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 20th 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
