Tribute to Mugs 1992

 Heading west toward Sonora Pass, a few miles after it leaves 395, Highway 108 climbs through a winding river gorge. But before starting up the real grade it briefly levels-out and passes a Forest Service campground. Within this camp a footbridge spans the river. It provides access by trail to what was, for sixteen summers, my baileywick: the Upper West Walker watershed (now part of Hoover Wilderness). Just a few hundred yards farther up the highway is Leavitt Meadows Pack Station, an outfitter/guide service. Day rides. Owned and operated by Bart Cranney, “the pack station” was where my horses, by arrangement, stayed when they weren’t in the backcountry. Over the years, I spent a lot of time there packing for trips to my ranger-cabin in Upper Piute Meadows. It was a charming place.

So I got to know all the folks who lived and worked at Cranney’s; they were both associates and friends. A few were truly amazing people, like characters out of some western novel. None more than Dr. Will Grishaw, a retired General Practitioner from Yuba City, who was known to all but his oldest friends and family as, simply, “Doc.” He was part-owner along with Bart and lived in a little shack from late May until the place was boarded-up come October. A small, lean man with craggy features, he helped out around the place; packed, fixed trails, and was never seen wearing anything but his beat-up Stetson, Wrangler jeans and a blue-pinstriped railroad shirt—always filthy. You’d never guess he was a doctor.

He’s featured in many of my ranger-stories and deserves at least a little introduction. Doc was a complex, unique person; a flawed jewel with many facets. Among them: Stanford-educated mule-packer, horseshoer, cook, trail-builder, musician, singer, song-writer, squaredance-hollerer, family man, ranger-mentor and certified anachronism. He could be a real joy—Doc had a vast store of knowledge about a surprising array of subjects, firm opinions about everything, and hundreds of fascinating stories that he told with flair in his own style. He could be so charming and funny and entertaining; was a great host, and some of my very most cherished memories are of sitting around the little fire in his backcountry camp with old friends after we’d finished a pot of Doc-stew and the instruments came out. But he had a dark side—was terribly moody—and on his bad days was grumpy, sour, condescending, dismissive or just a royal pain-in-the-ass. As with any true friend, you accept those bad parts and love the good. I respected Doc tremendously but had to learn how to deal with his truly irksome ways. The love part came easy.  

           

Yesterday was hot and windy, with persistent gusts and clouds of dust; a kind of weather that sets me on edge. I’d planned to ride right back into Piute after my supply-run but at noon was still feeling beat and just didn’t relish the thought of having to hold onto my hat for hours, inhaling quantities of powdered trail. Like lots of people, an unrelenting wind makes me short-tempered…and riding Redtop into this wind-storm would provide plenty of opportunities for testing my patience. (A quivering branch or dust-swirl can turn into a foul demon visible to his equine eyes alone.) So I opted to use up the rest of this day resting behind a locked gate in nearby Cloudburst Group Camp, the entire place to myself. I let myself in with the Forest Service standard Yale key, parked in my favorite spot, ate lunch, took a three-hour “nap” and read an entire issue of some old Sports Illustrated I’d retrieved earlier from a trashcan at the warehouse.

            In the evening, well-rested, I made a fire of mahogany wood and barbequed a fat New York steak from the local butcher shop over fine, hot coals and ate it with a can of pinto beans; a real western-style dinner. I saved a big chunk and had it for breakfast, cut up into little bites and scrambled with three eggs. I was trying to get an early start in case the wind came back up and got to the pack station at seven—a rare occurrence, for me. There was still frost in the grass. The lovely grove of golden aspens, not quaking.

