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I first saw the Wyoming Game & Fish Department Thorofare patrol cabin the year after it was constructed. I was a young Forest Service fireguard at the time, stationed at the Service's nearby Hawks Rest backcountry guard station. Fresh out of high school, I was spending the summer extinguishing an occasional smokechaser-sized forest fire, clearing trails, and working with horses in the Teton Wilderness—and loving every minute of it! I served three seasons in that tremendously beautiful and game-filled country.

Fate continued to be extremely kind to me as I eventually became a Wyoming game warden, and in 1971 I was selected to serve as the Cody district game warden. That warden district encompasses a major chunk of what is considered by many to be the largest remaining contiguous roadless tract south of Canada . The district's backcountry includes the vast wilderness expanses on the headwaters of both the Shoshone and Yellowstone river systems. And, that Thorofare patrol cabin was in my new district!

Among other duties, a Wyoming district game warden is responsible for the enforcement of state game laws and the management of game animals within his or her district. This, of course, means a game warden in such a district must get out and about the district. As can be imagined, in an attempt to fulfill those obligations in the Cody country, a game warden must spend considerable time in the backcountry either on foot or in the saddle. I preferred the saddle to “shanks' mare” when it came to a hundred-mile junket in roadless mountains.

Riding towards the cabin, I first saw the telltale old set of sun-bleached moose antlers still hanging high on the building's front. Although it had been nearly a decade and a half since I had last been there, it seemed that the building had weathered beyond those years. It was probably those long mountain winters that had done it. A quick walk around the building revealed numerous tooth and claw marks that had been deeply etched into its exterior walls during my absence, reminding me that I was once again in grizzly country. It appeared obvious the log structure was now a seasoned part of the landscape, standing there backed up against the Trident, stoic and with a bearing of importance.

In sharp contrast to the cabin's exterior, the peeled logs and dressed lumber of its interior appeared as light and fresh as it had shortly after Scandinavian artisan Axel Viken and his helpers had finished the project, packed up their tools, and ridden back to civilization. This was, of course, mostly due to the heavy bear-resistant protective coverings over the building's windows and doors which keep both bears and sun rays out during the lengthy unoccupied periods of the year.Early on, I came to realize that the selection of the site chosen for this exceptional little backcountry patrol station was made only after careful consideration was given to the inherent needs of both horses and riders. It took someone with an eye for that sort of detail—someone who had spent more than a little time in the saddle on mountain trails. That person was Ronald Bell, an old-school horseback game warden and the Cody regional supervisor at the time.

The quaint facility—consisting of the cabin, a small storage shed-toilet combination and set of corrals—is located on a low bench just above the Thorofare River 's moist bottom-land meadows. Those river bottoms hold great swarms of mosquitoes in early summer and other flying, biting pests later on while the slightly higher, dryer, and breezier bench location holds fewer of the those pesky insects—a fact much appreciated by both man and beast. Furthermore, while the river bottom holds a greater quantity of grass, the bench produces a shorter but considerably better quality and assortment of forage for horses.

And, while the strategic location is close enough to the several major regional trail junctions and campsites to make official contacts convenient, it is sufficiently removed to be somewhat isolated from other backcountry camps. The distance factor not only gives more privacy, but it also significantly decreases the chances of some renegade camp's loose horses from getting tangled-up with or stampeding through your herd while they're on night pasture. Such events can cause runaways, crippled horses, and other major problems—not to mention the human relations factor. Additionally, the setting receives both the first and the last rays of the sun—yet another simple amenity that greatly contributes to creature comfort at 8,000 feet above sea level—especially during the fall of the year. An ice-cold spring with delicious water runs just outside the cabin's front door; and firewood, so important to backcountry survival, is close at hand. It is an extremely livable and enjoyable wilderness location.

