Piute Log...Liar Liar Liar! 2000

 2 Jul (Sun)     Day #2 of Big Holiday Weekend! What now? Last night, locked my two drones in the corral—the same two drones who’d been free-eating all day long—but left Red out to graze. My plan worked: he stuck close by which kept his cohorts from panicking and crashing out. So Red was well fed and rested and ready for more. “Sez who?” asks the red horse. ◦◦◦◦◦ Got an early start (for me), leaving just as sun hit cabin. Plan was to make it to Fremont Lake before half the happy tourists packed up and moved on. Got there an hour later, passing two camps with boots-at-the-door. I don’t know about other rangers but this one refuses to knock on tent doors this early in the morning, rousting vacationers out of bed just to check their permits. ◦◦◦◦◦ Had this weird thing going on today that turned into a real hassle. This has happened before but never quite so bad. Now, please don’t laugh, but I had a really painful right nipple all day long. Genuinely, sincerely, truly painful. Hadn’t factored in how cold it’d be in the chilly shadows. My nips react to cold by getting hard and pointy (as nipples will) and, what with all the saddle-bounce, they were continually chaffing against fabric. The one nipple may have taken the brunt because of the stiff notebook in my right pocket. Which I removed but apparently too late to make a difference. So today, the tenderness slowly increased to where it felt like that sensitive bit of utterly useless flesh was in the grip of a pair of vice-grips. The pain usually stops after I warm up but the soreness can persist for a day or two. The only relief was manually pressing down on it with my fingers to keep it from rubbing. ◦◦◦◦◦  Started out a normal summer morning but right after leaving the wind came up and it turned downright cold. And was cold all day. After awhile, had to put on my duster—only extra clothing I had—and for some hours I rode with my left hand down my shirt pressing on that raging nip. Finally got this brilliant idea and put a piece of cloth athletic tape (I carry a roll in my ten-essentials bag) right over it. It helped lots; didn’t have to ride with my hand down my shirt no more. This all sounds ridiculous, I know, but it was borderline excruciating—way beyond mere irritation. ◦◦◦◦◦ Five occupied camps at Fremont total, mostly folks I’d contacted yesterday ‘cept one party of four. Talked with them all. ◦◦◦◦◦ Bart’s basecamp occupied by a big extended family group I’d met on their way in. When I spoke to Gordon [one of the packers] yesterday he told me that the group leader, an older man, was “really nice but totally clueless.” After talking awhile and drinking a mug of the weakest coffee (looked like tea when the lady poured it) he got out his map and started in. “We were thinking of climbing Tower Peak tomorrow. I guess the best way would be to go back down to the river, walk up to where you live and then on to Tower Lake?” He was more just telling me their plan, not seeking advice. No ice axes but they had trekking poles. Told them there was still a lot of snow up high. “Well, we could go over to…what’s it called?…Mary Lake? There’d be less snow on that side.” I whoa-ed him and said, “No, no—you don’t wanna cross the crest and drop all the way down to Mary. It’s eight and a half miles from here just to Tower Lake. You’re looking at, uh…seventeen miles of hiking, not counting the climbing part. Maybe you should think about something a bit closer.” Gordon was right. This fella’s a long-time mountaineer from the sound of it but apparently not so hot with his map-reading skills. ◦◦◦◦◦ Next camp: two young ladies who were obviously fascinated by ranger-types. Didn’t even ask my horse’s name! Last camp I visited was occupied by two young couples. Currently three firepits in this site. One was full of trash, obviously not theirs. Scattered paper and plastic bits and burned foil all around. One fella sez, as I start filling my sack, “We were gonna take all that out,” and he helped pick stuff up. They were just then packing up camp and moving on. One poor girl was putting tape on some full-on-raw heel blisters. Bad ones…way beyond help. Right before leaving, I asked to see their permit. The guy who’d helped with the trash got that blank look on his face (oh, I know it so well!) and says—wait for it!—“Uhhh…permit?” He claimed to have no idea, offering the lame excuse: “My book said we didn’t need a permit.” He’d never gotten one before…didn’t know he needed to. Liar liar liar! Asked him, thinking surely he’d met a ranger somewhere during his travels, “Where do you usually backpack?” … “Oh, uh, mostly here. And Cinko Lake. My dad used to bring me.” At this point I saw crimson. “Wait a minute! You’ve been coming here for years?! Do you hear what you’re saying?! That you’ve never once bothered to read my ‘ranger sign’? Or the sign in the parking lot saying you need a permit and the one right at the trailhead? Oh, and that big one by the highway that says ‘Wilderness permits required’? So, what, you just don’t bother to read signs?!?” … Eyes downcast, hangdog expression: “Uh, no, generally I don’t.” So I read this goober the riot act and reduced him to a sweaty, cringing mass of guilt. Really lit into him while the others watched. Brought up the concept of personal responsibility as a feature of adulthood. Even trotted out my old standby line, “Try telling the Highway Patrolman, ‘I didn’t see any speed-limit signs, officer!” By this time he’d visibly withered. Fetched him a copy of “The Rules” from my saddlebags and told them all to read it. Phew! I was pretty riled up. ◦◦◦◦◦ Still all gusty, chill much enhanced by wind. Finally put on my duster after leaving the lake and rode along with my hand down the front. (Someone spying me through the trees would’ve been mystified….) ◦◦◦◦◦ AS USUAL I seem to have made the wrong call by patrolling the higher areas on day #2. Pressed on to Chain and Long Lakes; saw no one. PCT to Cinko Lake: no one. At Cinko, one unoccupied camp. Jogged over to the West Fork (Emigrant Pass junction signs still down, Tim!) and back to Cinko. Nobody about. ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed home via Cascade Creek thinking I’d meet people coming up but…no one. Stopped to explore a little tarn (properly speaking, a “kettle”) a third of a mile from the Harriet Lake junction that I’ve ridden past a hundred times and looked down upon with mild interest. But today, noticed lovely glacier-carved outcrops at its west end and decided to check ‘em out after a quick initial patrol of the pond’s shoreline. Discovered that this typical Piute Country kettle pond extended a good 150 yards southwards through a dramatic, narrow cleft. What had appeared from the trail to be a shallow pond a hundred feet across and maybe three feet deep proved to be an L-shaped body of considerably larger proportions and depth with striking character: a bona fide Secret Place. The “cleft” was scarcely twenty feet across but it took a while to make it all the way around the shore. Fine flat slabs at the back and bumbling creeklet spilling through gaps and cracks, keeping the thing brimful. No sign of anyone having ever camped here. This wonderful discovery reinforces my long-held notion that Piute country is full of surprises! and that I need to get out and see as much of it as possible before I’m gone. Don’t have much time to lose. ◦◦◦◦◦ Spoke with a very pleasant family I met yesterday. When I came back from my exploration, found them getting acquainted with Redtop. Two adorable girls, about ten and twelve…a fiddle-fit, cheerful mom & dad. Both girls: clothes filthy, bright eyed, stoked, completely game. Everybody at ease and in the mountain groove. Had a real nice talk and showed them the wonderful Stonehenge rocks nearby.

