Sunday, May 18, 2014

Piute Log...Me Tarzan, Briefly 1992

Another entry from one of the more than two dozen spiral-bound steno pads I used for journals during my sixteen seasons stationed at Upper Piute Meadows, at the headwaters of the West Walker River. I’d been brought on particularly early this year (due to a mild winter) but there was still much snow left in the backcountry. Typically, in the early season, our few wilderness rangers would spend several weeks working at the Forest Service office or warehouse in Bridgeport. And we’d make forays from various trailheads, doing maintenance until thick snow-patches began in earnest. My trailhead was at Leavitt Meadows Campground, right at the foot of that steep grade dropping down from Sonora Pass, where an old metal bridge provided a way across the swift-flowing river. Just a half mile farther up the road was Leavitt Meadows Pack Station. This is where my government-owned horses were boarded all summer—a handy arrangement, so that it wasn’t necessary to truck them back to town whenever I came out of the woods. ◦◦◦◦◦ On this day, I stopped by the pack station before heading up the trail to greet my old friend “Doc” Grishaw, a retired GP who was half-owner of the outfitter/guide service; I’d not seen him since the previous fall. While waiting for the snow to melt, he lived in a tiny shack at the edge of the station yard; fed the livestock, helped with the packing when needed, and acted as cook until the regular trail cook was hired. Later, he’d move to a basecamp ten miles up-canyon, ostensibly to provide a sort of B & B for packers on long “spot trips,” but mostly as an excuse to be in the backcountry all summer, away from the fray. (He and I shared this need….) Doc was a “difficult” person but one of my dearest friends in many regards; a true character and living anachronism. ◦◦◦◦◦ Being a wilderness ranger was never boring—anything could happen, and often did. Like this day’s unorthodox rescue operation, for instance….

