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
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