Piute Log...Labor Day Weekend 1993

4 Sep (Sat)     Up pre-dawn. Thus begins the big Labor Day weekend visitor onslaught and jam-bo-ree so my goal, as always, is to greet the masses before they commit their minor many crimes. Redtop and I got underway early. Literally tons of people on the trail today. Many small groups mixed in with one randomly dispersed club outing strung out in dribs and drabs over a couple of miles, small clusters and singletons going at their own pace. Their “leader” was that funny old coot with a crooked eye who I met last summer—John Innskeep. (The usual dilemma of deciding Which one do I look into? was moot, since his right eye pointed way down and away.) John’s a trip leader with the CMC—California Mountain Club. Sort of a Sierra Club rival but more focused on peak-climbing. Last year when we met he was by himself as no one had signed up for his trip. This year he got 22 sign-ups and there were no cancellations like there almost always are. So he got permits for two separate groups. Under these circumstances, the two groups are supposed to not camp near each other but, in my experience, usually do anyway. I actually fielded several complaints (well, more like comments) from backpackers. “Hey, ranger, did you see that huge Sierra Club group?” I gave John, heading for Upper Piute and eventually Tower Peak, tips on where to camp and said, “I’ll talk to you later!” (Old ranger trick: helps keep ‘em on their best behavior since the Law might show up again at any time.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Many long talks, from on my high horse or standing on firm terra looking at maps. Did a good job with contacts today; can’t always say that, alas. Had energy and was matching everybody’s expectations with individually tailored ranger jive. Gave everyone time and attention with enthusiasm and sincerity. Answered loads of questions. Many communicated their gratitude to which I sometimes sang out, “Hey! I’m a public servant—you’re paying my salary!” Hokey line but people do seem to appreciate the sentiment. ◦◦◦◦◦ Here comes two more—man followed by a petite woman, a fine looking German shepherd at her side. I spoke to the guy first then glanced over at the woman, eyes invisible behind dark sunglasses but who’s grinning at me fiercely. Recognition. “Well, darn my socks! It’s Marilyn Muse!” (Haven’t seen her since…???) She’s with this friend visiting from Alaska, where they met while she was up there on a temporary FS detail. On their way to Dorothy Lake. Marilyn worked here in Bridgeport for a couple of seasons as an interpreter but moved on, up to Tahoe to take the enviable position of Snow Ranger. She checks out all the commercial ski areas on FS land for lift safety and does avalanche control (recently got her license to work with explosives and is just now being trained to fire the fixed mortars). Skis for free at five areas…first tracks on virgin slopes, tosses grenades onto cornices, probably wears a very cool uniform, the envy of everyone she meets. And she’s the woman for the job, indeed yes. Sage the wonder-dog is a full-on certified Search & Rescue K–9; every so often the pair get on a jet and fly halfway ‘round the world to help locate people trapped in earthquake wreckage, etc. Marilyn is a truly remarkable woman who’s lived a remarkable life—former backcountry ranger, Desolation Wilderness…Eleanor Lake Ranger (Yosemite NP), where she lived in a sprawling house perched above a huge dam on a huge lake which she patrolled by canoe and on foot…Yosemite Valley horse-patrol ranger. Formerly married to the amazing Jim Harper, now a carpenter for Yosemite NP. (He was the guy in charge of rebuilding the avalanched Wilma Lake cabin a couple years back, last time I saw him.) Those two were Tuolumne Meadows Winter Rangers for something like six seasons. Along in there somewhere they also spent a summer as the sole backcountry rangers in Gates of the Arctic NP/Preserve up in northern Alaska where they carried rifles ‘cuz of grizzlies. (I vividly recall her telling me once how they only saw two people the entire season and that it rained almost every day.) More than perhaps any woman I’ve known, Marilyn went for quality-of-life and adventure over family, fiscal security, and status. We’d probably be great friends but this one can be hard to take in long doses—a bundle of raw nervous energy, she talks real fast without completing sentences (or thoughts). Way too over-sensitive…candidly cops to being completely mad…suffers from irrational and vexing doubts and fears and wild waverings, poor thing. But so good-hearted and genuine. Marilyn was one of a handful of cherished “Foresta friends” during my Yosemite years. Her lovely home burned in the A-Rock fire three years back. Jim designed and built the place, which was absolutely gorgeous. She lived there alone after the divorce and told me she just can’t face going back. I get that. Don’t know what she’ll do when Sage goes, how she’ll manage it; shepherds don’t usually live to a ripe old age and Sage is already eight. That dog is her world, near as I can tell. ◦◦◦◦◦  Speakin’ of dogs: earlier in the day, my horse—with me on board—were fully attacked by a dog. (Ironically, a German shepherd.) This was definitely a first for me. Rode up on a young couple with two big dogs. The guy was clipping the leash on one when the shepherd attacked, without any warning whatsoever. He was just calmly looking us over as we rode up but all of a sudden charged, barking and snarling, flashin’ ivory. Red went all Hi-Ho-Silver! on me, got up on his rears and danced around, the humans standing there in shock crying feebly, “No! No, stop!” Red reared again, rank terror in his rolled-back eyes, whites showing. Never good, when you see those white bits. I saw where his gaze went and looked over my shoulder. The dog had a hold of Red’s tail—lips peeled back, mouth fulla horse hair, growling and shaking his head the way dogs do when you try to take away their stuffed-animal play toy. Red spun to the left then spun to the right, dragging the dog around in tight arcs. (Might’ve even been airborne at times, or maybe I’m just imaging that….) I was saying to myself, Do it, Red! Do it! Now! LAUNCH HIM! But nobody ever taught this sweet-tempered horse how to kick so the dog lived. Eventually he gave up, trotted back over to his “masters” and flopped down with that canine-esque smug look of accomplishment. I shouted some things after him that were, ahem, not very professional of me then turned to the couple. Of course they said, all whiny, “He’s never done anything like this before!” That universal excuse for bad-dog behavior. Heard it before. “Don’t matter!” sez the ranger. I was pumped-up on adrenaline and came down on them pretty hard. Said, not bothering to point out that I could easily have been hurt bad or killed outright, “What happens when Fido there attacks the horse some total greenhorn’s riding, one of those pack station outings, and an innocent person gets thrown into a pile of sharp rocks? You’d feel pretty bad, wouldn’t you?” Also, informed them that many horses and any red-blooded mule would’ve sent their friend straight to doggy heaven with one swift kick. “The rule is: ‘Dogs must be under control at all times.’ That can be verbal control. But YOUR dog, plainly, is NOT under control.” Finally lightened up toward the end as my adrenaline wore off but I left those two pretty wilted. They looked visibly shrunken. ◦◦◦◦◦ After meeting so many people on the trail, decided to ride all the way out to the campground and ask Estella to stop issuing permits for the rest of the day. Chatted with her and Bill [camp hosts], anxiously hoping Red wouldn’t take a big dump right in front of their trailer. ◦◦◦◦◦ To the pack station, dropped off mail, and was headed back upcanyon at 3:30. Not many folks on the way in but it was too late by then to visit Fremont Lake as planned. Home at dusk. Had my river bath in full dark and gobbled some cold leftovers. A long day.

