often so shallow, rafters portage the short distance to Murder Lake which opens only a few more miles downstream from the end of Stephan.
This is where my good friend, John Ireland, made his home.
A few days after Christmas I took the train from Talkeetna to Gold Creek and then, using my Backcountry mountaineering skis, made my way to Stephan Lake. The first person I visited was John Ireland.
We caught up on our life stories and then John told me an odd incident that happened on Christmas Day. He said he saw someone skiing on the far shore of Murder Lake. When John first noticed the skier, he thought it was me, knowing that I was gonna show up on skis that winter. When he scoped the skier with his binoculars, though, he clearly saw that it was not me.
John Ireland was a hermit, but he was also a welcoming man, especially to someone brave enough to venture so deep into the Alaskan wilderness. John would judge that person to be a kindred spirit—at least until proven wrong. So, John yelled over a welcoming, “Hey, come on over for a hot cup a tea!”
John thought it was odd when the skier just put his head down and skied off as fast as he could, clearly shunning the invitation.
Being a hermit himself, John just ignored the behavior and didn’t think much of it until later in the afternoon. A few hours had passed when he snowshoed to Tom McElroy’s cabin for a Christmas dinner the friends had planned to share. Bob and Myrna were coming for the celebration, as well. The couple were riding their snow machine from the lodge to Tom’s cabin when they noticed a man skiing up the frozen, snow-covered lake. About the time they noticed each other closing the gap, the skier immediately made a hard right turn and disappeared into the trees—apparently his maneuver was made to avoid them.
They thought this was strange behavior. Not many people venture into that part of the world during the winter, so the few who do are usually outgoing, open, and friendly when they see someone.
When they got to Tom’s cabin, John was there, and they told their friends this odd story of the shadowy lone skier. John piped in with what he’d seen earlier that day as just a very odd occurrence.
The next day after I visited John, I skied up to Tom McElroy’s place and spent the day with him. Tom had been a very prolific trapper in his younger days, but now that he was in his seventies, his trapline wasn’t as long as before.
“How’s your trapping going this year?” I asked.
“It’s the worst trapping season I’ve had in thirty years! I sure don’t know what’s going on,” he said in exasperation. We talked about the potential reasons for the poor season but produced few answers.
The next day I skied up to the Stephan Lake Lodge and visited Bob and Myrna. Now, visiting these friends was not my only reason for being there. I was hoping to come across a wolverine or wolf to shoot. I had packed along my Steyr SSG chambered in .308 using full metal jacket non-expanding bullets so as not to damage the hides. Those hides were quite valuable in near-pristine condition—that is, not all shot up with holes.
Bob and Myrna also told me the story of the skier who was avoiding everybody in the area. Listening to my friends describe this elusive skier, I got the idea in my head that perhaps this person was poaching Tom’s trapping area. I reckoned he could be the reason Tom was having such a bad trapping season.
When I told Bob what I was thinking, he said that made sense to him.
“That’s a good possibility why this person’s avoiding everybody in the area,” he agreed.
I’d seen the ski tracks as I had skied between John and Tom’s places, and then between there and Bob and Myrna’s lodge. I knew where they’d cut off, so the next day I decided to go see if I could find this mysterious skier and confront him for trapping around Tom’s historic trapping area. I talked and ate and visited with my friends into the evening before calling it a night.
Early the next morning, I donned my snow camo and strapped on my backcountry skies, checking my Steyr SSG before slinging it over my shoulder. I skied out to where the tracks had disappeared into the woods. I followed the tracks that led to an old cabin hidden from Stephan Lake but not far away. When I skied up to the cabin, what I found was also odd. Instead of the big stacks of firewood you’d expect to find, there were piles of small-brush wood scattered everywhere in front of the cabin. It was quiet; apparently no one was there. The outer door opened into what I’d call an Arctic entranceway, filled with more small sticks. There was no cut wood. These sticks had obviously been gathered by hand.
I went back outside and reconnoitered, soon identifying the skier’s tracks leading away from the cabin. They led off toward the high country, and I decided to follow.
