6
Oct (Sun) Nature notes: No finches have I seen here in weeks.
Most
odd! The Cassin’s finches, ubiquitous at the salt block, I’ve
seen nowhere. A few times I’ve seen/heard pine grosbeaks (along
ridgetops, mostly). And never did see a crossbill all season, which
isn’t at all unusual. And, lately, there’s been a familial flock
of Steller’s jays around the cabin. Haven’t noticed this pattern
before. They chatter a lot and it was [my brother] Steve who pointed
out their redtail hawk imitations. Along with the blackbirds and
calling solitaires and pygmy owls, plus a murmuring river, these
constitute my morning sounds. (I tune out the jet traffic…hardly
ever even notice it.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Back still sore—my perpetual
state come October, the month of waterbreak cleaning. Stayed around
the cabin all day. That manly impulse to gather & pile firewood
came on me again, despite the calm and clear weather. Before
breakfast I made four trips across the river to my tree near the
gate. Getting just about the last of it (aside from some more dead
limbs left attached to the tree that I can knock off with my cruise
axe.) And found a new cache—just outside the drift fence—in the
form of several sizeable and perfectly seasoned, long-dead limbs
dangling from the lower reaches of another big (live) lodgepole. I
wrestled them down, heaved ‘em across the virtual-drift fence [my
front fence—barely
still-standing
due to rotten posts—an illusionary barrier], and carted them home
in ant-like fashion. Made four carries & ferries; probably 150
lbs of wood. ◦◦◦◦◦ Made best-yet French toast for brunch.
Napped (twice) and with coffee-aid after beans’n’rice I went out
and rendered my new pile of limbwood into sticks that fit in the
stove. Piled them behind the stove making a three foot high stack,
which brings joy to my household. ◦◦◦◦◦ Now: here’s a
strange & wondrous item. I am clearly a child favored by the gods
despite my many foibles & follies. (I’m lucky to still be alive
for one thing.) I continually have improbable and perfectly-timed
meetings with people I need to see. I look up just as the eagle flies
over. Things I require just get handed to me, tuh-duh. And I have for
years now ascribed to a worldview based on the notion that, to some
extent, we can influence or even create the circumstances of our
lives. This view based on empirical evidence. And the little event
I’m about to describe is a classic instance of my wacky theory in
action. ◦◦◦◦◦ My day was a break from visiting and
trailwork; a day “at home.” It was devoted to the
wood-gathering—a most primal and necessary activity. Stuff of the
soul. While carrying those armloads I realized I was nearing the last
of this latest trove and, next year, I’ll have to make forays
farther from hearth & home. For many years it was a given that
the Piute ranger burned split-up rounds in the stove. This trend an
easy consequence of having a chainsaw at hand. Then we had to use the
crosscut after the saw was taken away. And for a long time I had help
in the fall to “get the wood in.” But that help has gone south
and for the last several years I’ve
found that limbwood is a great alternative, especially when I can
break it up over a sharp-edged boulder rather than saw it. Maybe a
third the caloric-expenditure. ◦◦◦◦◦ Anyway—while working
today, I was musing on these things. And while breaking up the pile
in the afternoon I was specifically thinking, If
a new tree full of limbwood doesn’t fall down nearby I’ll be
searching farther afield; maybe have to pack it in. A lot of extra
work…. ◦◦◦◦◦
It started as a rumble. I paused and listened, chunk of pine in my
hand, to a sound like thunder that started with a similar CRRR-ACK!
but didn’t reverberate or echo—a crashing sound that obviously
came from the hillside west of the cabin.
Whoa! Big tree just fell down! (A
thing I’ve now heard four times during my career so I knew what it
was.) Finished breaking and stacking, drank some more coffee, and
ambled up the hill behind the outhouse. ◦◦◦◦◦ I found the
tree in just a couple of minutes: long-dead lodgepole, a three-footer
[trunk diameter] with rotten base, had finally decided to keel over
and fell up-slope against a rock bluff. This old soldier, long
without bark, was studded with finely-cured, silver-gray limbwood.
Chunks of it were lying all around. Lots of it. And lots waiting to
be easily broken from the trunk. I hefted a limb and found it to be
dense and heavy with dried pitch: “da kind” firewood. Big grin
spread across my face…. A season and more’s worth of stove-wood,
a downhill carry to the cabin and considerably closer than what I’ve
been harvesting. The tree fell about two or maybe three minutes after
I’d last been wondering what I’d be doing to get wood next time
‘round. CRACK!
