Sunday, December 16, 2018

Piute Log...Underwater Test Flight 2002

The first part of this entry is about basic ranger-stuff along with the discovery of some “new” nineteenth century sheepherder carvings—always a thrill.  The latter part records a classic nature lesson consisting of a brief meeting with a young sandpiper. Non-birders might be surprised to learn that several types of shorebirds are found in the High Sierra backcountry. One, the spotted sandpiper, nests near lakeshores and in meadows bordering streams. Most summers at Piute there was at least one family being reared along the slow-rolling river. Both adults (but mainly the female) build grass-lined nests under turfy overhangs but on more than one occasion I stumbled on a “nest” consisting of eggs (camouflaged with irregular spots that looked remarkably like the salt-and-pepper granite gravel) laid in a shallow depression on a sandbar and virtually invisible. Adults do the “lame duck” thing to lure predators away from nest or young. (Didn’t fool me….) Spotted sandpipers are atypical in that the male provides most of the adult supervision, keeping an eye on the precocious young (they’re out and about, feeding on their own, soon after hatching) while the female is off, fattening up after the egg laying and brooding is over. I’d often see one of the adults working the shallow edge of the sandbar where I bathed, right across from the cabin. They have a delightful and distinctive habit: a continual, graceful bobbing motion as they feed. Handsome birds, the sandpipers were one of those animals that made you glad just knowing they were around. 

18 Jul (Thu)     Cloudy again and warm. Did a load of laundry but it rained a bit so a coupla times had to hustle my wet pants back into the cabin and the soggy socks, too. 
◦◦◦◦◦ In the afternoon, walked up the Kirkwood trail to get that tree I’d “ignored” on 7/5. It was farther than I remembered. Of course—naturally!—the thing lay beside one of the mosquito-infested bogs that line sections of this trail. It was pretty hot and humid and my little folding saw kept binding in the 12” cut. Sweated profusely while being mobbed by bugs various. At times, straightforward tasks take on semi-heroic proportions up here. That is, in the sense that cityfolk could hardly imagine what it’s like to do strenuous labor under these conditions, in a situation they know only from recreating with a pack on their backs, and where they find enough challenge in just traversing the land. Here I am chest-thumping again and being over-dramatic. But, honestly, it seems pointless to repeatedly engage in these downright masochistic battles when there’s absolutely no reward or acclaim. Usually, no one even notices. Or cares. People could easily walk (or ride) around that downed tree. They’d trample a few plants that’ll never grow back but what the heck. We do these things, routinely, because we’re rangers. Bakers bakes bread. Weavers makes cloth. Rangers clears trails. So, shut up, Smith. ◦◦◦◦◦ On the way to the job I spied a “new” old carving—a simply rendered “91” carved on a slender lodgepole exactly like the one carved on a similar tree by the trail just south of Vidal’s camp. Then, after finishing my tree job, went exploring expressly to look for some other new carvings. On a natural bench on the hillside, maybe a minute’s walk from the trail, found another stunning carving, this one clearly dated 1882. Numerous letters (probably initials). Finding these two new glyphs [short for “arborglyphs”] in the course of a short outing just thrills me—not only in the finding of something of historic value written on living trees, but as a reminder that there’s still loads of cool things waiting to be discovered right in my backyard. ◦◦◦◦◦ Strode on home. At the head of the meadow I surprised a mother grouse and one of her brood who both flew up into the nearest lodgepole. We squinted at one another through the tangle of branches. Unless she was a particularly unlucky grouse, there were other young cowering in the grass nearby. ◦◦◦◦◦ And, just a few minutes later, met another feathered infant. It’s that time of year: for a period of a few weeks in July you see fledglings all over the place. Baby juncos and robins and quail leap up practically from underfoot. (Scares the piss outa you.) There goes a scruffy little bird with hardly any tail struggling to reach the shore or the lowest limb of a tree with its parent(s) cheeping/chirping/quacking in alarm. ◦◦◦◦◦ I’d crossed the river on the log at Vidal’s camp. Skirting the bank, spooked a fuzzy young spotted sandpiper. We’re talkin’ a measly powder-puff of a bird with ridiculously long legs. To escape giant predator (me) it leapt into the river and started swimming away, upstream as it happened. Sandpipers’ toes aren’t webbed—they’re wading birds, not swimmers. So the critter was making almost no progress. I turned to go but got only a few yards away before that voyeuristic, scientist inside me took over. The wee small scientist-voice chided me: “You don’t get to check out a baby sandpiper any ol’ day, now do ya?” So I back-pedaled a few steps and got to witness yet another amazing bird-thing. (Never did see an adult.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Making no headway against the current, the precocious chick dove straight for the bottom, a submerged sandbar. Its adolescent plumage of grey and white pre-feather bird fur, unfortunately, made it quite buoyant—there were numerous air-bubbles trapped in the downy fuzz—and it was clearly struggling to overcome the floatiness. It “swam” straight down a good two feet using wings and sorta frog-kicking ‘til hitting bottom. Then it began to “fly” and run simultaneously, still headed upstream but against little or no current. Its wingbeats were in slow motion but this bird was most definitely flying. At the same time it was ever-so-slowly making an escape on toothpick legs, leaving delicate little bird footprints in the bottom silt. With no emotion whatsoever I observed a fine rain of sand grains falling away behind each languid stride and the thin train of bubbles escaping from its mouth. You see, for me as well, all this took place in a sort of dreamy slow motion, a side-effect of the condensed nature of time when whatever you’re experiencing takes on the quality of a vision. (This whole deal was so much more vivid and arresting than my encounter with the grouse—entirely different.) I was on my knees, staring into the river like into an aquarium, somewhat outside my normal self. What I saw was a brave newcomer on planet Earth, most cleverly designed, flying through water long before it could fly through the air! Holding its breath all the while, terrified no doubt. Mesmerized, found that I was holding my breath, too. ◦◦◦◦◦ The sandpiper was probably under water for ten, maybe fifteen seconds. It suddenly stopped fleeing and just like that bobbed to the surface like a cork, coming up under a screen of sedge leaves that were dangling from the turfy bank. It was partially hidden and hung there motionless. I looked down and saw tiny bird tracks in the silty mud so knew it hadn’t been a dream.

→  2 WBs cleaned     →  1 visitor     →  1 tree removed     → 250 lbs rock     →  4 ½ miles

This event was unusually moving for some reason and I thought about it for days. It’s still a vivid memory. (A brief aside: only later did I realize that, in addition to adding forward momentum, the flying motion was also providing downward pressure that kept the bird on the bottom so that it could run. As soon as the sandpiper stopped“flying,”it shot straight to the surface.)  


        ©2018 by Tim Forsell                                                                                                                           
               16 Dec 2018


Sunday, December 2, 2018

Piute Log...Greenhorn Ranger Still 1989

From my second full season at Piute. These early logs were pretty bland, consisting mostly of lifeless entries talking about travel, trail conditions, and work accomplishments intended for my boss, Lorenzo. There were a few interesting anecdotes, though. Here’s four from the distant past worth reading. Perusing these early logs now, I’m struck by how callow I was in those early days…how “young” I sound in my writing style. But it’s clear that my scorn for babes-in-the-woods incompetence was already evident. I suspect that most, if not all, rangers use their logs as a vehicle for venting frustration. For any ranger, it’s hard not to take personally the sort of minor crimes encountered virtually every day. In fact, what anybody who works in Wilderness has to learn if they want to remain in the business is the ability to let such things not eat them alive. 

1 Jul (Sat)     July again?! Already? Back up to Fremont Lake to greet the masses. Rode Ramon with shovel in hand. Spent my day tearing out the huge condo [giant firepit] just as you arrive at the lake. Hid the rocks on the hillside and tossed smaller ones in the lake. Taylor and Dave came in with a load of dudes and left with the stock awhile later, informing me that a bear got into their basecamp that very morning and tore things up good. Said this had never happened to them before here at Fremont. ◦◦◦◦◦ Backpackers started streaming in at about 1 p.m. and I gave many ranger lectures. Doing much better at it this year. Kept me from my work, though. Dug a huge hole (moved probably a cubic yard of soil) and shoveled all the coals and ash in after separating the sleazy melted cans and plastic and broken glass. Oh well. Was getting late so I quick ran around the shore to pick up more trash and see how all the folks were doing. About 75 people walked past me as I was working on the firepit. ◦◦◦◦◦ On my way back to the cabin, just before the Harriet junction, found three bozos camped by the trail who’d built a new firering right in one of the little sedge meadows there. Gave them a very stern ranger lecture and, in this case, actually enjoyed watching them squirm. They seemed to understand although the leader admitted to knowing that they were “being bad.”