Needless to say, I was partial to the Yellowstone backcountry and that comfortable administrative facility in the Thorofare. I spent as much time patrolling the Teton Wilderness as my duties elsewhere would allow. Each year from 1971 through 1997, I would usually spend two weeks in the summer and two weeks during hunting season on horseback patrols in the region, headquartering out of that cabin. During the short days of fall and on other occasions, I would spike-camp out to patrol locations too distant to work effectively out of the cabin. Collectively, that incredible backcountry facility was my home away from home for 27 months during my Cody game warden years.

I often went on those patrols alone, but sometimes other wardens would assist me. Several times during my watch, the other four members of my family accompanied me to that little cabin some thirty-plus miles from the nearest road. Occasionally, only one other family member would tag along on a trip, as has my wife Germaine, daughter Cheryl, and both my sons, Brian and Scott.

It was rare indeed that I did not completely enjoy one of those trips in the back-country. However, a mountain snowstorm, a crippled horse, or an unpleasant confrontation with a game law violator would occasionally put a crimp on the fun and glamour part of the job.

Among my most memorable experiences is one in which my young son Scott accompanied me into the backcountry. It was during the summer of the infamous 1988 Yellowstone fires. Following is that story:

“Burn, Baby, Burn”

A freak high-country tornado had leveled trees for 20 miles in the Teton Wilderness the year before. Now, the area was is the midst of the worst fire season on record. High summer winds joined the drought of 1988, and the many “let-burn” fires spread rapidly through the abundant fuels of the forests. By the end of July, the fires had already consumed a large portion of the 1.38 million acres that would be ravaged in the Greater Yellowstone region that year.

My fifteen-year-old son, Scott, and I were in the area on game patrol. We had just ridden over to the U.S. Forest Service's Hawks Rest patrol cabin to find out the latest information on the fires from wilderness ranger Ray Wilson. On the way over, we noticed the tracks of elk and bear (both grizzly and black bear) made the night before as the animals fled in front of the fires. During the night, the Mink Creek fire, started by lightning ten days earlier, had raged easterly down Atlantic Creek pushed by the strong prevailing west winds.

As we visited with the ranger in front of his cabin, the fire was nearing the western edge of the mile-wide Yellowstone Meadows. He told us that a helicopter had dropped off a team of “fire behavioral experts” in the parched meadows earlier that morning to verify their prediction that the fires would never cross the meadows. Now, as we watched, the fire shot across the autumn-brown meadows with the authorities directly in its path! They escaped the inferno only by racing to one of the few bogs that remained damp and covering themselves with their fire shelters. The Forest Service had been attacking the fire on its southern flank for some time, and they now deployed firefighters along the Yellowstone River in hopes of keeping it from crossing the stream. That very day, the National Park Service had finally decided it was time to abandon its “let-burn” policy in favor of active fire suppression.

There were strained relations both between agencies and between those agencies and the public that summer. Tinderbox-dry conditions had existed in the region since spring, and many citizens had been demanding that Park officials forgo their let-burn policy and start battling the fires. Yet while the mountains were burning, and at a time when firefighters were risking their lives to save both public and private property, scientists everywhere were proclaiming the fires the greatest natural event in our lifetime. Yellowstone Park's chief naturalist told a concerned public, “There is no down-side to the fires. This glorious event will be the rebirth of the Park!” Another elated government ecologist busied himself by shouting, “Burn, baby, burn!” Yet another pompous civil authority seemed to be suggesting to folks that he was the guy who actually discovered that fire was a natural occurrence!

Such statements by public servants infuriated citizens everywhere. Those who had lost personal property, a favorite campsite, or just watched as the inferno devoured everything in its path were not celebrating the occasion.Certainly, fire is important in the natural scheme of things, and most folks realize that. However, many American citizens felt entirely too much country was being destroyed by fire in one year's time! Moreover, people were confused with all the expert rhetoric. Now, they were being told how great fire is. Always before the public had been warned about how terrible it is. And for over 50 years the world's foremost authority on fire—Smoky Bear—had been telling folks to be careful with flames while in the woods, saying, “Only you can prevent forest fires!” Which government message should the public embrace?