 

            → 8 visitors                       → 1 firepit                  → 3 lbs trash  

         → 100 lbs rock                    → 5 trees                        → 19 miles

 

 

            ©2021 Tim Forsell             17 Dec 2021                   

Piute Log...My 9/11 Was 9/13

I was in the wilderness when the World Trade Center towers fell and the whole world changed. My supervisor, Margaret (“Greta”) came up to Piute and was staying with me at the time. No one thought to call us over my Forest Service radio with the bleak news. Lucky us: we were granted two more days of blissful innocence. On September 12, with the entire country reeling, Margaret and I spent our day wandering around in a kind of paradise. The following morning we finally got word by way of two backpackers.

 

9 Sep (Sun)      Back to Piute. Greta riding in with me to stay all week—she’ll be using this new-fangled de-vice to log trails. ◦◦◦◦◦ A most pleasant ride in; me leading our two packhorses, Greta reading her GPS unit. (It’s official: 2.3 miles to Roosevelt Lake from the pack station.) Met a neat lady, Nancy somebody—a park naturalist in Yosemite half the year and Death Valley the other half. She asked a bunch of pointed nature questions and got answers. ◦◦◦◦◦ To Piute at 6:00; both of us plenty tired. So, quicky burritos for supper and early to bed with book. Shitbird [my Abyssinian cat] no came home tonight. 

 

10 Sep (Mon)      Greta took off on her long ride soon after sun hit the cabin. Worked on my plant list and caught up with paperwork. Shitbird finally showed up, very happy to see me. I’d sure love to know what kind of adventures he has when he disappears like this. ◦◦◦◦◦ Yesterday, on the ride in, passed a live aspen [fallen] across the trail just north of Hidden Lake junction. It came down some time last week. I passed the thing going out the other day and promptly forgot all about it so had to ride down and take care of bidness. Took about twenty minutes to clear it off the trail using my little cruise axe. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode up to Fremont Lake and visited a group in Bart’s basecamp. Then headed for Chain o’ Lakes to grab the shovel I had stashed there. Cleaned waterbreaks and tossed rocks. For some reason, radio on the fritz. ◦◦◦◦◦ Oh—another weird synchronicity, droll variety. Yesterday when I went to the office, took my brass FS badge in hoping to exchange it. These newer ones have a slightly different clasp—the needle is too long so its tip actually sticks out a little beyond the latch. Now, I carry my watch in that pocket. So I’m continually lifting the pocket-flap with the badge attached to fish around for my watch and the tip of that slightly protruding needle jabs me. Ow! Dammit! So yesterday morning in the office with Greta I was ragging about the poor design—typical pointless, self-indulgent Tim-rant. (She had no old-model replacement, alas.) Well, in Bart’s camp I started talking to one of the clients and right off he points at my chest saying, completely out of the blue, “A friend of mine makes your badges. He has a contract with the Forest Service.”—“Oh, reallly,” sez I. “Well, would you please tell your friend that Tim-the-ranger has a complaint.” And then told him the deal. Said he’d pass it on. Voilá! Near-instant gratification! Not that anything will come of it. ◦◦◦◦◦ Got to the cabin at 7:00. Greta just back herself. She’d had a wreck an hour before, riding Tom on the PCT cutoff between the West Fork and Cascade Creek. She “wasn’t paying attention” (her words), probably writing numbers in her notebook, when Tom came up on that horrible-for-horses, angled slab. That thing’s so dangerous. His shoes skated off and down he went. Greta got pitched off, injuring an elbow and bruising her triceps. Broke the digital camera, too. Said she was okay but moving pretty stiffly. Could’ve been a lot worse. 

 

With thousands dead and much of the country glued in front of their TVs, horrified and stricken but unable to look away, this is how I spent the day of infamy:

 

11 Sep (Tue)      Up at dawn. Strangely overcast and stormish-looking. Greta left early with her yellow electronic device, a little plastic box that can tell her exactly where she is on planet Earth—within a few yards. She’s been tasked with gathering data that will be used to lay out all our trails on some futuristic map that no one will ever look at. Necessary, I suppose, but all pretty abstract for us 19^th century ranger-types. ◦◦◦◦◦ Washed our dishes after Greta left then set out afoot for Long Lakes to carry on with trailwork. Took off cross-country from just past the river crossing, up a not-obvious gulley, crossed the Long Lakes trail, and continued on to Butts Lake via my secret cut-off. (A shorter—and much funner!—commute.) It was all overcast by this time and started to rain, hard enough that I donned my Gore-Tex coat. Got sprinkled on for a solid hour, most pleasant. Fine smells burst forth and I felt very happy to be drifting about unseen through the forest. Just enough precip for romance, not enough for discomfort. ◦◦◦◦◦ Retrieved my shovel and worked the “new” Walker Meadows trail. Dug many drainage dips and tossed many a stone. In Walker Meadows proper, demarcated the new piece of trail where it crosses the West Fork; the flood a few years back “rearranged” things thereabouts so I relocated the sign nearer the present ford. (Shoulda done this a long time ago.) Cows had been in there; sad to see all the fresh pies. ◦◦◦◦◦ Home by 6:00. Greta didn’t arrive ‘til almost dark. I was actually getting kinda worried; she wasn’t responding to my calls—ironically, her radio was conked out as was mine (which hadn’t worked all day). [These, our “hand-held” field radios; I’d been calling her on the more powerful cabin radio.] But she got home just at dark. Ate leftovers and to bed shortly thereafter.

 

As this day dawned, not just Americans but nearly every person on the planet age seven and up knew that their world was changed forever…that things would never be the same. Untold numbers of Americans were grieving for lost friends and family; the rest numb with shock and a whole slew of bitter emotions. Meanwhile, two friends—two lucky souls—got to spend their final hours of innocence, strolling through an earthly paradise. This was a John Muir-glorious day for which I’ll be forever grateful.

 

12 Sep (Wed)      OFF. Made pancakes. Greta was ready for a day off herself so we decided to visit Rainbow Canyon. She didn’t know about Chockstone Falls (gotta fix that!) so we took Tower Canyon trail to the stream crossing and contoured cross-country to one of our finest local natural wonders. In no hurry, we followed the creek, taking in the beauty. Never seen Rainbow Creek with so many bones poking out [e.g., exposed rocks in the streambed due to low flow] but it made for some charming low-water waterfalls. ◦◦◦◦◦ Once in the meadows we just meandered without aim. Ambled aimlessly. Visited The Crack and the fine stretch beyond. ◦◦◦◦◦ Greta was keen when I suggested starting homeward by contouring west and visiting hidden corridors. We ended up taking a route I’ve somehow missed after all these years—following a permanent streamlet that drains the tiny basin below Peak 10,654. Turned out to be an absolutely exquisite passage: cascading brook that flows through a long, perfectly straight channel ‘twixt vertical walls—a major joint system. Not that the run is so very narrow, but some sections of dead vertical cliffs along this mini-gorge are among the tallest I’ve seen (up to maybe 90 feet) with water flowing right against their bases in places. This led to a gorgeous pocket meadow cut by little twisty-turny brook with stunningly white boulders poking out of thick turf. Couple of sweet little waterfalls nearby. Altogether a most tastefully arranged hunk of terrestrial heaven with fine views…craggy peaks all ‘round. ◦◦◦◦◦ Strode home, visiting the lower reaches of the corridor we missed on our earlier contour. Once back in Rainbow Meadows we took the route that crosses back over into Tower Canyon. Told Greta about the time I ran into Jeff [fellow FS employee] and his brother at the tarn near the jump-off, years ago—a ridiculously improbable place to cross paths. (They were, in fact, “lost” at the time.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Back home 6-ish, glad-weary. Two men had set up tiny tents in the meadow just below the cabin (maybe 25 yards from the porch). Greta: “Wanna go talk to ‘em?”—“Nah. They’ll be moving on…we’ll see ‘em tomorrow morning. Kinda weird place to spend the night, though.” [Meadow camps can be both cold and damp; seasoned backpackers generally set up somewhat above their edges.] Neither of us up for much more than food and bed. It was strange hearing voices so close.                  