 

           →  92 visitors, 40 encounters (personal record, I believe)        →  600’ lopped       

                        →  1 lb. trash bits             →  22 miles             →  dog attack!

 

5 Sep (Sun)     Up at 6:00, grudgingly. Movin’ slow…feeling kinda washed out, no surprise there. Got a later start today and headed for Cinko Lake, hoping to catch everybody moving on beyond Fremont. Only one camp at Cinko, one on the West Fork (unoccupied), and none at Long Lakes. Hello??! Anybody home?Where’d everybody go? On down to Fremont Lake by the backdoor trail and found it nearly deserted. Amazing! They all must’ve packed up and left in a big hurry this morn. ◦◦◦◦◦ Stopped in at Bart’s basecamp and got myself invited to dinner with the Wild Bunch. The “Amenti party” is an extended family group with friends who come up every year, varying permutations around a core group of thirty-something siblings and their spouses. (I started calling them “the Wild Bunch” following our first dinner encounter…a story recounted elsewhere in this log.) Fun people, smart people, happy campers all. I’d planned to check in yesterday. This year’s crowd a more, shall we say, “sedate” version. Nice visit and great camp-made chow by backcountry chef Lynn: roast pork, prawns sautéed with garlic and mushrooms (ate a giant pile of them suckas, yum), rice, fresh-baked reflector-oven rolls, steamed veggies, apple pie. Yowza! I was ready for it. No flaming cocktails this year. ◦◦◦◦◦ Moon finally arrived around 10:30. Good thing—planned on using it. Almost everybody had gone to bed by then (early rise for departure). Saddled Red, flashlight between my teeth. Stellar ride home. Moon topped the trees right as we left. Crisp, not cold…a pleasant buzz on. One utterly riveting vignette as we were gliding along the shore of Upper Long Lake: Luna coursing behind pines on the ridge line, their perfect reflections cast on the skinny lake together with ten thousand stars…silhouetted bushes and trees swiftly passing in the foreground as I rode along. Layers of night-dreamy scenery moving past one another at different rates of speed, the foreground faster, background slower, but all together in flowing unison. Aside from the sound of horse hooves’ soothing clompity-clomp, totally silent and still…haunting silence and stillness, lake a glassy mirror, light from the heavens above. A most beautiful movie to watch from the saddle. I love love love riding by moonlight! One of the very best things of all. Cabin just before midnight.