CRASH!…tree
falls down in my backyard. Not so much as a breeze. I carried an
arm-load of stove-ready chunks home and burned them ceremoniously.
◦◦◦◦◦ Even if this event was purely
coincidental and had no relation to my musings & wishes, has no
overt or subtle meaning whatsoever, it still brings on a giant
internal grin when I think of it. Thanks for the free firewood!!
7
Oct (Mon) More nature notes: This fall I’ve seen scores of
fuzzy, pure black “wooly bears,” [caterpillars] crawling
about—the larvae of some species of tiger moth. Individuals; not
exactly an infestation. But I honestly can’t recall seeing them
before…especially not in these numbers. We’ll see if I’ve got
tiger moths buzzing around my lanterns next year. ◦◦◦◦◦ My
back continues to be sketchy but I feel driven to clean my hundreds
of rock- and dust-choked waterbreaks & dips. A rangerly
compulsion…. To that end, I saddled Red and gave him a nosebag of
pellets and
a
dose of grain—his ribs are visible. It may be that it’s just a
sign of his age; he spends huge amounts of time grazing on Piute hay.
◦◦◦◦◦ Jogged down the trail. Just above Trash Camp [one of
the pack stations established camps along the West Walker trail; used
originally, back in the ‘60s, as a way-station for the sacks of
trash that they’d gathered from when the backcountry was full of
people’s garbage dumps] I heard a pygmy owl calling nearby so I
whistled it into a lodgepole [pygmy owls respond to crude imitations
of their simple call and readily fly into a nearby tree to
investigate the interloper]. It was instantly mobbed by chickadees.
(All the little forest birds hate
pygmy owls—they’re infamous nest-robbers.) The owl was clearly
visible near the top of the tree; I could see its chest foof-out when
it called and could see it watching me with
great interest. The little birds came out of nowhere—probably 40 to
50 in surrounding trees—and at least a dozen harassing the little
owl (who must tune them out the way I ignore jets). The chickadees
never dive-bombed it or came near to physical contact. Red just stood
there calmly while I watched from the saddle. A great show; free
mountain-movies! ◦◦◦◦◦ Collected my shovel at the Fremont
junction after parking Red. (Once again, had to search
for
my hidden shovel!) Had a bite and a drink before walking to the lake.
The dreaded sand-trap of Fremont Hill—lots of stone &
manure…the waterbreaks full
of
sand. Groan!
And the dust! Me achin’ back! But it was a lovely
day
and all went well; surprised I held out long enough to finish the
job. Numerous pauses to stretch & groan and look about. ◦◦◦◦◦
Took a long break at the Chain o’ Lakes junction. The tiny aspen
grove there yellowing up. I’ve never bothered to piece out the
numerous sheepherder carvings, over-laid and jumbled, assuming many
if not most were done by tourists. But I checked the dozen large
trees and found: “A Groso Aug 30 [19]41,” “Mike Sahargu?