      → 86 visitors      →  2 lbs trash bits      → 1 pit, 1100 lbs rock      →  12 miles

2 Jul (Sun)     ◦◦◦◦◦ Stopped by the bozo-camp of last night and gave them another lecture. Then met three guys heading up the trail who I’d talked to at Fremont yesterday. Asked them where they were headed and one guy replied, “Home!” They were going the wrong way! They’d seen the sign on the West Walker trail when they came down the hill from the lake—and thought it was wrong! Yet another amazing, true tale of backpacker ineptitude. ◦◦◦◦◦ Met a crazy botanist (a taxonomist) whose specialty is onions. We talked a bit. His name is Dale McNeil and he’s described several new species, apparently—one just recently, from down in Kings Canyon NP. He’s working on the new revision of Jepson’s California flora. ◦◦◦◦◦ Lots of non-compliance today. All the usual lies but a couple of parties had picked up fire permits in Miwok [Ranger district on the other side of Sonora Pass] and were told they didn’t need a Wilderness Permit here. [At this time, technically you didn’t.] ◦◦◦◦◦ Met Matt Torley [another packer] and his wife, Sue, at Roosevelt Lake. He congratulated me on not being married yet and advised me to keep my bachelor status as long as possible. He said this with a hearty smile while his wife sat on her horse right behind him, she smiling too. That was kinda weird. ◦◦◦◦◦ Back to the cabin at 8 and done unloading by 9:15. A full day.

       → 49 visitors             → 21 miles             →  55 lbs trash (mostly old barbed wire)

5 Jul (Wed)     ◦◦◦◦◦ In the evening, went exploring. Hiked up the hill across the river and down aways into a little drainage that dumps into what Doc calls “Sheepherder Meadow.” Surprised to find myself there—it’s tucked away back behind a forested rocky hill and you’d never know from the trail that it was there. Bee-autiful spot. Made a big mistake, though, trying to take a shortcut across the thing. It’s very boggy on the south end. I’ve been in spongy bogs before but nothing quite like this. That whole meadow is afloat on a hidden lake, apparently! It felt like walking on top of a waterbed except I was sinking up to my ankles in muck in places. Kinda scary, like quicksand. The thing was undulating all around me. Once I stopped and watched: took a hop in place and watched the surface all around me heave and roll in departing waves. Absolutely amazing. It got worse the farther I went so decided to beat a retreat before it swallowed me up. “Ranger Goes Missing…no clues in disappearance…searchers confounded….”

11 Jul (Tue)     Lorenzo brought in a bunch of fresh food yesterday (bless him) so we had bacon and eggs and English muffins for breakfast! After, we went out to catch Pal for Lorenzo to ride but they wuz gone. Walked all the way to Howard Black’s camp, crossed the river, and came back on the other side. Finally found them at the edge of the meadow in a little hideaway up in the trees. An hour and a half well-wasted…. ◦◦◦◦◦ I stayed home alone today and had a real day off—I’ve just worked 21 straight days. Not that I didn’t want to—just been busy and enjoying work. Read and wrote and ate popcorn. Also, installed my “ranger’s greeting sign” on the big tree by the trail outside the cabin. That took an hour or so. ◦◦◦◦◦ Great dinner: fried pork chops, smashed potatoes, gravy and corn outa can. Doc stopped by as we ate and sat in the grand easy chair smoking his pipe and had tea and sang us “Old Man Walker,” รก capella.          


     ©2018 by Tim Forsell                                                                                                                                    16 Nov 2018

Saturday, November 17, 2018

Piue Log...Fossilized River 1994

During my time at Piute Meadows, my brother would usually come up for a visit in the fall. Steve, my only sibling (older by three and a half years), also happens to be my naturalist-mentor. He had a “thing” for the feathered-kind at a very tender age and by the time he was eight was a serious and pretty accomplished junior birder. By the time I got to be that age, Steve’s interests had expanded considerably into other areas of natural history. We both became devotees of the natural world, with somewhat different areas of expertise.◦◦◦◦◦I was often well-behind in my daily log entries (it was a constant struggle to keep up) and would stage marathon writing sessions in an effort to catch up on a week or more’s worth of days. I typically wrote these post-dated entries to make them read as if they were composed more or less in the present and tried to maintain a consistent “tone.” But it’s fairly obvious that there was a less-than-spontaneous narrative being recorded.◦◦◦◦◦Also worth noting: it was only later in my “career” that I decided, in the interest of honesty and authenticity, to cop to my varying moods. In truth, I was prone to depression during times of love problems and chronic health issues. In the case of this particular entry, I appear to have been in a reflective, somber mood because this one has an unusually philosophical, even pensive character that sounds a bit out of the ordinary. Also, it’s obvious that I’d pulled out my well-worn copy of Mary Hill’s “Geology of the Sierra Nevada” and done a little research; I was learning about such things as I went along and certainly didn’t know about Miocene geology off the top of my head.

14 Oct (Fri)     Cold again (20°) with a high cloud layer. When I got up to feed the equine-kind the pygmy owl was hooting and I whistled it up—it came to the edge of the yard and perched in the top of a tall snagtop lodgepole. [Pygmy owls are known for readily responding to a crude imitation of their simple call.] ◦◦◦◦◦ Today was the day for a long walk—we can’t just sit in the cabin all day burning firewood. So we walked back up the Long Lakes trail with an objective: I wanted to show Steve a unique geological feature, a thing I’ve visited only once before, myself. (It’s off the trail aways and kinda hard to get to.) We walked to the PCT metal bridge, skirted Walker Meadows visiting old sheepherder camps and found a sheepherder carving that I’d never seen before—a neat one, right off the trail. Also we found a dead pygmy owl right by the PCT, pretty much decomposed but still partially feathered. ◦◦◦◦◦ At Kennedy Creek it started to snow. (More like a sleety rain at first.) Leaving the trail, we climbed up the hillside to the north and along the way ran into a stunning juniper I’d never seen, a tree only fifty feet tall but with a massive trunk—much of it without bark and all furrowed—an honest ten feet in diameter from one aspect. It was very symmetrical and pleasing to the eye, surely at least a thousand years old. (And I don’t toss that figure out lightly.) We were both overcome with admiration for this patriarch—really, one of the very most impressive trees I’ve seen up here, period. ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed straight up the slope, close to the route I’ve taken on horseback to get up to Ski Lake. In my customary kinda sneaky fashion under such circumstances, I planned our route so we’d step around a corner and arrive right on top of the “feature.” When we got to the place I said, “Let’s head over here—there’s a good viewpoint and we can rest before the final climb.” Steve was huffing and puffing and wasn’t terribly keen on climbing higher in the falling snow. We stood there for a few minutes while I waited for him to notice the unusual topography but he was concerned by the deteriorating weather and wasn’t focusing on our surroundings. Finally spilled the beans: “Umm…actually…this is it.” ◦◦◦◦◦ We were standing on an outcropping of the brown volcanic rock that covers much of the Sonora Pass region. The technical term for this stuff is “lahar,” an Indonesian word for hot volcanic rock mixed with water, mud, and other rock that actually flows—sometimes at tremendous speeds. (As opposed to true lava.) My book says that this stuff all belongs to the “Relief Peak Formation,” an andesitic mud-flow dating from various stages of the Miocene Epoch. It covers literally thousands of square miles of the northern Sierra region. The “andesite-breccia” (breccia = broken rock) on this slope is studded with granite boulders and cobbles. Some of the biggest boulders are six feet across and are perched atop columns of breccia (the boulders acting like umbrellas to preserve the columns under them from eroding away). And there are little bluffs that expose in cross-section a sort of mega-conglomerate made up of granite cobbles along with other volcanic and metamorphic rocks. The really striking thing is that the granite boulders are all rounded and polished in a way that can only have been achieved by being tumbled in the riverbed of a major river. Steve is also interested in geological matters and I wanted him to try and interpret this scene like I’d done a few years back. (When I met that geologist, Jack Quade, at Dorothy Lake this year he confirmed my theory.) ◦◦◦◦◦ It took a little prompting but Steve figured out the puzzle: we were standing on an ancient river bed that had been inundated by one of the lahar mudflows during the long period of volcanism in the Sierra that covered this country with that dark brown, fine-grained volcanic rock that’s so prominent in the Sonora Pass region. The lava slurry, full of angular chunks of parent rock, had coursed downslope into a flowing river and mixed with the giant cobbles in its bed. This one tiny remnant, perched on an obscure mountainside, overlying glacially carved granite bedrock, has survived multiple glaciations and is the chance remnant of a time long past; these granite cobbles used to be tumbled in flood-times by a long-gone river that flowed somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty million years ago!! There are glacial erratics dating from the Pleistocene all around the West Walker—right in the yard at the cabin a large boulder of Cathedral Peak granite, carried some miles from the crest, is lying atop far-older metamorphosed marine sediments on a small bluff of this truly ancient rock tilted 90° (its bedding layers evident). I’ve often been impressed thinking that this particular stone has sat there in place for at least ten thousand years without moving an inch. But the boulders on that hillside where we were standing, that look just like any other granite boulders at a casual glance, have also rested in place for a long time. In fact, they’ve been sitting there quietly for perhaps two thousand times longer than any of the local glacial erratics. ◦◦◦◦◦ Here’s further proof of the severe limitations of the human mind. We just don’t have the equipment available to perceive things on this scale; when we try, the red lights start to blink—TILT!—and we have to back off lest our brain cells burst from over-heating. Using my imagination I can dimly comprehend that the river cobbles above Kennedy Canyon are much “older” than the glacial erratics but, intellectually I fail—they look pretty much the same! Just granite…. ◦◦◦◦◦ I am humbled yet again and see all too clearly that my existence is exceedingly, tragically (for me) brief. I’m basically no different than an insect—here today and gone tomorrow, la la la. The sun rises and sets again and again, endlessly, and my place in this world is more or less irrelevant. I’ll be gone altogether too soon and not be missed by the trees and stones and crumbling, ephemeral mountains. The glaciers will come again to alter this ever-changing landscape. Amen. ◦◦◦◦◦ We walked home slowly, on human time. Took several more little cross-country detours to visit places I’ve not looked into yet. Stopped off where we’d found the dead pygmy owl this morning so I could lop its off head. (Used my Swiss army knife. I’ll boil it up to make a lovely little skull specimen.) And, in the vernacular of southern California, I “grossed Steve out” by pretending to lick the blade of my knife clean after the beheading. Well, he was pretty disgusted after that little joke when I licked my fingers and swiped the blade with them before wiping it on my filthy pants. ◦◦◦◦◦ From Walker Meadows we headed east and eventually hit the trail where it passes by Little Long Lake. At a point where he “knew where he was” I left Steve to walk at his own pace (at his request) and marched the last couple miles home alone. Back at the cabin, took a short stroll up-meadow with kitties for sunset views. ◦◦◦◦◦ After dinner, read aloud to Steve again—a couple of stories from climbing magazines, including a hilarious one by this well-known Everest climber who invited his Sherpa guide to the States and the comical things that the little man from Nepal encountered/endured.
                        → 12 miles            → 2 lbs trash           → humilifying sights