By this time, the rangers from both federal agencies had removed their horses to the front country so they wouldn't be hampered with their presence as they fought to save their administrative sites, a struggle which now seemed imminent. Scott and I planned to leave the Thorofare for the road with our four horses early the next morning. As federal restrictions banning the use of motorized equipment in wilderness areas had been lifted due to the fires, my plans were to return by helicopter with a couple of other wardens in an attempt to save our important backcountry facility.

The administrative structure, built before passage of The Wilderness Act, is a welcome sight to wardens patrolling this vast game country for poachers and during wildlife surveys. Furthermore, many a wet, cold, and bedraggled wilderness wayfarer—including more than a few hunters and anglers—have stopped by its door and received assistance during my watch. This hospitality ranged from basic information, along with a cup of coffee, to food and shelter when needed. Riders have requested and received veterinary supplies including horseshoes at the facility while hikers have been given medicine for their blisters there; and aid for more than one injured backcountry visitor has been summoned by radio from the remote outpost.

By sundown, the fires had denuded the east face of Two Ocean Plateau south of Falcon Creek and were burning on the banks of the Yellowstone River at Bridger Lake, about three miles from our cabin. Scott and I hit the sack early, anticipating leaving at first light.

The wall of flames appeared to be no more than a mile distant. By 2:00 a.m., we had caught, saddled, and packed our horses and were on the Yellowstone River trail headed for Eagle Creek Pass and the highway on the other side some 32 miles distance. We felt sure that we would never again see our beloved little wilderness cabin.

Just before midnight, we were awakened by the suffocating smell of heavy wood smoke and leaped out of bed to find a stiff west wind blowing the fire directly towards us!

Arriving back in Cody, I immediately called Blackrock Ranger Station to find out the status of the fires. I was told that the crews had pretty much contained the fire at Bridger Lake and had prevented it from crossing the river to the east. Forest Ranger Dennis Smith assured me that his agency would keep a close watch on the situation and deploy firefighters to the Game & Fish cabin site if needed, and I would therefore not need to return to the structure. Before leaving the area, we had helped set up gasoline engine powered sprinkler systems to keep our two buildings wet down. Park Ranger Dave Phillips, stationed at the nearby historic Thorofare Ranger Station inside the park, had promised me that he would keep our sprinkler system running while any threat remained.

Because the fire on the upper Yellowstone River had not been completely extinguished, gale-force winds sparked it anew a month later. Embers from Yellowstone Point blew across the river near Haecker's outfitter campsite, and shortly the fire was reborn and raging across Hawks Rest Mountain and into the Thorofare River drainage near the Game & Fish cabin.

The phone rang at the Cody warden station the smoky evening of August 25 as I sat down at the supper table. It was Alice from Lake Ranger Station in the Park. She advised me that Chief Ranger Dan Sholly had just reported from a reconnaissance helicopter that the Game & Fish patrol cabin was history—that it had just burned down and that there was nothing but smoke and flames left in the area! I cussed the Forest Service for not

completely extinguishing the Yellowstone Meadows fire when they had a chance a month earlier. I clearly remember being taught as a young fireguard on that same forest that you put all forest fires “dead-out.” Furthermore, why hadn't they been there at the cabin, saving it as they had promised? I repeatedly tried calling Blackrock for over an hour only to get busy signals. Boy! I couldn't wait to give them a piece of my mind! I finally stayed off the phone long enough for Alice to reach me again with good news. Ranger Sholley had flown back over the site after the smoke had cleared and found the cabin still standing. What great news that was!

I found out later there had been a crew stationed at the cabin. At one time during the firestorm, those crewmembers had been forced to lie down in the little spring flowing next to the cabin and cover themselves with their shelters to keep from being burned. Those brave firefighters had risked their lives to save the structure! Thank goodness the phone was busy that evening. And, the cabin may well have been lost if it hadn't been for ranger Phillips's efforts at keeping the cabin “wet-down” all summer. Our continued thanks go out to Dave, Dennis, and the firefighters!

The End

Dave Bragonier retired from the Wyoming Game & Fish in 1991, with 35 years of service to the agency. During his tenure with the Department, he served as Cody Game Warden for nearly 20 years.