2 Jul
(Fri) A note from 6/21 I forgot to
mention. Up on the crest that day, north of Blue Mountain in the andesite: soil
development is very poor in those gravels derived from the volcanic rock and
the few alpine plants there appear to sprout out of nothing more than shattered
stone. Saw a lone dandelion at 10,000
feet bursting out of pure rock! I’d guess one of those seeds would sprout in
one’s hair if watered a few times. (My father, who despised dandelions on
principle, would’ve gotten a kick out of this story.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Big day ahead! Set
the alarm last night for 5:15. Still windy. The horses were halfway up the
meadow so I went out and caught Red before they all disappeared. Got on the
trail a bit after 8:00. Red all wigged; mostly my fault (as usual): tied him to
the hitch rail at 6:30 and he stood there for an hour and a half, his pals in
full view all the while. He was really jumpy when I got his saddle on…danced
when I sprayed him with bug dope. Then, the wind (it moving bushes around,
turning them into shrub-demons). We were jogging down the trail, shortly after
leaving, and I had the reins hanging around the saddle horn while jotting
something in my notebook. All of a sudden a big doe came streaking around a
bend in the trail—running full tilt, right at us! She finally saw us only ten
yards away, dug in all four, and came to a near-instantaneous stop in a cloud
of dust. Red did about the same but I managed to hang on. That doe wheeled and
fled back down the trail and we both watched her long bounds. ◦◦◦◦◦ Notta lotta
folks today for some reason. Sierra Club bunch on their way to climb Tower
Peak. The leader, one Charles Schaeffer, was pulling drag. He was overweight,
soft-looking, and his group was having to wait for him. He’d never climbed
Tower before …never been up the West Walker. At first, he seemed slightly
offended that I wanted to check the map and suggest where they camp but he soon
warmed up. This guy had planned to climb the peak more “directly” by following
the steep drainage just west of Rainbow Canyon. I suggested he forget that
plan; that gully is steep, brushy, talus-filled, and to climb the peak from
that side is all slabs and cliff bands choked with snow. Charles had wanted to
save time by “not going all the way to Tower Lake.” Right. This was typical
Weekend Warrior mentality: read the guidebook, look at a map, plan a trip based
on this info, do some horrendous drive, and bag
that peak! With just a couple of minutes of mere talk, blah bla blah, I
saved some blameless people a lot of grief and made it easier for them to
achieve their objective. ◦◦◦◦◦ Another incredible tale: met a dayhiker, 50-ish,
who was walking out fast. I passed him but he stayed right behind me and we
chatted. Said he’d been coming up here for 40 years! But not for a long time
and he hadn’t been to Piute Meadows for the last fifteen. Told me this
fantastic tale: ◦◦◦◦◦ Many years ago the guy had a friend who worked at Leavitt
Lodge (which closed down around 1985) and the friend wanted to take him back to
Piute Country and visit this old man who lived in some sort of hut “built into
the hillside.” Said it was a rock structure, half dug into a slope, but the
thing had a wooden door. It was “somewhere up there” near Piute Meadows, supposedly,
but he admitted the memory was hazy. I think
he’s mixed up and thinking of someplace else. As vague as he was, the specific
details lent some credence to his story. But not much. Still, he put a bee in my bonnet…. ◦◦◦◦◦ At Roosevelt/Lane Lakes:
typical 4th of July weekend scenario. On the neck of land between
the two lakes, 20 feet from the trail, a dome tent (rental job), unstaked and
upside-down. Its contents were the only thing keeping it from blowing into the
lake, what with the stiff breeze. It was now lying right on top of a brand-new,
crudely constructed fire-ring. Trash in the ring and all around, and two tin
cans discarded under a tree. Nobody about. (Likely off fishing.) It was clear
that this party was pretty inexperienced. ◦◦◦◦◦ Total whim: so few visitors, so
few hassles, so early in the day (noon)—decided to ride all the way out, drive
to town, come back in, and meet late-starters. Will admit that this plan,
though sound, was mostly inspired by the prospect of picking up mail from my
gal (who has been on the east coast and away too long). So we cruised out to
the pack station and I parked Red, zoomed to town, got mail, went to the office
and give brief trail report to front desk folk, then headed back out to Leavitt.
I was in the saddle again only an hour and a half later with an unopened letter
from Kristi in my saddlebags, riding up-meadow in a semi-gale that folded my
hat around my ears. ◦◦◦◦◦ Stopped by that bad camp between the lakes. No one
home though the tent was now staked down and more items scattered about. (Earlier,
had asked one of the packers about the site and he told me it was a man and his
son. Just a few minutes before, I’d ridden past a surly and dull-looking
teenager, fishing; thought he looked like he went with this camp but I didn’t
accost him.) This is another standard 4th-of-July-thing: finding
travesties in unoccupied campsites with no chance to resolve problems, educate,
or dissipate my frustration. Suck it up, ranger—don’t let it eat your innards. ◦◦◦◦◦
Got up to Fremont Lake. Only a few sites occupied! Where’d everybody go!? Too
quiet! Bart was in the basecamp, wearing the same hat but acting as trip cook.
