Deep in the Sierra Nevada’s Mokelumne Wilderness, far from any trail, a log cabin is fabled to have survived a century of ravaging mountain storms. Built in 1927 by Monte Wolfe, a burly renegade with a certain disregard for the law, it served his need to disappear from society. After being arrested multiple times, getting in fights with officers while in the Navy, an aborted Airforce career, and a failed marriage, Monte Wolfe gave up on people and retreated to this wilderness cabin. He was a trapper, with a line from Yosemite to Tahoe, thriving in the backcountry.
The location of the cabin was known only to his several close friends.
Fast forward to summer 2024. Monte Wolfe (born Archie Wright) is still a legend in Bear Valley. Tales include his coming into town to buy jeans that had to be slit below the knee to accommodate his bulging calf muscles, his drinking and womanizing, his carrying supplies back to his cabin—a cast iron stove, a sink, shovels—all while bushwhacking, of course. I was surprised to find out he was my size. Well, his height anyway. I’m 5’5”, but my calves are pathetic. There’s a ski run named ‘Monte Wolfe’ at the ski area. And of the course the local bar is named after him. Definitely legend material. Monte Wolfe disappeared mysteriously in 1940.
The location of the cabin was known only to his several close friends.
Fast forward to summer 2024. Monte Wolfe (born Archie Wright) is still a legend in Bear Valley. Tales include his coming into town to buy jeans that had to be slit below the knee to accommodate his bulging calf muscles, his drinking and womanizing, his carrying supplies back to his cabin—a cast iron stove, a sink, shovels—all while bushwhacking, of course. I was surprised to find out he was my size. Well, his height anyway. I’m 5’5”, but my calves are pathetic. There’s a ski run named ‘Monte Wolfe’ at the ski area. And of the course the local bar is named after him. Definitely legend material. Monte Wolfe disappeared mysteriously in 1940.
I became intrigued by that cabin.
I’ve adventured in the Bear Valley backcountry for over a decade. I’ve climbed many local mountains, skied off of summits, pushed further and further into the wilderness. But that cabin… it called out to me as a different kind of adventure. One loaded with intrigue. Legend. Mystery. A treasure hunt. Could I even find it?
I researched map coordinates, and found some on a website describing a fight over whether to preserve the cabin. The US Forest Service apparently wants the cabin to decay and go away, since its defies the Wilderness Act of 1964. But historians (and his friend’s families) want to preserve it. Anyway, I wondered if the coordinates were even accurate—seems like neither side wins if the cabin location becomes common knowledge. So, I assumed those coordinates were red herrings. But, with nothing else to go on, I plugged them into CalTopo.
When I saw the location on the map, my eyebrows went up and I sucked in a breath. That red dot was way the heck far into the wilderness - how was I going to get there?
There were several options, all long, all involving serious bushwhacking. The one I chose wasn’t the shortest, but entered from an area that I knew. The first 9 miles is a 3,500-foot drop from Bear Valley to the Mokelumne River on an intermittent, unmaintained trail. I’d been on that several times for other adventures. Hot, dry, and thick with avalanche brush and manzanita, I only lost the trail four times as I descended.
I overnighted next to the Mokelumne River, excited (and nervous) about the possible five miles of upriver bushwhacking the next day.
Next morning, full of anticipation and caffeine, I set off up the Mokelumne River. In this deeply carved, remote canyon, it was no surprise to enter a forest of soaring old growth that had never been cut. Humbled, I gaped at cathedral-like columns of cedar, pine, and fir, an ancient forest carpeted in pathfinder (Adenocaulon bicolor). These ground plants, when disturbed, expose their silver undersides, which glow in the dark forest interior, so it’s easy to see where you walked. Magical.
I’ve adventured in the Bear Valley backcountry for over a decade. I’ve climbed many local mountains, skied off of summits, pushed further and further into the wilderness. But that cabin… it called out to me as a different kind of adventure. One loaded with intrigue. Legend. Mystery. A treasure hunt. Could I even find it?
I researched map coordinates, and found some on a website describing a fight over whether to preserve the cabin. The US Forest Service apparently wants the cabin to decay and go away, since its defies the Wilderness Act of 1964. But historians (and his friend’s families) want to preserve it. Anyway, I wondered if the coordinates were even accurate—seems like neither side wins if the cabin location becomes common knowledge. So, I assumed those coordinates were red herrings. But, with nothing else to go on, I plugged them into CalTopo.