I kept to his tracks for about half a day when I saw a skier coming downhill towards me.
Being on his tracks, with him backtracking his own trail, I knew he would come right past me. I got slightly off the trail into the brush, concealing myself in what I would call an ambush position.
I took my pack off and made sure I had a round in the chamber of my rifle, then laid the rifle across my pack and sat down. I was hunkered down between two small hills where a skier would have to use his poles to get up the other side.
Because of my snow camo and the fact that the skier was not expecting anybody, he hadn’t noticed me conceal myself.
I didn’t have long to wait before he skied down this little hill, hit the flats, and started using his poles to go up. When he was fifteen feet away from me, I called out, “Hey! How are you doing?”
The poor guy almost jumped out of his winter gear.
My rifle was in a position that I could have easily reached and pulled the trigger—not that I planned on doing anything; I just was being cautious.
The way this guy had presented himself to John, Tom, and Bob and Myrna made me very suspicious. He didn’t move, and I’m sure he felt a little trapped. He saw my rifle and the way I had positioned it at the ready. He also had a rifle. I could tell it was a Weatherby just from the stock, but it was still slung over his pack. He had been hunting and had three or four ptarmigans hanging from his pack. I didn’t count, and I didn’t take my eyes off his, though I was able to get a good look at him before we locked eyes.
He appeared to be somewhere in his thirties. He was of small stature and extremely thin from his meager diet. I judged if he were fleshed-out, he would have a medium frame. His hair was greasy, and he appeared filthy from his apparent long stay in the wilderness. He wore an old down jacket with insulated overalls. My impression was that, although he was an excellent skier, for whatever reasons, he had shunned civilization and was barely surviving. After a moment of silence while we sized each other up, I flat out asked him.
“Are you trapping here in this area?”
“You know this is Tom McElroy’s historic trapping area and before Tom it was Oscar Vogel who sold all his area and cabins to Tom McElroy,” I continued.
“No. I’m not trapping. I’m not a trapper. I’m just looking for a caribou or a moose to kill for my meat supply,” he said. I just wasn’t fully convinced he was telling the truth.
It was kind of a strange conversation that ended quickly.
“Am I free to go?” His question was a little strange, as well; I hadn’t captured him.
“Yeah. It’s a free country,” I said. “I was just curious. If you’re not trapping on top of Tom’s trapping area, I’ve got no problems with you at all. I was just trying to be protective of an older friend who can’t get around as much as he used to.”
“No! I’m not trapping! I’m just looking for food,” he said again emphatically.
He put his hand into his pocket while he was speaking. That made me nervous. I half expected him to have a .22 pistol stashed in his pocket figuring that’s probably what he killed the ptarmigans with. I didn’t know that for sure, so I just kept my eyes on him until he dug his poles in and skied away.
I sat there and watched him leave. With no plan of what to do next, I skied around for a while still looking for fresh tracks of wolf or wolverine. Even a fox would do at this point. I had been out ten days from home and hadn’t gotten any fur.
I reckoned I was wasting my time now. The only good part of this trip was getting to visit my friends.
Everything was quiet and still, and I soon gave up the hunt and skied back to the lodge. I told Bob and Myrna about my confrontation with the elusive skier and what I had discovered at the cabin in the woods. They told me who the cabin belonged to and said they didn’t think he would give anybody permission to stay in his cabin.
The sat phone wasn’t actually a satellite phone; it was a radio telephone—an early form of communication in the backcountry that used a sort of short-wave relay. They called the owner of the cabin and put me on the phone.
“That cabin was locked!” he said after I told him what I had discovered. Mr. Krieger was fuming mad.
“The only ones with keys to it are my son and I, and we have not been there this winter! Whoever that is, is trespassing. I’m calling the troopers!”
An hour later the state troopers called and asked me questions about what this person looked like and what he was doing— all kinds of questions.
Then they told me that they’d been chasing somebody roughly fitting the description I gave for approximately a year. This guy had been breaking into cabins, eating all the food, and had stolen several rifles before clearing out.