July 1 1934,” and my third “Bautista Ameztoy” (undated as
usual, with diagnostic, graceful curves) and one very old-looking
“[19]08” with the rest obscure. The bulk of the carvings are
much
younger and look to be tourists. ◦◦◦◦◦ But the
big find
was that this grove and its Basque carvings are at another
old trail junction, only 40 yards west of the Chain o’ Lakes
junction. As I was looking at trees I noticed a rocky trough leading
straight uphill and it appeared “disturbed,” not natural. I
followed it (more obvious with the shrubbery dried and, some of it,
leafless) and almost immediately I’m on brushy constructed
switchbacks with tiered outside wall, a well-made and even-graded
trail!! Bart told me years ago that you could ride (or used
to be
able to ride) to the backside of Fremont Lake from the vicinity of
the Chain junction. (This was the route I was hoping to find two
years ago when I tried to get Redtop around the east shore of Fremont
and we had our epic descent to Hidden Lake instead.) But he never
said it was a trail and it never entered my mind that there’d be a
constructed route. This thing probably predates the trail ‘round
the other side (in terms of construction). Wow! I only followed it a
bit…I’ll savor this exploration at a later time. ◦◦◦◦◦
Finished WBs and had a bite at the lake. No one there. Decided to
carpé
the
diem
and
climbed—at long last!—to Pt. 8800 above the northern end of
Fremont Lake. This is a prominent, glacially-hewn granite “dome”
that I’ve wanted to visit forever. Passed by Bart’s basecamp
(quite clean & tidy) and angled up to the “pass.” Scrambled
to the top, hot
in
the sun. The summit is an exceptional place, actually the highpoint
of a long, rocky ridge. Outstanding view of Fremont and the
Hell-hole. In fact, this is one of the very
best
viewpoints in the drainage. The marine base is in full view with
Leavitt Meadows in front of it. Roosevelt & Lane, Hidden Lake
just below. The whole ridge of Blue Mountain to the crest. Then all
the peaks and passes. The whole shebang, folks, ‘cept Piute Meadows
hidden and all the Cinko Lake-Long Lakes area. Awe-some spot. ◦◦◦◦◦
Half an hour back to my shovel, half an hour walking back to my
horse. Red was all hot-to-trot and I turned him loose. He took us
home in 35 minutes! A wild ride, hoo! Such an easy way to get killed
(or worse) but so
exhilarating.
Great way to end a day of hard labor, totally enerjazzing. ◦◦◦◦◦
I’d hoped to take a river bath to anti-inflame my poor back but,
no…breeze’d come up. (Haven’t had a dip since 9/22, geez!) And
it actually got up to 60° today. ◦◦◦◦◦ Pretty beat.
Worked on this log and BBQed that teriyaki tri-tip. Had it with
leftover lima beans; a protein feast for tired ranger.
→ 1 firepit
→ some trash → 450 lbs rock → 53 WBs
cleaned
→ 12 miles → no visitors again → many new things
8
Oct (Tue) Naturally, since I just
mentioned
not seeing any Cassin’s finches in weeks, I saw a lone male on the
salt this morning after the sun rose. (Also, I failed to remark that
my paucity of finches includes the pine siskins—I’ve seen very
few this summer and none for a long time.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Big day.
Not sure where my recent energy & motivation has come from
lately. Despite daily beat-ness after work, I wake up next morning
ready for more. (It won’t last….) I’m watching the calendar and
see how few workdays I have left but how much work to do. ◦◦◦◦◦
Another perfect day. Got up at 6:30 and read by the stove with Lucy
on the opened oven door on her folded towel and managed to get caught
up in this log. Finally left the cabin at 11:30 on foot and got to
the Fremont junction in 70 minutes [4 miles]. Picked up the shovel
and marched to the Chain o’Lakes junction. Found yet another old
carving on an aspen near that fork in the trail: “Mike Sahargun
Jul 18 1930.” This one four years older than the one 50 yards away
and very obscure (I could read it only by knowing this fella’s
style and the fact that another of his works is so close.) Also: the
pretty “mystery grass” that I’ve seen only at Sheepherder
Meadow grows by the dried-up pond at the junction. ◦◦◦◦◦
Basically, I worked like a dog while keeping up a fast trail-pace. I
cleaned more dips & ‘breaks today than I ever have before at
one fell swoop (whatever a “fell swoop” is…). Plus very many
stones and, as I say, at a fast clip. I’m terribly fit. ◦◦◦◦◦
A very quiet day. No tourists. I briefly spoke to the one guy, Tower
Peak climber, on the 4th.
Otherwise, besides Steve, I’ve not seen a human since 9/28. Can’t
say I’ve missed ‘em (though I have
been
thinking about women a lot, lately). ◦◦◦◦◦ Finally got to
Upper Long Lake, decidedly relieved to be done with that shovel and
the dustclouds. Marched home doggedly and arrived about as whipped as
I remember being in a long while. So filthy & beat I had
to
bathe in the river which, verily, woke me right up. A boring,
cloudless sunset going on and not a flower to be seen ‘cept one
yarrow bloom at the edge of a meadow-turf that calved into the river
some years back. Both cats fast asleep in the loft. Looked too late
to see the newly-arrived new moon come over the ridge.
→ 112
WBs cleaned → 1 firepit removed → 650 lbs rock → trash bits → 13 miles
13
April 2014
©2014 Tim Forsell
