Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Piute Log...Fairly Well Stomped 1995



23 Aug (Wed)     …when I got back to the cabin, Greta and Larry Raley [our District Recreation Officer; Margaret’s boss] had arrived. Up for one night. They’d packed in food and gear for the upcoming dog & pony show [“administrative” trip] and were putting up the back fence. I literally jumped in to help stretch the section crossing the river and waded around with mosquitoes feasting. On yours truly. We finished the job at dusk and I finally got some supper at about 9:30. Another long day.

24 Aug (Thu)     A momentous day…almost got crushed. ◦◦◦◦◦ Greta and Larry wanted to get an early start; wouldn’t wait for me to make pancakes. (They ate instant oatmeal with powdered milk instead. Oh, well.) ◦◦◦◦◦ The horses waltzed right in so we jailed  ringleaders and caught the drones. I helped a bit while my two supervisors saddled & loaded but it was their gig and I didn’t know whose tack [saddle gear] belonged to who so mostly stood back and carted things over for them. ◦◦◦◦◦ They were nearly finished and ready to roll when I noticed that one saddlehorse’s breast-collar [broad leather strap running across a horse’s chest that prevents the saddle from slipping backwards  when going up steep grades] was dangling—it hadn’t been clipped in yet. Just helping out, I went to snap its buckle in place but couldn’t get at it ‘cuz the horse was standing right up against that end-post. The mare had been tied on “this” side but with too much slack in her rope and had swung around to stand—facing me—as if tied on the far side, with chest right up against the post. Tried to push her off it but she wouldn’t budge. Grabbed her halter and pushed. No-go. So I stepped under the rope so I could reach back, poke her flank, and get her to swing back around. No result—she just ignored me. Poked harder—same result. ◦◦◦◦◦ This horse was a big mustang mare on loan from Carson [Ranger District]. Greta’d told me she was a “good girl.” (I’d never seen her before.) ◦◦◦◦◦ What happened next was my fault, entirely—the result of greenhorn-style incompetence. All our horses & mules are gentle (never kick or bite) and you can walk behind ‘em or step under their necks…push ‘em around—things you’re expressly taught never to do with unfamiliar livestock. I made a big mistake, treating this strange (and formerly wild) animal like she was “one of ours.” ◦◦◦◦◦ Suddenly, she jerked back and I was pinned by the lead-rope against the rail. When the rope went tight she freaked and started tossing her head around—amazing pressure on my back from the wire-taut rope. She wanted to get away from this rude stranger and when she couldn’t, reared. When the rope went slack I was liberated but the only place to go was around the hitchrail toward her. I stumbled forward as she reared higher, her flailing hooves right in my face, and—just like the proverbially limp rag doll—felt myself flung down hard into the dirt and rocks. I rolled away as she came back down, in that curious state-of-mind where time slows and you have a spell to ponder what’s happening even though under normal conditions one could never have so many coherent, distinct thoughts in 1.38 seconds. I recall thinking/feeling/knowing, Oh, Tim, you blew it! Stupid, stupid! You might get hurt BAD this timeprobably willcould end up with broken bones….  I impacted hard on my forearms and heard myself go rr-Ummph! ◦◦◦◦◦ Greta and Larry were right there—saw it all—and rushed over. The mare stood quietly, as if nothing had gone down. I’d rolled over and was laying on my back, dust-coated, just “coming to” and waiting for pain to kick in and tell me where I was damaged. Dirt in my mouth…what happened? I hadn’t really “felt” anything. After a few more long seconds, they helped me stand up. I was still outside myself, with bosses hovering anxiously. I was shook up and had to stand there a minute, bent over, breathing and coming back into my normal frame as the adrenaline dissipated. Didn’t know exactly what’d happened. Forearms abraded; blood mixed with dirt and manure particles. On my right elbow was a raw crescent an inch long where her steel shoe had made contact and slammed me to the deck. (The skin wasn’t even torn—just smashed.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Greta and Larry finished up—a bit shaken themselves, having witnessed this close call—and were soon gone.  Greta’s parting words were, “Have a better day!” I said, “It’s okay…learned a good lesson and I’m not hurt. Uh…hope I’m not hurt.” ◦◦◦◦◦ Actually, I was. The elbow swelled. I cleaned myself up and washed dishes; felt kinda ill. Had to lay down for awhile, feeling the lingering adrenaline, which I know from experience leaves you utterly drained, like after a long cry. Decided to stay home—elbow painful, plus I’d tweaked my neck a bit; ached all over. ◦◦◦◦◦ With extreme irony, just a while later, three people on horseback showed up. They were staying at Point Camp and went out for a day-ride but one woman, while crossing a little brook, had broken (or badly torn) her ankle when their packhorse leapt across, crashing into her horse and crunching her foot in the stirrup. (Some horses will do this—more often, mules—‘cuz they don’t like to get their tootsies wet.) These folks were unfamiliar with the country and felt it was too late to go back, pack up, and get out before dark. So they were gonna go back to camp and head out in the morning, early. I encouraged them to leave today but they thought not and turned down my offers of assistance. (The other woman was a nurse.) Didn’t tell them what’d recently befallen me; I doubt they would’ve have been much interested just then.



