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It was just before sunset on Friday, February 24, 1978.

Northern California, specifically the mountains just east of the Sierra foothill community of

Oroville, had seen an unusual amount of winter snow.

But that night, the sky was clear, and as the sun fell behind

giant sugar pine trees, temperatures dipped below freezing. At the mountain house, an old stagecoach

stop turned watering hole and seasonal lodge. A 55-year-old local named Joseph Shones had just

finished his last beer and decided, on a whim, to hop in

his VW bug and head north into the Plumas National Forest. He would later claim that he wanted

to check the snow line for an upcoming outing with his wife and teen daughter. But above the

mountain house, the Oroville-Quincey Highway was treacherous, unpaved, and densely wooded,

at elevations topping 5,000 feet. Shones only made it about six and a half miles before his car

bottomed out on a side road near a recreational area called Rogers Cow Camp.

Come on. Come on.

Come on.

Damn it.

Shones got stuck in the snow a lot, but usually there was someone around to help him out.

There was no one that night.

Not in those parts.

...