Doc was busy feeding hay and I was surprised to see his wife, reading a book on the sunny little porch of the Waldorf (Doc’s tiny shack out behind the far hitch-rails). But Liz comes for a visit every fall. A long-time gradeschool teacher in Yuba City, about sixty. She’s very pleasant; a slight, quite attractive woman who can come across as being a little scatterbrained. (She’s not.) The two seem to get along fine but there’s not a trace of any affection between them—only a rather formal, icy politeness; his doing, no doubt. Their mutual interests are few and now, with the three fine kids all grown-up and gone, they apparently have little interaction. He once told me that he “gave” Liz their house and all his savings—ostensibly to protect her just in case he was sued for malpractice—and added that she “kindly lets me stay there in the winter.”(Such a Doc-like thing to say….) He often appears to not be listening when she talks and sometimes cuts her off mid-sentence as if he didn’t even notice she was there. Liz doesn’t react or seem offended by this shocking rudeness; has clearly resigned herself to how he is.

            I’d caught-up my horses and was saddling them when Doc stopped to chat. The new cook, Cindy, was done for the season and gone but for some reason her two dogs were still there. One is a tiny black & white terrier-mix of some kind, with an ugly pug-face like a bulldog; he’d be an imposing and intimidating dog except he weighs about nine pounds. On the other hand, Kane is a gigantic, black Great Dane who wears a dirty red bandanna around his neck. He’d be most imposing if not for always behaving like a goofy, rollicking pup. Both were happily running all around, getting in the way. Doc was one of his average selves but seemed distracted; perhaps a little out-of-sorts from having the wife visit. (He barely tolerates anything that alters his routines.) We talked about how much longer I’d be able to keep my horses at the pack station and Doc took five minutes to explain what I understood perfectly after about fifty seconds. One of his more exasperating qualities: he’ll explain a simple situation in minute detail, examining each aspect and possibility, then restate it all with virtually the exact same wording as if you were an idiot. With studied verbal adroitness, whenever you try to change the subject or move on he quickly cuts you off. It drives everybody crazy. Doc.

            But finally I muscled myself back into the conversation. “Cindy’s gone isn’t she? So…how is it, having these dogs under-foot?” Doc looked at me questioningly so I explained, “I mean, Mugs doesn’t mind? He’s not threatened by Dane?”

            Looking me straight in the eye, he frowned his hollow-cheeked, old-man-frown with his front teeth showing a little and, in a flat tone tinged with disgust, said “Mugs is dead,” and just walked away. My jaw dropped and I whispered, “Mugs is dead?” and almost blurted out, “How…?!” but then realized he wouldn’t answer and refrained. In a state of shock, I started packing my load while Doc continued to charge around the yard attending to his morning chores. I felt hollow and heart-sick.

            A minute later Liz walked over and I asked, “What happened?!” I could hardly believe it was true, didn’t want to. Not that dog! She dropped her voice even though Doc wasn’t in sight and said, “We don’t know! Will was in the backcountry a few days ago and ran into Bart on his way out with a string and told him, ‘Mugs is dead. I don’t wanna talk about it,’ so we have no idea. He’s been terribly upset. Mugs has been such a good companion—they were inseparable. He won’t say a thing and we don’t dare ask. He won’t let us!” And this last, in an almost anguished whisper: “Did you ask him?”

“No, no…he told me and just walked off. I knew better than to say anything.” And looked away, just beginning to comprehend. Doc….

            “He was kicked by a mule or hit by a car or something. We have no idea…don’t even know when or where it happened.”

            “I can’t believe it! I’m terribly sorry, Liz. Mugsy is…was…my favorite dog.”

            So this is a tribute to Mugs, one of the all-time greats, with more character and canine-charisma than any I’ve known.