 

13 Sep (Thu)      29° on the porch…coldest morning this summer, prob’ly. Major frostage on the meadow. ◦◦◦◦◦  A great day ahead! Something we get to do once a year (or less): take a long ride out into the country; show my boss/friend a thing or three. Opted to skip lengthy breakfast in favor of an early start. The two fellas below rose early then quickly got back in their sacks ‘til the sun came up. It had to have been at least 5° colder, just that little distance away. Had Greta not been here I would’ve taken pity and invited them for coffee. ◦◦◦◦◦ We got off by 9:00. Rode right past the two backpackers, just then spreading their gear out to dry in the sun. Hadn’t even spoken yet but we greeted them (me walking over) and fell into easy converse. Both, mid-40s, jolly and in high spirits. Steve, old ski bum, is head plumber and electrician at Squaw Valley. Mark roasts gourmet coffee beans in Reno; sells wholesale—a small business named “Laughing Cat.” (“Coffee Co.” or “Bean Roasters”…or what, I dunno.) The four of us chatted for a few minutes, laughs, enjoying some quality gab. But it was time to press on so I initiated the disengagement process. Mark asks, “Have you two heard the news?” We return blank looks, shrug. “What news?” — “You don’t know!?” And Mark launches into this fantastic tale: “An airliner crashed into the World Trade Center! A few minutes later another jet crashes into the other tower! In an hour both buildings collapsed!!” I gawked at him, slack-jawed. “And then, another jet crashed into the Pentagon!!” Then I finally got it: We’ve…been…had. Broke into a big grin—got us! Got us good! Turning to Greta, she has this look of pure horror on her face the likes of which I have never seen. This character was a pro, a real joker, and he’d nailed us. I’m pretty slow to catch on as a rule but was surprised Greta’d gone so long, too. I laughed, “Greta, c’mon! This guy’s pulling our leg!” Mark jumped in, “No! I’m serious!” His face told me it was all true and I felt this cold numbness spread through my whole being, the strangest sensation. Greta burst into tears, turned, and walked off. ◦◦◦◦◦ And that’s how we heard, almost two days to the hour after it’d taken place. So we got to be happy and anxiety-free for two whole days longer than almost all our fellow citizens. When people live through great events they remember, for the rest of their days, exactly where they were and how they heard and how they felt. Minute, trivial details. Me: I’ll not forget these moments at the meadow’s edge. Or how the news was brought, improbably, on a sunny Sierra morning by a man with the moniker, “Laughing Cat.” ◦◦◦◦◦ We talked more, my brain spinning with all the implications, in a fog. Mark and Steve left on this trip right after it all went down (trip already planned and on schedule) thinking they might as well head for the hills rather than stay in town, wallowing and reeling with the rest of the nation. ◦◦◦◦◦ Finally, day completely shattered, Greta and I broke away and continued our ride. Dead silence. Just a ways past the front gate I stopped and turned in the saddle. “You wanna keep going?” Greta started crying again, said she didn’t know what she wanted except to get to a phone. (Her family lives in New Jersey and I imagine she has friends in the city.) So we headed back and she packed hastily and was gone. ◦◦◦◦◦ Of course, I was flat out flat-out. Stunned, in a very literal sense. Two saddled horses were standing at the rail, ready to go, and I knew that staying home meant staring off into space all day, sick inside. ◦◦◦◦◦ So, instead: rode up Cascade Creek, retrieved my shovel once more. Rocked and cleaned waterbreaks to Harriet Lake. Walked back to the horses and rode home. Went out back to cut some limbwood for the stove. (Running low.) I hacked and flung and chopped and cussed, clearly in some sort of existential rage, taking it out on myself. In short order I’d scraped my hide in arm and leg, punctured and bleeding from several minor wounds. Took a river bath, which soothed a bit. This, a day of woe. Went to bed without supper and my mind sped off, filled with images. I made movies in my head: saw through the eyes of some random guy in a suit looking up from his desk to see, out the window, a huge jet headed straight for him. Just watching it come.

 

I enjoy writing about all the curious synchronicities that befall me…the highly improbable, serendipitous meetings in obscure places—one of my favorite topics. But I make no claims as to their significance, no explanation for why I’m so frequently visited by these enigmatic events, and feel no need to try. I do seem to get more than my share. So, to finish off this account, I’ll tell the tale of a five-star CLASSIC  synchronicity. A real doozy. ◦◦◦◦◦ The following season (2002, fifteenth summer at Piute Meadows) I decided to spend 11 September out doing trailwork to keep my mind off the grim anniversary, glad to not be down in the flatlands watching endless replays of those horrific scenes, wallowing in the media blitz like millions of my fellow Americans. So I packed up tools, saddled the horses, and rode the few miles to what we call “Harriet Hill,” the steep grade beside Cascade Creek leading up toward Harriet Lake. A gigantic red fir snag had recently fallen—not across, but straight down the trail. It had to go. A terrible job. But after sizing it up I realized that a reasonable alternative was rerouting the trail. So, in lieu of carving this beast into movable sections with my 4-foot crosscut saw (use of chainsaws not allowed in capital-W  Wilderness), I just cut off all its limbs, removed a few saplings and grubbed out a new path off to the side. This entailed several hours of hard labor. And, as usual, nobody came by to catch me at the exemplary rangerly activities of chopping and sawing and hacking with hand tools.◦◦◦◦◦ But! I heard backpackers approaching, coming down the hill, and stopped working to greet them. The forest was dense and I saw no one until a man appeared from behind a big tree somewhat above me. I couldn’t see his companions yet but this one, seeing me, turned and spoke to those behind him. Heard him say, “I think there’s a friend of yours here!” Just then, Mark and Steve stepped into view. “OH MY GOD!”—“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!” Here were the two messengers from last year who’d brought the ghastly news…back, on the first anniversary of the big event. (Not mine…the actual anniversary.) ◦◦◦◦◦ They’d gone on a backpack—again, to escape the media frenzy—and brought along a like-minded friend. It turned out that the three were headed for the northern wilds of Yosemite but, completely unannounced, Mark’s leg started hurting, bad. He had no idea what was going on but the leg was painful enough that they all decided it was better to head back toward the trailhead, not deeper into the wilderness. So if it weren’t for this freaky thing with Mark’s leg, we’d not have run into each other. Steve and Mark had told many friends about the incident with me and Margaret last year—a pretty good yarn. Of course, all of us were flabbersmacked. It so happened that these three were the only people I saw that day. And only later did I realize that, the day of our first meeting, I’d worked this same stretch of trail. ◦◦◦◦◦ Almost three weeks later my brother came up for a visit. He brought me a reprint of the New York Times 9/11 edition. I stayed up almost all night reading it from cover to cover, staring at the photos. Then I went down to my folks’ in Ventura for Thanksgiving and finally got to see replays of the planes crashing into the towers, the towers collapsing. I’d guess that I was one of the few people in the U.S. who hadn’t seen the unforgettable, riveting footage by that late date.

