18 Jun
(Fri) A full day. Every season I have maybe four or five of these: days
where the sun-lit hours are jam-packed, stuff happens continuously, and it’s
not over ‘til well after dark. By definition, I’m usually worthless the day
after. ◦◦◦◦◦ Sun hits the truck right at 6:00 these days but the glow of its
approach is intense for a long time before then and it wakes me at 5:00 if I
leave my curtain up. Went over immediately to check on the cat who was thrilled
to see me and clearly appalled when I just as quickly left again. I know cats:
he was indignant to be incarcerated all night and kept from his nocturnal sport
but like any feline, after realizing he was on lockdown, slept the night off.
But after seeing me, the day beginning and his hunger prominent, he started
working on escape. [He was going to the Vet’s to be “fixed” and had fasted all
night.] ◦◦◦◦◦ Had breakfast. It was almost time to punch the clock. Colin arrived
from Wheeler. We were chatting when I saw Checker sprint across the yard. What?! How? I ran and grabbed him. How long has he been out? (If more than
five minutes, he’d have caught and devoured a vole but felt skinny still.) Took
him, in full squirm, back to the trailer. Sure enough, he’d wriggled behind the
logs and boards and clawed a cat-sized hole through the screen. I fixed them
back in place. My fugitive kitty was on the loose again in minutes, having the
technique dialed. Angry now, and busy at work, I threw him in the trailer’s tiny
bathroom, locking him in for the duration. ◦◦◦◦◦ Time to go to the vet: I go
for the cat and he’s sitting outside, languidly eating grass! Whaaat?! I grab him, look inside:
bathroom door ajar, a spreading pool of fetid cat pee on the floor inside. Well, this is what I get for living with
cats. Checker was extracting his revenge in advance. Finally got him into a
cage at Doug Blaine’s office out by Bridgeport Reservoir. (Brett will pick him
up this afternoon and put him in the other
trailer—where the food and water is.) ◦◦◦◦◦ On my own today. The job: walk
into Piute cabin. No idea what’s going on up there. Took all the food I had,
not recalling what (if any) had been left behind last fall. Half dozen eggs,
big steak, Italian sausage, rice. Also, lots of clothes, the radio…pack
probably 30 pounds. ◦◦◦◦◦ Fine warm day. Rolled out of the trailhead parking
lot just at noon. Really prime spring
day; much enjoyed the returned flowers and greeted them all by name. ◦◦◦◦◦ Worked
all the way in. Removed many stones,
cleaned WBs—with my pack on. That all-charged-up state, ignoring the fact that
I shouldn’t be hacking at this ditch just now—I should be walking. Saw many things. Met a group at Roosevelt Lake; guy with
‘em who’d “been coming up here since ’69.” He lamented how there were people everywhere compared to those earlier years.
Way more crowded. I asked, “Have you been to the waterfall?” He looked quizzical
so I said, “If you don’t remember, you haven’t seen it—the most spectacular
feature on this river.” Told him about all the old trails that lace up this
country…how, back in the day, when a trail got bad it was abandoned and a new
one just got “ridden in”…that there were old trails everywhere nobody used any
more. Fella seemed amazed and didn’t even realize he’d just been given a hot
tip from the ranger; been coming up all these years but had no idea I was even
up here, had never met me, and thus showed that he also didn’t read signs. (If
he had, he’d have known he’d just been given a hot tip.) [My “ranger note,”
posted by the trail, mentioned that those “demonstrating a certain level of
enthusiasm” might receive such a tip.] But thanked me for the info, said he’d
be sure to check it out on his next visit. ◦◦◦◦◦ River really full. The roughs spectacular! That slot is plenty
impressive in low water—a quarter mile straightaway between rock walls with the
trail on a ledge—but…fill that crevice with churning white froth&roar and
it just plain mesmerizes. Concentrated power, constrained forces, chaos,
turbulence. Death, if you go in there. Think about it: all that unleashed
energy sweeping past, at speed. Is it any wonder that it should affect a person
so viscerally when they approach? Who knows, in a psychological/energetic sense,
what’s really going on? But if you
step to the edge of a vertical cliff that drops straight into a ripping white
flood, you will feel different—instantly. You will feel good…will know you are
alive and that you could instead be dead. Without thinking about any of these
whys, you will find yourself delighted. ◦◦◦◦◦ A bit later, had a shock:
well-tired by this time, I understood that my arrival at the cabin would be after
sundown, with a tricky crossing right at the last. It’d been an extra-fine day.
