The Grand Canyon looking downstream from Clear Creek Trail Kolb Bros. photo Gale Burek Collection

For some time now I have deliberated about writing down this account. Having been actively involved with one of the most massive and extensive manhunts in the canyon made a terrific impression on me. The search was not for a criminal either, but for a shy young college student from Arabia whom I'd helped just the day before he disappeared. That made it all very personal to me, so I've decided to give it a try.

Early one Saturday afternoon in October, 1982 at Cottonwood campground where I was a ranger on duty, I noticed two young men with day packs striding past the camp up the North Kaibab Trail toward the North Rim. As a matter of course I hailed them to check on their Permit tags.

"Hi, guys. Your permits don't seem to be attached to your packs; may I see them, please?"

"We don't have it, . . . left it behind," one answered in an accent.

"You've been told at the BRO (Backcountry Reservations Office), I'm sure, that you're to tie it to your pack at all times, which means that I shall have to call and check with the office to be sure that you had one issued to you." Whereupon one of them, a German citizen, sat down outside while the other folllowed me into the office.

Before I called the BRO we talked for awhile. They had spent the previous night seven miles downstream at the Bright Angel campground, and were just going to Roaring Spring for a day hike. And their permit? they had left it behind . . . at the South Rim Youth Hostel!

He had dark skin, dark eyes, dark clothes, and a dark green day pack. Everything about him was dark except for his teeth. He had the heaviest, shiniest mouthful of braces I ever saw, and his smile shone like pure silver! He said he had been attending college in California for a few years, and on his way home to South Yemen, Arabia, he'd wanted to see the Grand Canyon. The German boy and he had met at the Hostel where they joined forces and got a two-night permit for the B.A. campground, though he'd really like to stay down longer. Could I arrange?

As he talked I noticed that he wore low Nike hiking shoes just like mine.

"You have a size #8 shoe, like mine, don't you?" I asked.

"Yes, the same as yours", and we laughed about it.

He asked again if he could extend the permit for more nights, to which I replied that two nights are the limit for any one campground on a single hike, but that there might be room for him at the Indian Gardens campground on his way back up to South Rim. That sounded good to him, so I called the BRO.

"Hi, B.J., this is Gale at Cottonwood. Will you please check on yesterday's permits for one made out in two names for two nights at the B.A., issued to Abdul Balcherof?"

After confirmation of that I asked, "How about it being extended in that name at the Gardens for the following two nights, Sunday and Monday?" He was able to confirm that too, which produced a wide metallic smile from Abdul, so I made out a complete new permit for the whole four nights for him.

As I worked on that, Abdul asked me what might be the best hike for him to do during the extra time he'd have in the canyon. I waxed eloquent with suggestions of wonderful alternates close to B.A.

"Well, you have all day tomorrow since it's only five miles from Phantom to the Gardens. You could go back up the South Kaibab and travel west along the Tonto Plateau Trail to the Gardens, or go directly to the Gardens by the River and B.A. Trails; leave your pack there and hike west on the Tonto Trail to Horn or even Salt Creek and back. You could also put off going to the Gardens until late afternoon and stay on this side of the river, exploring up Phantom Canyon, or up on the Clear Creek Trail as far as Summer Wash,with lovely views into the Granite Gorge on the way." He seemed quite overwhelmed by all these ideas as we pored over my wall map, and agreed to give them some thought.

With his new permit securely wired to his day pack he and his pal went up the trail, and that was the last I ever saw either of them again. Hikers later said they'd seen them near dark down in Box Canyon heading for Phantom, so we know they got back to camp.

Monday, two days later, after morning chores were done I packed my toothbrush with my usual emergency gear and galloped off down to Phantom myself. My husband, Ted, was to meet me there next day for a visit with the Phantom crew before spending a week up at Cottonwood consolidating camp for the winter. Instead of a summer quota of 45 campers with benefit of piped water, flush toilets and a ranger in residence available, we would ready it for only 15 campers having a pit toilet, the creek for water, and a weekly patrolling ranger until April. Ted had proved before to be a good maintenance man for the heavier jobs, which freed us to enjoy free time on the trail . . . But that was not to be done as we anticipated.