8 May (Fri)      To the office for just a few minutes this morn; talked to Margot about trailhead info signs and the erroneous map, etc. She seems capable and I hope we can work well together. Stopped at the warehouse to snag a pulaski [firefighter’s tool also used for trailwork] then headed for Leavitt. Stopped by the pack station first and visited with Doc for a bit; saw no one around after I parked, then heard an incredibly vicious & hateful barrage of foulest cursing—he was shoeing an unruly mule out behind the tack shed—an activity guaranteed to make a saint resort to bluest of blue language. (Try it if you don’t believe me….) ◦◦◦◦◦ Started up the trail, to a rocky hill below my info sign where water has flowed down the tread [trail surface] for many years, unchecked by drainage diversions. The trail there is a trench two feet deep and its downhill side is strewn with stone washed free and tossed aside by Doc and a couple decade’s worth of FS rangers. It was a muggy, buggy day after yesterday’s hard rain and I sweated a quart of water before drinking any of the one I’d brought. Installed two new waterbreaks, the second built mostly with a giant 200 pound rock rolled down the hill from above. Also, built a chintzy wall (pile of stones…) and back-filled it to widen a bit of trail around a big, round boulder. Grubbed many stones. ◦◦◦◦◦ Instead of walking back on the trail I headed cross-country for the river to regain fluids. The West Walker is up from earlier this week, what with the long, sunny days and afternoon rains. I wandered up into that gorge above the head of the meadows and crossed on a fallen log before starting back. I walked straight down the long meadow under grey skies, tremendous cumulus clouds building over the high peaks. (It’d rained briefly, earlier—5th day in a row.) A fine stroll through the hammered Leavitt Meadows. They’re chock full of unpalatable invasive weeds now and have maybe, oh, only 20% or so of the forage value compared to when the emigrant party came through in 1852. Such a shame; but this is what us humans routinely do to the land once we come into a new place. ◦◦◦◦◦ My stroll was interrupted by the realization that I was on the “wrong” side of the river and would have to wade the several branches of Leavitt Creek to reach the pack station (where I had a date with Doc for tea). I hoped to avoid taking off my boots repeatedly by staying high above Rachel’s property [a privately-owned parcel, no one living on it, that adjoined the pack station land] and finding logs to cross on (as opposed to following the usual path, which means wading three times). ◦◦◦◦◦ This turned into the following fiasco: I ended up crossing five streams—branches of Leavitt Creek. [It bifurcates repeatedly once hitting the valley bottom after cascading down the steep moraine.] Three of them were wide. One crossing I walked most gingerly across an alder branch that dipped and swayed ever closer to the drink. But I stayed dry on that one. ◦◦◦◦◦ The 4th crossing forced me to wade. No logs at all on any of them—the beds were lined by alders and cottonwoods; no fallen pines. I stopped to doff boots and socks. These little sub-creeks were high but not in flood—probably three times their summer volume though; roiled, frothy and opaque from sediments…a cold-looking grayish-green and, collectively, making quite a din. I picked a wide, shallower spot and carefully tossed shovel and pack and trash sack across. I stood on a mossy hummock at the edge and carefully removed my boots and socks. It was only 10 feet across and the opposite bank was not steep. The first boot toss went as planned: the thing landed square on my trash sack. ◦◦◦◦◦ Incredibly, the second boot (with sock stuffed inside) tipped and rolled backwards end-over-end four feet and went into the creek. For slightly over a second I was stunned then snapped into action, seeing the thing bob to the surface and race off downstream. I felt my adrenal system kick in; the world receded. After years of studied practice in switching to survival mode while solo [rock]climbing I reacted instantly and did-what-must-be-done: one half of my one & only pair of boots was headed for some Nevada hayfield, it had to be rescued. As if my life, my very life depended on it, I plunged across the creek barefoot without thought of footing. I noticed no cold and somehow strode across on invisible round boulder-tops. My boot floated and bobbed away and I began the chase. ◦◦◦◦◦ It amazes me even now: with my bum ankle, I started running through the rocks and duff and deadfall. The boot bobbed ahead at an alarming rate of speed. Just like Tarzan, I dashed through tangled jungle. All this took place heedlessly without thought or plan; only one imperative: that I recover my boot. Twice, I plunged into the creek up to my crotch and missed it. Panting (out of shape…) I rushed ahead, hopping logs and treading on branches and brush, only dimly aware of my soft feet. Finally came abreast of the thing, even got ahead of it, and had a brief moment to calculate. ◦◦◦◦◦ Brief, because just up ahead I saw a barb-wire fence crossing the creek—Rachel’s property line. With the exact same feeling I’ve had while soloing, when confronted by a crux move with certain-death groundfall, I “plucked my cubic centimeter of chance” and lunged into the creek, 20 feet shy of the wire, and snagged that boot as it disappeared into a foamy cauldron. (I believe it was actually out of sight when I latched onto it.) There was no feeling in my body, only the implicit need to catch the boot—seemingly at any cost. I have no idea why I reacted so powerfully; it was just an old boot, fer goo’ness sake (albeit my only pair). My feet somehow found firm footing on slick boulders and in the spaces between them; no twisted ankles, no falls. It seemed like I was plunging ahead without looking where my feet were going but, knowing that I was in a heightened state, in retrospect, I must’ve been seeing out of the corner of my eyes exactly where the feet went. Otherwise, it seems unlikely that I could’ve stayed upright and not gotten hurt; there were plenty of opportunities. ◦◦◦◦◦ I’ve noticed time and again how, when in dire need, actions can achieve a sort of perfection that’s never attained by conscious effort, even if it’s extremely focused. Shaking, lungs heaving and still outside myself, I squatted on the bank, wrung out my sock, poured water out of my sodden boot, and began to hobble back up the creek. ◦◦◦◦◦ Hobble, yes…because suddenly—with the pressure off—every step onto my one bare foot was Ooh! Ahh! Oww! I’m a true tenderfoot who never goes shoeless any more and every twig and pebble caused genuine pain. Sharp, unpleasant pain. And yet moments before, I’d run blindly, as fast as I could—just like Tarzan! Wow!—over this same terrain. I was soaked to the hips, quivering from adrenaline, and amazed. Without the need, I couldn’t have repeated that race for any money; certainly not just for the price of new boots. ◦◦◦◦◦ I have no difficulty, now, comprehending how a single person can lift a car off someone trapped beneath. (You hear those sort of stories from time to time.) We are truly amazing creatures with barely-tapped potential. ◦◦◦◦◦ I went and shared a pot of tea with Doc and we watched the house wren in the window singing his heart out. We talked about Shakespeare and horseshoeing and mountain-climbing while his daily loaf of sourdough bread sent exquisite odors wafting our way from the old enamel oven. I didn’t share my story with Doc, sensing he wouldn’t be all that impressed. And, in Doc-like fashion, he didn’t even ask why I was half-soaked.