      ©2018 by Tim Forsell                                                                                                                                                      17 Nov 2018


                                                                                                                    

Saturday, November 10, 2018

Piute Log...It Hissed and Growled 1989

Entries from just my second season at Piute. One of the very best things about working and living in the backcountry was the ever-present opportunity to have unexpected encounters with wild critters. Unfortunately, those first few seasons I wasn’t recording many nature observations, focusing more on work and travel (and meals eaten). Later in the game I devoted more ink to neat experiences such as the following.

25 Jun (Sun)     Continued an initial patrol of the country, riding to Harriet Lake and beyond with my little axe. ◦◦◦◦◦ Just after passing the Harriet junction and crossing the river I heard a strange sort of a “wailing” sound coming from back around the West Walker trail. Being a ranger, I felt duty bound to investigate so rode on back. Heard the weird sound no more but, almost back to the river, a baby coyote suddenly dashed across the trail right in front of me and scuttled under a fir sapling. I jumped off Ramon (who just stood there) and parted the low-growing boughs to get prime views from just a foot away. The pup hissed and growled, lips curled up to display a mouth full of tiny but very sharp teeth—pretty fearsome in a small way. Its fur was very soft and lustrous pale brown, tawny I guess is the word. Definitely baby-fur. Of course, I wanted to stuff the little wilderpup in my trash sack, take it home, and keep it as a cabin pet. ◦◦◦◦◦

So, why was this youngster wandering around in the woods by itself? It likely had siblings. I’d have to guess it just wandered off after waking up from a nap while mom was hunting for lunch. Things like this probably happen constantly out in the world at large and I was just lucky enough to be there at the right time. There’s little doubt that the pup and its mother were reunited—not too likely that other diurnal predators were about but a passing redtail hawk would’ve grabbed it in a heartbeat. Untold numbers of baby-whatevers get eaten while the mother is off taking care of business. (By the way: if it’s not obvious, I was being facetious in that remark about feeling “duty bound to investigate.” Of course I was going to investigate! Who wouldn’t?)

3 Sep (Sun)     ◦◦◦◦◦ Sitting on the shore of Stella [Lake], I heard a roar and looked up in time to to see an immature golden eagle cruise right over my head, less than forty feet up, doin’ about fifty-five. Its wings were tucked…what a sound. ◦◦◦◦◦

     
     ©2018 by Tim Forsell                                                                                                                                    16 May 2018

Sunday, September 30, 2018

Piute Log...Coyotes Play, Too 1994

It had snowed recently—a big autumn storm that dumped an honest foot of snow in the highcountry while I’d been away on days off. Much of it had melted by the time I wrote this entry but it was still a wintry world at Piute Meadows.

10 Oct (Mon)     ◦◦◦◦◦ Around sundown I was sitting in my chair on the porch writing a story about my recent experiences with the big trees over in Sequoia during the Wilderness Managers meeting. As I wrote, there were two coyotes out in the meadow, probably a couple, both hunting voles. One was on this side of the drift fence and came very close—right to the edge of the meadow below the cabin. (The kitties both asleep on my bed so no worries there.) Within five minutes this sleek, fluffy fella caught two voles, both by the charming, classic high-arc pounce made famous by nature documentaries. Mr. Coyote—I’m pretty sure it was a he—was obviously relishing the hunt. And I learned something new: the second vole was caught only fifty yards from the cabin and, when he had it, the wild dog played with the vole just like a cat would a mouse! Hunger temporarily sated by the first one, the wild dog repeatedly tossed his hapless prey into the air, turning it into a toy. I could see the vole scurrying on the snow in confusion and, uh, terror. (I quickly assumed the role of cool, dispassionate observer.) It would be tossed again, try desperately to escape, nowhere to go, while the ‘yote was smiling with ears straight up—clearly having a splendid time. But then it grew bored with the game and with a single crunch (not audible) and a gulp (visible) the vole was gone, swallowed like a protein pill. “Welcome to the wild kingdom,” I thought to myself. It ain’t always pretty out there…but it’s always real.

       ©2018 by Tim Forsell                                                                                         19 May 2018                                                  


                                                                                                                    

Sunday, September 16, 2018

Piute Log...Prodigal Kitty's Return 2003

13 Jul (Sun)     OFF. No Shitbird [my cat] did return in the night. The Wilsons [recent visitors] must’ve spurred him into a kitty-walkabout. He’s disappeared like this before so I’m not particularly worried but it’s just another stress layer on top of my generalized anxiety about the regime change. ◦◦◦◦◦ Took the day off, big-time. Felt deeply fatigued all day. (That trip to Carson City right after the long tour was not a restful day off!) So this is a day of internal collapse to re-fortify. Took a couple of long naps with dreams. Didn’t eat a bite til almost noon…no hunger. ◦◦◦◦◦ At 1:30, walked to Dinky Creek for flowers but almost nothing is blooming since the little creek is already dry. So, back down the hill and across the river to the several flowing springs where I found lotsa columbine plus first leopard lilies and swamp onion and arrowleaf butterweed. Got my rainbow bouquet and toted it home, swatting and swiping, to get it in some water. I truly feel more “at home” when there’s flowers in the cabin. It wasn’t always like this. I almost need them in some hard-to-pin-down way. The greenery…the colors. I look at them all the time and get to scrutinize flowers with a leisure I’d not be able to enjoy while being swarmed. Also, I get to observe various insects that came with (and are continuing to live their lives as best they can under altered conditions). ◦◦◦◦◦ Started a big pot of beans—another rangerly duty. (Gotta have beans handy. Somebody might show up hongry!) ◦◦◦◦◦ No Shitbird. But a giant full moon which I went out and grokked only once before bed. It was a glory on the meadow…what a world. A great horned owl hooting downcanyon aways…first one I’ve heard this season.