When I arrived at Phantom Ranger Station all was in an uproar. Dave Buccello, the ranger in charge, told me that a search was being organized. A tent containing all the belongings for one person had been left unaccounted for overnight on Sunday. It had, besides the usual camp gear, a passport case with an airline ticket, much money and a passport identification for . . . you guessed it, Abdul Balcheroff.

Oh my Lord . . . here we go again?! A few years before I'd been the ranger at Phantom when a man had disappeared on the route bvetween the Tanner and Red Canyon Trails in mid-summer, and I'd had to sweat out the progress of search crews as they found clues to no avail, as I listened on my radio and kept things going at camp, while dying to be part of the action. And here I was at Phantom again with another hunt heading out. . . in which direction?

There was absolutely no question but that I was involved in this case, since I was the one who'd talked with him. Not only that, I had to confess that I might have been instrumental in directing him to whatever direction he'd chosen to take. Dave threw up his hands when I related the various suggestions I'd made to Abdul. He called and found that he'd never reached the Indian Gardens. This was logical since his gear was still at Phantom. Then he called the Youth Hostel where the host said that the German had spent Sunday night there alone and then left for Phoenix. The Inner Canyon office on the rim contacted the boy there to see if he knew of Abdul's plans. He didn't, but was highly indignant at being tracked down himself. This was a FREE country?

So back to square one. Four-man teams headed out in each of the directions I'd so freely tossed out to Abdul. Dave, being the best tracker, headed one of these, and I was asked to stay at Phantom in his place "for the duration". Yes, here we go again. . .

As the teams went into action, support suystems for them had to be organized too. This involved setting up a master office on the rim, calling on support helicopters, patrol boats, and mule pack trains for search and supplies; and controlling all air traffic to the cause except for emergencies. Radio battteries, maps ropes, and personal gear, and daily hot meals were dropped each day as needed. Heavier supplies such as cases of canned goods, C-rations, instruments, etc, were usually flown to Phantom where Stanley, our Navajo packer could sort and repack it all for his mules to carry into the field.

A Search and Rescue team from Flagstaff came to the rim on Wednesday, but had to hike down in a light rain and slick trail, resulting in a badly sprained ankle for one man who was flown home. Dogs trained to track were flown in from California to use as needed. A huge Huey and one or two regular helicopters flew inch by inch up and down the river, over every beach and gulley, hovering where an eye might've caught sight of a possible clue. All that clatter was much to the displeasure of the river parties until they got to Phantom where we told them the reason for it.

The dogs got real excited once, near the cliffs edging Clear Creek: drops of blood led haphazardly towards the edge. . . to a dead deer below. A blue cloth was seen by helicopter down at the side of Zoroaster Canyon. Perhaps. . . but it was a plastic tarp, blown there by wind.

The Second Mile on Clear Creek Kolb Bros. photo Gale Burek Collection

Then, late Wednesday afternoon, just when it seemed frustratingly futile, we got a real lead to concentrate on. A party of three men with backpacks came dragging in to Phantom from Clear Creek where they'd camped since Sunday. When they learned what was going on they told us they'd not only seen but had talked to Abdul! On their way to Clear Creek just past Summer Wash ". . . this small dark guy with a day pack came tearing past us and asked where we were heading. We told him we were to camp at Clear Creek, and asked where HE was going, and he said, 'Oh, I'm on a day hike to Clear Creek . . .' and that's the last we saw of him."

What a relief to be able to concentrate the effort in one known area. The teams were taken over to Clear Creek watershed to focus on the whole area! Two technical climbers; one our own river patrolman, Sam West, the other, Ben, from Rocky Mt N.P., were flown down to the mouth of Clear Creek to check it out, and that's where the next sure clue was found. A shoeprint was clearly defined in wet sand at the lower end of the sandbar by the river. I had already told Dave about Abdul's having Nikes on, size #8, like those I was wearing, so from a plaster casting Sam and Ben made of the print, that single print matched mine.