©2014 Tim Forsell                                                                                8 May 1992, 13 May 2014

Monday, May 12, 2014

Piute Log...My 9/11 Was 9/13 2001

I was in the wilderness when the World Trade Center came down, when everything changed forever. My supervisor, Margaret (“Greta”) was staying at the cabin with me to do some work on her own. No one thought to call us over my Forest Service radio with the grim news. Lucky us: we were granted two more days of innocence. On the 12th, while most of the world was reeling in total shock, Margaret and I got to spend our day in paradise. The following morning we finally found out by way of two backpackers.

9 Sep (Sun)      Back to Piute. Greta riding in with me to stay all week—she’ll be doing GPS work. ◦◦◦◦◦ A pleasant ride in; me leading the two packhorses, Greta reading her GPS unit. (Official: it’s 2.3 miles to Roosevelt Lake from the pack station.) We met a neat lady—Nancy ???—who’s a park naturalist in Yosemite half the year and in Death Valley the other half. She asked a bunch of nature questions so I got to strut my stuff in front of Greta. ◦◦◦◦◦ Got to Piute at 6:00; both of us tired. So, just good ol’ torts’n’beans’n’cheese for supper and to bed early. Shitbird [my Abyssinian cat] no came home tonight.

                                    → 5 visitors                           → 10½ miles ridden 

10 Sep (Mon)      Greta took off on a long ride as soon as the sun hit the cabin. I worked on my plant list and caught up with paperwork. Shitbird finally showed up, very happy to see me, at about 10:00. ◦◦◦◦◦ Yesterday, when we rode in, found a green aspen [fallen] across the trail just north of the Hidden Lake junction. It came down last week and I passed it going out but “forgot all about it.” So—had to ride down and remove it. Took it out with the cruise axe [short-handled axe designed for limbing logs but half the size of a regular double-bit and thus more portable; good for removing smaller trees]. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode up to Fremont Lake and visited with the group in Bart’s basecamp [one of the Leavitt Meadows Pack Station’s offerings—basically a fishing camp with big tents and a cook]. Then headed for Chain o’ Lakes and collected my stashed shovel. Cleaned waterbreaks and rocked. For some reason, my radio wasn’t working. ◦◦◦◦◦ Oh, yeah—here’s another funny synchronicity: Yesterday morning when I went to the office I took my spare FS badge in to exchange it for an older model. The newer ones have a slightly different clasp—the needle is longer and its tip actually protrudes a bit beyond the latch. Now: I stash watch & lip balm in that pocket so I’m constantly lifting the pocket-flap and the tip of that needle often stabs my finger. Ow! So I was ragging to Greta ‘bout the poor design. (She had no old-model replacement for me….) Well, in Bart’s camp, one of the guys, when we first started talking, pointed at my chest and says, “A friend of mine makes your badges. He has a contract with the Forest Service.”—“Oh, reallly!” I said, with a coy, ironic tone. “Well. Would you please tell your friend that Tim-the-ranger has a complaint…” and told him the deal. He said he’d pass it on. VoĆ­la! Near-instant gratification! Not that anything will come of it but, again: what are the odds? ◦◦◦◦◦ Got to the cabin at 6:45. Greta was just back; she’d had a wreck an hour before. She was on Tom, riding the PCT [Pacific Crest Trail, a section of which passes through my turf from the Yosemite Park boundary to Sonora Pass] cutoff between the West Fork and Cascade Creek. She “wasn’t paying attention,” probably writing numbers in her notebook, when Tom came up on that horrible, angled slab. That thing’s so dangerous on horseback. He went down and Greta pitched off, hurting an elbow and bruising her triceps. She also broke the digital camera. Said she was okay but was moving pretty stiffly. ◦◦◦◦◦ BBQed salmon that Greta’d brought. The feasting goes on and on…. ◦◦◦◦◦ And, one more item, another “watch-thing” [I played a “game,” guessing the time on my digital watch]. On the way home I thought, It must be 5:30. (I’d last looked at about 4 o’clock.) Watch read 5:29:58.