            He originally belonged to Bart. Doc sort of adopted him during those years when he was staying back at his basecamp all summer long (tending the pasture there…a sort of B & B for their packers heading home from long spot-trips). Mugs was an Australian Shepherd; mostly black with white chest and belly, some brown on his chest and legs. About thirty-five pounds with classic shepherd form; fine head, dark brown eyes with much intelligence in them. He was very calm but with a placid, reserved eagerness. By my reckoning, the complete pinnacle of dog-ness: dignified and proud and solemn; only faintly subservient (though completely devoted) to Doc and Doc alone. I respected his decorum. Me: I’m more of a “cat person” and generally don’t care much for dogs’ typically submissive attachment to their owners. I’ve always respected the cat’s innate independence and aloofness and genuinely dislike some dogs’ fawning, eternal quest for approval and attention. I can't abide dogs who jump up on you, especially big ones. Droolers. Crotch-sniffers. Poop-eaters. Non-stop barkers. Mugs had none of these crude traits; was always dignified, with a charming lack of interest in anyone but his partner.

            But only this last summer did he finally stop barking at me when I’d show up; a sign of real acceptance. After the required, declarative yelp to announce my arrival he’d always run over to say hello with a friendly sniff, tail wagging. I’d pat his head (politely lowered) a few times: “Hey, Mugsy, hey! Whadda good dog!” He’d tolerate my silly ministrations good-naturedly for maybe five seconds, then trot over to Doc or a patch of shade and flop down—job well done—and pant with self-satisfied doggy-grin. Once, petting too exuberantly, I grabbed a handful of loose skin at the scruff of his neck. He

growled with bared-teeth and flipped his head with a little warning-nip. Excuse me! I’d violated a code of acceptable conduct, offending his dignity. I never did it again.

            Mugs and Doc were a perfect team. They were always together. They looked good together. Doc’s understated commands were instantly obeyed and the dog clearly knew some English. The subtlety of communication and harmoniousness of their partnership was a joy to behold. In early June I rode up on them at the head of Leavitt Meadows, right before the next-to-last ford, heading home after a long day. The river was running swift and high. Doc and I started across but Mugs was plainly not eager to swim so Doc said quietly, “C’mon, Mugs,” and waved him on. The shepherd ran fifty yards upriver and leapt in. We sat on our horses and watched, and I watched Doc as well: Mugs swam bravely in the stiff current—breathing hard, nose just out of the frigid water—and was swept by us at speed. Doc looked on with a squinty-eyed, smiling face; love written all over his softened features. Mugs beached a hundred yards below, gave a great shake, and ran back to join us on the far bank, full of joy. Doc chuckled silently and beamed.

            I have fond memories of Mugs from evenings spent in Doc’s basecamp. On these dinner-dates my black cat, Rip, would usually follow me down—an almost-mile-long walk from the cabin. He’d slink around in the shadows and often walk right past Mugs, who showed only mild curiosity. Rip didn’t fear this dog but never turned his back to him, either. Often it was just us four; often there were more. It didn’t matter; supper at Doc’s always consisted of his fabulous sourdough rolls cooked in front of the fire in a reflector-oven. And a pot of beans with whatever was handy tossed in: onions, raisins, spam, peanut-butter, olives, ham, jerky; even pineapple…in one of many “interesting” combinations. We’d eat by the dwindling little fire; then he’d add wood before putting on water for “Piute Tea” (Lapsang-souchong tea, whiskey, and a slice of lemon served in a Sierra Club cup). Mugs would sit at the edge of the firelight, calm but expectant.

            When we’d all had our fill it was Mugs’s turn; he got the leftover beans for his supper—usually there was plenty—with a double-handful of kibble. His feeding-ritual was always the same: Mugs, laid out facing the fire watching Doc ladle beans over his kibble, in eager anticipation but completely still (tail not even wagging). After setting the tin bowl down in front of Mugs—who was watching his face the entire time, never even glancing at the bowl—Doc would give a slight downward tip of his chin. Then the dog “fell-to” with gusto while the man stood watching, hands on hips in flickering firelight, nodding his head with a thin-lipped smile and absolutely adoring glow.

It wasn’t until the following summer that Bart told me: Mugs had been hit by a truck out on the Highway, right in front of the pack station. No one knows where Doc buried him.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

                                                                                                                        25 Sep 92, 9 May 13

© 2013 Tim Forsell

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