20 Aug (Sun) Leisurely breakfast and coffee-fueled gab. Greta and Linda packing up to leave but it was pert near to noon before they got underway with three packhorses in tow. (Hauling out all the gear left behind by fish’n’frog folk [biologists] last week.) Too late to head off on my planned patrol oh well so instead opted to tackle a longstanding, and I mean long-standing project: build new front gate. ◦◦◦◦◦ To that end, started by hauling giant cedar post across the river—one of the two that have been out behind the cabin with other junk probably since the place was built. And planted it, good and deep. Three women hailing from Santa Cruz passed by. One of them, Sue, I’ve talked with on several previous occasions. They were camped upmeadow. I got invited up for cocktails but declined—ready for a quiet evening at home after having visitors the last few nights. Worked on the gate til 7:00, almost finished it, then got in the river, ahh. Haven’t been up in the hammock for days. Am now. Skyline rose, blotting out the sun.
21 Aug (Mon) Went up to stony camp early to visit Sue, Ann, and Margaret. That be me seizing the day, female contact-wise. It’s a kind of food. Nice converse, sitting in the dirt in full morning sun with the river right there singing us a soft song. Walking back, picked this tour’s table bouquet. ◦◦◦◦◦ ‘Nother project: hauled dirt from round corral to hitch rail—“dirt” being the mix of manure, sand, soil, and crushed pine cones that accumulates around the perimeter of the corral. Every few years I use this handy source of fill to fill in the pits at the hitchrail—pits dug by grumpy fidgety equines, deepened further by cloudburst runoff. Hauled fourteen wheelbarrow loads in between a constant stream of August-type visitors. ◦◦◦◦◦ First, an older Japanese couple from Bart’s basecamp in Walker Meadows. Back in camp, hearing that their dayhike included visiting a “ranger station,” the woman asked Becky [camp cook], “Are there any shops?” She’d maybe want to purchase a Club Piute T-shirt…perhaps a coffee mug or some locally made craftwork! Becky apparently straightened her out. To her credit, the woman told me this story herself, poking fun at her city-slickerishness. Speaking of which, when she found out there were cats living here, I explained that these weren’t pets, they were working-cats, “RPOs—Rodent Patrol Officers, ha ha.” My joke (I think it’s pretty funny) didn’t really go over—they didn’t get the FS thing of there being acronyms ending with “O” for every job position. The woman was absolutely incredulous when I told her that my half-wild kitties caught and devoured mice. For a living, as it were. Really: she could hardly believe it. That the cats could—would—actually catch mice. And then eat them, ee-uww! Ick! I really had to work at convincing her I wasn’t just pulling her leg. Now that’s city slicker. ◦◦◦◦◦ Then Becky arrived on horseback with another base-camper, a self-described grandmother who was pretty scared by her horse but loved the cabin. Lotsa gab on the porch, a quick tour of the inside, and I tried to sneak in some Wilderness propaganda. Another group passed by but didn’t stop. (I checked their permit for show.) Lastly, two guys on horseback, all western, bound for Howard Black’s [an established camp at the head of the meadow] just said hi and kept going. ◦◦◦◦◦ When everybody finally left, went out to finish up the gate. Hadn’t been at it but a few minutes when I heard voices, looked up, and saw a woman with four young children in tow coming down the hill. They came to a stop. The mom was clearly at wits end, frazzled, scared, the whole package. “We’re lost. Have you seen a man with two kids and a burro?” … ”Nope. No burros today,” I replied, dead-pan. At this, she visibly collapsed. I was facing her from just the other side of my brand-new gate. She was in a state of clinical shock—had that glassy-eyed stare, and without even looking grabbed the top strand of the gate, which had barb-wire wrapped around it, to steady herself. Twice I admonished her to watch out but she didn’t even hear me. The littler kids with daypack-sized backpacks, alternately staring at me and shooting their mom worried glances. ◦◦◦◦◦ This was their first backpack trip as a family. Six kids in all; oldest fifteen, the youngest just three, good lord. They’d borrowed a burro from a friend and it was “giving us problems,” she said. Problems? A burro? Imagine that! For one thing, the burro kept wanting to go “too fast.” So the husband/dad and two of the kids forged ahead with plans to find a camp, unload, then come back and get the others’ packs. He had all the food and shelter with him. She didn’t know where camp was but the husband had mentioned a “Lower Piute Meadows” and what are they gonna do? I figured they’d missed each other while husband/dad was off looking for a site and she’d kept going. It was hard to get anything useful out of her. The fifteen-year-old suggested they wait here while he went back but she snapped, “No! I am NOT splitting this family into THREE groups!” I wasn’t too keen on getting involved just then but told her, “Look—I’ll saddle my horse and go find them. You all stay here and try not to worry.” ◦◦◦◦◦ Fortunately, the horses were right there and when I got back, mom was sitting on a little folding camp chair with the remains of her brood clustered around, granola bars in hand. She’d regained some composure and we looked at their map. Then I dashed off but only got a hundred yards or so before here comes a tiny little girl followed by a shaggy burro followed by more kids and a more-than-disgruntled dad bringing up the rear. There was steam coming out of his ears. “She’s right down there,” I pointed. He says to no one in particular, “…doesn’t know when to stop. She walks past THREE signs and keeps going….” More or less muttering to himself. He was really pissed. He’d told her Lower Piute but, when I talked to her, she’d seemed unclear of the final destination and I pointed out that there’s no sign at “Lower Piute Meadows.” Sure ‘nuf, the mom contingent had passed while he was off unloading. Now he was trying to chase them down. ◦◦◦◦◦ I headed back to the cabin, turned Red loose, then went over to see how they were doing. By then the adults had hashed it out, everybody was smiling, just about to take off again. We had a quick debrief and I asked, “Well…what did you learn from this?” Dad, vehemently: ”Never split up your group!” Told them how twice I’ve had lost Scoutmasters. Got themselves lost by splitting off from the group, forging ahead in unfamiliar country, not stopping at trail forks to wait—that it’s altogether too easy for there to be confusion. And what happened to them was a classic example of why you should always stay together—especially if you have six children and a borrowed dunkey. The whole clan headed back to Lower Piute (wished I’d asked them where they were from) and I finally finished my new gate. Only took me ten years or so to knock off this project.
©2020 Tim Forsell 6 Dec 2020
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