                                                

        ©2014 Tim Forsell       13 Apr 2014, 11 Nov 2019, 10 Sep 2021

 

Piute. Log...Not a Villain, After All. 1994

 28 Jul (Thu)     Up at 6:00. Yesterday my horses had been locked in the front pasture but some feebo left the back gate down so everybody escaped. Naturally, they were at the far end of the meadow when I went out to catch. I knew the Armstrong party had been packed in to Howard Black’s camp yesterday so, after snagging him, jumped up on Red bare-back and rode over to say hello. Gene Armstrong runs the horseshoeing program at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo. A fine person, as is his wife, Gail. Both of them loaded with charm and charisma. This trip a family getaway. Had a lovely visit and they gave me a home-grown cantaloupe! What a treat! ◦◦◦◦◦  Finally got underway. Rode over Kirkwood Pass and down as far as Buckeye Forks. Poked my head into the old snow survey cabin and, on a whim, checked out the various names penciled on the walls and ceiling. Not that many people inscribe their names in this cabin (many, local deer hunters) compared to others I’ve been in; often several years pass between additions. I had to blink when I saw a fresh-looking entry: 28 July 1994. Why, that’s tomorrow! Checked my watch which told me that today was indeed the twenty-eighth, not the twenty-seventh. Musta just missed whoever it was. Pretty strange. Strange, that I would pick today to check the inscriptions. The next most-recent entry I saw was from ’92. ◦◦◦◦◦ Backtracked upcanyon. Trail’s in great shape, not much rocking to be done and waterbreaks still working fine. Branched off on the faint old path to Beartrap Lake. It had been thoroughly ducked and I took considerable pains to knock ‘em all down. Scores of little cairns and single stones placed on boulders to mark the way on a faint but obvious track. As soon as I angled back into the drainage it also became obvious that the sheep had already grazed illegally down into here (again). They’re not supposed to go beyond the divide! Looked to have been about a week ago. Braided paths and hoof prints partially obscured by recent rain but the smell of sheep prominent. We (the FS, that is…) can’t seem to keep ‘em outa here. Year after year they trespass. This had me ticked off, plus I was irritated by having to knock down all those blankety-blank ducks. The sheep had been bedded down for at least a couple of nights right on the divide, a lovely alpiney place that is OFFICIALLY CLOSED to sheep grazing. Officially, but it seems, not actually. A real shame…. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode on down toward Beartrap lake and started hearing baaa-ing. Aha! Got down to the first meadow and picked my way through a tangle of ’86 avalanche debris ‘til I ran into the band. And there was the herder, standing on a rock not fifty yards away. He’d watched me sitting there on my horse looking at the sheep and waved when we locked eyes. (Herders generally disappear before I even see them.) So I rode over to greet the fella, whose name I already knew. Looked to be in his early thirties. Up until we actually met, this person was a treacherous villain who deserved immediate deportation. But as soon as we shook hands my natural sense of empathy kicked in and I saw instead a kindly Peruvian shepherd—a gentle soul who makes maybe $600 a month, who spends weeks and weeks in the backcountry without respite so that he can send precious American dollars back home to his family living in a poverty stricken third-world country. We sussed each other out, grinning like fools. He seemed not at all intimidated, despite the uniform. It was pretty obvious he had no idea he was doing anything illegal. He spoke hardly any English and me, no Spanish. After introducing myself I said, “Edgar?” He was visibly taken aback by my knowing his name but then laughed shyly when I mimed carving on trees by writing in the air with a fingertip. Our “conversation” was pretty much over and when the dead air came we both grinned and shrugged. I turned to go and said, “Ciao!” and he laughed once more, a nice laugh. My new acquaintance held a walkman radio in his hand, his only form of entertainment back here if you don’t count eating (and we’ll just skip the sheep jokes). I’ve wondered how much these guys care about all the beauty that surrounds them, what effect it has on their psyches. I marvel at the fortitude—these herders spend weeks and weeks in forced solitude, alone with their flocks, alone with their thoughts. Thoughts of home and loved ones and friends, thousands of miles away. I’m under the impression that they don’t fish. At least they have the dog for company. That must be huge. So: Edgar Leon from Tinoco, Peru (carved on dozens of aspens hereabouts, spanning some years) was so cheerful and of such kindly demeanor that I instantly forgave him his trespasses and would’ve offered him some food if I’d had any. Wondered if by some miracle Edgar‘s able to get a Spanish-speaking station on his little radio or if he’s forced to listen to County and Western music all day with all the hideous, grating ads. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode down Long Canyon (aptly named—it goes and goes and goes) and the brutally steep switchbacks had my knees aching. At home, worked on this log on the porch ‘til dark (fine sunset) and had a late bath.

             →  4 visitors        → 4 lbs trash        → duck eradication        → 19½ miles 

 

 

