29 Jun (Sun) Slept
hard. French toast & maple syrup (lotsa butter…) to start the day right.
◦◦◦◦◦ Rode Piute again; packed Tom with tools various to go PCT way and attack the “Tree of Dismay.” ◦◦◦◦◦ Partway up Harriet Hill, a stereophonic symphony: three hermit thrushes were singing in one small area. One was off to my right close by and another beyond it (maybe 50 yards); to my left, not far away, another. All were singing their distinctive fluid calls—soft, warbled phrases in different keys with pauses roughly twice as long as the phrases between. These lovely bits create and resolve tension like a classical composition. The finest music in the Sierra, many would say. Well, these three males were busy maintaining their territorial boundaries in song and what I heard was one thrush singing at 3X speed, without the pauses. When closer, I could tell what was going on and it was one fine concert. Clearly, all three birds were timing their calls to not interfere with one another and, at times, were synchronized so that the pauses perfectly framed the other two birds’ parts. Top it off: the two closest birds, at times, were bouncing off each other with phrases in the same key (although there always seems to be minor variations, making hermit thrushes true jazzmen in bird world). It really was a thing. Piute wasn’t keen to stop but…I made him. And (once again) found myself out in the woods, grinning fiercely, full of joy & thanks for this stunning creation—all of it! Yeah! ◦◦◦◦◦ Sussed out the other big fallen tree on Harriet hill. Probably’ll take two cuts; it’s all rotten inside. Blue Max [log-rolling tool with adjustable spiked head of blue-painted steel and long wooden shaft for leverage] can handle it…. ◦◦◦◦◦ At the tree, got parked & unloaded with tools laid out and, after a snack, fell to work. Took a solid hour & a half to limb the thing and heave slash out of the way. Bugs pretty terrible. Then I sawed for 3½ hours. It was a workout, boy. Arms got all heavy. Sweated loads; bugbit, filth, blood, etc. ◦◦◦◦◦ In the process I was passed by a record six PCT through-hikers [hiking all the way from Mexico to Canada at one go]. Never see more than a couple in any one day. By chance I chose this day to park myself on the PCT and meet all these characters. There were two women together (“Gottago” and “Yogi”); others were solo men (“Billygoat,” “Apteryx,” “Garlicman,” and “Mercury.”) They passed me at discrete intervals. They all knew each other and would ask how long since I’d seen so & so. It was Mercury who told me that, amazingly, I’d just met the only four people who had done the whole PCT last year as well. (I wasn’t aware that people did it two years in a row.) As with last year, these disparate souls had crossed paths repeatedly for months and, for reasons unknown, were doing it again in ’03. (This is a thing you don’t ask the through-hikers—“Why?”—nor, “How can you afford to take the time?”) ◦◦◦◦◦ There’s a reason they all have these whimsical trail-names; they’re often-clever identifiers bequeathed by the people they share the trail with and capture the bearer’s uniqueness. “Real” names, particularly surnames, are pointless; they’ve left their flatlander-selves behind. You only need one name out here: Billygoat (with long, curly grey “goatee”) told me Yogi got her trail-handle from her particular skill at coercing backpackers and day-hikers into giving her food. Mercury blitzed the trail in four months last year (not the fastest time, either). “I’m taking five this time,” he said. Apteryx is a New Zealander; with that charming accent he cheerily informed me when, I gave him a quizzical look, that this is the scientific name of the kiwi bird. Garlicman carries loads to spice up his otherwise austere cuisine and must reek of it. And Gottago demonstrated how she got her tag when, after we’d talked a little while, indicated a need to press on. So it goes. I do love talking with these people—fellow romantics—and hearing their stories. ◦◦◦◦◦ Worked ‘til I couldn’t work no more. Packed a load of the nearest snow (big drift 100 yards down the trail) for my cooler and rode home satisfied.
◦◦◦◦◦ Rode Piute again; packed Tom with tools various to go PCT way and attack the “Tree of Dismay.” ◦◦◦◦◦ Partway up Harriet Hill, a stereophonic symphony: three hermit thrushes were singing in one small area. One was off to my right close by and another beyond it (maybe 50 yards); to my left, not far away, another. All were singing their distinctive fluid calls—soft, warbled phrases in different keys with pauses roughly twice as long as the phrases between. These lovely bits create and resolve tension like a classical composition. The finest music in the Sierra, many would say. Well, these three males were busy maintaining their territorial boundaries in song and what I heard was one thrush singing at 3X speed, without the pauses. When closer, I could tell what was going on and it was one fine concert. Clearly, all three birds were timing their calls to not interfere with one another and, at times, were synchronized so that the pauses perfectly framed the other two birds’ parts. Top it off: the two closest birds, at times, were bouncing off each other with phrases in the same key (although there always seems to be minor variations, making hermit thrushes true jazzmen in bird world). It really was a thing. Piute wasn’t keen to stop but…I made him. And (once again) found myself out in the woods, grinning fiercely, full of joy & thanks for this stunning creation—all of it! Yeah! ◦◦◦◦◦ Sussed out the other big fallen tree on Harriet hill. Probably’ll take two cuts; it’s all rotten inside. Blue Max [log-rolling tool with adjustable spiked head of blue-painted steel and long wooden shaft for leverage] can handle it…. ◦◦◦◦◦ At the tree, got parked & unloaded with tools laid out and, after a snack, fell to work. Took a solid hour & a half to limb the thing and heave slash out of the way. Bugs pretty terrible. Then I sawed for 3½ hours. It was a workout, boy. Arms got all heavy. Sweated loads; bugbit, filth, blood, etc. ◦◦◦◦◦ In the process I was passed by a record six PCT through-hikers [hiking all the way from Mexico to Canada at one go]. Never see more than a couple in any one day. By chance I chose this day to park myself on the PCT and meet all these characters. There were two women together (“Gottago” and “Yogi”); others were solo men (“Billygoat,” “Apteryx,” “Garlicman,” and “Mercury.”) They passed me at discrete intervals. They all knew each other and would ask how long since I’d seen so & so. It was Mercury who told me that, amazingly, I’d just met the only four people who had done the whole PCT last year as well. (I wasn’t aware that people did it two years in a row.) As with last year, these disparate souls had crossed paths repeatedly for months and, for reasons unknown, were doing it again in ’03. (This is a thing you don’t ask the through-hikers—“Why?”