14 Jul (Mon)     Went to greet the two visitors I heard across the river last evening. As I approached, one yelled out, “Ranger Tim!” It was two I’d met in a bigger group a couple of years ago right at my sign [with a posted greeting from “the ranger”]. They were headed to Rainbow Meadows and Stubblefield Canyon following the route description in the accursed Shaeffer guide. One fella was in his 50s; the younger, a studly guy maybe late 30s. The pair were obviously slathered with DEET—exposed skin, with no swatting motions (like my own incessant waving of hands about the face). I might’ve dampened their spirits a bit—they’d planned to camp where Rainbow Creek joins the West Walker but I told them the place was a mosquito infested swamp and that Rainbow Meadows would be pretty awful as well. Then I mentioned the steep snow-filled gulley they’d have to climb to get across the crest. They both looked at me, uncomprehending. I explained that the “guidebook” made their trip sound casual. But it wasn’t—down in lower Stubblefield you have to constantly cross and re-cross the creek because of cliffs and impenetrable brush thickets. The guide, alas, fails to mention this being a problem during the high-water months. Again they looked at me quizzically (I’ve seen this blank look before—it says, “This information does not compute…it is in opposition to THE PLAN and does not allign with our EXPECTATIONS.”) I told them they’d actually embarked on a fairly adventurous journey but would figure everything out…to just take it one step at a time…that the route was obvious. This pair will learn a lot on this trip. ◦◦◦◦◦ No cat did return in the night. Still not worried but…it’s a drag. Feeling somewhat demoralized again today. ◦◦◦◦◦ Saddled Red and Tom and packed the full kit to go remove some big trees. Rode up Harriet Hill and took out the new downed lodgepole—a rotten S.O.B., two cuts of 16” and 17” with some classic levering action by Blue Max [my “peavy”—a tool, also called a “cant hook,” used for moving logs]. Voilร ! Took somewhat over an hour, mercifully in shade the whole while. ◦◦◦◦◦ To the P.C.T. Met three guys lunching at the little creek near Cinko Junction. Kid hiking Mex–Can accompanied for a spell by his dad and uncle, a jolly crew. Nice little visit. ◦◦◦◦◦ Removed the other big tree, a splintered mess: 22” lodgepole fell over a rock (across the trail) and was all rotten inside. Cut it out into 15’-long “strips.” An unusual job, not altogether pleasant but different. ◦◦◦◦◦ After my sweat dried I took the shovel and walked back, rocking and cleaning w-breaks for about a half mile. Some treadwork [clearing and smoothing out rough trail]. ◦◦◦◦◦ Homeward. Picked up about 25 lbs. of limbwood from that earlier job on Harriet Hill. No cat (no surprise). If he’s not home sometime tomorrow night I reckon he’s a goner. But still not too worried. Took my first river bath of the season! It was great but no lolly-gagging while dressing, I’ll tell ya!

    →  13 waterbreaks     →  2 trees      →  450 lbs. rock      →  5 visitors      →  9 miles 

15 Jul (Tue)     Saw a gorgeous (if small) butterfly on the P.C.T. yesterday. This morning I actually identified it thanks to my new Peterson field guide to butterflies: Hoffmann’s Checkerspot  (Chlosyne hoffmanni). Habitat: openings in alpine forest zones. Check. Adults nectar at yellow composites and pussytoes. ◦◦◦◦◦ Just after midnight last night I woke instantly at the sound of plaintive meow out on the porch. Ahhh. Instant flood of relief. Or you might call it the instantaneous relaxation of a psychic muscle that’s been clenched up tight for three days. I was never truly worried. But there are few sensations in this life available to human experience as sweet as the prodigal’s return. Shitbird was still outside making those funny, sort-of tentative sounds and I was whistling the 3-note kitty-call. A merry meeting. He slept by/on my head all night, close as he could get, and woke me a number of times purring and kneading. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to tell when someone short and furry is damn glad to be back home. Where he went and what he’s been up to I’ll never know but he came home skinny as I’ve seen him in months. ◦◦◦◦◦ Took the day off, gladly. Yesterday was another stout effort. A few folks (one group) stopped by, wow-ed by the scene, and we visited on the porch. Bit later I constructed a temporary bridge just below the cabin using some P-cord and a few of the corral rails from the pile stashed near the front gate. Lashed them together and—Voilร  again!—bridge over untroubled waters. ◦◦◦◦◦ Up in the hammock where I wrote a couple of letters. All caught up in this log (phew!). And the kitty came home. Thanks!


       ©2018 Tim Forsell                                        
             19 Apr 2018                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               
                                       

Sunday, September 2, 2018

Piute Log...Wing-ed Predators 1994

Over the years I saw so many little nature dramas unfold before my eyes at Piute Meadows. Some were more dramatic than others but they were always moving. To a large extent, this was why I chose to live in the backcountry: to not exactly be a part of the whole web of life but to be a constant witness, to fully comprehend the collective workings of the larger network: to be ever aware of the mycorrhizae under my feet, knowing how these ubiquitous fungal filaments make the meadow “work.” To feel the unseen eagles’ eyes on me, daily, as they made their rounds, keeping tabs on everything that moved in their domain. To unconsciously know when the pines were about to start pollinating and sense when the boletes were probably sprouting down by the river at that one spot. All of it, all at the same time.  ◦◦◦◦◦This entry recounts an incident of a type always welcomed gratefully—events I sometimes refer to as “Welcome to the Wild Kingdom moments,” in reference to the Original Nature Program on television in the 1960s, with its grandfatherly host, Marlon Perkins, intoning those words at the show’s opening. Wild Kingdom was perhaps the first popular media rendering of nature’s red-in-tooth-and-claw side as being an essential aspect of the whole deal (even though the camera would pull away at the moment the lion ripped the impala’s neck open, or when the male-whatever was mounting the female and things were about to get really interesting).◦◦◦◦◦ As a life-long birder, I had an extensive subset of knowledge about feathers. When I’d find one, I was generally able to tell what kind of  bird it had belonged to, what part of the bird it came from. If the sexes were different, what sex. Adult versus immature. Another explanatory note: the two types of hawk mentioned in this piece belong to a group of raptors known as “accipiters” (as opposed to falcons or “buteos,” stocky birds of the redtail hawk variety). Accipiters are slender hawks, agile fliers that dine primarily on other birds. There are three species in North America, all of which live in the High Sierra. These hawks have a notable feeding habit: they always pluck their prey before eating it, being unable to process feathers in their gut like other animals that eat birds feathers-and-all. I would often find piles of feathers out in the forest or in meadows and could usually tell from the type of feather which of the accipiters were responsible. Seeing a goshawk was always a thrill—being a decidedly charismatic and rare bird—and I only saw them on a few occasions around Piute Country.
6 Sep (Tue)     ◦◦◦◦◦ When I went out to saddle Redtop a goshawk took off from the ground at the edge of the meadow just below the yard, carrying something under it like a torpedo. I walked over to the spot and found loads of feathers from an immature sharp-shinned hawk! Imagine: a goshawk catching and eating its cousin, a bird that is basically a smaller version and makes its living the same way (hunting other birds) but happens to be, depending on sex, roughly a third the size. I’d imagine this is fairly uncommon, these instances of predators preying on other predators. ◦◦◦◦◦ And, just a few feet from the pile of sharp-shin feathers blowing in the stiff breeze I saw tail feathers from a male blue grouse. Is this spot a preferred dining area of this individual? Hope so! And when I rode away, flushed the thing again in mid-meal from where it had parked itself right by the front gate. It took off (again) with the torpedo slung under its belly and headed down toward the river gorge for another try at uninterrupted breakfast. An impressive nature drama, particularly since I’d just seen that young sharpshin two days ago hiking up the meadow with Fenix and when he saw it the cat growled and his tail instantly poofed—he knew a hawk when he saw one (though I think it was likely a red-tail that originally imparted his unnatural-for-a-domestic-cat fear of raptors…a fear he was lucky to have acquired in the first place. ◦◦◦◦◦ 



       ©2018 Tim Forsell                                                                                                                                              22 Aug 2018    
                                       