→ 8 visitors       → 350 lbs rock       → 1 tree removed       → 38 WBs      → 15 miles ridden

11 Sep (Tue)      Up at dawn. Strangely overcast and stormish. Greta left early again with her little yellow plastic machine that can tell her—if a number of satellites orbiting Earth are passing overhead at a given time with proper geometric alignment—exactly where she is on the planet. Within a few yards. She’s gathering data to lay out our trails on some map-of-the-future. All “necessary” but fairly abstract for those of the 19th century persuasion. ◦◦◦◦◦ I washed our dishes and set out afoot for Long Lakes. Took a cross-country route from just past the river crossing up a prominent (though hidden) gulley. This route spit me back onto the trail near the Bill’s Creek crossing. When I got to Upper Long Lake I left the trail again and hiked to Butts Lake via my secret route. It’d gotten all overcast and actually rained to the point I donned my Gore-Tex ranger-coat and got sprinkled-upon most pleasantly for a solid hour. Fine smells burst forth and I was glad to be drifting about unseen through the trees. Just enough precip for romance, not enough for discomfort. ◦◦◦◦◦ Retrieved my shovel stashed at the new sign. Worked the “new” walker meadows trail—dug many drainage dips and tossed a multitude of stones. In Walker Meadows I demarcated the trail where it crossed the West Fork; things got rearranged by the flood a few years ago and I relocated the sign to fit the present ford. (Shoulda done this a long time ago….) Cows had been in there; sad to see the pies. ◦◦◦◦◦ Home about 6:00. Greta didn’t arrive ‘til almost dark and I was actually getting worried; she hadn’t responded to my calls on the radio—ironically, hers was broken as well as mine (which hadn’t worked all day) [these were our “hand-held” field radios; I’d been calling her on the more powerful radio at the cabin]. But she got home just at dark. We had a leftover salmon dinner and went to bed shortly after.

  → no visitors       → 63 WBs cleaned       → 900 lbs rock       → 1 lb trash       → 8½ miles 