©2014 Tim Forsell                                                                                                                   6 Jun 2014

Monday, December 8, 2014

Piute Log....Dirt in My Ears 1996

1 Jul (Mon)      The horses walked into the yard yesterday eve for the first time this season so I locked them up to speed today’s departure. Got on the trail at 10:30 and met an interesting pair just over a mile from the cabin. They were well off the trail, dressed in drab colors, so it was lucky I even saw them. Had a delightful talk; they were happy and at ease, enjoying the day. Frank, mid 40s, was a geologist living in Ruth, of all places. [An obscure not-even-a-town in central Nevada, outside the notorious “Area 51” (famous among UFO enthusiasts)] His partner spoke with a strange accent; Australian, but with hard “r”s. I figured he’d been living in the states for many years but, when I asked, turns out to be the other way ‘round. He’s a So-Cal boy (like me…). Old surfer, raised in Huntington Beach. He and Frank had gone to highschool there together. Now this fella lives in Australia and imports sunglasses for the tourist trade; has a wife and kids there. I commented on how we never would’ve imagined how things would work out: here’s three urban-spawned southern Californians…one becomes a geologist in a lonely part of Nevada, one sells cheap sunglasses on the other side of the planet (that’s something they don’t teach in college!) and one is a ranger hiding out in the mountains. Ah, how the wheel doth turn! Where it stops, nobody knows….  
….And one other thing: I want to start recording those less-than-romantic aspects of my profession, the things that would discourage just any old Thomas, Richard, or Harold from wanting to steal my job. This has been a neglected element in this log. ◦◦◦◦◦ FOR INSTANCE: After getting back to the cabin on the 29th, I’d just walked over 12 miles and done a bunch of trailwork. My back & arms & shoulders were knotted up from shoveling dirt and hurling rock off the trail. I was soaked with sweat. My skin was coated with this ungodly sleaze that was a combination of sunscreen, bug juice, sweat, dust, dead skin cells, and crushed mosquito residue. The mirror revealed that I had mosquito remains on my face and shoulders and even shmeered on my hat. I’d imagine some folks would not have enjoyed my complex aroma just then. Feet hurt and my crotch was chafed from too much sweat and friction, with pieces of bark and pine needles lodged in my skivvies and ass crack. Dirt in my ears and under my nails and between my toes. This “stickiness” finally comes to my attention once I’ve come into the cabin and gotten (mostly) out of the bugs and out of my filthy clothes. It’s fairly disgusting and a good reason to go dunk my soiled self in the river. So that’s what I did.


©2014 Tim Forsell                                                                                                                                                                                                 8 Dec 2014