        ©2021 Tim Forsell               28 Aug 2021                    

Piute Log...Finally Met Me a Grosso 1994

 29 Jul (Fri)     Not too motivated the last coupla days. This funky sinus infection lingers on and I feel sapped. My natural inclination would be to spend the day at the cabin, taking it easy. As it was, I “futzed around” (Doc Grishaw-ism), shuffled papers, wrote a bit herein, and cooked up some grub for trail lunch leftovers. Finally headed off to work at the ridiculous hour of noon—what climbers call a “California alpine-start.” [An alpine start is to leave for a climb well before dawn.] Rode as far as Bamboo Flats, halfway out, hoping to meet lots of visitors just setting off. Met one bunch in Lower Piute that turned out to be Jones Gulch YMCA. We’d crossed paths last summer and then, a month ago, I ran into the same trip leaders from last year out on recon. Like with old friends, jumped off Red and plopped myself down and chatted up Dave & Jo & Mike who kindly gave me some of their lunch. Meanwhile, their eleven charges were over on a bend of the river swimming. At one point this nubile maiden, adorable creature probably sixteen, strolled over wearing an obscene thong bikini and asked if she could pet my horse. It was a hard thing to just ignore but I made a good effort. ◦◦◦◦◦ Bit later, ran into John Silva and party, out on a dayride. John, a fine specimen of Western-style manhood, has been coming back here for years. Today’s jaunt with friends and family including one Ernie Grosso—one of the “Grosso brothers” whose names I’ve seen carved on many an aspen. D. Grosso, C. Grosso, and E. Grosso; some of the carvings from way back. Years ago I asked Bart about these mysterious Grosso characters whose names you see in practically every aspen grove in the region. Old Basque family, sheepmen all—no surprise there. Bart said that a couple were still around. Never expected to actually meet me a real-live Grosso! Ernie proved to be a soft-spoken and gracious man, maybe seventy-five, who’s been coming into this country for going on half a century. I fell in behind the group—on their way out, he in the rear—so got to ask him a few questions while breathing dust raised by eight horses. Ernie was born and raised in Smith Valley, north of Bridgeport. His father ended up there after emigrating from the old country in 1900. One of the brothers still lives in the original ranch house in Smith. Ernie worked with sheep all his life. It’s probably a Basque thing, I don’t know, but he graciously invited this stranger to visit him at his home, any time. “I live right behind the post office.” We talked about the Summers [local ranch family] and he asked why they didn’t have their cattle grazing up here this year. I tried to explain that the Summers were in the process of doing a land swap with the Forest Service. We were just then riding past the Lily Pond and Ernie pointed to the tall green grass and said, “Look at this good feed! All going to waste!” I’ve heard that tired old line a few times now but kept my thoughts to myself, of course. Instead, told him about how there was so much recreational use back here nowadays…the backpackers didn’t like camping with the cows, lots of complaints about the dust and flies and concerns about water quality. And that they didn’t like horses, either. He snorted, made some derisive comments. Guess I was going out of my way trying to sound like I was on his side. Oh my, the range of perspectives! And so polarized! Couldn’t argue with him even if I’d wanted to. His views are as valid as any diehard Sierra Clubber’s in that neither side sees the situation with anything resembling clarity. Fact is, sheep and sheepherders were here almost a hundred years before backpacking was invented—living hard, working hard to feed their families, not for leisure-time “recreation.” And that has real meaning—a thing that your average livestock-hating REI-clad backpacker just doesn’t get. Personally, I don’t believe that in the late 20^th century livestock have any business grazing these highcountry meadows. It’s a holdover from times past and things have changed in so many ways. Too many people, too many pressures, too many conflicting interests. But Ernie and his family made their livelihoods running sheep in these mountains, year after year for decades, so I can sympathize with that perspective. Especially because I took an instant liking to this ol’ geezer. ◦◦◦◦◦ Down to Bamboo Flats then turned right around and rode to Hidden Lake. Not a soul. Then headed for Fremont. In the Roughs, ran into an incredibly gorgeous woman, a bit older than me, who’d day-hiked to Fremont to fish. I was flat-out stupidified by this jaw-dropping beauty. (Anyone who reads this will hopefully overlook this kinda talk…clearly, I been alone too long.) She was camped near the pack station with a big family gathering, had read my sign and knew I was the guy who lived at the cabin. She (never asked her name, sigh) had actually spent a couple nights there a few years back on some sort of late-season volunteer project after I was gone. No idea what that was about. So we chatted at length, admiring each other for different reasons. Tried not to stare and hated leaving her behind. Woe! Is! Me! ◦◦◦◦◦ Up to the lake. Incredibly, only two people there—a couple in their fifties. On a Friday evening in July! Can’t figure it out! Where is everybody?! These two were sitting on cushy folding chairs on the shore reading thick books. From Berkeley; the husband, a professor at U.C. San Fran. They were classic Berkeley Hills backpackers. Just this unique aura about them—urbane, educated, moneyed. With a comfortable-in-the-woods way about them after decades of Sierra sojourns. And, surprise!, complete opposites of the likes of Ernie Grosso: hate the heavy stock use, opposed to grazing in Wilderness, loathe the dusty beat loose stone trails. But they loved having that big fish-full lake to themselves. Talked for a good half hour, answering all their intelligent queries. A real pleasure to spend quality time with these sorts but not quite as satisfying as meeting old-time locals who have a deep-seated connection with the land—no matter how ignorant they are of modern ecological concerns. There’s room for us all, thank goodness, even madmen like yours truly. Today, I saw a real hodgepodge of Wilderness aficionados. Lovin’ it, all of us. ◦◦◦◦◦ 

    → 32 visitors      → 1 lb trash       → rocks       → 16½ miles       → merry meetings

 

      ©2021 Tim Forsell           26 Jul 2021

Piute Log...Night Riding 2000

 26 Aug (Sat)     ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed down canyon on Woody. Didn’t get far before running into Nelson Burris with two companions (one, a pasty-white guy from Ireland who assured me he was slathered with SPF-40). Nelson had to remind me of his name but gushed when I said, “Hey, I was just thinking about you the other day! Figured we’d be meeting up again before long.” Hadn’t seen him for years but, in days past, used to bump into each other almost every summer. Nelson loves it up here—one of those people who think of Piute Meadows country as a very special place. Had a nice visit aside from Nelson having apparently elevated me to mythical eminence. I “get” why backcountry rangers find themselves turned into symbolic figures representing various things in flatlanders’ hearts and minds. So I just stood there squirming as he sang my praises. (It’s flat-out awkward hearing a person talk about you that way—Who, me??—as you stand there in your regular-Joe skin.) The Irish fella was having a fantastic trip—permanent grin, couldn’t get over the weather. ◦◦◦◦◦ Today, had one of those strange, semi-psychic events that befall me from time to time. Backstory: about a week ago, riding back to the cabin at day’s end. Out of the blue, Nelson Burris popped into my head. Odd, because he’s not someone I ever have call to think about. Couldn’t remember his name and tried (unsuccessfully) to dredge it up by going through the alphabet. A…B…C…D…. Mmm, did it start with ‘B’? followed by the thought, Been a long time…probably see him again before too long. So, right after leaving the three: maybe a hundred yards farther down the trail, suddenly realized with a shock that I was just then passing the exact spot where I’d thought of Nelson the other day, trying to recall his name—very close to where we met in the flesh, as it turned out. Weird, hunh? But, like I say, things like this happen to me on occasion. I feel no need to try and find explanations—the world is one big mystery. ◦◦◦◦◦ Unattended campfire at Fremont Meadows camp, smoldering away. Aarghh!! No one about. ◦◦◦◦◦  Carried on as far as Roosevelt Lake. (Took out a few small trees that needed to go.) Two ospreys there circling and chirping. Greeted the fans and picked up fresh trash leavings. Thence to Fremont Lake for more of the same. Back down to the river and headed for the barn. Got back before 6:00, first time home this early in days. Had a bath with sun still on the gravel bar—nice for a change. ◦◦◦◦◦ Frying up a brace of burritos when there was a soft, hesitant knock on the door. It was about 9:00, fully dark, so this could only be bad news. It was. Two teenage boys from Bart’s Walker Meadows camp reporting a missing 11-year-old girl. Invited the two in, sat ‘em down, and turned off the burner under my dinner. “Well, let’s hear the story.” ◦◦◦◦◦ Group of eight at basecamp along with Bart and East Coast Chuck. My two informants, Joshua and Jason, are the boyfriends of two girls. Along with them there’s the 11-year-old sister plus two mothers and one other person. Earlier today, the whole bunch hiked to Cinko Lake via the West Fork trail. On the way back they splintered off into several groups. Alexi left the too-slow moms behind and for a while hiked with one of the boys but apparently couldn’t keep up and fell behind. Last seen near the PCT junction at around 5:30. Everybody went out searching as soon as the girl was missed. Bart sent Joshua and Jason to alert the ranger. ◦◦◦◦◦ Sent the two back to camp with my flashlight. Inhaled my burritos, thinking and making plans whilst (barely) chewing. Tried to raise somebody on the radio and finally got hold of Greta. Was hoping to avoid getting Mono County involved (with luck, the girl was back in camp already) but Greta alerted them right off. I caught up Woody and headed out. Had a lovely ride, actually, with brilliant starlight and a willing horse who knew his way. In the forest it was quite dark and I just stayed in balance with eyes wide, fully alert. Amazed, yet again, to see just how well I know these trails. There are hangers and scalp-snaggers on the Long Lakes trail—dangling branches that’ll take your hat off or scratch your face up if you’re not paying attention; not a serious issue but potentially injurious for the unaware. I was ready for them all. Somehow my body knew, from the sequence of faint tree trunk shadows or twists and turns in the trail or whatever. Something below conscious knowledge, that’s for sure. This is just the sort of thing that, in my mind, affirms that we’re aware of many things on a subliminal level, always have our feelers out. Clearly, in situations like this, perceptive equipment is cranked up to full capacity. That’s why this ride was so enjoyable, even knowing I might have an all-nighter ahead with all the uncertainties. Love that feeling of being fully alive and attuned. Since quitting climbing regularly, I don’t get so firing-on-all-cylinders keyed-up often enough and miss it. ◦◦◦◦◦ Got to basecamp at 11:00 or so. Even before arriving I knew that everything was okay. Up ahead, lanterns were lit and fire blazing. All seemed calm; people milling about, talking in low voices but without hint of worry in their tones. Phew. ◦◦◦◦◦ Turns out Alexi got back to camp minutes after the boyfriends left. Somehow she got turned around and, though I’m unclear on this point, it sounds like she took the PCT south. Some backpacker (a prison guard, of all things) who’d hiked in all the way from Leavitt Lake found her and led the lost lamb back to her by-then frantic mother. Musta been quite the tizzy in basecamp for a while there. ◦◦◦◦◦ Called Greta pronto with the ol’ “Call off the show!” call then sat around the fire (Bart gone to bed) but got to have a de-brief with the various players. Mug of joe, tales retold. A most satisfying half-hour around a campfire with a bunch of tired and very relieved happy-campers. Story with a cheery ending. And, once again, I TOTALLY LUCKED OUT! My Park Service ranger friends have stories about S&Rs that didn’t turn out well at all. I feel so grateful to have been spared the disasters and tragedies…so far, at least. ◦◦◦◦◦  Finally time to head home, midnight or so. Chuck produced a bottle of Johnny Walker and administered a goodly snort to warm my ride. It did—and it was one fine ride, yessiree. Mission accomplished, “done my duty,” heading back to warm cabin and fairly soft bed. Bathed in a rare ambiance…or mood. (It’s hard to describe….) First-rate pony carrying me home through dark forest night over rocky mountain trail. Whiskey gentling my senses with warm full-body glow. Familiar stars and old-friend constellations winking on and off through gaps between trees. Felt fully engaged and satisfied and thankful. Made it down off the big hill, crossed river, and for that last 2K I gave Woody his head and let him sprint the flats. Inspired madness on both our parts. Woody wanted home and I trusted him, no question. It was dark in the thick forest bordering the river flats—couldn’t see fer shit. Just hung on and took the ride. Laughed and laughed with the darkness streaming past my face, hanging on for dear life. Pure, unadulterated, wholesome exhilaration. One of those rare occasions—“times-when-I-cannot-die,” I call them, with a freedom and abandon that are as close to immortality as most mortals are granted. Final hill, Woody walking again, breathing hard, his good hot smell rising around me. I was full to the brim…cup runneth-ing over. Sure, I was tired and sore but this was better than needed sleep by far. Home at the wee hour of 1:00, pumped-up and wide awake. Enjoyed it all ‘cept for the ten minutes following that ill-omened knock on the door.