He was taking a big smoked chicken out of a contraption made of tinfoil and
wire just as I arrived. Little chicken wire cages to hold charcoal briquettes (add
three every hour he sez), chicken hanging by a string from a little tripod, the
whole deal shrouded in foil. In three hours it’s smoked to perfection, the
decidedly western-looking chef told me. The sight of it alone, all juicy and brown,
made me salivate profusely. And the smell! Gads! Had a nice Bart-visit—he in fine
mood, all confidential, telling me his woes. Told him the story about the old
guy in the dugout hut and, like me, Bart thought the fella was thinking of
someplace else. Bart reported that they’d left the basecamp unoccupied for a
day and, in absentia, a case of Coke® and stack of firewood had disappeared. Not
the beer, though. (There’d been a group of boyscouts camped nearby who were
obvious suspects.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Getting late. I looked into another couple camps
farther along the shore—folks I’d seen earlier. It was windy and now cold. Headed for Chain o’ Lakes. No one
about. ◦◦◦◦◦ Just north of Lower Long is a skinny, though pretty sizeable pond
I call “Little Long Lake.” One end comes right to the edge of the trail but,
for some reason, no one ever camps there. Riding past it, a giant bear runs across the trail not far
ahead of us and up into the rocks. My instinctive impulse: spur Red up and go
after him, of course! Pursuers advantage! Saw him go behind a granite bench, watched
as he turned and jogged left. Sure enough, the big fella popped up on top of a
boulder, very dramatic-like. We all froze. Only 40 feet away: huge boar—the biggest bear I have ever
seen; certainly the largest wild animal I’ve seen in the Sierra. Now: I’m
conservative with such matters, not trying to impress anybody…I just want to know. Guessing this bear was in the 450
lb. range. It was certainly three of me and I discounted for fur. He stood probably
40” at the shoulders, head about 14” wide. Pretty amazed now that Red let me
force him so close. The bear was utterly calm, peering down at us. I looked
right into those beady ursine eyes, scrutinizing us with no hint of anxiety.
Red clearly terrified but holding steady…perhaps just petrified by fear. Maybe 10
seriously long seconds later, bear finally wheeled and rambled on—all jiggling
fat over solid muscle. Massive beast. Pale ring around his nose, rich brown
coat. ◦◦◦◦◦ This brief meeting completely changed our day’s flavor. Soon as the
beast was gone my saddlehorse bolted. But first, when the big boy turned to go,
Red did this thing I’ve never heard coming from a horse though it was a sound
I’ve heard from spooked deer: a sharp exhalation through the nostrils. Not quite
a “snort,” but close. The bear didn’t react at all and then we were rollin’—at
speed. Red did this snorty-thing about 10 times in the next few minutes, each
time looking back in the bear’s general direction. All in all, this was a pretty
thrilling close encounter with the furred-kind. I’m completely comfortable with
the notion of living among large omnivores—animals that conceivably could choose
to dine upon me. This was perhaps the
first time I’ve met one actually large enough to pull it off. He’d stood there
on that rock looking down on us so calmly. Not disdainfully—just…looking. Not with
superiority but total self-assurance. That was quite some look he gave us, whew.
◦◦◦◦◦ Needless to say, Red took us back to the cabin in a hurry. He was really pumped-up.
Got home a bit after 8:00. Too windy for river bath so I sponged off indoors. Another
10 o’clock dinner, done eatin’ at 10:30. Long day. As usual, this first day of
the “big weekend” provided lots of vivid experiences. It’s almost guaranteed.
In ranger-world every day brings with it something new and interesting and different
but this particular weekend cranks out the unique and the absurd almost without
fail.