 

          →  33 visitors, 11 encounters              →  3 lbs. trash                →  700’ lopped 

              → 18½ miles            →  very first yellow aspen leaves!  

 

 

            ©2021Tim Forsell                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

Telegram from the Universe

James Wilson and I had been casually acquainted for thirty-some years but, prior to setting out on a five-day backpack trip along the crest of the Inyo Mountains, had never spent time together—just us two. James, a successful local business owner, was a self-possessed, intelligent, and thoughtful man with varied interests. I was looking forward to what I knew would be some high quality conversation, long overdue. But in many regards we barely knew one another. Five days alone together would change that.

Just minutes into our long walk we took the first of many trailside breaks, dropping our heavy packs and flopping down on the ground for a sip of water and bite to eat. Neither of us had spoken a word since starting out. We made small talk for a few minutes but then I launched directly into something meatier, a matter that had been weighing on my mind for some time. I just blurted it out: “Uhh, James…do you have any particular thoughts on the origin of life? Any pet theories?” 

A little back-story may be in order here, on the off chance that these might sound like odd things to ask someone I didn’t know all that well, without any warning. 

Around this time I’d taken up reading books about biogenesis—the origin of life—a topic that has intrigued me since I first looked into it. How did life begin? From the very beginning, though, I’ve been shocked by how top experts gloss over the competing theories’ obvious flaws…disturbed by the wild assumptions and logical leaps and scientists taking too many liberties with their best-guessing. The entire field of biogenesis research is fraught with impossible to prove notions and paradoxical chicken-or-egg-type dilemmas…thought-provoking stuff, indeed. Since everything in nature is linked to everything else, the life sciences tend to get messy; thanks to there always being a host of intersecting variables, experiments in areas like ecology can be challenging to set up and hypotheses, difficult to either confirm or refute. Compared to your “typical” scientific theories the predominant origin-of-life scenarios have a distinctly unscientific lack of substance and rigor. Most are based on pure surmise, which isn’t surprising given that no one has any idea what global conditions were like three-and-a-half billion years ago. Plus, there’s virtually no evidence left behind that could support the models. But this was all new to me at the time and there were many nagging questions. I’d been hankering for someone to toss ideas around with and James Wilson, all-around nature lover, seemed like just the sort who’d be interested in such things. 

            The response to my out of the blue query was not quite what I’d expected. Just then, James was gazing off into the distance. After a momentary pause he half turned toward me, eyes askance, lips pressed into an inscrutable Mona Lisa smile. With no sense as to whether or not the topic held any interest for him, here’s one response that wouldn’t have surprised me in the least: “No, not really…I really haven’t given it much thought. Why?” But this is what James said instead: “Oh. [short pause] You’re a seeker.” His flat tone conveyed just a hint of shock or surprise or what could even have been something indicating mild annoyance. The delicate emphasis on “seeker” carried a faint whiff of sarcasm. It’s entirely possible that I misread him. But James did seem ever-so-slightly vexed—maybe from being caught off guard by such a “heavy” question; surprised that I’d thought to ask for his opinion, surprised that I’d think it was something he’d ever given any thought. Maybe a bit startled to discover that I was one of those types who waste their time thinking about things best left alone. This, at least, was my immediate impression. (Truth be told, I had asked the questions somewhat rhetorically just to gauge his response.) There was nothing disparaging in James’s reply but it contained a subtle intimation that he wasn’t interested in pursuing the topic further. We moved on to other things. But I’ve never forgotten this exchange—it struck a nerve.

