Small Hawk Encounters 1994

 

OVER THE LAST FEW YEARS I’ve been piecing together a sort of backroads route through Owens Valley—a means of getting from here to there by taking the path of some resistance. So far as I know, driving from Lone Pine to Bishop isn’t feasible without four wheel drive and a purloined LADWP gate key to make it around the back side of Tinnemaha Reservoir. The most “practical” option I’ve found thus far keeps me on the straight path of State Route 395 for about ten of those sixty miles. Steering clear of tarmac, I turn onto sandy, brush-lined two-tracks at places marked not with signs but landmarks: just past a ditch lined by willows…first left after the haystacks. My favorite bit is an eight mile stretch of pre-395 “highway”—two lanes of crumbling antique asphalt lined with encroaching vegetation, in places buried under drifts of wind-blown sand. (Old roads in this tumbleweedy, plants-sprouting-from-all-the-cracks condition have a post-apocalyptic quality I find strangely appealing.) Parts of my preferred route are east of the river, shadowing either the historic railroad bed of the Carson & Colorado line or what’s left of a long-abandoned canal system hugging the base of the Inyos. You’d never know, from the looks of things now, that most of the action in the valley after whitey first showed up in the 1860s was over there in that dry and desolate zone—fields, railroad stops, bustling villages. And now, barely a trace left behind.

Thanks in part to being gainfully unemployed half of each year, with time to spare, I’ve acquired a taste for taking the slow way instead of the highway. For those days of no-hurry, puttering along on the back back roads at ten or fifteen miles an hour feels just right; it makes for risk-free gaping and eliminates altogether the prospect of drifting into a tragic high speed head-on while doing so. In second gear you can admire dramatic vistas out the side windows…gaze wistfully at summits…keep an eye out for snakes. There’s time and mental space to recall bygone adventures, to dredge up details like how the air and light felt on some special day years in the past while still making forward progress in the present. Sandy stretches along the river allow you to drive by feel while side-gawking: correct course without a glance when rabbitbrush grazes fender or front wheels start to climb out of their ruts. Of course, I have standard stops along the way for all-purpose viewing. Soaring eagles and migratory flights of white pelicans have me out of the truck, binoculars in hand. Owens Valley is my home in the broader sense of the word “home” and I derive a great deal of pleasure simply looking at it. 

Several days ago, heading north, I took that stretch of old highway past Aberdeen and Taboose Creek Campground. But, rather than continue straight on the formerly paved section that traverses the west side of Poverty Hills (seldom graded, terrible washboard) I turned right on the Goodale Creek Road cutoff and got back on 395. Quicker this way. The plan, such as it was, entailed a stop in Big Pine to visit my friends Martin and Dori before pressing onwards. But first, a short but not-so-brief detour.

Some backstory. Recently, heading home from Bishop, I discovered a roundabout way to sidestep another half-mile of pavement; probably not worth the trouble but it provided an opportunity to explore. Just south of Big Pine, an inconspicuous PG&E service road angles westward toward the powerline. I veered off there and followed it aways before turning onto a narrow track that wound around without rhyme or reason, then crossed a little creek-like water diversion and eventually ran into the old pioneer cemetery road. There, I bore left and passed by the dump, taking me back to 395. 

So, on this north-bound trip, I decided to try out my new bypass from the opposite direction—cement it in my mind in case I ever feel the urge to go that way again. To that end, I turned left at Cemetery Road, passed the dump and…et cetera. This was a blustery December day at autumn’s bitter end. Finding the aforementioned creeklet now rimmed with ice came as a shock, reminding me that winter was nigh. The watercourse was bordered by head-high willows, some still bearing a few withered leaves. Nearing the shallow ford, movement caught my eye: the willows were chock full of “white-crowns”—that is to say, white-crowned sparrows—a common and widespread species of little-brown-bird, very handsome. Like other highcountry songbirds, white-crowns leave their breeding grounds come fall to congregate in the lowlands where they weather their winters, snagging enough stray insects and leftover seeds to get by. 

