Postcards from the edge
Despite no belongings or home, wilderness nomad was a shining example of humanity

(Editor’s note: The following is a tribute to Stewart “Stew” Scheppegrell. A longtime resident of the area, he died in the wilderness north of Lemon Reservoir, where he spent most of his summers, in August. His body was found Aug. 24 by a horseback rider. He was 79.)
An artist friend once told me, “It’s not the path you take but the paths you cross.” Sometimes a benevolent crossing would leave me speechless with gratitude. This was especially true of one of my most memorable teachers, Stewart Scheppegrell.
In 1977, I decided to spend the rest of my life camping out, creating paintings of my surroundings and selling them to support myself. Every summer, my goal was “backpacking more often than not.” Vallecito Campground became my base where I’d begin hikes on the Vallecito Trail and frequently continue over Columbine Pass to visit mountain goats in The Needles. Over the years, I climbed Windom nine times, mostly alone. Also, for three summers, I hiked every trail (500 miles) in the Pagosa District – from the Piedra River to the New Mexico border – as a volunteer, doing an inventory of trail signs. In 1997, Lyme disease stopped me in my tracks, and it seemed my backpacking days were over. I contented myself with car camping and day hikes.
So, when I heard about an unusual man a friend in Vallecito picked up hitch-hiking from the trailhead to town and back, I was intrigued. The way he described him caught my attention: “This guy camps way above timberline off Taylor Creek and comes out every couple weeks to replenish his nuts and berries. He doesn’t have a car, house, phone or any possessions other than his backpack. He spends all his time in the wilderness.” I felt akin to this man and wanted to meet him.
In October 2007 while car camping at Vallecito, there was a huge downpour and the first snowfall on the mountain- tops. The creek was raging. I spent the morning packing my gear for a day hike up the trail. After 3 miles of hiking, I came to where Taylor Creek crosses the trail. Ordinarily, one can easily step from rock to rock to get across. But today, the creek was so swollen, making that impossible. I kept walking to where some logs were stretched across the raging torrent. They were covered with ice. Not having seen anyone all morning, I was surprised to see a guy with a small backpack on the other side. He was wearing shorts, hiking boots, gloves and a wool hat. We waved to each other. I realized he was going to start across on the logs, so I stood and watched to see if he could make it and thus, if I could do the same.
He tucked his trekking poles into his pack and got down on all fours. While I watched, he crawled very carefully along the logs to where I was standing and stood up. I remember being impressed that he would do this while a woman watched – get down on all fours and crawl. Seemingly uninhibited, moving with confidence and efficiency, he made the task look easy. His first words to me were, “My tent got covered with 3 feet of snow last night, so I’m going to lower altitude.”
I had so many questions for him: I knew this was the guy my friend had spoken of. I recall asking him what sort of water filter he carried because I needed a new one. He replied, “I never filter water. I drink right from the streams. Wild animals don’t get sick, and I don’t live in houses, so I don’t get sick either.”
His energy astonished me. He seemed like a wild animal himself: alert, fully present, filled with life-force. “I’ve been camping out year-round for 35 years, and I’ve never gotten sick. I’d better get going now if I want to make it to Durango and back before dark. Nice meeting you.”
And he was gone, down the trail. The memory of his serene yet charged presence often visited my mind in coming weeks and months. Not knowing his name, I began to think of him as Mr. Taylor Creek.
The following summer, I stopped in Durango for supplies. I parked on Main Avenue, and just as I was turning off my engine, I glanced at the sidewalk and saw him with his pack on, coming out of a store. I leapt from the truck and hollered “HEY!” He seemed to recognize me and smiled. We began what turned into an hour-long conversation there, on the sidewalk. He described how he fit everything for a two-week sojourn into this little pack and the type of tent, sleeping pad, trekking poles, rain gear, boots, socks and shirts he used.
