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Morty Bobowick and I were not yet 16 when we became part of a group of 15 teenage boys working in Olympic National Park in August of 1958, the second year of the Student Conservation Association’s existence. We came from all over the country. I was from Colorado. Morty was from New York. The oldest of in the group was just 18. Our base camp was Humes Ranch. We all made two or three trips hauling supplies down the 2.3-mile trail from Whiskey Bend to the old cabin. Under the supervision of Jack and Enid Dolstad of Vashon Island, we improved trails, split shakes, and put a new roof on the cabin that Grant Humes built long before the Olympic Mountains became a national park. It wasn’t all work, though. Late on that first day, when we were all covered with sweat-caked dust and nursing tired muscles, Jack casually mentioned there was an ideal swimming hole up the river a few hundred yards, just below the bridge on the Dodger Point trail. We all took off running, shedding shirts and shoes as we approached the cool water. I’m glad I wasn’t a fast runner. The glacial water wasn’t cool. It was damn cold. I reached the bank of the large, slow-swirling eddy just in time to see Morty make a shallow dive into the icy water. It was like a scene in a cartoon. Morty surfaced and swam in a spray of white water, arms and feet churning like speeded-up film, his eyes wide with shock as he sped for shore. I almost believe I heard his teeth chattering like an outboard motor. That has been my indelible memory of Morty for more than 40 years. We all hiked up the valley to camp at Low Divide. Morty didn’t care for trail chow and ate trout twice a day. We spent a couple of days at Third Beach rebuilding the trail, and once in that glorious month, we all went to Olympic Hot Springs. The swimming pools and bathhouses hadn’t yet been dynamited back then. Until this week, I’d not seen any of those other 14 boys since. I visited the Dolstads in 1961 when I was stationed at Fort Lewis. Since then, my only contact with SCA has been contributing modest amounts of money to help other young people have the experience that I had. When the SCA Alumni newsletter shows up in the mail, it brings back memories of that formative time, but until I saw an article that included Morty’s name and address, I’d had no contact with anyone in my group in 40 years. Perhaps in part because we were the youngest, Morty was my best friend of the 15. I wrote him a long letter outlining my life since 1958. I was delighted when he wrote to say he and his wife and a couple of friends would be out here this month. He hadn’t been back to Humes Ranch since we left it 41 years ago. Would I like to hike in there with him for old times’ sake? Morty’s wife and friends opted for a day in Victoria, B.C. Barb and I picked up Morty at his hotel. I wondered if I’d recognize him, but he hadn’t changed a bit. Well, maybe a just a little. He wasn’t wearing the sailor hat he wore 41 years ago. The Humes Ranch cabin seemed smaller than it had been when we were boys, and the bunkhouse and outbuildings have been gone for many years. The iron cook stove is gone, perhaps to keep people from camping in the cabin and using it. The river has changed course and the swimming hole is gone, but we walked through the cabin, gazed at the river, and compared memories. We took pictures of each other and Barb took pictures of both of us. That evening, Morty and his wife and friends came over to our house and all six of us feasted on crab and salmon and got to know each other. Morty and I already knew each other, of course. Neither of us has changed a bit.
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