When I saw the location on the map, my eyebrows went up and I sucked in a breath. That red dot was way the heck far into the wilderness - how was I going to get there?
There were several options, all long, all involving serious bushwhacking. The one I chose wasn’t the shortest, but entered from an area that I knew. The first 9 miles is a 3,500-foot drop from Bear Valley to the Mokelumne River on an intermittent, unmaintained trail. I’d been on that several times for other adventures. Hot, dry, and thick with avalanche brush and manzanita, I only lost the trail four times as I descended.
I overnighted next to the Mokelumne River, excited (and nervous) about the possible five miles of upriver bushwhacking the next day.
Next morning, full of anticipation and caffeine, I set off up the Mokelumne River. In this deeply carved, remote canyon, it was no surprise to enter a forest of soaring old growth that had never been cut. Humbled, I gaped at cathedral-like columns of cedar, pine, and fir, an ancient forest carpeted in pathfinder (Adenocaulon bicolor). These ground plants, when disturbed, expose their silver undersides, which glow in the dark forest interior, so it’s easy to see where you walked. Magical.
Upstream, the river cut into a rock canyon that I couldn’t follow, so I was forced away from the water to climb steep granite slabs and ledges. When the angle got too steep, I dropped into slots, mini-canyons choked with manzanita over my head. Over the next hour, I split my time between climbing granite slab and canyon-bashing through brush. More than once—exhausted, scratched, and suspended in bushes like Frodo in Shelob’s web—I wondered why I was so interested in this stupid cabin?
Finally, after four and a half miles, the view opened to a beautiful granite-lined basin surrounded by steep forested ridges, with the Mokelumne River winding below. If I were to build a cabin, I breathed, I would build it in this valley. I scoured the view for a cabin, but didn’t see anything. According to CalTopo, the cabin was within a thousand feet, but the app’s direction finder spun erratically. WTF?
I retreated off the granite, and the app calmed down. It led me, disbelieving, over a marshy area bright with wildflowers, further into the forest. As my eyes slowly adjusted to the shadows under the trees, the silhouette of the cabin emerged. I held my breath. Everything in and around me went absolutely still.
There it was, Monte Wolfe’s cabin.
Finally, after four and a half miles, the view opened to a beautiful granite-lined basin surrounded by steep forested ridges, with the Mokelumne River winding below. If I were to build a cabin, I breathed, I would build it in this valley. I scoured the view for a cabin, but didn’t see anything. According to CalTopo, the cabin was within a thousand feet, but the app’s direction finder spun erratically. WTF?
I retreated off the granite, and the app calmed down. It led me, disbelieving, over a marshy area bright with wildflowers, further into the forest. As my eyes slowly adjusted to the shadows under the trees, the silhouette of the cabin emerged. I held my breath. Everything in and around me went absolutely still.
There it was, Monte Wolfe’s cabin.
It’s a golden-brown cabin, with chink-ended logs. It sits among a dense stand of young trees, with three sentinel old-growth cedars towering over all. The door is locked (of course that was the first thing I tried), the windows covered. Out front, an old sink sits to one side. Chairs cut from logs were strewn around. Feeling a certain reverence, I righted and arranged them in a circle.
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I gazed around, trying to imagine the place eighty-four years ago, before Monte Wolfe disappeared. These young trees weren’t around then, his outdoor kitchen must have been in a clearing, I could almost see him sitting in those chairs, at a table in the sun, perhaps surrounded by hide-skinning racks, piles of cut wood, an axe and other tools, several sets of skis. Skis. That made me think of winter. Good grief! What would it be like to overwinter in this cabin? In Bear Valley, sixty feet of snow falls out of the sky most winters, and fifteen feet pile up the ground, lingering well into May. I shuddered, suddenly filled with deep respect and a touch of awe. I had idealized a summer soiree here, but winter? It would take a person of intense fortitude, self-sufficiency, planning, strength and… I shook my head… so, so much more.
I still had 14 miles and a 3,800-foot climb to get back to the trailhead tonight. I laughed. Where once I might have felt anxious at the distance and the meager remains of the day, in comparison to Monte Wolfe…?
I had all the inspiration I needed.
I still had 14 miles and a 3,800-foot climb to get back to the trailhead tonight. I laughed. Where once I might have felt anxious at the distance and the meager remains of the day, in comparison to Monte Wolfe…?
I had all the inspiration I needed.