I also learned that his spry 85-year-old mother is living in Florida, and whenever he comes out from the wilderness, he sends her a letter on a beautiful notecard. Things he’s seen which he wants to tell her about: herds of elk, a bear, rain, lightning and hailstorms. He showed me the notecards he’d just bought. I told him I paint landscapes from which I have notecards printed. I opened my truck and asked him to choose a few to send his mother. He did and said he would leave them for safekeeping with friends who run Backcountry Experience, Ben and his sister, Becky, where he’s also keeping an extra piece of plastic he uses for a ground cloth.
Later, when I went over to the store to buy a few things he recommended, Becky told me, “Yeah, he’d bought this plastic drop cloth and only needed half of it. He was going to throw away the other half, but I said he could leave it with me for when the first piece wore out.” It dawned on me that this piece of plastic and those notecards were the only things he owned that he was not currently carrying in his backpack. And sure enough, sometime in the future when our paths crossed again, I asked what he did with his extra stuff. He replied, “I don’t HAVE extra stuff!”
He needed to continue his shopping that day, so we hugged goodbye. Then our paths crossed again that day, and I drove him back to his motel where he planned to empty his pack, buy two weeks’ worth of food at Nature’s Oasis and return for the night. He chooses this particular motel because 1) they have lattice-work around the bathtub where he can wash and hang his clothes, and 2) they allow him to check in early in the morning so he can spend all day doing errands.
We went to Nature’s Oasis (when it was near BCX), and he told me all the things he ate to keep healthy. Turns out he used to work in a health food store and a backpacking store, so he knew all the details about what to buy. He was vegan and never cooked; he carried no stove. Instead, he soaked dried hummus mix and adds olive oil, buys granola, raisins and nuts; and crushed blue corn chips, which he eats with a spoon. This was all supplemented with bee pollen, enzymes, probiotics and powdered greens, which he mixed with water. He also buys herbs to add to the hummus. For a special treat, he was going to get an avocado, but they weren’t ripe, so he settled on a jar of pickles. A jar of pickles! This struck me as a succinct metaphor for his life: friends I backpack with come out of the wilderness and treat themselves to a banquet of steak, salad, cake and ice cream. All Stew needs is a jar of pickles. Why? Because his priority is to be in the wilderness, and the joy he takes in his spartan lifestyle keeps him there.
Stew became the gold standard I measured all my needs against. A month later, it was raining, cold and miserable. I was huddled in my truck camper, trying to keep warm with my little propane heater. I thought of Stew: out there in his tiny nylon tent with no stove, no hot tea, no steaming soup, invigorated by the cold and snow. He told me when it got too cold, he’d take a bus to Arizona and continue his wilderness lifestyle in the Superstition Mountains. Then in more recent years, he’d rent a motel room in Durango and take day hikes.
Following his advice, I bought everything he recommended. I took many more glorious backpacking trips after thinking those days were over, thanks to his example. When we met 17 years ago, he was 62 and I was 66.
We corresponded for years via his friends at BCX. Our paths crossed often, though we never planned anything. “I don’t make arrangements,” he’d say. He continued to inspire and teach me. His goodness as a human being was evident. Like me, he didn’t need the stimulation of new places but was deeply content just living in nature. Before a day in town, he’d always bathe (by a smoky fire to keep mosquitoes away) in order to give his best to folks he’d encounter. To take care of his body, heart and mind, he’d do yoga, meditate and practice Ida Rolfe exercises. These contributed to his peace of mind and heart, which he delighted in sharing with all who crossed paths with him.
Whenever I’d try to describe him to someone who’d judge his lifestyle as “selfish,” I’d think of how his uplifting presence would radiate outward and help everyone who saw him. Always smiling and calm, I never heard him complain or speak negatively about anything or anyone. He’d told the bank to give all his savings, on his death, to the Food Bank in Durango. To me, he seemed impeccable – a shining example of the highest our species could become.
Happy trails to you, dear Stew.
Anyone reading this who’s also a Stew fan can email Priscilla at: wiggins.priscilla@gmail.com