—nor, “How can you afford to take the time?”) ◦◦◦◦◦ There’s a reason they all have these whimsical trail-names; they’re often-clever identifiers bequeathed by the people they share the trail with and capture the bearer’s uniqueness. “Real” names, particularly surnames, are pointless; they’ve left their flatlander-selves behind. You only need one name out here: Billygoat (with long, curly grey “goatee”) told me Yogi got her trail-handle from her particular skill at coercing backpackers and day-hikers into giving her food. Mercury blitzed the trail in four months last year (not the fastest time, either). “I’m taking five this time,” he said. Apteryx is a New Zealander; with that charming accent he cheerily informed me when, I gave him a quizzical look, that this is the scientific name of the kiwi bird. Garlicman carries loads to spice up his otherwise austere cuisine and must reek of it. And Gottago demonstrated how she got her tag when, after we’d talked a little while, indicated a need to press on. So it goes. I do love talking with these people—fellow romantics—and hearing their stories. ◦◦◦◦◦ Worked ‘til I couldn’t work no more. Packed a load of the nearest snow (big drift 100 yards down the trail) for my cooler and rode home satisfied.
30 Jun (Mon) OFF, but a kinda grim one. Mark this: the mosquitoes have been satanulous!…barbarific!…loatheful! Adjectives fail me. Today was a day of rest and I wanted to take it real easy. Going outside was ill-advised so stayed indoors where the bugs were only irksome. Problem was, in the cabin’s cloistered silence they were maybe worse than when I’m out with ‘em but on-the-move and dressed defensively. In the cabin, thinly clothed and unDeeted, they attacked all day long, one at a time like tiny kamikaze warriors. I read for hours and about twice per minute had one “in my face.” I tried to nap but every time I was drifting off there’d be that shrill buzzing in my ear. Tried covering my head with a shirt but they’d make it through the little air-vents. All-in-all it was most aggravating. ◦◦◦◦◦ The horses have to put up with this while they stand nekkid & helpless, getting bit about the eyes & privates. Watching them, it’s clear that they’re irritated and disturbed: tail thrashing, head tossing, hoof stomping, incessant body-wide twitching. (I see the deer suffering as well….) That’s sort of how it is for me in the cabin; never truly at ease. It’s a drag, verily, but part of the rent I pay for getting to live in paradise. For the 4-leggers as well. A ranger’s philosophical conundrum, unsolved after 20 summers: Do the horses prefer macking on high-summer alpin-lettuce while being driven bug-mad or eating dried-up autumn hay (the equivalent of horsey rice cakes) in peace and at ease? I can’t tell and they’re not saying but they bear it stoically and phlegmatically whilst pigging out on mountain meadow-manna, thinking, like good Tibetans, “Kay guarnay.” [Untranslatable, but basically means, "What is, is."] ◦◦◦◦◦ In the afternoon, to get some exercise, I suited up and hiked down the gorge, crossed on one of the precarious logs, and visited the old trapper’s cabin. (It’s listing more than ever.) Mission: to collect a pack-load of the old cedar shingles which, broken into strips, make the nigh-perfect kindling to start my morning fires. (I used to have stacks of them, debris left by the bear after he’d clawed-up the cabin roof before chewing a bear-sized hole through it….) Bugs swarmed while I picked up a load. Noticed two sets of initials carved into the doorway of the cabin. One of them, a “logo,” was an F with reversed-E attached at the fore. I realized it was Ed Fulstone’s mark and recalled seeing it one other time up Sario Creek. He musta been just a kid when he carved it here. ◦◦◦◦◦ A fine man—local hay rancher, horseshoer, cowboy—who grew up on the family ranch near Coleville. He died, tragically, in his mid-30s of a fast-moving cancer leaving behind a wife, two young sons, and a working ranch. I saw him again in my mind: a handsome and very charismatic man, salt o’ the earth variety; one of the first gen-u-ine cowboys I got to know, who impressed me so much in my first years here. (I’d help him when he’d shoe our stock.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Walked back up and had to continue to the log bridge near Vidal’s Camp, ½ mile past the cabin, to cross safely. Picked my first Piute summer-bouquet out of one of the hillside springs. Columbines! Pre-infested with mountain-aphids! ◦◦◦◦◦ Only got up to 66° today and the wind came up. Big steak BBQ feast with windy, smoky fire (kept bugs at bay…). Yum.
→
2½ miles → no visitors → load of kindling
◦◦◦◦◦ Quotes copied inside the cover of this volume of my log:
The favored living place of most peoples is a prominence near water from which parkland can be viewed. On such heights are found the abodes of the powerful and rich, tombs of the great, temples, parliaments, and monuments commemorating trivial glory. The location is today an aesthetic choice and, by the implied freedom to settle there, a symbol of status.
—E.
O. Wilson, The Diversity of Life
I spent more hours than I can count a quiet witness to the highly mannered, manifold expressions of life that grace our planet. It is something so bright, loud and weird and delicate as to stupefy the senses.
—Yann Martel, Life of Pi
The universe expects every man to do his duty in his parallel of latitude.
—Thoreau
©2014 Tim Forsell 13 April 2014
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