THE FIRST TIME I MET MAX

BILL RENGSTORF 4/6/01

I was 16 in the spring of ’65 and at the Scout Office looking for something exciting for summer besides scout camp again. There on the entry table was a few applications for scout sponsored summer activities. One of them read little more than "Cascade Trailblazers- One week $12, Two Weeks $24". Two weeks sounded like the ticket for this eager Senior Patrol Leader who needed a challenge. Hardly did I realize the type of man who would truly lead that trip and the huge impact that decision would make on the rest of my life.

The trip started at noon on July 18^th at the Rocking T-Bar H Ranch House, also known as ESAR Station O. But Max was one hour late. Some adult said "That’s okay, Max is always late". A consistent trademark it was. When he finally arrived he was hardly your average looking 49 year-old scout leader. Yep, there he was in his trademark polo T-shirt above whipcord wool pants and custom made Buffalo boots. This V shaped mass of muscle and enthusiasm was topped off with his standard pair of black President suspenders that defined Paul Bunyan reincarnate. Next would follow an adventure that made ESAR training seem easy in comparison. Us eager kids were quickly loaded onto a camp flat bed truck with a pile of cool stuff I’d never messed with before. Double bit cruiser axes, five-man hexagon Army tents, rolls of #9 wire, pulleys, cable and cans of spray paint. What for?, read on.

They drove us to the Evan Lake trailhead east of Verlot to start our adventure. The dust had hardly settled as the trucks left us under the leadership of Max. He gathered us to learn our names. Now I would get to know future staffers Doug Driskell and Bill Nelson along with Matt Merinos, Rick Cherillo, Bob Knight, Kurt Jacobsen, Norm Gove, Ken Claflen and Barney Gibson. You tend to remember the names of people you died with. Max asked Doug and I to lash one of those Army tents, complete with liner, on top of our already full packs. This is one of those times when you don’t question a he-man with a double bit axe and a smile on his face. Of coarse Max set the example by lashing a tent on his pack first. Some how us skinny skids managed to hoist the double loads to our shoulders. We only had to hike about a quarter mile to the Evan Lake shelter to prepare for the next morning’s climb up through "Huckleberry Heaven". Max stated that beyond this point we would not see a trail for two weeks. We’d signed up for adventure and it was coming.

That night rainwater streamed off the shelter roof above us in our sleeping bags as we wondered what doom awaited us at daybreak. Max showed his attitude about the situation by laying outside on the ground in his sturdy yellow rain gear and trademark green beret while serenading us on his harmonica. I was impressed with his nonchalance and confidence in handling the weather. This was one of many new things he would teach us. It rained all that night and hardly stopped for the next three days. At daylight we discovered Huckleberry Heaven had become Huckleberry Hell because there’s nothing that holds water like a Huckleberry bush, until you breathe on it. Us average scouts knew nothing about the attributes of wool, raingear or lugged sole boots that could actually keep your feet dry.

Seeing what doom awaited his ill prepared sheep, Max told us to put on our "water repellants". I did bring one of those thin plastic golf rain jackets and a felt hat. The best I could do for my legs was make chaps by wrapping plastic around each leg and bind them in place with cord. Besides ESAR guys Max and Doug, I was the best protected for the impending test of character.

Max asked me to hike behind him at the front and Doug at caboose. Up we plunged though the waiting sop that soaked the cotton clad kids in the first fifty feet. After a few minutes Max turned to check on his newly christened followers and gasped at the site of poor Barney with no boots, just tennis shoes. Max couldn’t believe it but we were committed to our fate. I remember well the smooth and steady pace Max kept. The route became steep as our slickshod feet failed to support us on slippery moss and logs. I followed Max so close I could stare at his old fashioned Triconi boot nails in front of my face. I asked him if his feet were dry. "Oh sure" he said. I didn’t know that was possible. This confident mountain man now held the lives of 8 soaked and wide eyed kids, except for Doug, that would follow him in the hope of survival. The brush finally tore off my meager chaps to assure a cold soaking equal to my fellow unfortunates. Lovely, just lovely. This was way more than I imagined to replace cushy summer camp and where was this Island Lake Max said was just up ahead. Real close we hoped. I wondered if we’d ever get warm and dry before we died. Max’s pace kept us together and not winded. This left us to wonder about such things as hypothermia and falling on an axe. Max frequently looked over his shoulder to check on his miserable flock, give encouragement and see if Doug was still smiling. When Doug quit smiling, things were serious. I doubt he was smiling. Max didn’t wear a hood to protect his neck and would stop to casually ring the rain out of his baret like a sponge. This guy was real tuff and had obviously done this a lot before. While we were miserable he was business as usual.