The point of all this is that smart, well-informed, curious people aren’t automatically predisposed to probe life’s deepest mysteries. My own philosophical bent, on the other hand, blossomed at a tender age. With me it seems to be part of a package deal—chalk it up to an innate proclivity, to my native disposition. There might well be a genetic component though no one in my family is similarly afflicted. I feel no pride at being an incurable ponderer of enigmas and unknowables. And don’t see my penchant for suchlike as having virtuous or noble qualities. If anything, it’s more along the line of a quirk, an eccentricity. Some would no doubt find it annoying. Compulsive rumination has drawbacks and can lead to problems (chronic cynicism being one common side effect). Like most over-thinkers, I’m always happy to raise my glass to the absurd and farcical side of human endeavor—and sometimes even remember to toast my own follies. 

Now and then, circumstances call on me to poke fun at my tendency to veer off into philosophical realms, maybe to spoil a perfectly good conversation: As if from a distance, I hear the sound of pontificating, catch myself and stop cold. At which point I’ll assume an exaggerated, self-important professorial demeanor and tone of voice, and say something like, “Well, as a certified philostopher, I believe that….” Or some such nonsense. Philostopher? Frank Zappa, the late composer, musician, iconoclast, and social commentator, invented this useful term. (Zappa, arch cynic that he was, never passed up an opportunity to deride any kind of pretense.) What exactly does a philostopher do? Why, a philostopher philostophizes, of course! In my adult form, tinkering with the Larger Questions is more or less a form of idle play, an intellectual diversion. Something not too far removed from doing Sudoku or the New York Times crossword puzzle. This, then, is philostophizing—a leisure pursuit. On the other hand, I’ve learned that philostophizing is not an entirely fruitless activity. Which is gratifying to know. 

In contrast, my youthful preoccupation with figuring out what the heck was going on had real urgency and for a few years, starting post-puberty, I naïvely expected some answers, dammit! This, followed by the inevitable distress and disenchantment any budding intellectual experiences once it finally becomes clear that, despite all the ardent questing, no answers will be forthcoming. Ever. That came as a real shock to the system and added to my growing teenage disillusionment. Welcome to reality, kid. Not what you were expecting, hunh? Get over it! Nonetheless, over the years I’ve carried on with my quixotic sniffing-around-the-edges of elusive and intangible things…poking about for clues and hints simply because questing is a pleasurable activity, no matter what one is looking for. And now, as a world-weary old philostopher who knows perfectly well that such avenues of thought consistently lead to dead ends, I’m like one of those seasoned fisherman who could care less if they land any fish. It’s all in the hunt.      

There’s one specific area in the realm of unknowables that still has me spinning the old brainwheels in philostophical speculation: the lingering questions of synchronistic events, which I’ll lump together here with what Carl Jüng called the “meaningful coincidence,” along with those just plain weird, exceedingly improbable occurrences that lack a name and defy categorization. It’s doubtful that anyone will ever come up with anything like a rational explanation for these ab-paranormal phenomena. Yet they’re part of day-to-day life; they happen to everyone, are utterly compelling and—despite what many people firmly believe—are not simply random events with no meaning or significance. Speaking for myself, the thought of dying and being reduced to powdered form without ever having uncovered at least a hint of what all these things signify, I find downright tragic. I’d really like to know….something. Anything! A crumb! 

 Then there’s this slant: human consciousness, in some sense, makes the world real…gives it meaning. Recalling the old chestnut about whether a tree falling makes a sound if no one is there to hear, a forceful argument can be made as to whether or not anything actually exists outside the human mind. We know that an object’s solidity is mere illusion; physical matter consists almost entirely of empty space—what we perceive as solid under our touch amounts to the mutual repulsion of electron clouds meeting between fingertip and table top. Colors are, in effect, pigments of our imagination; what we “see,” what we perceive as colorful images through our two skull-portholes, is nothing more than a vivid representation constructed by the brain. Say what you will about humanity and our overblown sense of how we figure in the grand scheme: we—and we alone—give reality substance through our perceptions. As I say, there’s a powerful line of reasoning backing the idea that, without our being here as witnesses, the world doesn’t really exist—a concept known as the Participatory Universe.

Here I am, getting all cerebral (again). But this is a good place to point out that people like James may have the proper perspective on all this. Maybe we really are best off letting certain notions alone. Maybe, since humans clearly have conceptual limitations, toying with imponderables is little more than self-indulgence, a petty and prideful minor vice, utterly pointless and a waste of precious time. I don’t know and can’t tell…but can’t seem to stop. I’m going to go with my gut on this one and keep probing. 

