28 Sep (Fri) Heading back in. Got to the office early, hoping to dash in and out, but got mired down as usual. Finally made it out to Leavitt, had tea with Doc, saddled Pal and was off. ◦◦◦◦◦ Just riding Pal today (no packhorse, yippee!) so I decided on a whim to ride up into the hanging valley of Falls Creek and out its back—a long-time goal, actually. Doc has recently been working the old trail and told me just the other day where it takes off. Also about an old cow-camp somewhere up there, still being used apparently. This is the one sub-drainage (whatever you wanna call it) in all of Piute country that I haven’t visited yet. ◦◦◦◦◦ Not far beyond the last branch of Falls Creek there’s a small rock duck off in the trees marking the start of this obscure trail. You have to be looking to see it. For some reason, Doc makes an effort to keep this route open—barely. It climbs real steeply in short switchbacks straight up the side of the moraine and in a few places I could see cars on Highway 108, right across the way. Doc has recently lopped out overgrown places and I never got lost. Good thing—mountain mahogany thickets can be truly gawd-awful to bushwack through. Stormy-looking…windy. Impressive and brand-new views as we got higher, looking straight down on Leavitt Meadows and then into the basins of Sardine and McKay Creeks. The Sonora road right over there, kind of unsettling in a way since I was supposed to be having this uber-wilderness experience. ◦◦◦◦◦ When we got to the first high point the wind was ripping. And here came a flock of ravens to check out the interlopers. I was in my slicker, had it all buttoned up to the chin and was hanging onto my hat with big drops ten feet away on either side. Very dramatic situation. The ravens sweeped and swooped on us…some in pairs, playing together, flipping upside down in tandem. (These, probably juveniles—raven teenagers goofing off.) I chortled at them in mock raven-ese and this drew them right in. With the strong wind coming over the top they could just hang there riding the wave. I leaned way back in my saddle, gripping the horn with face pointed straight at the sky to watch the show. And these superb animals were floating and bobbing, dug into the wind, calmly observing the two of us from mere yards away. They’d rise over the top ever so slowly on spread wings, stare curiously (basically the same expression I was wearing) then wheel off with the gale. Moments of pure grace and gracefulness—I’ll not soon forget this encounter. ◦◦◦◦◦ Over the top and rode right by the detached stubby spire so plainly visible from the pack station. Been eyeing that thing for years now. It’s only fifty feet tall. I doubt it’s ever been climbed. ◦◦◦◦◦ Down into Falls Creek, after a total of about three miles along the ridgeline to get there. Led Pal down the still clearly visible trail angling across naked volcanic mudflow scree. The old cowcamp was right there where the trail hit bottom, among an open grove of mature lodgepoles. Some real oldies. This, at about 9000’. A load of abandoned camp junk, some of it—old grills, for one—that still may be in use. (Some outfit from the other side, Chichester, I believe, still runs cows in here.) Old old carvings on some of the trees, totally illegible and grown over, but one still legible from 1912 back when sheep, not cattle, were grazing this obscure little cirque valley. ◦◦◦◦◦ Surprised to find a definite trail on the north side of the creek. More carvings, another beauty from 1912 with a big cross, and a Trini Banuelos from ’31. ◦◦◦◦◦ This valley is very boggy, almost continually on the north-facing side, but the other side is steeper and densely timbered with lodgepole. So stayed in the bogs, which would be gruesome in a wet year—it’d suck the shoes off your horse’s feet or your own if you were foolish enough to try it on foot. Found one clear, bubbling spring located just under the crumbly lahar slope. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode all the way to the back, circling beyond the farthest springs, right under some very impressive cliffs. Up the final steep slope, following deer trails now, over the top and up the ridge a bit to about 10200’. Windhowling! Contoured around to get on the right ridgeline, across one extremely steep slope that, had Pal slipped, he’d have rolled to his horsey-death. (I was leading him….) Stayed right on the crest of the ridge to near the pass. Took the old Kennedy trail instead of the PCT, Pal obviously very happy to at last be on trail he knew, and rode home through Walker Meadows. Started sprinkling and finally raining hard just as we got home. Val and Red waiting patiently at the back gate. I was beat—all the up and down takes it out of you, even if you are “just sittin’ there.” What a day!
→ no visitors → 13½ miles → 1 lb trash bits → new trails and big views
Copied inside the front cover of this volume of Piute Log:
Ed Abbey, on his seasonal ranger position in Arches (from Desert Solitaire):
“Yes, it’s a good job. On the rare occasions when I peer into the future for more than a few days I can foresee myself returning here for season after season, year after year, indefinitely. And why not? What better sinecure could a man with small needs, infinite desires, and philosophic pretensions ask for? The better part of each year in the wilderness and the winters in some complementary, equally agreeable environment….”
It is good to think. Better to look and think. Best to look without thinking.
—Goethe
©2020 Tim Forsell 25 Jul 2020
Another great entry! I sure enjoy them.
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