                         →  57 visitors            → 3 trees            → 2 lbs trash     

       →  1 wb cleaned         →  much rocking           →  26½ miles          →  missing lamb, found

 

 

      Copied in the first pages of this volume of The Piute Log:

 

I find you, Lord, in all things and in all

My fellow creatures, pulsing with your life;

As a tiny seed you sleep in what is small

And in the vast you vastly yield yourself.

 

The wondrous game that power plays with things

Is to move in such submission through the world:

Groping in roots and growing thick in trunks

And in treetops like a rising from the dead.

 

                                               —Rilke 

 

 

            ©2021 Tim Forsell             24 Jul 2021                     

Piute Log...My Deer Friends, Part 3

 Mule deer were an integral part of backcountry life. We were, in a sense, neighbors—neighbors that smile and wave from across the street but who don’t otherwise socialize. We crossed paths continually…saw one another every day, out on the trail or right around the cabin—thanks to a salt block on the stump just off the porch. ◦◦◦◦◦ Naturally, the constant exposure led to learning things about deer I never would have anticipated. One of the big ones was discovering that they’re exceptionally curious animals—and that they have a real thing for cats. They were absolutely intrigued by my kitties and, in their encounters, the cats were generally top dogs. 

21 Jul 1993     ◦◦◦◦◦ Looked out the window not long after sun hit the cabin and there’s Spooner out by the salt block stump having a standoff with that surly 4-point buck who’s been hanging around lately. The buck was clearly intimidated and would come in for his licks with trepidation. Spooner would stare him down, back off a little, but kept advancing on him and the buck would retreat. Big grins to watch. This went on for a while and it was a thing to see. ◦◦◦◦◦

 

17 Aug 1993      ◦◦◦◦◦ Happened to look out my window: there’s a doe trying to get at the salt but Spooner, who weighs all of three pounds, is taking swipes at her when she comes in—with both paws.  The ol’ up-on-your-hinds, double-paw swipe. Doe a little uneasy…unsure and hesitant but also very curious. When she’d try to nose in, Spooner would go after her with undercat bravado and evident feline I’ve-got-your-number-dialed glee. Pure mojo. Those double-paw swats! Tell ya what: it’s an amazing sight to see a three pound, pre-teen-equivalent, domestic half-Abyssinian who just wants to play with a (decidedly) wild deer animal. For these small gifts I give thanks. I hope he survives to cat-hood. He’s special, this one. Finally, since she wouldn’t play with him, Spooner got bored and ambled back over to the cabin while she got in her licks. ◦◦◦◦◦

 

6 Sep 1995    ◦◦◦◦◦ I’d started a BBQ fire and was sitting on the porch in my little camp chair when three does ambled into the yard. Coming after salt, of course. Velcro was out there, too, and when he saw ‘em coming ran for cover. Not really scared, just nervous. Nothing about his prudent retreat telegraphed genuine fear—no fat-tail, low-to-the-ground slink…just instinctive precaution. All three does gave chase, jogged toward the porch and stopped less than 20 feet away. (They pretty much never come this close to the cabin.) I’ve learned that some deer—conspicuously curious critters in general—are utterly intrigued by the cats, almost obsessed with them. Velcro was now squatting calmly by my side. All three does stood there gaping at us, their eyes darting back and forth from him to me, sniffing and craning their necks. No fear in them, either; just an innocent curiosity written on their faces and in their body language. Gotta say, it was a sweet moment in time. And they didn’t immediately dash off when I finally stood up. The smallest doe nuzzled (just a touch of nose, really) at the biggest one’s groin and I grokked that this was an almost-grown yearling daughter who still had hankerings for mothers milk. ◦◦◦◦◦ Minutes later, they were in the midst of getting their salt fix when the horses came splashing across the river which spooked everybody out of the yard pronto. A few minutes later, though, I looked up and saw Velcro perched atop the boulder, the one next to the porch. He was staring intently at something. Just then, that momma doe’s head slowly emerged from behind the big lodgepole, nose twitching away as she crept in for one last close look. She was only about six feet from him. Tell ya what: this was way better than television. ◦◦◦◦◦

