From the Classroom - Bruce Allen Murphy

Lafayette faculty are experts in their fields. Interests among the 184 members range across the full spectrum of scientific, technological, and humanistic knowledge. In "From the Classroom," faculty members give insight into their particular subject, providing a window on the intellectual rigor that characterizes the environment of academic excellence at Lafayette. This issue features an excerpt from Wild Bill: The Legend and Life of William O. Douglas, by Bruce Allen Murphy (Random House, 2003).

The Legend of Goose Prairie

He sure didn't look like a Supreme Court Justice. Standing just over six feet tall, rail thin, topped with a shock of long white hair, he possessed penetratingly crystal-clear blue eyes that could, depending on his mood, either twinkle impishly in amusement or chill your blood with an unblinking stare. William O. Douglas had traded in his black judicial gown for the rugged mountain outfit he much preferred: a crushed sheepherder's hat with a cigarette hole burned in one side, a fraying flannel shirt, his favorite red-and- black-checked lumberman's jacket, and an old pair of Levi's 505 jeans with the zipper so worn that it no longer held. As he rode, his horse weighed down by two saddlebags filled with liquor bottles, one pant leg was stuffed inside one of his scuffed cowboy boots, while the other hung outside.

Douglas was dressed this way in August 1970 for one of his favorite adventures: a ten-day pack trip deep into the Hindoo region of the breathtaking Cascade Mountains. He and his young wife, Cathy, and ten of their friends from around the country were being led on the trip by Kay Kershaw and Isabelle Lynn, the proprietors of the Double K Dude Ranch in tiny Goose Prairie, Washington. With the crisp smell of the cool pine-scented air, not to mention the glorious changing of the leaves, the mountain trail on which they were riding was so lovely and so quiet in its total natural isolation that it literally took their breath away.

For hours they had ridden on the switchback paths that were carved in zigzagging patterns up the mountains. Less than a yard in width and often dropping off in sheer cliffs below, they were the only paths in the region. Finally, with dusk about to fall the group stopped by a gently rolling stream to camp for the night. It would be, past experience indicated, another night of good talk, delicious campfire food, and more of the old jurist's captivating autobiographical stories. But soon they would all understand that this night was not like the others. For when Dagmar Hamilton, Douglas's literary assistant, peered off to enjoy the sun

Sparks fly as the "storyteller" spins another of his autobiographical tales by a campfire, high in the Cascade Mountains.

As the figures got closer and closer, Hamilton noticed something very unusual about them. They all were dressed not in the old blue jeans and comfortable hiking boots favored by mountain travelers but rather in fancy business suits and leather dress shoes. To be able to navigate the gravel- and rock-strewn trails in such footwear was a feat worthy of attention. As Hamilton studied the three moving figures further, though, she noticed something even more unusual about them. Each of the men was holding a briefcase!

When she pointed out the astonishing sight to the other members of the party, all but one of them turned to watch in astonishment-all of them, that is, except for William O. Douglas. His blue eyes turned instantaneously from glittering merriment to cold fury. He knew who the men were-didn't know them personally, but he knew why they were coming and whom they were seeking. So he slowly pulled up the collar on his jacket, tugged his cap down over his eyes, and started walking away from the group. "Don't tell 'em I'm here," he growled to the Double K gals as he passed them. "Tell 'em I'm the wrangler, and don't give 'em anything to drink. And whatever you do, don't let 'em sleep here."

"I'm not going to give them anything to drink," responded Kay Kershaw sharply. "And unless you give them your sleeping bag, I'm not going to give them any place to sleep either." Satisfied with the response, the old man silently nodded, retreated across the small creek, and hid behind a large pine tree.

When the three men in suits approached the camp, Kay Kershaw at first made like she did not even see them. When that did not work, she finally grunted in their direction.

"We are looking for Justice William O. Douglas of the United States Supreme Court," announced the lead figure in a stentorian tone.

