![]() He’d take them to city parks, or hunt down free theater tickets and drive them to the plays. At Central State Hospital, in Petersburg, VA, where he’d often supervised “dual-diagnosis” patients (who were in wheelchairs and mentally ill), Donovan had orchestrated novel field trips. He hiked with his pals in Virginia’s Old Dominion Appalachian Trail Club as many as 100 days a year, never missing the Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day outings, and these friends remember him as the most generous and gentle person they ever met.ĭonovan believed his mission in life was to help others, and he forswore many of the niceties of modern culture to focus on that effort. He once told a friend that his greatest fear was dying alone, as a ward of the state, in a hospital. Though his living situation suggests he was a hermit, he craved companionship, striving to avoid the loneliness of his childhood, most of which he spent as an orphan. Though his friends knew him to be a joker, Donovan was also a deep thinker and an inveterate student of history capable of waxing erudite on opera and Europe’s great cathedrals. And he was famously cheap he never sprang for a restaurant tab. He never had a telephone, and he eschewed computers and cars, choosing instead to walk almost everywhere he went. He inhabited a succession of ravaged $300-a-month dwellings, including an abandoned, partially incinerated savings bank that had no heat. He never married, or even dated, and though he had earned a decent salary before retiring from his job as a social worker, he lived like a bum. He swore like a sailor and burst into laughter at awkward moments. To those who didn’t know him, Donovan often seemed gruff and ill-mannered. Donovan, stubborn and headstrong, had spent his life confounding others with what appeared at times to be contradictory behaviors. And he’d headed into the storm against the advice of altitude-savvy backpackers.Īnyone who knew Donovan would have cringed to see him in this predicament–and yet they wouldn’t have been terribly surprised. ![]() He was traveling ultralight, using a tarp in lieu of a tent and socks in place of gloves, and he had few provisions. ![]() He carried no useful maps, nor a compass. A veteran hiker who was nonetheless a notoriously bad navigator, Donovan had strayed from the Pacific Crest Trail, which he was thru-hiking. He had an enlarged heart, which made breathing–and often even thinking clearly–difficult at altitude. San Jacinto, Donovan was trapped on the flanks of the 10,834-foot peak under an ocean of blinding whiteness.Īt the time, he was just 5 days shy of his 60th birthday. What is nearly certain is that on May 6, 2005, as a blizzard dumped 8 inches of snow on Southern California’s Mt. No one will ever be sure how John Donovan spent his last days on earth. Heading out the door? Read this article on the new Outside+ app available now on iOS devices for members!
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