Piute Log...Burros Gone Walkabout 1993

This entry is about a Sierra Club group that lost their burros—on purpose. In general, losing your packstock in the backcountry is a real cause for concern, if not panic. In fact, most stock-users spend a fair amount of time and energy trying to NOT lose track of their animals. And when they do, they go after them. Pronto. That’s what made this story so strange—and unique in my ranger career. It got told quite a few times to my “western” (e.g., horse-riding, packer-type) friends, with lots of laughs and head-shaking.
17 Aug (Tue)     Woke at six to the sound of bells across the river. What the heck!? Into my clothes in a hurry and ran over to find nine belled and haltered burros of all colors and sizes milling about on the hillside, slowly drifting over the top of the fence (← a strange comment if taken literally and not western-ly) so I just opened the gate and let ‘em in. More “unplanned visitors.” ◦◦◦◦◦ Bit later, happened to look out my window and there’s a doe trying to get at the salt block on the stump but Spooner [my Abyssinian cat, barely out of kitten-hood], who weighs not quite three pounds, is taking swipes at her when she comes in—standing on his hinds, both paws. Doe very curious, not too intimidated, but when she’d nose in he’d go for her with obvious glee and gusto. I’ll tell you, it’s an amazing sight to see a tiny domestic (if wild-looking) cat-let trying to play with a most-definitely wild deer. I hope he survives to adulthood. Finally Spooner got bored—boring old doe wouldn’t play—so he ambled back over to the cabin and she finally got in her licks. ◦◦◦◦◦ Burros still grazing happily when I left the cabin, heading for Long Lakes afoot. Someone must have lost them for real and the trail’s getting colder…hope I don’t have to haul ‘em outa here. Radio-ed Bridgeport to let them know in case somebody calls who’s looking for nine missing burros. ◦◦◦◦◦
18 Aug (Wed)     At about nine this morning a guy knocked on my door, come to pick up his burros. He’d found the note I left on the signpost at the Long Lakes junction yesterday. (It amused him—on the outside of the folded paper it said only “Missing some burros?”) Now here’s yet another strange-but-true ranger story: This guy is co-leader of a Sierra Club outing camped down around the Long Canyon junction. If I’d ridden downcanyon yesterday as originally planned I would’ve been able to tell them in person where their missing stock were. But they weren’t concerned…yesterday. He matter-of-factly told me that they didn’t come after the nine deserters “because we didn’t need them.” He seemed completely unconcerned by my concern and told me the group actually enjoyed searching for lost pack animals. This was a “thing” they’d done before, it seems. The guy explained that they take pleasure in tracking them—on foot (no horses)—and it was part of the overall fun. He smiled tolerantly (I could see him struggling not to roll his eyes) when I suggested it was maybe just a bit irresponsible to let his rented livestock wander around in the mountains unattended. Reckless even. There are ways, actually, that burros can get in trouble. Many ways. I asked, “What if my gates had been open? They would’ve just cruised on over Kirkwood Pass and then who knows where.” It did seem to get his attention when he heard I was planning to take them with me when I left in two days. And if I’d left the cabin today, and they weren’t camped by the trail, I would’ve taken their burros to the trailhead with me. (They would’ve naturally followed the horses.) Also told this nimrod I didn’t appreciate the extra burden on my small pasture. Still more absurdity: the group carries radio collars they use to track the four-leggers with since they did lose them big-time one year. But he’d forgotten to bring the antennas (!!!) so it was back to the old system of trailing footprints and fresh piles and listening for bells. And, final irony: this string is owned jointly by Rock Creek and Agnew Meadows Pack Stations. I knew about these animals! The pack stations rent them out on occasion to Sierra Club groups. This is the string Jan [a friend who was a trail cook for Rock Creek] told me about, years ago. One of these Sierra Club outings (this same outfit perhaps?) killed a burro some years back. Apparently the poor critter had a superficial leg injury—lotsa blood maybe, but not life-threatening—and the group decided to kill the burro. Put it down, that is. Don’t recall how they did it. But it was a real debacle, Jan said. (Can’t wait to tell her about this encounter, next time I see her.) ◦◦◦◦◦

Copied inside the front cover of this volume of the 1993 Piute Log:
     There is nothing in external nature but is an emblem, a hierogyphic of something in us.
                                                                                         Emerson, journals
                       True affluence is not needing anything.
                                                       Gary Snyder
          “I don’t want to be happy. I want to be alive and active.”
                                    Secondborn, in “Buoyant Billions” by George Bernard Shaw


    
   
   ©2018Tim Forsell                                                                                                         
         23 May 2018                                      

Saturday, August 25, 2018

Tampons

Not out of any sort of embarrassment or because the subject is awkward. Far from it. But I have seldom spoken with anyone about these things and so have no idea if my experiences were typical. Here it is: beginning at around the age of four, mom’s tampons entered my consciousness. Over the ensuing years, they played an outsize role in a shockingly naรฏve and innocent boy’s nascent sexual self-awareness. An always-present feature in my little world (on the shelf in the bathroom)—innocuous in appearance, made of familiar everyday materials, yet highly mysterious. For a long time I had no clue as to their real purpose. Finally, they became another piece in the puzzle of that terrible mystery.
I was an inveterate explorer of my mother’s purse and the top drawer of her dresser—those places where interesting things were to be found. Of course, it was an implicitly forbidden activity and I took advantage of any available situation to examine their contents. Curious as a cat, such behavior felt completely natural even while I instinctively knew it to be an invasion of sacrosanct privacy. Before entering school, I would sometimes accompany my folks to town. (Mom didn’t drive so she was always driven by my father if she needed something from the nursery or yardage store; as a rule he went shopping by himself.) Whenever they’d leave me alone in the car, out of lack-of-stimulus-induced curiosity the first thing to do would be to check out the contents of her handbag. (Dad usually accompanied her and paid for things so the purse would sometimes be left behind.) She didn’t wear make-up aside from lipstick but there’d be a couple of tubes and I’d automatically uncap them, roll the contents up and down to see how far they’d extend, and give them a sniff. (Perhaps this is unusual but never once in my kidhood did I apply lipstick to my person—perhaps because I found the smell unpleasant.) 
There  wasn’t much in the way of excitement or novelty in there but one familiar object always fascinated: an oblong plastic case with a simple telescoping lid which held two paper-wrapped Playtex®tampons. (Once I’d learned to read, both words added to the puzzlement.) Their individual, hermetically sealed condition, somewhat like band-aids, suggested perhaps some sort of medical connection. They were always intriguing and bore a particular aura of some vaguely disturbing mystery. At that point, I’d likely pull out the pair, return them, and slide the lid back on. I admired the colorful swirled design of the plastic—very 60s-ish—and appreciated the aesthetic quality of the fine tolerance that allowed the lid to fit so perfectly…the slight vacuum felt when pulling it off quickly. In fact, as a budding scientist I enjoyed most of all the feeling of creating and pondering the meaning of this vacuum-induced resistence.)
Since I shared the bathroom with Mom—Steve and Dad in the other one just down the hallway—I was surrounded, as long as I could remember anything, by her feminine accoutrements (which I now know were far fewer in number and kind than is the case with most adult females in the USA). Rifling the medicine cabinet behind the mirror and the shelf with swinging doors took place whenever I was in there and feeling slightly bored. Inside that cabinet, there was always the cardboard carton containing dozens of tampons. So many! What for? Intuitively, I knew that it would never be an option for me to enquire as to their purpose. Why? More on that shortly. Of course, on occasion I’d unwrap one to play with, assuming that its disappearance would go unnoticed. The construction was intriguing and the strange device’s function a complete cypher. I wracked my grapefruit-sized brain for clues as to what the contrivance’s purpose might be…wondered at the compressed cottony plug with strings and why it might be in the double tube. (Once emptied of its “works,” the tube—held to my eye and peered through as I lengthened it—was an excellent pirate’s telescope.) Without ever making any real connection to a monthly cycle, I nonetheless was very much aware that there were “periods” of use and disuse. It wasn’t just in noticing the paper wrappers and dicarded cardboard tubes in the trashcan—it was something far more dramatic and downright frightening.
In my household the toilet wasn’t automatically flushed except—and always—after a bowel movement. (The rare occasions I’d find that someone had forgotten to flush, or flushed unsuccessfully, were a real shock.) I wasn’t forbidden from using Dad and Steve’s bathroom. I often did if it was closer and there was some hurry. And I noticed that there was never a small wad of toilet paper floating in the bowl as there typically was in the other bathroom. 
Now, here’s a thing that mystifies me to this day. Friends who have heard this story are dumbfounded and I have yet to meet a person with whom I share this frightening experience.
My mother would put her used tampons in the toilet…and not flush—not always, but not infrequently (in season). I can’t recall if she only began this pracice at a certain point and don’t remember the specific occasion that I went into the bathroom and found a blood-soaked object lying at the bottom of the bowl, blood slowly diffusing into the water. No doubt the very first instance caused instant terror: Mommy’s hurt!! With it, the unsettling realization that I could never ask what was wrong. In fact, she seemed to be fine. So I quickly learned that, whatever was going on, it wasn’t life-threatening. 
Apparently it was some while before I discovered the little folded instuctions paper. Certainly it was before I could read but the line diagrams made the skill somewhat superfluous. This was a document that I studied long and hard, and on many occasions. Again: no memory of the first time but, on that day I found out that Mommy…puts these things inside her!! Horror. Their purpose was apparently to soak up blood from some hidden wound inside my favorite person, something you couldn’t put a band-aid on. I suspect I didn’t give this notion too much thought; it was simply too disturbing. And, again, because she seemed to be fine, there was no cause for undue alarm. I should mention that, at that time, I was aware that she was without a penis (probably from pictures of African native women in National Geographic) but no notion, aside from the solid realization that there was some sort of orifice for her pee to escape from and babies to come out of, no conception of a vagina, per se, whatsoever.
Back to the instruction paper. It included line drawings of a decidedly generic female’s middle third as viewed from the side. It showed, graphically, that the woman—as instructed, with one foot elevated and placed on a line representing the edge of her bathtub—was inserting the tampon inside herself. I could vaguely perceive that the cardboard tube might facilitate this process. It was all so… perplexing. But undeniably intriguing from a purely scientific stance (which was how my mind was already beginning to work). So there was a cold, impersonal element to my curiosity as well. Such a strange stew of emotions. And then…not at first, but at some point, that side-view simple line drawing with distinctive curves and crevices…became a highly charged erotic image. How desperately I wanted to know what was hidden between those lines! Alas, the instructions came with no front—or, better yet—rear view. All this remained a mystery—incredibly—until I was almost old enough to drive. Had I been born swarthy and dark, I would’ve been shaving before I knew what tampons were for.
            

