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 19th 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
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