5 Oct 1997     Sitting in my little chair at meadow’s edge, viewing my domain from time to time while writing off and on in this here cheap notebook. Deep satisfaction. At dusk, when the light became too dim to make out the pink guide lines, I put my pen down. A pygmy owl called from across the river—first I’ve heard this season. Two does in their brand-new gray winter coats strolled over. One went for the salt block but the other saw Feather romping in the tall sedges near where I sat and came to investigate. Getting pretty dark by this time. Feather went into deer-stalking mode. Doe watched her closely while grazing in desultory fashion (pretending not to be interested?) just twenty feet from yours truly sitting in the little folding chair. So many times now I’ve seen how there’s less-fear-more-calm when I’m in close proximity to the cats or horses, as if that turns me into “one of them.” (Animal, that is.) Pygmy owl hooting and lone tree frog creaking but it was otherwise so quietful I could hear the doe chewing and swallowing. Once, she let out a low throaty moan—a deerish sigh of contentment, perhaps? ◦◦◦◦◦ Feather, skulking about, had been watching all along but finally couldn’t resist and made her move. She advanced. Then, a theatrical bluff-attack. Doe leapt straight into the air (sorta like an antelope’s “stoping”) but didn’t run off despite my burst of hearty laughter. She came closer, nose down near the ground, all curious and quivery. Feather went into attack-mode again, advancing boldly. This time Doe ran off, heading for her comrade at the salt block. Feather went in pursuit, bounding through the tall sedges, and chased Ms. doe off into the darkness. This was all an absolute delight to witness. That cup-runneth-over joy filled me right up. I’ll take some more of that, any time. 

5 Aug 2000     Woke up, got outa bed, looked out the window first thing as per usual. Yowza! Count ‘em: three huge, well-endowed bucks gathered ‘round the salt block stump. Never seen so much bulk deer-flesh and -antler in my yard at one time! Two of the trio were 5-pointers—twice forked horn with eye-guard [smallish nubbin, low on the antler]. The biggest of the big-fellas, he of the widest spread, had six points on one side (one tip just starting to branch) with five on the other. A magnificent creature who weighs at least as much as the ranger, fully clothed with boots on. Engrossed, I watched all three dipping to lick at the same time. From the window it looked like all their antlers were tangled in a snarled knot. Biggest big-fella became annoyed—mean old grump!—and flailed at the others with his front hooves, running them off. Then he went back for more while the other two looked on, visibly cowed. Alpha big-fella licked and licked…and kept on lickin’. He was at it for a full half-hour straight. (Makes me pucker up, just thinking about it….) ◦◦◦◦◦ Alpha dude came back repeatedly over the course of the morning and, later, I watched him go after Lucy. He was intensely curious about her—completely focused. Seen this before. Seeing him through the front window acting kinda funny, knowing what was up, I went out to watch the show—that is, my “favorite show” on what I call Station KTTY, TV. Lucy was hidden from view behind one of the bigger lodgepoles. Unfazed by my appearance, Alpha dude gazed at her with head lowered, nosing the air, eyes wide with seeming wonder…enthralled. He’d jump back every so often which made me wonder if maybe Lucy had taken a swipe at his nose. A bit later he approached her yet again right out in front of the cabin while I stood on the porch grinning, fifteen feet away. Alpha nosed up to her within an arm’s reach (human arm) at which point she went all flat with ears penned like an angry badger, a picture of raw menace, and hissed at him. He leapt back, shaken. “Watch out, bro!” I warned him. “That’s one mean cat! She’ll kick your butt!” It’s all about the mojo. And when it comes to mojo, size don’t matter a whit. ◦◦◦◦◦

 

          ©2021 Tim Forsell                    5 Jul 2021

 

Piute Log...Flies 2000

27 Jul (Thu)     Flies have been horrible in the cabin of late. Nothing new, just another fairly minor distraction in ranger-world. They think there’s something to eat in here, apparently, and one or two get in every time I open the door. (Actually seem to lurk around, hoping to sneak in….) They follow mosquitoes through those big gaps under the eaves and through the cat door when gusts of wind blow it open. Every morning, by around 9 a.m. the predominant sound inside the cabin is buzzing dipterans. Little ones. Big ones. Really big ones. (Tachinids—nectar-suckers. Why do they want in?) When I get home after work the windows are crowded with bored insects ready to go back outside. Indoor flies offend my native fastidiousness and spoil the quiet. So I go after ‘em with my special fly-killing machine—a specially designated dish-towel used for nothing else—and slaughter dozens. Daily. Fly corpses drift around the floor before I sweep them all up and, if I spot any “walking wounded” I’ll go out of my way to crush them under foot. ◦◦◦◦◦ A week or so ago I swiped at a big, fat, bristled fly. Got her good—uh, maybe too good, shmeering her onto the window pane in scattered pieces. I’ve learned that lots of these individuals are females chock full of eggs and when they get turned into skidmarks like this I find their scattered eggs stuck to the glass. Somewhat revolting. When I smashed this particular mother-to-be, though, I saw that all those pale bits on the glass weren’t eggs. They were moving! Pre-formed maggots! She was full of maggots!! [visceral shudder of revulsion here] Q: Had they hatched inside her before she could drop the eggs or was this a “fly thing”? Dunno. While I’m generally not squeamish about stuff like this—I greatly admire parasites and all the decomposers—this, I found strangely disturbing. (Perhaps for the grim existential overtones.) Couldn’t leave it/them plastered on my window so fetched the Windex and paper towels and wiped up the carnage. Now I just have to put away the mental image. ◦◦◦◦◦ 

 

28 Jul (Fri)     As mentioned yesterday, this is “fly season.” It’s been particularly bad, I think, because the warm days have been followed by unusually warm nights. Noted before how pervasive the sound of them is after about 9 a.m.—a continuous buzz-zz-zzing. A whirling about, back and forth, back and forth…. Drives a book-ish, ponderizing person nuts when it’s otherwise so blissfully quiet and peaceful. So I get pretty obsessive when it comes to killing flies. Kinda scary, in fact, to see the intensity behind the way I go after them: swatting hard, with a follow-through grunt; going after the just-dazed or permanently maimed to finish them off. Pretty grisly, yup. But it’s just one of those things you see happening to yourself when you live alone in the woods. Compulsive behaviors begin to manifest. Silly little things turn into no-longer-silly big things. ◦◦◦◦◦ Of course it’s much worse outside. Delightful summery days but I’m spending very little of my down-time outside just now. Used to spend tons of time bundled in my mosquito-proof suit out on the porch, just sitting and watching or writing. But when it’s like this it just isn’t very relaxing. The deerflies and, especially, the giant green-head horseflies are beyond distracting—they’re downright intimidating. Unnerving. The greenheads hover around, buzzing. More of a sinister metallic whirr—a strident, unmistakably menacing sound. Even covered with DEET they hunt me, circling like vultures. Walking around the yard, saddling horses, dumping dishwater, taking the view, whatever—they’re out there somewhere waiting patiently for a chance to saw a steak off the back of my neck. Most disconcerting of all: you hear this zzzzzt! That stops abruptly. Can’t see it, but whatever it is has just landed on you somewhere. Somewhere you can’t reach. So you dance around and flail your arms in a minor terror. Little flying marauders with dagger-sharp mouthparts that want to suck your blood. Point is: ranger-life is not all fun and games and flower-sniffing. But the sweet far outweighs the not-so-sweet. ◦◦◦◦◦

 

24 Aug (Fri)     ◦◦◦◦◦ Apparently the renewed warm weather has hatched a new batch of flies. By the time I’d finished with lunch a number had snuck into the cabin and were buzzing around without ever stopping for a breather. It illustrates my mental state that these six-leggers were driving me nuts, destroying the immaculate silence. Repeatedly, I’d stop what I was doing to stalk them with swatter-rag cocked. My silent witness-self observed the crazed ranger resolutely hunting flies…creeping up on them all stealthy-like, with genuine manic blood-lust. There’s so much “acceptable” noise and distraction in most people’s worlds. So most of them wouldn’t get why the incessant buzz of three or four big, fat flies causes so much annoyance. Still, it was some pretty neurotic behavior I was witnessing. With some mild dismay. Oh, well.     