     ©2018 by Tim Forsell     draft         18 Apr 2018

Sunday, July 22, 2018

The Demeaning of Life...Chapter 14. Symbiosis Makes the World Go 'Round

Note: This was to have been chapter 10 in my sequence of postings. Due to (yet another) major rearrangement of chapters, this is now chapter 14. The next section, titled “The Microbiosphere,” is in progress. So are following chapters, then a few that I’ve already posted (also relocated). The next bit I will post is chapter 25. Also note that this free blog service has some unexpected limitations regarding formatting, font size, et cet. Weird anomalies in spacing or hyphenation are not sloppy errors on my part. One more thing: this is intended to be a scholarly work; I have a reference list with almost 250 sources, all of which are cited in the text with footnotes. I've left that material out of these posts.

Close cooperation of organisms has been central to the epochal advances in the history of life. It relieved the nucleus of the eukaryotic cell of housekeeping functions, which are carried on by organelles. The multicellular organism is a grand symbiosis of specialized cells, each kind expressing a different part of the genetic instructions of the entirety. Social insects are symbionts in fundamentally the same way, as the different castes take on allotted specialities…. No one can say how much of evolution is competition or cooperation; they are inseparable.
Robert Wesson

After returning from his voyage aboard the Beagle, Darwin was obsessed with the wealth of ideas he had accumulated during his long journey. The Galapagos finches, in particular, haunted his thoughts for years. It was the variety of special adaptations to their environment that convinced him: Species are not fixed and eternal! The problem was, Darwin could not envision a mechanism that would cause them to change over time. 

In 1838, only a year after he had begun collecting facts in a notebook to support his slowly maturing theory, Darwin chanced on a work that would help change the course of history. Much later, crediting the influence of an English economist on his concept of natural selection, Darwin wrote:

I happened to read for amusement ‘Malthus on Population,’ and being well prepared to appreciate the struggle for existence which everywhere goes on from long-continued  observation of the habits of animals and plants, it at once struck me that under these circumstances favourable variations would tend to be preserved and unfavourable ones to be destroyed. The result of this would be the formation of a new species.


When Malthus, a proponent of laissez-faire capitalism, published An Essay on the Principle of Population (1798) it created quite a stir. Though well-received by fellow economists it outraged many. (Late 18th century England was in the midst of a period of widespread optimism regarding the future of British society and culture.) In his treatise Malthus argued that populations whose growth went unchecked by disease or famine or war would grow “geometrically,” quickly outstripping food supplies. So here, Darwin finally hit upon the mechanism that causes species to change and diverge. He was already intimately acquainted with the harsh realities of life in the natural world. 

Malthus’ reasoning and gloomy conclusions had a considerable impact on Darwin’s way of thinking and it was this influence that in due course led to a widespread view of life being dominated by competition and conflict. But here is another perspective—one that is seldom considered: Despite all the suffering and misery our often-harsh world dishes out so lavishly, untold numbers of organisms are granted long and uneventful lives. Regardless of whether one credits animals with having any sort of awareness or sensation of experience, those that manage to survive live through sunny days without hunger or fear or pain, enjoying the sheer gratification—call this what you will—that simply comes with the gift of being alive. I find it odd that the notion of something that could be called “primal contentment”—the elementary pleasure of mortal existence—is not granted survival value. (But then, it would first have to be recognized as a “thing.”) 

In contrast, the impression of eternal strife in the natural world has become lastingly fixed in the Western mind. The seed was planted when papers by Darwin and Alfred Russel Wallace were simultaneously presented to the venerable Linnaean Society (this was in London, July of 1858) and the British public was introduced to the concept as word of these electrifying ideas spread. [This is neither the time nor place to recount the well-known story but, in brief: the much-younger Wallace stumbled on an almost identical theory of natural selection after Darwin had been carefully polishing his own version for two decades. Darwin was notified by a mutual acquaintance that Wallace was about to publish his own hypothesis and it was agreed that papers prepared by both authors would be read before an august body of scientists.] Darwin’s piece opened with this severe pronouncement: “All nature is at war, one organism with another, or with external nature.” Wallace’s paper contained equally stark imagery, portraying all living things as being engaged in “a struggle for existence, in which the weakest and least perfectly organized must always succumb.”[1] And of course there is the endlessly referenced snippet lifted from Alfred Lord Tennyson’s famous poetic lament, In Memoriam A.H.H., which has firmly planted in our consciousness a mental picture of blood-drenched fangs and talons.

Over time, this prevailing view of nature’s everlasting violence has begun to shift. Field biologists point out that their observations of ecological communities simply do not square with that harsh depiction. In fact, many have come to see the web of life as not so much endless war as a competitive arena where harmonious interaction is common. Paradoxically, while one of the principal themes exhibited by life is individual autonomy, at the same time there is a robust predisposition to intimate interaction that goes well beyond routine competition. The view that cooperative relationships are the rule and not rare exceptions is gaining authority. This sea change is inclusive of the microscopic world, where it is ever more evident that cooperation and communication within and between populations is routine. The perception that microbes in general are often beneficial and ecologically vital (and that only a handful of microbes are harmful) is gradually taking hold in the public’s awareness.

Of course, to describe ecological relationships using emotionally loaded terms like “harmony” and “cooperation” is not to suggest that such interactions are good, or of an accommodating nature. But then, the use of such “soft” language may serve to help compensate for equally fraught terms connoting competition and strife. Microbial ecologist Forest Rohwer, speaking of our normally beneficial gut microbes, expresses in blunt language the true spirit of such relationships: “If you go immunosuppressed for a little bit, they’ll kill you. When you die, they’ll eat you. They don’t care. It’s not a nice relationship. It’s just biology.” It is difficult to escape certain instances of deeply ingrained bias—for instance, the psychological tendency to see predators as fundamentally bad, when in truth predation is merely one essential aspect of resource exploitation.[2]

There are a number of specific types of relationships between organisms. They can be competitive, cooperative, or exploitative. Organisms whose lives are intimately entwined are said to be involved in some type of symbiosis. Symbioses are characterized according to the nature of the involvement. While their classification is not always clear-cutthe broad categories are as follows: mutualism is an association (properly speaking, a collaboration) that is close and beneficial to both parties; commensalism, which is advantageous to one member and neither harmful nor beneficial to the other. Finally, there is parasitism—strictly biased in favor of one member, the parasite, which profits at a cost to the “host” species but seldom kills it. Endoparasites live inside a host species while ectoparasites inhabit their host’s exterior.

Symbioses are to be found within individual cells or forming planet-wide networks. But it is at either end of this vast spectrum that the benefits of symbiosis become more akin to imperatives. As mentioned in chapter 5, endosymbiosisis a mutualistic association where one organism lives inside another. A representative example is that of microbes living in the guts of animals, assisting with the digestion of certain foods. 