Coasting toward the little rivulet, I was surprised when they all didn’t take wing but quickly realized that the whole flock was just then coming in to drink—the group-mind pulling them down, noisy intruder be damned. One-ounce sparrows rained down like confetti. And kept on coming. Already, some dozens lined the shallow water flowing across the road. They seemed to materialize from the aether, alighting in vegetation bordering the brook or straight onto muddy ice slicks beneath the willows. Dozens of sparrows were jammed shoulder to shoulder, muscling in for a drink in the fashion of thirsty cattle. My truck’s metallic bulk and droning engine didn’t alarm them in the least. By then I’d eased to a stop ten feet from water’s edge and still they kept showing up. And showed up some more. Striped crowns were bobbing up and down continually, each bird frequently lifting its head to let water trickle down a beakful at a time. I couldn’t hear what they were saying amongst themselves. Bird gossip, I suppose.

Up on the Sierra crest it was snowing. The highest summits were hidden under snow-cloud as were the upper parts of neighboring canyons. I knew exactly what it was like to be up there in those clouds…knew just how it would feel in such weather. This made me glad to be in my truck with the heater on all nice and warm, watching a nature-movie through the wide screen windshield. In fact, it felt as if I were in a theater (minus the popcorn) and I was delighted in some primal fashion by mere proximity to a flock of little birds who were going about their business, unmindful of my presence. 

I was leaning on my steering wheel, taking in the show with a big grin when my “inner scientist” turned up. This was perhaps the biggest mob of white-crowns I’d ever seen in one place and I felt this sudden impulse to estimate the number of birds in the flock. After decades of birding you develop a knack for ballpark-figuring flock size. Here’s how it’s done: depending on the crowd’s size and amount of movement and mingling, you swiftly count ten birds, say, or twenty if they’re holding still. (Hint: crossing the eyes a bit helps in visually isolating this random grouping within a larger field.) Then you can double its size, maybe double that, and finally estimate what fraction of the whole group this bunch represents. For some reason, I enjoy the process.

Stripey-head sparrows were still turning up but others were beginning to leave. I started my first count and reached eighteen when, suddenly, the whole lot disappeared.  Vanished. They were just GONE in a meteoric whoosh!And in the same instant some foreign object—something bigger, a blur—streaked across my windshield/movie screen and dove into the willows. Whatever it was slammed into the thicket at speed. What was that!?! What just happened?!Had there been other spectators sharing my private theater experience, the entire audience would have erupted in one big, room-filling “Oooohh!!” I was clutching the steering wheel, at the edge of my seat. Some halfhearted thrashing-about in the bushes…an indistinct shape. Then, a kestrel—the little falcon—lifted into the air and soared out of view. It was a “he” (inner-scientist’s wordless snap ID: dark spots on belly, not brown streaks; tail black-tipped, not barred; blue grey wings = ♂) and he came up empty. I found myself exultant, cheering inside—a tacit salute to both winners and losers in lieu of clapping and shouting, Bravo!! Encore, encore!! But all the players had left the stage and were not coming back for a bow. Show over. Graced again.

 

Maybe a week before this minor drama unfolded (in fact, it was the day I first tried out that new cutoff via Cemetery Road) I was headed south and stopped in Big Pine to see Dori and Martin. It’d been awhile. During our catch-up, Martin mentioned a recent trip to Independence; something about the courthouse…taking care of some legal paperwork. Out of the blue: “Have you ever seen those big trees in the back?” I shook my head no and Martin just grinned. ”There’s some cool old trees back there…you should go check ‘em out.” We both have a thing for trees so that was all the hint I needed. 

