Coaldale
They met more than 60 years ago on the back porch of a hamburger stand in Iowa, a handsome young soldier back from World War II, now staring wide-eyed at the prettiest farm girl he’d ever seen. Within a year, the soldier and the teenage girl got married. And they’ve been together just about every day since.
But a few weeks ago, as darkness fell over the rugged mountains out beyond their Colorado home and the temperatures dropped and a band of searchers frantically combed the terrain for that Iowa farm girl – now a 77-year-old woman with a fading memory who wandered off into the night – Dean DeVore began to think the unimaginable: Bernita, the love of his life, might not be coming home.
“The house was full of friends, but I don’t remember what they were doing or what they were saying,” said DeVore, 83. “I just sat in my chair, thought about my wife up there alone on the mountain and in my head I went to some pretty dark places.
“I didn’t think they’d find her. I definitely thought the worst.”
But outside, summoned by nothing more than a phone call seeking help, a remarkable group had gathered. Deputies from the Fremont County sheriff’s office. The DeVores’ friends. Neighbors. Fellow worshipers from Cotapaxi Community Church down the road along the Arkansas River.
A little before 8 p.m. on April 11, an hour after Dean had called 911, about 35 people had descended on the couple’s home in the sagebrush and ponderosa pine mountains. Bernita was wearing blue jeans, tennis shoes and a blouse. No sweater. No jacket.
Their big golden retriever, Candy, was also missing. Dean figured the dog was with his wife.
But the temperature was in the high 30s and dropping fast. It was not likely, they knew, that Bernita would survive the night.
The couple’s two grown children began to notice their mother’s memory lapses about three years ago, Dean said. It got steadily worse.
“You know, when you’re with someone every day, you don’t pick up on changes so well,” Dean said. “The kids would come to visit and really notice the change. A doctor in Colorado Springs told us it was old age and she was just getting forgetful. He ruled out Alzheimer’s. I guess he didn’t want to use the word dementia.”
But there was no mistaking that Bernita DeVore, a sharp and dynamic woman, had changed. Dean kept a close eye on her. But on that Tuesday afternoon, he let down his guard for a moment.
“The septic tank pipe had frozen,” he said. “So I went to fix it.”
When he got back to the house, she was gone. She often strolled down the dirt road and into the nearby trees to gather pine cones that she used to start the fire in the wood-burning stove of their peaceful mountain home. Dean walked, calling her name. He came back, got into his car and drove up and down the road, a growing nervousness in his voice as he shouted her name. He leaned on the car horn, hoping Bernita would hear and walk back toward the road.
There was no sign of her.
And then he called 911. A small army began to arrive. And a neighbor, remarkably, found the slightest trace of Bernita. A tennis shoe print in the soft dirt of a gulch. The prints headed south, uphill. High into the mountains. A place where bears and mountain lions are common.
Mark and Carla Gillespie were there. The couple is part of the Fremont County Search and Rescue team, the “Western group,” a reference to their location on the west edge of the county. The Gillespies have known the DeVores for years, mostly from their church. Mark’s grandparents lived down the dirt road from the house where the DeVores settled in 1988.
The neighbor who found Bernita’s shoe print didn’t want any publicity. His name is Dave.
“His dad taught him to track when he was a kid,” said Dean DeVores. “Now he’s in his 60s. And boy, can he track.”
The Gillespies, along with Dave and his wife, Nancy, gripped their flashlights, kept their eyes on the ground and headed up the mountain. They knew Bernita was running out of time.
“Every so often Dave would find a footprint,” Mark said. “It was really tough going. The ground was mostly pine needles. But there were small clearings with dirt, and Dave just kept finding those tracks.”
Dean sat at home. He’d been told by sheriff’s deputies to stay put. “Guess they didn’t want me wandering around the mountains and getting lost, too,” he said. “But boy, sitting there was tough. I wanted to be up there, looking for her.”
Back in the brush-filled gulch, Dave the neighbor continued finding tennis-shoe prints. And climbing. A little before midnight, the small group looked up, and the light from their flashlights danced across the sitting form of Bernita DeVores. It was 34 degrees. She did not move. She had hypothermia. After a three-hour stay in a hospital she was home again by daybreak.
Candy, the dog, had kept Bernita warm by lying across her lap.
“We met back in 1944 out on that hamburger-stand porch, and I kissed her and whew, that was it,” said Dean, sitting in a living room chair on Friday afternoon.
Across the room sat Bernita, a smile on her face but few words slipping from her mouth. Dean looked at her. They will celebrate their 60th wedding anniversary May 17.
“This is a new ballgame for me,” he said. “She was so independent, always in charge of things. Now ….”
And then the eyes of a tough old soldier grew sad and he looked away.