12 Sep (Wed)      OFF. Made pancakes. Greta was ready for a day off herself so we decided to visit Rainbow Canyon. She didn’t know about Chockstone Falls (gotta fix that!) so we took Tower Canyon trail to the stream crossing and contoured cross-country to one of the finest local natural wonders. In no hurry, we followed the creek, taking in the beauty. Never seen Rainbow Creek with so many bones poking out [that is, exposed rocks in the streambed due to low flow]. It also made for some charming low-water waterfalls. ◦◦◦◦◦ Once in the meadows we meandered. Visited “the crack” and the fine stretch beyond. ◦◦◦◦◦ Greta was keen when I suggested starting homeward by contouring west and visiting corridors. We ended up doing a thing I’ve missed all these years—following a permanent streamlet that drains a tiny basin below Peak 10,654. Turns out to be an exquisite passage: small, cascading brook that flows in a straight line between vertical walls in a major joint system. Not that it’s so very narrow, but some sections of vertical cliffs lining the mini-gorge are some of the tallest I’ve seen (up to 90–100’) with water flowing against their base. This led to a gorgeous little pocket meadow with stunningly white boulders growing out of turf, little meandering brook. Couple of sweet little waterfalls nearby. Altogether a most tastefully arranged chunk of heaven with fine views. Big peaks all ‘round. ◦◦◦◦◦ We strode home, visiting the lower stretch of the corridor we missed on our lower contour. Once back in Rainbow Meadows we took the route crossing over back into Tower Canyon. Told Greta how I’d met Jeff [a fellow FS employee] and his brother, Ray, at the tarn before the jump-off years ago—a ridiculously improbable place to cross paths. (It turned out they were “lost.”) ◦◦◦◦◦ Back at 6:30, weary. Two men had set up tiny tents in the meadow just  below the cabin (about 20 yards from the porch). Greta asked, “You wanna go talk to them?”—“Nah. They’ll be moving on but we’ll see ‘em in the morning. Kinda weird place to camp, though.” [Camps in meadows tend to be cold and damp; seasoned backpackers generally learn to set up slightly above them.] We weren’t up for much more than food and  bed but it was strange to hear the voices so close and see two strangers walking around on what amounts to my front lawn.                  → 8 miles

13 Sep (Thu)      A great day ahead. We bypassed lengthy breakfast in favor of a long ride. This is something we get to do less than once a year: take a long day and ride out into the country. Show my boss/friend a thing or two. It was cold; 29° on the porch, probably the coldest morning this summer. Major frostage on the meadow. The two guys down below rose early then quickly went back to bed ‘til the sun came up. Had Greta not been here I probably would’ve taken pity and invited them up for coffee. ◦◦◦◦◦ We took off at 9:00. Rode right past the two men who were spreading their gear out to dry in the sun. Hadn’t even spoken yet but we greeted them (me walking over) and fell into easy converse. Late 40s guys, jolly and happy. Steve, old ski bum, is head plumber and electrician at Squaw Valley. Mark roasts gourmet coffee beans, sells them wholesale in Reno—a small business named “Laughing Cat.” (“Laughing Cat Coffee Co.” or “Bean Wholesalers” or what, I dunno.) We chatted for a few minutes and were all enjoying ourselves but it was time to go so I started the disengagement process. Mark asks, “Have you heard the news?” We look innocent, shrug, “What news?” ◦◦◦◦◦ “You don’t know!?” And Mark launches into this fantastic tale: “A jet airliner crashed into the World Trade Center! A few minutes later another jet crashes into the other tower! In an hour both buildings collapsed!” ◦◦◦◦◦ I was staring, jaw slack. “And then, another jet crashed into the Pentagon!!” I finally got it: we…been…had. Broke into a big grin. He got us good! Turned to Greta and she had this look of pure horror on her face the likes I have never seen. This guy was good, and he’d nailed us. I was pretty slow myself, but couldn’t believe Greta’d gone so long, too. I laughed, “C’mon! This guy’s pulling our legs!” Mark immediately jumped in with, “No! I’m serious!” His face said it was all true and I felt a sort of cold numbness come down like a curtain. Greta burst into tears and walked off. ◦◦◦◦◦ And that’s how we got to hear the story. Almost two days to the hour after it’d taken place. So we’d been able to be happy and free from anxiety for two whole days longer than almost every other American. People who’ve lived through great events always remember exactly where they were and how they heard. And I’ll never forget this time or how the news was brought, improbably, on a sunny Sierra morning by a man with the moniker, “Laughing Cat.” ◦◦◦◦◦ We talked more and my brain was spinning with all the implications. Those guys had left on their trip right after it all went down, thinking they might as well get out of town rather than wallow with the rest of the nation. ◦◦◦◦◦ Finally, day completely shattered, we continued our ride in dead silence. Got just a ways past the front gate before I stopped and said, “You wanna keep going?” (Why bother?) Greta started crying again and said she didn’t know what she wanted except to be near a phone. (Her family lives in New Jersey and I suppose she has friends in the city.) So we went back and she packed hastily and was gone. ◦◦◦◦◦ Of course, I was flat-out stunned. Stunned in a very literal sense. My saddled horses were standing at the rail, ready to go, and I knew that if I stayed home all I’d do is stare off into space. ◦◦◦◦◦ So: rode up Cascade Creek, retrieved shovel, and cleaned waterbreaks and rocked to Harriet Lake. Walking back to the horses and rode home. Went out back to cut some limbwood for the stove. (Running low.) Was clearly in some sort of existential rage because I took it out on myself in short order, scraping my hide in the arm and the leg, bleeding in several places. Took a bath. A day of woe. Went to bed with popcorn in lieu of supper and my mind sped off, filled with mental images. I made movies: saw through the eyes of some random guy in a suit looking up from his desk, out the window, to see a huge jet headed straight for him. Just watching it come.