→ 53 visitors →
25 miles → 1
tree → 3
lbs. trash
4 Jul
(Sun) Caught up the horses early and
locked ‘em in the round corral. Still real windy. ◦◦◦◦◦ Getting ready to saddle
up, heard voices across the river. Then the “sound of wading” as I went to get
Red. Like his old self, I had to drag him
to the hitch rail. Walking at his ½ mile an hour snail’s-pace, pulling and
straining, not wanting to leave the exalted presence of Chino and J.D. Now, I was sore and tired from the last two
long days. This dragging-thing always takes me to the edge of anger, and fast.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw visitors walking across the meadow towards
the cabin. My anger bloomed when I got Red to the rail. Didn’t slug him but
cussed him good and tied him really short, pulling his nose right down to the
wood. I went to tie him off—my movements all jerky and hot—and clipped the edge
of my too-long thumbnail on a crack in the rail and broke the tip off way back
over the nail bed. Ooh—big ow. And that’s what petty anger buys me, almost
every time. ◦◦◦◦◦ So now I’m all grumpy. Here comes a woman and her man. She
ahead: follows the horse trail that leads toward the yard then wades across the mucky pool just below
the cabin—through this horrid, quicksand-type goo held in the trail’s low spot,
which she could easily have walked around. (I don’t ride through this bit
myself until after the bog it crosses dries—I simply ride around it on solid
turf.) She gets across no problem. The portly husband follows. I’m sitting on
the porch, putting my boots and spurs on, still ill-tempered after ripping my
thumbnail, watching this unfold. Astonished, again, by how people will blindly stick to a trail. They could’ve walked
around the little mud-swamp but, noooooo! They have to stay on the trail! So the man goes in as well but he flips out—cursing
and shouting as if in physical pain, every step telegraphing genuine agony. His
wife comes back, extends a hand to help, and he shouts, ”No! Don’t come back
in!” He was swearing the whole time. Took him over a minute to get across the
10 feet of bottomless muck. (The woman had just ploughed through stoically.)
I’m shaking my head in rank disgust—“Feebos! Nimrods! City-beaters!” still
pissed off at Redtop (and myself) and thinking, “Now, don’t ‘kick the dog’…don’t
take your angst out on these innocents.” Soon as the guy finally clambered out
he turned jolly, laughing it off. I hailed them. They were gonna stride right
on by. I had to call them back to chat and check their permit. Heading
for Tower Lake; no, never been back here before. Very friendly but obviously
nutty people. Another thing that dumbfounds me; seen this many times in various
forms: here we have some guy in a green costume—ranger—with a charmingly rustic
old log cabin, and a horse for backdrop. These two folks never so much as
glanced at the cabin or the horse at the rail…asked me not a single question,
made no reference to my uniformed presence in this heavenly location. They
would’ve cruised by me with a wave. They were on a mission: Tower Lake. Do they
not have a shred of curiosity? “Whoa!
What’s that neat old log cabin doing here? Who’s this uniformed guy with a
horse?” This is a distinct quality I’m talking about: a type of blindness. I
find it unsettling, weird and actually offensive. (Okay, okay, I’m venting
again…need to offload some angst and this is how I do it.) That was a bizarre
encounter and, with the lead-in, not a great way to start off on the 4th
of July, 1999 edition. ◦◦◦◦◦ The mountains seemingly deserted today. Almost spooky. As usual, I tried to plan for the
best route to meet as many people as possible. Seems like, often as not, I make
the wrong call and did it yet again. Typically, I’ll zoom down the main trail
and go up to Fremont Lake, then Chain o’ Lakes, et cet. Today, rode to Harriet,
took the PCT cutoff, checked Upper Long, then back to Fremont. Apparently, none
of the parties going to Fremont continued past there except on dayhikes. No one
at Harriet Lake! Met a lone PCT hiker below there. Then, nary a soul ‘til I got to Fremont Lake and only two
of the sites occupied. Two small parties showed up while I was there. Talked
with two groups from yesterday who were delighted by the peace and quiet. (The
pack station group had even cleared out.) WHERE DID EVERYBODY GO!?! ◦◦◦◦◦ Left
Fremont Lake, headin’ home at 6:30. Down the hill a bit, here comes
Peckerwood!—Bart’s old golden retriever. Nobody behind him. He’s clearly beat,
tongue hanging down, heading for the lake. I spoke to him—“Nobody there, ol’
buddy”—and he didn’t pause or even glance at me. He was on a mission, too…obviously
misplaced and distressed. He probably came up with Gordon to pack Bart out, maybe
nodded off when they took a break on the way out, and woke up alone. All the
rest of the way home I tried to decide whether or not I should get on the radio
and have someone call Bart and tell him where his dog was. Maybe old Peckerwood
would head back home once he found basecamp deserted. ◦◦◦◦◦ Nature notes: at
Harriet Lake, saw a fine-lookin’ 5-point buck.
Rode right up on him, within 30 feet, and he just continued grazing. As I’ve
noticed so many times, when on horseback the wild ones aren’t nearly as afraid
of me. Rode a bit closer—Red kinda nervous—and the buck turned to face us
square. Then his hind end seemed to hunch up and go kinda limp and—this dude’s
a real buck’s buck—I thought for a second it was some kind of threat behavior.
But, no…he just cut loose and took a giant wizz. ◦◦◦◦◦ Got home to find Chino
and J.D. had broken out of the round corral. Chino is an escape artist—relentless.
I locked him and J.D. back in and left Red free to graze, knowing he’d just
hang close to his pals and I’d have an easy catch in the morning. ◦◦◦◦◦ So much
for the big holiday weekend. A strange one.
→ only 7 visitors! → 17½ miles → 2
lbs. trash
© 2016 by Tim
Forsell 9 Oct
2016
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