A helicopter as well as a fixed wing plane were deployed in pursuit, yet he had eluded Alaska State Troopers at two locations. They really wanted to get this guy, and, since our mysterious skier was trespassing in another cabin, they figured it was the same person.
The troopers quickly organized a plan to fly up to the lodge the next day—which turned out to be two days later because of the weather. Instead of having them land at Stephan Lake across from the cabin or where anyone at the Krieger cabin would see a helicopter coming, we decided we would meet at Tom McElroy’s. I would lead them to the cabin from there.
I skied down to Tom McElroy’s cabin and spent a couple of nights there till the troopers showed up.
Tom said, “You know they’re not gonna let you take your rifle, but you shouldn’t be unarmed.”
He decided he was gonna loan me his .357 Magnum Colt Python pistol. “You can have a shoulder holster underneath your winter gear and not be unarmed,” he said. I thought this was a great idea.
Well, the morning the helicopter showed up, for whatever reason, instead of just landing near Tom’s cabin, they flew up Stephan Lake, circled over the area, and then came back!
They put on a real show for the guy, totally giving away any kind of surprise! Especially if this was the person they’d been chasing, they gave him all the warnings in the world. They may as well have announced with a bullhorn that the troopers were there to apprehend him.
After the fine spectacle, they returned to Tom McElroy’s cabin. A moment later, a Super Cub on skis landed in front of Tom’s cabin. Several troopers got out of the helicopter as Carl Brent, a state Fish and Game officer and pilot, along with another Alaska State trooper climbed out of the Cub.
They put on snowshoes and came up to Tom’s cabin. The state troopers were not familiar with snowshoes and needed help learning how to put the bindings on, which Carl and I found very comical.
These troopers who flew into the Alaskan wilderness were unfamiliar with even the simplest skills necessary for life out here. Navigating cities and being on the road systems in their cars was their forte, and I know I would be just as lost there as they were feeling here and now. I’m sure they were all very good at their jobs but this being in the wilderness in snowshoes was something new for them.
During the phone conversation with them two days before, I told them that the skier was carrying a scoped Wetherby rifle, so I was surprised when the only one carrying a rifle was Carl Brent. Two of the troopers had Remington 870 shotguns; the other two just had pistols.
The troopers, Carl, and I went inside the warmth of Tom McElroy’s cabin and formulated a plan. I was to lead them to the cabin, and they were gonna do the rest. The helicopter was going to stay at Tom’s cabin until they radioed the pilot to come give air support as they tried surrounding the cabin and capturing the skier.
Before we left the cabin, I just nonchalantly put my skis on and picked up my rifle. I fully expected them to make me leave my rifle behind since I was a civilian, but they said nothing—so off we went.
At first the troopers were like keystone cops fumbling around on their snowshoes. This necessary foot gear in the snow country was new to them, but it didn’t take them long to figure it out and start moving efficiently. I was impressed how quickly they adapted to traveling on snowshoes. It took about an hour and a half to make our way from Tom’s cabin to the Krieger cabin. From the cover of a small hill overlooking the cabin, the troopers planned how to surround the cabin and hopefully capture the mysterious skier. Even if this turned out not to be their guy, he was trespassing this cabin.
I was to stay on the hill as an overwatch and provide cover.
I did get the lecture that under no circumstance should I shoot the skier unless he was shooting at them. They made this clear, and, of course, I was in complete agreement. I was quite shocked that they were including me as part of their team. I suppose, since I had been their guide and was both a trapper and a hunting guide by profession, they figured I was an asset, and they would include me in their team.
As they all left the hill and surrounded the cabin and moved into position, I was again impressed with their tactics. They used cover well and stayed out of sight of the windows. They were acting cautiously and extremely professionally.
Once they were all positioned, they radioed their chopper pilot. As soon as we heard the helicopter getting close, they announced their presence. “Carl Brent, Alaska Fish and Game. I’m here with Alaska State Troopers, and you are surrounded. Come out of the cabin unarmed! Keep your hands up!”
Nothing happened. For approximately fifteen minutes nothing happened.