 

 

            ©2021 Tim Forsell                                                

               28 Mar 2021                           

Piute Log...My Deer Friends, Part 2

 Deer were a continual presence in my world. A constant. I’d see them every day, out on the trail or grazing in the meadow, near the cabin or off in the distance, lending the scene a pastoral air the way large grazing animals do. ◦◦◦◦◦ There was one thing in particular that changed, or rather established, my “relationship” with the local deer: the big hunk of compressed salt sitting on the flushed stump of a fallen lodgepole about ten yards from the cabin’s south window. Of course, animals require salt and working livestock, with all the sweating they do, need a steady supply. It turns out that deer have a powerful craving for it as well. When I first started visiting the cabin the salt block was out in the corral, which was behind a rock outcrop and not visible from the cabin. I’d see deer heading there constantly and, at some point, got the bright idea that if it were closer to the cabin, I could watch them come and go. (Interestingly, I never saw any other forest critters at the salt aside from Cassin’s finches, pine siskins, red crossbills, and pine grosbeaks—all members of the finch family. No other birds.) ◦◦◦◦◦ The salt block changed everything, adding a dee-lightful new element to my life. Suddenly, there was a steady stream of large wild animals just loitering around, right outside. I discovered that there was a network of trails, like spokes on a wheel, all leading to my front yard. Deer from all over would come visit. Many I recognized and would see regularly. Over the course of seventeen summers, I spent a fair amount of time standing by that window or out on the porch watching little deer-dramas unfold and learned many things, things that I’d never imagined. (What intensely curious animals they are, for one thing—curious as cats.) I saw spotted Bambis turn into deer-teenagers…watched young bucks settling scores and does being flat-out mean to each other for no apparent reason. We’d all stare at each other, each wondering who exactly it was staring back. I understood early on that no deer was ever going to trust me and that I’d never come close to knowing what was inside them. But deer enriched my life in ways that I can’t explain. They impart a sense of wellbeing—a soothing reassurance that all is as it should be.

8 Jun 2000     Fine day. Deer in the yard since I put out the salt block two days ago. (One if the first things I do every spring….) ◦◦◦◦◦ [That evening:] Took a bath on the slabs, frigid quick-dip in cool wind with big snowpatch ten feet away. Enjoyed making acquaintance with the new crop of young deer in the yard.

9 Jul     ◦◦◦◦◦ Watched a five-point velvet-antlered buck out on the salt block. A doe was with him but he kept chasing her away. Then the two went off in opposite directions. I’d assumed they were a couple but…Duh!! Bucks and does don’t travel together in the summer, remember? ◦◦◦◦◦

5 Aug     Woke up, got outa bed, looked out the window first thing as per usual. Yowza! Count ‘em: three huge, well-endowed bucks gathered around the salt block stump. Never seen so much bulk deer-flesh and -antler in my yard at one time! Two of the trio were 5-pointers—twice forked horn with eye-guard [a smallish nubbin, low on the antler]. The biggest of the big fellas, the one with widest spread, had six points on one side (one tip just starting to branch) with five on the other. A magnificent creature who weighs at least as much as the ranger, fully clothed with boots on. Engrossed, I watched all three dipping on the lick at the same time and from my window it looked like all their antlers were tangled in a snarled knot. Biggest big-fella soon became annoyed, flailed at the others with his front hooves and ran ‘em off (mean grump). Then back for more while the other two looked on, cowed. He licked and licked and kept on lickin’…was at it for a half-hour straight. Made me pucker up just thinking about it….  He came back repeatedly through the morning hours and, later, I watched him going after Lucy. He was intensely curious about her, completely focused. ◦◦◦◦◦

14 Oct     ◦◦◦◦◦ When we got home there were seven deer at the salt block. I was up on Woody, leading Val. Three does, four deerlets, all in their new gray spot-free autumn plumage. Quite the charming vignette. Haven’t seen any deer for a couple weeks now (hunting season—everybody “laying low” apparently) but I know they’ve been coming in the night to get their fix. What was special about this incident was how they let us crash their party—all of ‘em clustered around the stump, acting like they owned the place—and just carried on licking, with the multi-tongued lapping sounds clearly audible in the silence. The delicate-featured gray late-fawns gaped at me like they’d never seen a human…moms, completely unconcerned. (Their unconcern a “teaching moment” for the youngsters, perhaps.) Rode up real slow, trying to see how far we could take this before they all bounded off. Woody was eyeing them with obvious interest. Val, dunno. I tried not to stare. By no means the first time we’ve ridden up on them while they were at it but this was maybe the closest we’ve ever come. Everybody was jostling for a place at the table and clearly nobody wanted to leave. I got Woody to the hitch rail but they’d become nervous and backed off a little. ◦◦◦◦◦ At this point, Piute entered the picture in dramatic fashion. After waiting all day for his friends’ return, he fell in line behind us right after we crossed the river and followed us into the yard. Then did something outrageous but entirely in-character: a cantankerous bully, Piute took one look at the interlopers…and ran them off! With ears pinned back and a Clint Eastwood menacing squint, he lowered his head and slowly walked toward the pack. His message, clear: MY salt! Beat it, assholes! Leave NOW! Piute can be a real jerk. He broke the magic spell, spoiled the moment. Thanks a lot, pal. ◦◦◦◦◦ Living here, I’ve always had this fantasy: that the wildlings would accept my presence to the point that I could saddle my horses, walk around the yard, sit around a fire, whatever…walk right past them and they’d just go on about their business while I went about my own. That’s all. Just not be feared, not be seen as a threat. As a kid, I remember seeing these religious pictures, variations on a common theme: a seated Jesus with children in his lap and at his feet, each of them gazing up at him in adoration with various wild animals gathered ‘round as well, more in the background. There were a number of versions; pretty much every Christian family had one in their homes. I remember looking at ours, wishing wild animals would come hang out with me and have no fear. I had no interest whatsoever in white-robed Jesus (always spotless white robes) or the adoring children at his feet. It was all about the notion of how great it would be to have animals accept me that way. I’m suppose my childish reaction is pretty much universal but I’ve always had this “ideal”—a fantasy image of myself as part human/part animal, able to mingle freely with the wild ones. That’s why I’m always thrilled, like today, whenever they let me into their world—even a little. ◦◦◦◦◦

11 Aug 2002     ◦◦◦◦◦ This eve a hale 5-point buck showed up in the yard and worked at the salt block off’n’on for maybe an hour. Rare to see one around the cabin in broad daylight in August (bucks mostly hanging out on high ridgetops now) but as always a treat. Aside from the ever-unseen lions and seldom-seen bears, buck deer are the sole “big game” animals in these parts and there’s that special something about large animals…probably based on respect for (fear of?) their physical strength as much as the visual appeal. I suspect this handsome fella was so nonchalant because he was raised around here and has known me since his ma started bringing him around, back when he was still in spots.

 

           ©2021 Tim Forsell               19 Feb 2021