→ 2 visitors        → 3 firepits        → 3 lbs trash         → 14 waterbreaks        → 2 trees
             → 1200 lbs rock            → 9 miles ridden            → world gone madder

I often write about the improbable, serendipitous meetings and curious synchronicities in my life. This is one of my favorite topics, but make no claims as to their significance and have no explanation for why I’m so frequently visited by these enigmatic events. Here’s one more account of a classic synchronicity, to finish off this story. ◦◦◦◦◦ The following season (2002, my 15that Piute Meadows) I decided to spend September 11th out doing trailwork to help keep my mind off the grim anniversary, happy to not be down in the flatlands watching endless replays of those horrific scenes and wallowing in the media blitz like millions of other Americans. So I packed my tools, saddled the horses, and rode a few miles to “Harriet Hill,” the steep grade beside Cascade Creek leading up to Harriet Lake. A gigantic red fir had recently fallen…not across, but straight down the trail and it had to go. A terrible job. But, after sizing it up, I realized that the only reasonable alternative was to reroute the trail. So, instead of having to saw the thing into many sections with my 4-foot crosscut saw (remember, chainsaws aren’t allowed in Wilderness Areas) I just cut off all its limbs, removed a few saplings, and grubbed out a new path off to the side. It took hours of hard labor and, as was so typical, nobody came by to catch me at the archetypical rangerly activities of chopping and sawing.◦◦◦◦◦ I heard backpackers approaching from above and stopped working to greet them. The forest was dense and I couldn’t see them until a man stepped out from behind a big tree somewhat above me. I couldn’t see his companions yet but this guy, seeing me, turned and said to those behind him, “I think there’s a friend of yours here!” Just then, Mark and Steve stepped into view. “OH MY GOD!”—“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!” Here were the two from last year who’d brought the ghastly news…back on the first anniversary of the big event. (Not mine…the anniversary of the real one.) ◦◦◦◦◦ They’d gone backpacking—again—to escape the media frenzy and brought along a like-minded friend. It turned out that they had been headed for Yosemite Park but, completely out of the blue, Mark’s leg started hurting badly—he had no idea why—and it was painful enough that they decided it was best to head back home. So if it weren’t for this freaky thing with Mark’s leg, we’d not have run into each other. They’d been telling their friend all about what happened with me and Margaret last year. Of course, we were all astonished. It happened that these three were the sole party I saw that day. And only later did I remember that the day of our first meeting, I’d been working on this exact same stretch of trail.

                                                
      ©2014 Tim Forsell          13 Apr 2014, 11 Nov 2019

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

Piute Log...Thrushes, Thru-hikers 2003

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.

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