            But back to synchronicity and those other things. I’ve experienced some real doozies in my day. And freely admit that I have no inkling, not a single one, as to how to explain them. Which has always bothered me. They happen. They do. And seem to happen to me more often than they do to others. I’ve read that people who are prone to expecting to see connections, who are paying close attention to the world at large, are those most apt to find them. This makes sense and offers perhaps the closest thing I’ve come to an “explanation,” as it were. If so, it might be that a life-long study of nature (which after all is one endless lesson about interconnectedness) makes me predisposed to see myself as part of the whole shebang and I’m subconsciously seeking affirmation. 

At any rate, the surprising frequency and implausibility of the sort of events I’m referring to leads me to believe that they must have some sort of meaning…are of consequence…bear significance. None of these words fit; the English language comes up short, again (through no fault of its own). The best pseudo-clarification I’ve come up with is a   whimsical metaphor. Here goes: These special events are like hand-delivered messages from the Cosmos: There’s a knock: Telegram for a Mr. Fersell! Go to the door…take it, rip it open. Oh! It’s a message from the Universe! How nice! As presented earlier, perhaps it’s not too far fetched to imagine that the Universe wants to be aware of itself. The Universe needs…needs us…to make it real, bring it to life. In a manner of speaking, it appreciates our being here. Perhaps those ridiculously improbable, random-seeming occurrences are just a wonderful, wonder-filled world’s way of letting us know it’s thinking about us. And cares enough to drop a line from time to time. Just a little kindly reminder.

            I received one such cosmic telegram nine years ago on a New Year’s Day, a day that also happened to be the one-month anniversary of my settling in Santa Cruz County…one calendar month into initiating major life-changes that were contingent on this move, namely: I found a Home. I began living with Dylan, who would become my cherished wife; who gave me a second chance, who was at that moment entirely focused on the project of saving me from certain ruin. I began the hard work of confronting my addictions and depression, putting an end to a dark downward spiral. Gave up marijuana and quit drinking alcohol. At last. All this on the same day—the first of December, 2011. 

I have a long tradition of spending at least part of New Year’s Day outdoors. This was to be Dylan’s and my first new-year celebration and we were especially conscious of—and grateful for—this new beginning. This new life, together. Fittingly, it was a splendid, calm, cloudless California-winter day. (One of those.) Like spring. So we drove north up the coast highway a few miles to Waddell Creek, parked, and walked back down the cliff-bound beach as far as Greyhound Rock. Greyhound “Rock” is actually more of an oblong hillock of naked grey mudstone, perhaps a hundred feet high, located just offshore. Normally the rock is inaccessible with waves swirling in from both sides to wash up onto the sand-spit that they’ve piled up midway. But when the tide is out you can wade across, scramble up a narrow trail, and stroll around on top.

            The tide was low, just starting on its way back up so it was easy to cross. We’d been carrying our shoes since fording Waddell Creek but left them near the crest of the spit well above the tide’s reach, then gingerly waded across the mussel- and barnacle-plated slab before padding up the shaley path, a pair of literal tenderfoots. Greyhound Rock’s offshore side is cliffy and we settled down on a ledge directly above the water, gazing off toward Japan. For a good half hour we talked, grokking the sea, relishing this dazzling day. And, part of the time, just sat quietly absorbed in our own thoughts. I got up to wander around a couple of times and looked over at the shoes, thinking how silly it would be to watch them wash away and float out to sea like tiny boats. The tide was visibly rising now and they looked to be safe for quite a while yet but…. I thought, Why didn’t you just put ‘em way up higher and not even have to think about it, ya big dummy?

            It’d been nice walking barefoot on the cool, wet sand but we did that mincing, ooh!ahh!ooh!ahh!-thing down the narrow trail and then back across the barnacled reef. The cold seawater felt very refreshing. As we walked up the top of the little sand-spit to retrieve our shoes and socks I joked to Dylan about how embarrassing it would be to come back and find our footwear gone, washed away, how very contrary the ocean is, hah hah! We both reached down simultaneously to pick up our shoes and in the 

exact instant we lifted them off the sand a roguish wave swept in from behind, up the incline, swirled around our ankles, and washed over the top. The beach was fairly flat right there but no wave had come within twenty feet of our shoes until that one, nor had a wave crested the sand-spit since the previous ebbing tide. We didn’t see it coming—were just chatting away when we grabbed our shoes. The timing was utterly exquisite and we had a fine, hearty heart-to-heart laugh together along with high-fives, savoring the moment and smiling into each others’ eyes, all the love reflecting back.

            Knock knock knock! Telegram for Dylan and Tim! 

             

 ©2021Tim Forsell                                                                            20 May 2013, 1 Jan 2021