Arthur Carhart: Wilderness Prophet

14: An Old Buck, Always Off the Reservation and Hunting Lonely

243 Introduction: I’m A Nonconformist, Totally Having ridden out the Depression at his typewriter, Carhart retained a vivid sense of the value of a dollar to the end of his life.2 Arthur and Vee had inherited their parents’ old-fashioned work ethic, and they fully intended to toil as long as they were able. They had taken George Carhart into their home. They entered their old age beset by health problems. Carhart gamely “played hurt,” remaining productive until his stroke in 1966 and then persevering until his death at age eighty-six in 1978. Family prevailed. A few months after Vee’s death from cancer on January 29, 1966, Arthur suffered a major stroke that left him mute and partially paralyzed . During his rehabilitation, he worried over selling his home with its beloved mature landscaping (apples, grapes, cherries, aspen), and he agonized over leaving Colorado when there was still so much to be done for conservation. Although he considered retiring to Mapleton, encouraged by “Judge” Whiting An Old Buck, Always Off the Reservation and Hunting Lonely Let someone who might prowl my papers in the Conservation Library Center some years hence find the facts “hitherto unreported,” and gather stature as a researcher thereby, or tell the facts, as stripped of personality and impulses as possible, double-stripped with your help, and say, in effect “This is historical fact of importance” and let the chips fall. Certainly I can’t be accused of any adverse feeling toward NPS [National Park Service] and the parks; I’ve fought, sometimes pretty much alone, for Dinosaur, Teton, against Yellowstone dams, as early as 1920 for the Great Sand Dunes. So—What’s the verdict? —Carhart to Samuel Dana1 C h a p t e r f o u r t e e n An Old Buck, Always Off the Reservation and Hunting Lonely 244 during a final 1968 visit, he settled on a retirement home in southern California in 1969. Lemon Grove was a poor choice to begin with, and Carhart was difficult to please in an institutional setting. Peace arrived in the form of Joy Carhart Fuenzalida, a cousin once removed. She had been born and raised in Mapleton before marrying and moving to California, where she was widowed. Her capacious house sat in the midst of an avocado grove. There she granted Carhart the dignity of spending the final years of his life.3 He called his office “the Crow’s Nest,” and he liked to sit and gaze out over the avocado trees, pondering the meaning of a life that began with a love of trees. There was ample precedent for such a display of family values, as one can see in Carhart’s correspondence with family members in the 1960s—especially those who had moved west from Iowa to Nebraska, where they prospered in the lumber business. Carhart had a touch of drama about him, even as a child holding out his bowl and crying “poor boy!” Yet his needs and fears were real enough. His diminished capacity left him feeling vulnerable when Park Hill went through a period of “white flight” as African Americans arrived, sending the value of his sole significant asset plummeting. The year 1969 was a low point in Park Hill real estate values, but the house on Eudora Street had long since been paid for.4 Although Arthur had worked at home, except during his stints in government jobs, he collected Social Security. And Sport-LORE provided a small but steady income until 1964. The Carharts had managed to travel extensively, although generally to destinations related to his writing. As they aged, both Carharts became more active in Vee’s family faith: the Episcopalian Church, both in their local Park Hill parish, St. Thomas, and at St. John’s, Denver’s Episcopalian cathedral—the grounds of which McCrary, Culley, & Carhart had landscaped in the 1920s. Carhart’s curmudgeonliness and his nonconformist streak carried a price when he reached the age at which most people retire. He turned sixty-five in 1957. Although his books sold relatively well, he had long since learned that book royalties rarely provide a steady income. These personal financial realities may explain Carhart’s constant grasping after money. He relished the freedom of getting paid to do and say as he pleased, especially when it came to his last works: telling his own version of early wilderness history at government expense. The government also paid Carhart $1,000 for...