“Cloudburst” refers to Cloudburst Group Camp, a reservation-only, undeveloped campground not far down the road from Leavitt Meadows Pack Station. Renegade ranger and scofflaw that I was, for years I used this place as my own private camping area. It was seldom occupied and I’d just let myself in through the locked gate with my trusty Forest Service universal Yale key. The “campground” consists of a narrow dirt road along the rim of a gorge-section of the West Walker, a couple of hundred feet below. No picnic tables, water, or outhouses. Not only are there a couple of spectacular views from rocky overlooks, but being located behind a low ridge paralleling 108 makes the camp invisible from the highway and lacking traffic noise. A most peaceful spot with a special feel thanks to the locked gate. I’d go there sometimes on a days-off day of pure rest and occasionally went with friends to camp in luxurious privacy. There’s nothing to keep people from parking outside the gate and walking along the rim or down to the river but people hardly ever did this, near as I could tell. In low water, you can make your way down on a steep path then scramble through an impressive defile between cliffs of the brown lava mudflow which once blanketed the entire region. Also, there’s a wonderful grove of cottonwoods, aspen, and white fir greeting you at the bottom. ◦◦◦◦◦ In spring and early summer, passing through the gorge on foot is not an option. (It requires boulder-hopping even in low water.) Few people know about what I called the “Z” curve. During meltwater flood the whole torrent slams into a tight turn—all furious whitewater and roar—ricochets off, then almost immediately crashes into another bend before proceeding more sedately. A truly spectacular natural feature come spring. ◦◦◦◦◦ My favorite place to stay was at the camp’s far end, right on the rim, but when shade was in order I’d park under one of the finest old-growth Jeffrey pines in the Bridgeport area. One of its lowest limbs curved down almost to the ground. Back then, “technical tree climbing” was part of my generalized climbing habit. I was able to get into a few tall pines by taking advantage of these dangling limbs. (The first moves, starting from a dead hang, require some gymnastic maneuvering.)
23 May (Sun) OFF. Hanging out with no plan. Old buddy Jim Kohman (Piute Ranger, 1985–87) showed up for a visit while on vacation. Went down to Cloudburst after meeting up at the Leavitt Falls overlook. Walked from our trucks up the river past spectacular rocky points to the “Z” curve which is a raging spectacle of water just now. ◦◦◦◦◦ Later on, climbed the huge Jeffrey pine above (looming directly above) our site while Jim prepared the BBQ fire and in the process spooked two flying squirrels from their nest in a crevice—the result of a lightning strike. The first one zipped out, scurried around the trunk and was gone. Then its mate popped out and stopped cold, just two feet from my face. I was a bit surprised at how small they are. We stared each other down, both of us motionless, for a long minute. I willed myself not to blink. Their eyes are large for a squirrel and shiny black all full of life and mystery…blunt face, whiskers aquiver, folds of skin bunched loosely in a charming fringe at its sides like a gathered floor-length fur robe. It had this wonderfully broad, flat, silky-glisteny tail that obviously provides additional surface area for gliding and also acts as a rudder. My first good look at one of these fine critters. A real good look, too. Apparently flying squirrels are quite common but seldom seen, being creatures of the night (hence those adorable, Japanese-cartoony eyes). This was one of those four-star nature observation/encounters, almost fifty feet off the deck standing on the lowest, massive limb of a stately pine patriarch. After the squirrel finally fled I climbed to the very top, lightning-walloped and snaggy, an honest 100+ feet. Felt fairly exhalted. ◦◦◦◦◦
©2020 Tim Forsell 23 Oct 2020