The tiny but still fiercely imposing Kershaw ceremoniously folded her arms across her chest, glared at the man, and said sharply that there was no Justice Douglas in her party. "We are attorneys here to deliver an emergency appeal," the man continued, acting as though he had not noticed her. Finally, when the visiting attorneys made very clear that they were not leaving, the white-haired old man in the lumberman's jacket sauntered across the creek, raised his cap above his eyes with his index finger, and said simply, "I'm Douglas. What can I do for you?"

The three lawyers who had brushed off Kershaw immediately froze in awe when they saw that he was telling the truth. Here he was before them, appearing bigger than life: Justice William O. Douglas, the living legend on the Supreme Court. Here was the last of the New Dealers, the man who had cleaned up Wall Street during the New Deal, had played poker with Franklin D. Roosevelt, and had served on the Supreme Court since the age of forty. Here, too, was the man who had tried to save the Rosenbergs, created a constitutional right of privacy, protected the environment, and even single-handedly tried to stop men from being shipped to the Vietnam War from his seat on the Bench.

Douglas liked to portray himself as a westerner, with strong skills as a horseman, but friend Kay Kershaw of Double K Dude Ranch, Goose Prairie, Wash., said, "He was a terrible rider...The only reason he survived was he did what we told him to do."

William O. Douglas, the lawyers knew, was by then well on his way to setting the Supreme Court record for most years served, most opinions issued, most dissents, and most solo dissents. These men cared little at this moment for Douglas's other, less distinguished, records: while serving in an institution of which no members had ever been divorced, he had ended three marriages, taken four wives (the last two of whom were several decades younger than he), and was now facing impeachment charges for a record fourth time. Without any further preliminaries, the lawyers got down to business: handing a sheaf of papers to Douglas, taking out a legal-sized file folder, and appropriating a tree stump for a podium. While Douglas sat down on a large rock to read the documents, the campers realized in amazement that they were about to see, in these isolated woods, an official appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court. They were representing a group of Vietnam War protesters, the three attorneys explained. Their clients had picketed the national convention of the Veterans of Foreign Wars in Portland, Oregon, in defiance of a local judge's injunction, and summarily been arrested, though it was a peaceful protest, and no laws

Upon finishing their argument, the three men waited for the ruling, which they expected would take the Justice about a minute to formulate. It was well known that he hated the Vietnam War only slightly more than he hated President Richard Nixon, who was then personally trying to remove him from the Bench.

But what the men did not understand was that Douglas hated one thing even more than the war: being interrupted in his natural sanctuary. For the first time since the argument had begun, Douglas raised his eyes from the petition and peered icily at the three men for an overly long moment before saying firmly, "I will take your petition and consider it overnight."

"Overnight!" cried the panicked lawyers in unison. With no bedrolls in their briefcases, this meant that they were going to have to hike back out of the mountains by the light of the moon, find their car, and drive back to Whistlin' Jack's, only to have to retrace their steps the next day.

"Yes," explained Douglas, "I'm going to have to think about it. If you want an answer you will have to come back in the morning. Then you will have your answer. That's the best I can do."

So they slowly picked up their briefcases. But before leaving, one of them decided to make one final appeal. "Do you suppose we could have something to drink?" he asked Kay Kershaw, coveting the rows of liquor bottles and canteens strewn around the roaring campfire.

In making the request, the tenderfoots failed to understand that in the mountains one ate and drank only what he or she personally carried. Peering at the three men without cracking a smile, the mountain lady handed one of the men a small tin cup, pointed in the direction of the creek, and said, "Help yourself."

The next morning, the three lawyers returned to the same spot, somewhat more appropriately dressed and fully expecting to see the group and hear Douglas's pronouncement in their favor. When they arrived, though, all they found was the piece of lined paper fluttering in the breeze. It read, simply, "DENIED. WM. O. DOUGLAS, AJ."

While this appeal was not successful, and word of his ill treatment of the attorneys spread, desperate and adventurous attorneys kept on coming to the Cascades in search of help because over the years William O. Douglas had proved to be the one person who could and did make a real difference in the American judicial system.