But where would he go from there? He obviously hadn't caught a ride in a passing boat, so where. . .? The men stood by the print, facing downstream as it did, and tried to work out a possible route on the adjoining cliff face. Here and there on the smoothly-scoured , 60-degree angled rock were occasional narrow ledges with bits of green growth. At its base were river-tossed boulders edging the water, but nothing to offer a workable route downstream, in their eyes. Since it is only four miles by river to Bright Angel Creek, as against ten hard hiking miles back as he'd come, he might have felt he should take the "easy way" back. Sam roped up, and with Ben's belay, went out to the first little shelf. Sure enough, there was a recently-crushed footprint-sized patch of grass. Beyond that the face steepened, with no chance of foothold nor friction. Looking down, Sam said, "I'd better rappel down and see if there's any bits of cloth or blood on the face or at the base; he'd never be able to jump or slide into the river, or get much farther along from this spot." No luck, no sign of other disturbance, and no prints went back to the creek bed, so where . . .?

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, on Thursday afternoon, killing time between heli-drops and the influx of evening campers, I was cleaning up the streamside rip-rap, a daily chore of gathering bottles, paper, an empty sardine can under a bush, etc, etc, when a hiker hesitantly approached me asking if I was in charge.

"Yes, sir, what can I do for you?"

"We-e-ell, I'm just back from hiking up to the river gorge overlook on Clear Creek Trail, and . . ."

Whereupon I lit into him. "The Clear Creek Trail is closed to hikers right now, sir, until we end the search for a missing hiker. You must've seen the yellow tape across the trail junction jstating just that fact."

"Ye-e-ss, but I thought that was for going all the way, and . . ."

"If that was so, wouldn't it say so? I could cite you for doing that."

"But, ranger, I found something up there you might want . . . about that guy . . ." (he was getting real upset, but then, so was I.) And with that he pulled a small roll wrapped in wire out of his pocket and handed it to me. It was the permit I had made out for Abdul five days before, up at Cottonwood. I stared with growing excitement, first at it, and then at him.

"WHERE?"

"You know, about a half mile up the trail at the first good view upstream of the inner gorge, there's this little promontory jutting out towards the river, you know, and there's a level place on it with bushes and stuff, and I walked out to see the river better, you know, and saw this sticking out in a bush."

"Was it rolled up like this?"

"No, it was like it'd been caught in the bush by the wind, you know, and been pulled off a pack, 'cause the wire was straight too."

After bawling him out some more from sheer relief, then thanking him profusely and apologizing, I dashed off up to the ranger station to call Joe Quiroz on the South Rim. Joe was in charge of the whole operation and needed some good news at this point. He was also Head of the Inner Canyon Unit of the Park anyway, and had been tirelessly on the phones and radio the whole tiome so far.

The main team, under Dave, was left at the Clear Creek "theater" to continue their work, just in case he had dropped the permit on his way over to Clear Creek. But this opened up the questions of whether he'd fallen off the promontory, or dropped the permit on his way back. If he fell off, he might still be there, as steep gullies filled with loose rock and ccasional brush drop down sharply to the rocks edging the river.

For this job Sam and Ben were again needed to climb up or rappel down over every inch for clues. The Huey, using infra-red instruments was brought in to pore over the dliff faces as close as they could get for a few days, as it had been doing in conjunction with boats and smaller helicopters from Clear Creek mouth on downstream. Bioy, were the campers mad! The registering instruments used by the Huey's open side-door to detect heat from a human contact could be activated only before sunrise or after sunset. Not an auspicious time in the estimation of those trying to "get away from it all", or being waked before dawn. Wednesday's light rain didn't deter the Huey's efforts. It was another blind alley, however. No trace other than the permit in the bush was found of Abdul in that area.

Ultimately the manhunt did have to wind down, of course. Ten days even in the cool October weather, but without food, much shelter, and with possible injuries had to mean probable death. His tent and its contents had been sent out earlier. His parents had been notified and decisions by them made. Radio traffic was released to normal use (citations and "soaps"!), and Ted and I went up to Cottonwood.

The Park Service gave us a "thank you" flight, first to Cottonwood for the season-end chores, and then to the South Rim so I could wind up my term of seasonal duty. Ted had made himself useful at Phantom those hectic ten days, doing odd jobs for both the ranger and Phantom crews, while I was concentrating on Abdul. He was very impressed, as I've always been, with the efficiency, the depth of caring and effort that everyone involved tirelessly puts out, and the understanding and cooperation of even those not actively involved, given at times like these. And, unfortunately, as is too often the case, I believe that only the Colorado River knows what actually happened to the slim dark young man with the silver smile, from South Yemen.

Used by permission of the Grand Canyon Pioneers Society.

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