There are omnipresent and indispensible forms of endosymbiosis taking place on a subcellular level. In deep antiquity, prokaryotes gained the ability to obtain nourishment by bodily enveloping particles of organic matter in the fashion of amoeba. (That is, as opposed to simply absorbing chemical nutrients.) In this way, primitive bacterial organisms joined together with much larger prokaryote “hosts,” forming what turned out to be a mutually favorable partnership. When biologists first began contemplating this arrangement, it was assumed that the smaller organisms were engulfed prey that somehow managed to avoid assimilation. One such lucky survivor was thought likely to be a cyanobacterium that already possessed chloroplast-like organs capable of harnessing sunlight to make carbohydrates. This merger eventually resulted in the modern plastid (of which the chloroplast is one variety). Another such union likely involved an oxygen-metabolizing bacterium whose descendents gradually morphed into the mitochondrion—the organelle often referred to as the cell’s “power station.” In both cases, the new guests took up residence inside their larger prokaryotic hosts. They never left. And these smaller bacteria’s offspring eventually formed mutualistic partnerships with their host’s progeny, trading energy production for food and lodging. At some point, prokaryotes sequestered their genetic material in a membrane-bound nucleus that developed into a “control center.” (The origin of the nucleus remains one of microbiology’s vexing mysteries.) But somehow these fruitful unions eventually gave rise to primordial eukaryotes, whose far greater organizational and energy-manipulating capabilities made multicellular life feasible. These relationships had vast consequences: without them, our planet would be covered with life, yes, but it would consist of multihued microbial mats—not action-packed forests and jungles and grasslands and deserts. And all Earth’s creatures, magnificent still, would be invisible to the naked eye. 

With the idea of eternal strife and struggle being firmly entrenched in our gestalt, the initial bond between the two-cooperating-microorganisms-that-became-one is either couched in terms of the smaller being “enslaved” or “captured.” The larger was “invaded,” perhaps by an endoparasite. (From what we now know about how microbes conduct their affairs, and how sophisticated they had already become, it is just as likely that the host was tricked into accepting its guest.) Endosymbiosis is a prime example of life’s propensity to beget successful relationships. Regardless of how this pact originated, it made complex life a viable life-strategy. 

As befell the earliest proto-mitochondria, some kind of archaic cyanobacterium found an inviting home inside a larger prokaryote. When it moved in, this primitive but fully functional prokaryote brought its chloroplasts.Today, diverse groups of animals still carry on symbiotic associations with chlorophyll-bearing unicellular algae. These are most commonly found in marine organisms such as sponges, sea anemones, and corals. Certain types of mollusks—clams, for one—and sea cucumbers have come to rely on algal symbionts as well. On land, some varieties of slugs have chloroplasts derived from food plants incorporated into their surface tissues and these make some nutritive contribution to their host. A different sort of arrangement is that of tree-dwelling sloths with algae growing in their fur; while the algae’s role is unknown, it is generally thought to help camouflage the defenseless, slow-moving mammals.[3]


Symbiosis often takes the form of some type of group interaction, which reaches its apex in the social insects where the theme is so central that colonies of bees, ants, and termites are increasingly being thought of as superorganisms. Crucial to the concept of symbiosis on such a level is this precept: Cooperative alliances function in a hierarchical manner subject to various forms of governance. “Governance” is a recognized but hard-to-define controlling influence affecting all living things in multiple ways. (Even the activities of an individual cell require direction from various modes of higher level control and regulation.) Biological governance is akin to the way government functions in human societies. There, a dominant authority administers networks of interacting entities and the leading body helps distribute the fruits of cooperation. All cooperators benefit; the weaker of them are supported and thus can function optimally as opposed to being out-competed. In nature, as exemplified by the social insects, there is no central adminstrative body—the entire colony participates as a collective, its actions indicative of what can be considered a foretaste of mind

With all life, governance starts with DNA coordinating and directing cellular activities and reproduction. For eukaryotes, this influence largely—though not exclusively—arises in the nucleus.[4] Again: among all mutualistic relationships, endosymbiosis subject to centralized control is perhaps the most far-reaching; in addition to making multicellular life practicable it imparts the versatility and vigor that helps drive evolutionary diversificationOrganized cooperation offers tremendous rewards to cooperators so it is no surprise that the approach is employed throughout the natural world. “Survival of the fittest,” it should be remembered, refers not to the strongest and most aggressive, but to those that are biologically fit—those that are most successful at reproducing.  

The competence and efficiency of a heirarchical but non-centralized form of governance as demonstrated by social insects is also found near the very base of the biological totem pole. One of the most extraordinary instances is found in the activities of bacterial consortia—a true form of anarchy. The phenomenon has only recently been brought to light but microbes hit upon the advantages of cooperative living untold millions of years ago. Bacteria can be considered social organisms in much the same way humans are. Many live in what are essentially societies—hierarchical, collaborative groupings of single or multiple species. (The latter are seen in nature in the form of biofilms.) Through a mode of chemical communication known as quorum sensing, microbes make group decisions dependent on population size and density in order to reach some end that only benefits large aggregations. They accomplish this by secreting signaling molecules called autoinducers in response to some stimulusBacteria have surface receptors that detect the presence of signaling molecules. When an autoinducer binds to its receptor, it orders up the production of more inducers, which are released into the surroundings. After the inducer reaches some specific concentration a threshold is crossed, triggering a positive feedback loop.[5] Within the population, a host of receptors become activated at virtually the same time in a cascade that initiates other changes. At this point the coordinated “behavior” of the colony can elicit one or more useful responses.

Quorum sensing embodies the essence of cooperative communication and is representative of a theme that takes place, in many guises, throughout the biosphere: the transmission of information via wide-ranging networks. (More on this in the following chapter.) It was discovered in the 1990s through a study involving a bioluminescent marine bacterium, Allivibrio fischeri—in its natural state a solitary, non-photosynthetic planktonic organism. Free-floating individuals make no use of their luminescent capacity as it would serve no purpose and thus be a waste of valuable metabolic energy.

Allivibrio shares an astonishing mutualistic symbiosis with a creature known as the Hawaiian bobtail squid. This tiny cephalopod, only an inch and a half in length, has a bioluminescent organ on its underside. It feeds nocturnally near the ocean surface and can adjust the intensity of a light-producing organ’s glow to match whatever illumination is coming from above. This results in the squid casting no shadow as seen from below, rendering it virtually invisible to predators. By way of some as-yet unidentified mechanism, the diminutive creature exerts a pull on Allivibrio, which enter through special pores before attaching themselves to the light organ’s furrowed surface. This process is aided by special ciliated cells that actively draw in and select Allivibrio (while simultaneously fending off potential microbial competitors) and then foster their growth. Once established, the bacteria cause these ciliated cells—their job complete—to die off. The squid provides nourishment and a protective environment to the bacteria, which multiply rapidly. By communicating through quorum sensing, when the number of bacteria inside a squid reaches around 100 million the entire aggregation lights up.[6]

Among the multitude of symbiotic relationships, many are utterly captivating—staple subjects of nature documentaries. Particularly well-known are examples of mutualism such as those of the yucca moth and the fig wasp, whose exclusive relationship with their host plants have evolved together (known as coevolution) to the point that neither could exist without the other. Then there are the bird and fish “cleaners” that remove parasites from other “client” species, classic examples being the red-billed oxpecker and cleaner wrasse. Several varieties of wrasse, members of a sizeable group of small fishes, live in mutualistic symbioses with much bigger, typically predatory fish that  visit “cleaning stations” where a lone cleaner wrasse will scavenge dead tissues and scales as well as searching out parasites, often working within the larger fish’s open mouth. Similarly, the oxpecker is a small bird that grooms outsized African mammals, feeding on whatever it can glean: dead skin, earwax, mucus, blood, and ticks. 

This relationship, considered a textbook example of mutualism, is actually far more involved than its usual depiction suggests and could perhaps be better held up to illustrate the perils of accepting an oft-repeated adaptive story as gospel. A recent study points out that much of the literature cites old studies and anecdotal reports. The study revealed that, not only do the birds not significantly reduce the number of ticks carried by a group of cattle, the birds repeatedly peck at open wounds to feed on blood, preventing open wounds from healing. Also, while the removal of encrusted earwax might appeal to our sense of modern hygiene, earwax clearly serves some purpose (it might have antibacterial properties, for one thing) and has an energetic cost to produce. Finally, the relationship between oxpeckers and their clients may vary geographically, seasonally, or be beneficial for one client species and harmful or neutral to another. 


There are several approaches to mutualistic symbiosis that should be at least mentioned to help set the table for a broader view—that is, an awareness of symbiotic associations as being part of a global-scale biological process involving all life-forms (the subject of the next chapter). 

Lichens are fungi living in intimate association with photosynthetic microorganisms—various types of algae or cyanobacteria. This partnership is so intimate that lichens are given binomial scientific names as if they were distinct species. There are around 17,000 varieties. They are found living on rocks, bark, rotting wood, or dangle from twigs and branches. One of nature’s most successful collaborations, lichens have existed on land for at least 420 million years. Lichens represent one of many beneficial symbioses connected with soils—in this case, with soil formation. Aside from carbon compounds provided by the photosynthetic partner, lichens subsist on air- and water-borne organic particles along with minerals gleaned from the surface upon which they dwell. Lichens secrete acids that encourage mineral absorption, at the same time helping break down rock—a crucial first step in soil development.

