Idaho’s Dugout Dick Is Fading Into History

The stream of songs and poems penned in a cave above the Salmon River has slowed to a trickle. The guitar is silent, the picks and shovels idle.

Time is catching up with Dugout Dick. The “Salmon River Caveman” is 86 and, in his words, “too laid up to do much.”

For most of his many years, Richard Zimmerman lived life alone and on his own terms. He rode freight trains with railroad tramps, herded sheep, dug for precious metals.

He was digging on a mountainside near Elk Bend, south of Salmon, when he had the idea of digging a home.

A cave was perfect for him, providing shelter and the independence he craved. One cave led to another, and the legend of Dugout Dick the Salmon River Caveman was born.

For 54 years, he’s lived in his caves, tended his goats and his garden, and delighted followers of the state’s mountain solitaries.

Once part of the fabric of life in Idaho, the hermits who lent their unique character to its river canyons and ridge tops are fading into history. Buckskin Bill, Free Press Frances and the others are gone. Dugout Dick may be the last, and even legends get old.

“I broke my hip two years ago and spent 17 days in a hospital in Idaho Falls,” he said. “It’s the longest I’ve ever been away from the river.

“I walk with a cane now, and my fingers are too stiff to play the guitar. I haven’t been able to make any caves for a long time.”

Then he brightens, says he “can still make music” and pulls a harmonica from a weathered box. His feet tap the floor of the cave; the rock walls ring with the strains of “Wabash Cannonball.”

He plays and sings three lively verses, then stops abruptly.

“I better quit now,” he says. “I’m getting my breakfast in my harp.”

Even at 86, there’s no one quite like Dugout Dick.

He came to the canyon to leave the world of people. An unhappy home life in Indiana left a lasting mark.

He’s turned down offers to appear as a guest on “The Tonight Show.” He’s been featured in National Geographic magazine and on “Good Morning, America.” His summer visitors this year have included television crews from as far away as Germany.

“I ain’t no hermit now,” he said.

He feels obligated to stick around for the visitors who rent his caves--he has 14--for $5 a night or $25 a month. Others pay him gratuities for cave tours, photos, sketches and autographs.

“I’m in the tourist business,” he said. “I made $40 the other day. And the Army’s started sending me money every month. I’m livin’ high on the hog now.”

His hip injury and World War II service made him eligible for a veterans disability pension. He’s using the money to pay his hospital bills.

And after decades of living alone, his solitary status is in danger. The caveman has a bank account in Salmon.

The Disabled American Veterans recently made him a lifetime member, the Bureau of Land Management brings him firewood and his neighbors across the river take e-mail messages for him and invite him over on Sundays.

“This Christmas, I looked out and saw him over there and wondered what in the world he was doing for Christmas,” neighbor Connie Fitte said. “All his cave renters had left.

“I went to town and bought him a shirt and helped him start a fire. I could see he wasn’t well. That night, my husband went over and invited him to our house for the following Sunday. He had a bath, and I cut his hair. He’s been our Sunday visitor ever since. He’s like my adopted grandfather now.”

For his part, the “adopted grandfather” enjoys the visits. A delicate stomach keeps him from the dinner table, but he appreciates the company and the hot baths--a pleasant change from his usual practice of bathing in a washtub or the river.

When he isn’t visiting, he’s likely to be doing most of the things he’s always done. He just does them slower now.

He rises with the sun and spends most days close to home, puttering in his caves, visiting with renters and tourists, and reading magazines and his Bible. When the spirit moves him, he writes religious poems. Every other week, he writes a letter to his sister in Indiana.

Goats Are Gone

His goats are gone. They had the disturbing habit of eating his books and newspaper clippings. But he still harvests fruits and vegetables from his one-acre orchard and garden.

The garden is watered by a windmill he designed to draw water from the river. Unable to eat meat, wheat or sugar, he lives mainly on fresh and fermented vegetables, rye-flour mush, pork and beans, yogurt and dried fruit.

He still sings the old railroad songs, still makes his stinging-nettle yogurt, still wears his ever-present hardhat.

“You bump your head a lot when you live in a cave,” he said.

His caves are equipped with doors and windows--mostly old windshields and meager furnishings.

The one where he lives has carpet and linoleum, a woodstove, tables and chairs, a tube that brings fresh water from a spring and a solar collector to run his radio and a light in his bedroom.

He dug the caves alone, using a pick, shovel and pry bar. He hauled the supporting timbers in by horseback. He helped build the access road, which was named after an aviation pioneer.

Now there are days when it’s all he can do to climb the hillside with his cane.

On winter days, he’s been known to climb into his 1994 Chevy pickup and just drive. It’s his arthritis remedy.

“The heat and the vibration of the gearshift against my knee,” he said.

He half jokingly says he’ll live a thousand years, then admits to worrying about what will happen to his caves after he’s gone.

The BLM owns the land, and some of the locals have complained that a hillside honeycombed with caves and strewn with junk is an eyesore in need of bulldozing.

Others--including its occupant--say the site should be preserved as an Idaho landmark.

“The road should be named Dugout Road,” he said.

“And the caves should be made into a memorial. As it is now, the only memorial around here is me.”