As if they had orchestrated their next moves and rehearsed ahead of time, there was a trooper at each window while two troopers entered the door. The cabin was empty.
At this point, they regrouped. They had me join them at the cabin and asked where I believed he would have gone. I told them that I thought he would go back up towards the high country.
“There’s another cabin higher up, and he’s been up in that area. That’s the direction his tracks led when I trailed him,” I told them.
Their next move was to get in the helicopter with Carl back into his Super Cub and try to chase him by air. I asked the troopers with the shotguns if they would like to take my rifle since it was open country, and he was carrying a Weatherby, a long-range weapon.
One of them readily agreed. He took my rifle and handed me his shotgun.
“You stay here and watch the cabin in case he comes back this way. But only use the shotgun if he starts shooting at you. Only if you need to defend yourself!” he reiterated.
“Otherwise, just stay put and stay out of sight,” he finished pointedly.
I agreed.
They took off in the direction I had given them in both the helicopter and Carl’s Super Cub. They found his tracks and found him skiing downhill.
As Carl circled his Cub keeping track of the guy, the helicopter dropped two troopers on the trail below. They figured he would come back down and that’s exactly what happened. He skied right into their ambush, and they were able to capture him without any shots fired.
The mysterious skier did have the 300 Wetherby strapped on his pack and a .38 Special revolver in his pocket. My earlier instincts that he had his hands on a pocket gun were correct—I just missed on the caliper he carried. They handcuffed the guy and put him in the helicopter, and everybody moved back to Tom McElroy’s cabin.
By that time, I was already back at the cabin. Tom had come out on his snow machine when the helicopters left his cabin, and I rode back to the cabin with him.
Oddly, the mysterious guy wouldn’t say anything to them—not a word. I believe he gave them his name and nothing else, but I’m not even sure they got his full name, just his first name.
The Alaska State Troopers had their man.
I was impressed with how well he was treated. They treated him very gently, made sure that he was warm enough, made sure that the handcuffs weren’t too tight, and even offered him coffee that Tom had brewed up. So, yeah, to say the least, I was impressed with the professionalism of these troopers. Yes! They had this wanted fugitive that they’d been chasing high and low all over Alaska who’d eluded them many times, but, after they captured him, they treated him like any human being would want to be treated in that situation.
But the story didn’t end there. The mysterious skier guy was brought into a judge in Palmer where he still refused to say anything—nothing!
They had his fingerprints, and they knew who he was by this time, but he wouldn’t talk at all. He was charged with contempt of court and was held for approximately nine months. I got this from one of the troopers later.
Eventually he was let go because they really didn’t have much of anything on him other than having broken into cabins and stolen food.
So, what’s the real back story on this mysterious skier? Was this the same skier who Theron and I had seen the spring before whose partner seemed to have disappeared? —or was it somebody else?
I have no clue, but the troopers were very suspicious. They did not know why he was doing what he was doing. The truly bizarre part of the story, however, is that at one point, Ed Stevenson, one of the last true mountain men in Alaska, had his cabin broken into and a 458 Winchester Magnum rifle stolen.
He was riding his horses along a trail and came across this same mysterious person. It was summertime, and the guy wasn’t skiing, but he was carrying Ed’s stolen rifle!
Ed was carrying a different rifle in his scabbard but could not have gotten to it if this escalated to some sort of showdown.
“Hey! That’s my rifle!” Ed said. “You stole it out of my cabin!”
“Yeah. I left a hundred dollars for it on the table. I needed the rifle to survive,” the guy said.
Ed told the guy that the scope was worth more than a hundred bucks, and the rifle was worth way more than that. But the conversation ended, and Ed felt like he couldn’t do anything. The guy had a rifle in his hand while Ed’s rifle was in the scabbard on his horse. There would be no resolution that day, and they both knew it. The guy just walked off.
Several days later, Ed was in his cabin in the middle of the night when his dog began barking. Ed just figured it was a squirrel or something outside and didn’t pay much attention. The next morning when he went out, though, sitting on the woodpile was his rifle—a very strange epilogue to the strange story of the mysterious skier. The end
