I would often introduce Frank Heilig as my homeless neighbor. He was that, but he described himself with a far more colorful montage; mountain man, logger, survivalist, mechanic, ham radio operator, provider of security services, fire fighter, former marine and helper to all who ask. Some of his neighbors knew him only as “GI Joe” or “Camo Guy.” And some found his dress and demeanor a bit intimidating. But he wrote, “I bring people together.” I can attest that that was true.
I first met Frank in 2007, when my wife and I bought some land in the forested hills west of Whitehall Montana. Frank and his trusted German Shepard companion, Dobie, lived in his “fox hole,” essentially squatting on the neighbor’s property. Their cozy underground home was carefully crafted by spanning an excavated arroyo with felled trees.
Inside, he had an old Army-style bunk bed frame that kept his arctic sleeping bag off the dirt floor. A woodburning stove sat near the entrance and shelving was suspended by ropes from the cross-members that made up the ceiling. His quarters included a make-shift horizontal surface that served simultaneously as kitchen, radio shack and work-space. The tools for his minimalist life style were neatly stored away; a couple of chainsaws, a shovel, a pickaxe. His short-barreled shotgun was leaned carefully against the head of the bed frame, protecting the muzzle from the dirt wall.
His life style could be rather shocking at first. But as we grew to know Frank, his chosen existence became simply a part of the whole package. Perhaps most defining was the fact that Frank would do virtually anything to help virtually anyone. Over the last dozen years, I am sure, Frank had hundreds of interactions in which he would provide assistance to people, often at significant personal expense. He happily served as chauffeur to at least two elderly neighbors. He befriended a local family, assuming the role of protector of their property and their many children. He would shop for groceries using his own food stamps and deliver them to their crowded household. That family has told me they have lost the only “grandparent” they have ever known.
In the 19 Mile Wildfire of 2012, the fox-hole roof beams, most of his possessions inside and everything outside in his Camp were destroyed. And while his place was actively burning, he didn’t evacuate as ordered. Instead, he worked tirelessly to save neighbor’s homes. Thirty-six hours later, when residents were finally allowed back in, we found the exhausted GI Joe sound asleep on our deck with his shotgun dutifully leaning up against the wall near his head.
After the fire, Frank began rebuilding his existence by purchasing an 8’ by 20’ cargo container. Using a small tractor borrowed from a neighbor, he excavated a spot to bury all but the doors. He outfitted it with his few things that remained after the fire, slowly adding some critical items from a small donation fund that was set up to help him recover, to pay him back for his heroic efforts during the fire. His dimly lit Dobie Den, named after his K9 companion, and his radio equipment was powered by a new 100-watt solar panel. One family purchased a brand-new Stihl chainsaw and delivered it to him as a way of saying thanks.
When his faithful German Shepard was killed in an accident, Frank put his friend to rest after hand-digging a deep grave in the rocky soil near his old fox hole. Even though I often encouraged him, Frank never took on another canine partner. But he did become the always-welcoming friend to all the other dogs in the neighborhood. He was quick to share whatever food he had and not just with the dogs. After learning Frank was no threat, the chipmunks that lived in his wood piles — he affectionately called them “goldies” — would regularly share a bowl of cereal with him. The Dobie Den would remain his home for the next seven years until his death.
Frank described his childhood home life as completely dysfunctional. I never saw Frank drink or use drugs, perhaps because of his difficult up-bringing. Indeed, he was quick to espouse the evils of both. I admit I was surprised when a woman briefly moved in to his Dobie Den. But I was not really surprised when he just as quickly kicked her out for taking pain killers. His revulsion at ingesting chemicals may well have contributed to his death. He was supposed to be under treatment for high blood pressure, but he felt just fine taking supplements here and there. He declined to take his prescribed medications precisely because they were prescription medicines.
Frank’s days were filled with preparing for the worst that nature could throw at him, helping his friends and neighbors, and constantly improving camp. He used collected rainwater to wash his clothes and maintain his high level of personal hygiene in spite of the rugged living conditions.
I have a vague sense of irony as I think back to Frank’s last selfless act of helping me. When my family made the difficult decision to put down our old dog I couldn’t fathom pulling the trigger. As is prescribed for these matters, Frank revealed that he owned a .22 revolver and hollow point ammunition. He, as he often seemed to do, mustered the strength to do what I could not. After a perfect shot, Frank left so I could grieve the loss of a dear friend.
And then, as Frank lay dying in the hospital, I was tasked to do for him what he had generously done for me. With the support of his doctors, the decision was made to remove him from life support.
Frank Heilig had no known living family members. Prior to his death, Frank authored final instructions for his diminutive estate, directing the majority of his belongings to his “grandchildren” from the family he had helped out. Whether or not those final instructions will be honored is now in question, since his things are, in effect, abandoned property.
Plans to celebrate his contribution to the Jefferson County community recently collapsed when the owner of the property on which his Dobie Den sat retrieved his cremains and took them to Frank’s old haunts in Nevada. I am sure Frank would have been happy either way. Nevertheless, most of the funds donated in support of his local memorial have been returned. In at least one case, however, the donor requested that the funds be passed on to Frank’s “grandchildren.”
Many members of his community were blessed by Frank’s generosity. Frank Heilig, you are—and will be—sorely missed.