But I had one of those flashes—not quite a distinct thought—and suddenly came
face-to-face with this notion: The cabin…my refuge…might not be there waiting. Everything
might not be “okay”! Naturally, I ignored the intuitive quality of this unanticipated
flash. As usual, I wrote it off but did consider concrete examples of how
things might be not-right at my arrival. I formed an image of one of the big
lodgepoles having fallen right across the cabin, slicing it in half…the call to
Minden dispatch, having them relay to Bridgeport that the cabin was destroyed….
◦◦◦◦◦ Past Fremont junction: only four more miles. Beat. Shouldna cleaned all those waterbars, son. After there, little sign
of recent use. Old horse and human prints in mud and wet sand with pine needles
blown into them. Lots of sticks and pine cones on the tread with undisturbed
tiny rivulets running. Felt the solitude strong—nobody around. ◦◦◦◦◦ A number
of largish downed trees—6 or 8. A few of them big; a few of them will be difficult
for stock to get around. Seeing the trail in this state, early season, makes
obvious how critical maintenance is: if you neglect mountain trails they quickly
become impassable. They’re highly dynamic
systems. ◦◦◦◦◦ Made it to Upper Piute at about 7:15. A real thrill to come
over that last hill and see the peaks again, covered with snow like the very first
time, and hear the river-roar. Which finally focused me: Gotta get myself across. Ulp!
I’d been ignoring this but had felt the tension building. Suddenly: I’m
there. Had my Tevas [sandals] strapped to the pack for this very stretch. But I
got to the ford and found myself standing on the shore of a lake—all the way across the meadow!—with
a couple of small islands. That stunning, craggy-mountain backdrop which was
completely ignored. I was quite fatigued and had the crux yet to do. ◦◦◦◦◦
Wasted no time but felt gen-u-ine fear. Now, some days later, I can say that I’ve
almost never felt “fear” as a ranger—not like this. Climbing, fear is factored
in to a largely controlled situation. Wading this deep, frigid river at dusk
had several unknown variables. It was a nasty shade of greenish-brown, bottom
who-knows-where, and coldness radiated from it like heat comes off a rocky
slope in the late afternoon. ◦◦◦◦◦ This is a perfect ford—broad,
flat-bottomed…good run-out downstream—but, in flood, a river’s channels (filled
with the previous summer’s sand and gravel) get scoured and deep holes can form.
I got right down to business but did not like
the look of my river; especially concerned since the bottom wasn’t visible. I stripped
naked and added clothes and boots to my pack’s weight. Unbuckled chest- and
hip-straps and strode on in. ◦◦◦◦◦ Not to be too dramatic here but one of the cool things about adrenaline: you
just don’t feel pain! How wonderful, and how essential, to remove that
distraction in times of need. I barely even registered the cold—all I cared
about was (not) getting swept off my feet. (The river being, at present, a
torrent of very recently melted snow, probably in the low 40s, that was moving
probably 3-5 times faster than it does in late summer.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Current stiff but
manageable. And down I went; calf-deep…thigh…crotch…belly. Thought—hoped—I was
at the deepest but kept going down and then the pack was floating, holding me
up, and I started to try and “run” but only my toes touched bottom. Suddenly perceived
that I was starting to float down the
river. Instant surge of fear and I lunged
forward, toes digging into gravel, and then it was uphill with cascading sand
underfoot. I was all rushed! Waded
across the meadow, mostly thigh-deep, to the lodgepoles on their little island (so
I got to walk on “dry” land for 30-40 feet). Final wade through the mucky, now-under-water
pond [old ox-bow pond that has water in it most of the summer] to climb out
right below the cabin. The meadow visibly “flowing” with a current all the way
across. Quite an experience; I was thrilled
to be on the cabin-side of the West Walker and finally noticed the beauty
of snowy mountains reflected in meadow-ponds and brimming ox-bow lakes. Glad to
be home! ◦◦◦◦◦ Couldn’t help but notice the scores of white paper plates scattered