We finally came to a level spot in the gloomy fog and rain that Max thought was close to the lake that he promised to be safe harbor. He told us to wait there while he went to search for the lake. If he didn’t find the lake in thirty minutes he’d return and we’d make camp there. Yuk. We slithered out of our packs only to expose our backs to the cold air and rain as we slowly shuffled under a tree for some degree of shelter. Bob Knight was crying. Doug tried to cheer us up by telling a joke about some bear hunters. He actually mustered a chuckle from the helpless huddle. I don’t remember jokes well but I’ll never forget that one. After the thirty minute wait that seemed like a day, Max returned and announced the great news that he had found the lake a short distance down to our right. Mouthy little Matt Merinos blurted out "If you hadn’t we’d strung you up." I now thought it wouldn’t get any worse as I tried to keep up with Max sliding down a steep slope and over to the lake. All this time we still carried those three tents, wire and axes the best way we could manage.

When all of us finally arrived Max was already giving assignments of wood gathering and tent pitching. He told three of us to go cut an center pole for a tent. I’d rather stood still then keep walking in my cold-soaked jeans but Max was inspiring a team effort to get us out of potential trouble. We did manage to find a tree and took turns with the axe. When we finally drug it back to Max, to our amazement and great appreciation, he had actually started a fire. I’ve never seen a more welcomed fire since. We finished setting up the three tents using the double bit axes as stake hammers. This produced a small cut on left thumb who’s scar I’ll always cherish. Our spirits were lifting and it appeared we’d live to cook dinner. Max had selected Bernard’s Trail Meals. They were soon known as Barnyard’s but in our predicament we’d have eaten a lot worse. The rain subsided long enough that evening for us to wolf down diner and attempt to dry our clothes from the best fire in the world. Somebody moved my wedge soled boots to close to the fire and burnt the stitches out of the toes. I’d have to wait until I got home to get a real pair.

Around that fire and many others Max told us of growing up in logging camps, steam loci’s, dynamite, fishing, scouts, climbing, CCC’s, ski touring, avalanches, trail building, fire building, fire lookouts, forest fires, bears, searches, crashed air planes, B-17 Bombers, Mountain Rescue, Omi Daiber, ESAR, map and compass, out door clothing, equipment, trees, tree falling, logging, weather, route finding, leadership and life to name a few.

We scouts were in awe of this amazing man in special boots and green wool who carried an axe like a swagger stick as he walked a log. We’d discovered our own Superman. Even his name was cool.

The next morning Max explained we would be pioneering a new route between East Boardman Lakes and Clear Lake as he showed us on his hand drawn maps. We would mark the new route with axe blazes on trees highlighted with yellow paint. He selected half the group to go with him but I was disappointed to not be part of that team. In stead I would be in charge of the camp team to hang a tent! He gave me very clear instructions on how to clear a tent site and hang the tent by the wire and a pulley we’d packed in. This was a clever system that allowed the tents to hang well above the winter snow from an #9 wire stretched between two trees. When a future trail building crew needed the tent they could lower it by easing a smaller cable through the pulley until the tent was the correct height on the ground. These tents would last for years. I believed he trusted me to do a good job and did just as he instructed. It was fun clearing the tent site, climbing the trees and hanging the tent. When the blazing team finally returned late that afternoon Max made an effort to examine the job and tell me he was pleased with my work. This more than made up for not being selected for the first blazing team with Doug.

Max took half the group every morning to blaze the route further and further out in both directions from our base at Island Lake. The camp guys were given the same clear instructions on hanging a tent. A trailblazing crew packed their share of lunch after every breakfast and was to be back by 6 PM for dinner. We always anticipated the return of a crew out route finding with Max and it was also reassuring to be in the team following him back without a trail, just using his navigation skills and distinctive blazes. It was a tall one with two short ones beneath. Sometimes we didn’t hear Max’s Booh Pooh Boooh greeting call until just before dark. Soon we’d see them hiking back along the far edge of the lake outlined by our campfire light. Their share of dinner had best be ready. What a tremendous experience that was for a kid from Beacon Hill.

By the end of the trip I had become more confident in the woods and felt as though I’d survived a rite of passage into a part of Max’s world. I was eager to take ESAR training that fall and pledged never to be that wet and cold in the woods again.

That Christmas Doug and I went up to camp to slide the tube runs and learn to ski at Crystal. Before we went home Max asked me to join his new High Adventure Staff the next summer with Doug, Bill Nelson and Don Wilson. I was flattered and excited. Max soon became a second father and mentor to me. He gave me confidence and the freedom to succeed at whatever I dreamed of doing. I shall be eternally grateful.