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
No comments:
Post a Comment