Plants in the legume, or pea family have ancient association with so-called “nitrogen fixing” bacteria that live in root nodules and convert atmospheric nitrogen (N) into compounds readily available for use. (This utterly vital symbiosis will be explored in more detail shortly.) Nitrogenous compounds, essential for plant growth and development, are in short supply in nature. The industrial process employed in manufacturing the very same compounds for use as crop fertilizers was first discovered in 1913 (originally for making explosives) and is very energy-intensive, being carried out under extreme pressure and at high temperatures. Soil-dwelling bacteria, however, have been producing these chemicals for hundreds of millions of years. 

Various microscopic fungal organisms live in close association with plant roots as well, providing a number of advantages such as improving water uptake, supplying plants with nitrogen and phosphorus along with other mineral nutrients from the surroundings. Plants, in turn, deliver photosynthetically derived nourishment to their mutualistic partners. It is estimated that 90% of land plants have these mycorrhizae growing on their roots, without which 80% would wither and die. This relationship has been ongoing since the origin of land plants in the Ordovician period, as evidenced by 450 million year old plant fossils displaying swollen root material.[7] In fact, as Lynn Margulis stated, “Fungi and plants were already locked into productive symbioses at the very beginning of their tenure on dry land.”

Then, there are the numerous associations between animals and microbes. Many involve bacteria capable of breaking down tough food products into digestible form.

Many termite species have endosymbiotic protozoa and other microbes living in their abdomens. These organisms possess enzymes capable of breaking down cellulose, the main food source of wood-eating termites. A strange protist (the term for single-celled eukaryotes) known as Mixotricha paradoxa lives in the hindgut of a single species of tropical wood-eating termite found in northern Australia. Mixotricha is itself in a mutualistic relationship with four different bacterial symbionts that live both on and inside the protist. Around a quarter million spirochete bacteria attached to Mixotricha’s surface provide locomotion through the coordinated waving of their cilia. A similar number of rod-shaped bacteria imbedded in the protist’s surface supply the spirochetes with ATP. In addition, much smaller numbers of two types of spherical bacteria inside Mixotricha act in lieu of energy-producing mitochondria (which the protist otherwise lacks or has lost). Altogether, then, this unique organism possesses five different genomes, earning it votes for being “the ‘poster protist’ for symbiogenesis.”   

The distinction between an organism and its mutualistic partners is becoming blurred. Increasingly, higher animals are being considered colonial organisms rather than autonomous individuals. Recall that the human body is comprised of somewhat more microbes than tissue cells. The vast majority are found in the gut but they flourish in every nook and cranny: skin, mouth…even throughout our lungs (which, until recently, were thought to be a bacteria-free, sterile environment). Symbiotic bacteria are often the first line of defense in immune systems. They are of particular importance in helping craft and calibrate immune responses early in life. (If all this seems contradictory, take into account that these helpful microbes are defending their hearth and home.)  

Commensal relationships also abound. Microscopic Demodex mites reside in glands on the rims of our eyelids and in hair follicles. Recent assays have revealed that, not only are there millions of bacteria, yeast, and fungi on every square inch of our skin, but different species live in highly specific areas depending on moisture availability. Oddly, some species are found on the right hand side of the body but not on the left. But considering what we now know about intimate biological relationships, it is likely that many of these associations confer unknown benefits to the host.

Parasitism is ubiquitous—another universal theme in the living world. Carl Zimmer writes, “Wherever there is life, there are parasites. There are ten billion viruses in every quart of seawater. There are parasitic flatworms that can live in the bladders of desert toads, which stay buried underground for eleven months of the year; there are parasitic crustaceans that live only in the eye of the Greenland shark, which swims in the icy darkness of the Arctic Ocean…. By some estimates, four out of every five species are parasites.”[8] And while parasitism, like predation, inevitably bears negative connotations, just as with predation it leads to a balanced coexistence with benefits—not to only to populations and species but to the individuals afflicted. Many host animals carry multiple kinds of parasites, both internal and external, but show little ill effect. Rather, a host is impaired when parasites are present in excessive numbers (a graphic example being moose or reindeer in northern latitudes during mosquito season; individuals obviously suffer and can actually perish from blood loss). On the other hand, there is growing evidence that parasites confer specific benefits that enhance their host’s vigor and overall health. Recent research suggests that modern health problems in advanced countries may be traced to a lack of internal parasites. Patients suffering from debilitating Crohn’s disease have responded positively to the (re)introduction of intestinal worms—a “rewilding” of the gut through what is called, aptly, “worm therapy.” 

Last but not least: one of the central aspects in a global biotic symbiosis is the role played by decomposers and scavengers, those organisms carrying out the crucial task of removing and recycling no-longer-living organic matterDecomposers (also known as saprobes) include fungi, bacteria, slime molds, worms, snails, and many kinds of arthropods such as crayfish, beetles, and sowbugs. They initiate the decay of plant, animal, and fecal material. Of particular importance are wood-decomposing saprophytic fungi that release enzymes capable of breaking down cellulose and lignin (the tough, durable ingredient of woody material), both of which are highly resistant to decay. Fungi produce hyphae—fast-growing, threadlike filaments that both mechanically and chemically break down the decomposing material. Fungi absorb nutrients from decaying woody tissues. Few organisms are capable of digesting lignin; those that can—notably the termites—are able to because of their aforementioned endosymbiontsDecomposers perform a vital service by recirculating immense amounts of carbon and nitrogen. (They form links in other biogeochemical cycles as well.) Of course, marine and freshwater ecosystems have their own complex webs of decomposers.

The breakdown of organic matter does not occur in the absence of decomposers. It is important to recognize that these materials do not simply rot and fall apart on their own; decomposition is not just the outcome of chemical action—it is a biological process. Prokaryotic microbes are the only organisms capable of breaking down inorganic molecules containing essential elements such as phosphorus, sulphur, and iron. By converting organic material to humus (the organic, non-mineral fraction of soils), saprobes play an essential role in soil formation. In forming humus, decomposers improve soil structure and moisture retention, add ions and oxygen, provide nutrients in forms that can be taken up by plant roots, and support entire webs of vital soil-dwelling organisms. When they die, they too are reduced by their kindred. The vital role of saprobes cannot be overstated.

Life has many means at its disposal for preserving or re-establishing equilibrium. There appears to be some sort of overarching harmony pervading the entire biosphere that helps maintain a balanced stateIt involves symbioses we may not yet perceive—subtle associations that function in unfamiliar ways or over long time spans. In sum: symbiosis takes many forms and operates at scales from the microscopic to global, figuratively making the living world go ‘round.                                                                                  

 

     ©2018 by Tim Forsell     draft                   23 Apr 2018

 




[1]Neither of the men were present—Darwin was ill and Wallace was still in Indonesia.  The meeting aroused surprisingly little interest at the time and it was not until the publication of Origin the following year that these ideas exploded in the public’s consciousness.
[2]Viewing the cruelty and carnage inherent to nature in a neutral fashion is a mind-set that biologists and ecologists actively cultivate. And there comes a point where one can perceive an underlying “appropriateness,” even beauty, in nature’s violence. 
[3]In addition to providing camouflage, recent research indicates that two-toed sloths (the sub-group with a highly restricted diet) consume the algae while grooming—chemical analysis shows that the nitrogen-rich material found in their forestomach has as many carbohydrates but considerably more fat energy than their coarse leafy diet provides. 
[4]Mitochondria and chloroplasts have surrendered the bulk of their genetic material to the nucleus, which then largely maintains these organelles even while they retain a degree of autonomy, particularly as regards their own reproduction. Outside the nucleus and independent of its direct influence, numerous kinds of protein sensors and their receptors carry out regulatory functions that affect a multitude of cellular processes.
[5]In a physiological sense, a positive feedback loopinvolves a change in some system triggering mechanisms which augment the effects of that change. Positive feedback forms a “loop” when whatever effect has been amplified “feeds back” into the system, maintaining its influence until a regulating device checks the momentum of the modifying influence.
[6]A. fischeri does not adjust the intensity of its own light output; the squid does so mechanically by adjusting the light organ’s position in relation to a reflective surface or hiding it entirely behind the ink sac. 
[7]Well-preserved plant remains found in the famous Rhynie cherts of Scotland contain microscopic spore-like structures, chlamydospores, associated with mycorrhizal fungal threads.
[8]According to Campbell Biology, 11th ed., probably more than a third of all known species are parasites.