everywhere. My legs were completely numb when I heaved off my pack on the
porch. A bear had evidently visited. Most obvious thing: shattered glass
everywhere and foul smell. I knew what it was: that old glass whiskey bottle
full of creosote I’d found years before cached in a rock crevice. I’d kept it
for the bottle but also in case I wanted to treat some fenceposts—with what is
now a banned substance. I’d put the corked bottle on a ledge above the entrance
to the porch, right where you step up. The bear had climbed that center post
and knocked the thing off…so the porch was covered with shattered antique glass
and a smelly brown patch of toxic petroleum distillate. Oh, well. I was
dripping and shivering by this time. Deal
with it later…. ◦◦◦◦◦ Opened the cabin with the trusty key. The porch was
chaos but the inside looked great, at first—mattresses stacked on the table and
covered with tarp, just like I’d left it. But something started intruding…a
weird light coming from the loft. (Skylight covers closed.) I walked back, noting
junk on the floor, and peered up into the loft, seeing blue sky through a
bear-sized hole ripped through the roof—just like the one I found here on my
first day as Piute ranger in ’88, and right next to the repair job. Hole clawed
through 1X12, shingle-clad pine boards. I climbed up the ladder to find loft ransacked. By some incredible miracle or my good
karma, the bear did not leave the
loft and inflict random carnage upon my home. There was still food left in the
cupboards that the bear, with a sense of smell literally thousands of times
greater than our own, was fully aware of. It’s strange to report that, at the
moment I grokked that this bear had been through the roof, I felt no anger, resentment or even dismay. It
had no effect on me at all. I felt only calm acceptance. This may have been enhanced
by perspective recently gained by not having been swept down the river and
drowned. I hope it means that I’m finally growing up. ◦◦◦◦◦ When I walked
(rather, muscled) through the front door in ’88 the entire interior had been pillaged.
Things all over the floor, doors ripped off cabinets. Anything food-like or
even vaguely resembling food-like substances had been eaten, bitten, or
slobbered on. Moldy bear-crap on my bed. A royal mess. So this deal looked
pretty wonderful to me just then. Thanks for letting me off this one time! I
probably don’t deserve it! ◦◦◦◦◦ Curious thing about this break-in: there was a
malicious element. Things were dragged back out via the hole and scattered
throughout the area—namely, a package containing about 300 paper plates (left
over from dog&pony shows). Four polyester sleeping bags were outside on the
ground in various states of torn and frayed. A shredded tent out by the tool-shed.
Margaret’s stash of tampons were scattered behind the cabin, all poofed up,
along with her cabin-clothes. Strangest of all, a roll of clear plastic
sheeting (Visqueen®) was out by the round corral, stretched along the base of
that little fence and wrapped around several trees—about 25 yards of
8-foot-wide plastic. I know the wind did it but I envision the bear gleefully
dragging the roll around the yard and wrapping it around trees like a teenager
“TP-ing” a friend’s house. ◦◦◦◦◦ I took all this in wryly. And much, much more.
Cabin in great shape, otherwise. Mouse poison still left behind so no rodents
in residence (though plenty of the green poison turds scattered on surfaces). A
nice, breezy, open feel to the place. I was really exhausted but managed to
build a fire and BBQ a thick New York steak I’d bought from Albert-the-butcher
that morn. I grilled it to perfection and demolished two-thirds of the thing in
minutes. ◦◦◦◦◦ Did not sleep like a
baby; too tired and sore for that. But slept hard and deep. Oh: failed to
mention that I took the old river trail and visited “the waterfall” myself. Stupendous.
I’ve only seen it in flood a couple times. A real whumper.
→ 5
visitors → 12 miles
→ 12 WBs cleaned →
1 lb. trash bits → 900 lbs. rock
Copied
inside the cover of this volume of Piute
Log:
“The psychic task which a person can and
must set for himself is not to feel secure, but to be able to tolerate
insecurity.
—Erich
Fromm
© 2015 Tim Forsell 19 Aug 2015