            Never in all my years living on the Eastside, even after driving past it hundreds of times, had I taken time to visit the historic Inyo County Courthouse. Not once, even though the tan-colored three story office building, right by the highway, is—hands down—Owens Valley’s most distinguished edifice. But just an hour after leaving Big Pine (twenty minutes had I not taken the slow way) I pulled up behind it, finding myself on a residential street in a time-worn neighborhood made up of modest wooden houses, many of them built, I’d have to guess, in the 1930s and 40s. I parked by a tall hedge behind which was some sort of open space hemmed in by the hedge along with half a dozen tightly spaced conifers. It was hushed and peaceful in there, I could tell, thanks in part to the lofty shade trees but also because the courthouse did a fine job of muffling the incessant din of traffic, traffic streaming past a scant hundred yards away. The courthouse complex’s rear was accessed from the street by a cement walk leading through a wide break in the hedge. As it happened, this was a Saturday; the place was deserted. I peeked in and saw what looked to be a pint-sized urban park—a common area for the use and enjoyment of both employees and waiting visitors. The grounds consisted of a somewhat scruffy midwinter lawn sporting several wooden benches and a pair of picnic tables. The mere presence of the commanding, multistory government building lent the whole scene an air of solemn decorum. I had absolutely no idea this was here! I was completely taken aback by all the beauty, charmed by the atmosphere. 

Passing through the leafy threshold, I was at once enveloped by a warm, fuzzy  feeling—a feeling of welcome. Of refuge. The quarter-acre park was populated by well-groomed exotic trees forming a protective wall on the north and east sides. (It would be deliciously inviting here in the summer months.) But on this particular day, with no one around, the place had a sanctified, cathedral-like ambiance. I slowly took all this in, first craning my eyes up an almost perfectly conical redwood sequoia—the Big Tree—whose native brethren reside thirty miles due west of where we stood, at a similar elevation but in a whole ‘nother world. The sequoia was flanked by stately non-native cedars, obviously of two kinds, each extensively pruned. Their massive lower limbs emerged near the base of impressive trunks three feet and more in diameter, the limbs growing first outward before curving aloft. Neighboring trees’ branches intertwined to form a loose-knit twiggy umbrella. The cedars were foreign to me. Their bark and needles were similar to a pine’s—not the flattened sprays of scaly foliage and stringy red bark of our native incense cedar (which, along with the sequoia, is in the cypress family). The barrel-shaped cones vaguely resembled fir cones in that they stood vertically on the tree’s outermost twigs, crumbling in place rather than falling whole. Routed wooden placards on short posts identified individual trees as either “Cedar of Lebanon” or “Deodar,” species of so-called true cedars native to the Mideast and Asia, respectively. The two varieties differed largely in overall form and foliage color: the deodar, taller, with drooping branches and green-green needles; the cedar of Lebanon shorter, stouter, and more of a bluish green tint. I realized then that for years I’d been seeing both of these trees in parks and yards, not knowing what they were. But I couldn’t recall ever seeing any individuals nearly as impressive. Their maturity, dignity, and comforting shade gave the little park its peaceful aura—call it “the old tree effect.” I stayed for only a few minutes longer; this was just our first get-together, after all. Our introduction. In fact, I actually spoke to one of the deodars, whispering, “So nice to finally meet you!”

            A few days later, northbound again, I stopped for an extended visit and arrived with a plan: to climb one of the cedars. The open street out back where I’d just rolled to a stop during my previous visit turned out to be employee parking. This was a weekday during business hours and the unpaved area fronting the hedge was now lined with close-packed cars and SUVs—vehicles belonging to people who live right in town or nearby but others who commute from Lone Pine and Big Pine, maybe even Bishop. Bypassing the walkway, I squeezed through a narrow gap in the hedge and strolled around the lawn to scope out my objective: the southernmost deodar—the one I could get up into quickly and, hopefully, not be observed. This was the county sheriff’s HQ, after all, where tree climbing on state property is no doubt a form of trespass. The marvelous tranquility I’d felt on my previous visit was muted this time around. Scanning rows of curtainless windows, I saw small town civil servants at invisible desks—heads down, hard at work—and reflected on how these good citizens head home at quitting time untroubled by the stress and worry of city life (and even if they do commute many miles each day, don’t have to do battle with insane traffic; indeed, some get to walk to work.) Just then two men in suits came out for a smoke and sat down on one of the benches. I attempted to look inconspicuous and unfurtive while they chatted.

            As soon as the suits stood and turned to go I sprang into action. The tree’s first limb split off just above ground level—a monumental thing several feet thick, big as a “normal” tree’s trunk. I scrambled up onto it and, from there, hauled myself skyward on the rungs of a living ladder that transitioned from stout limb to skinny branch, making my way to the very top where at the last I had to wriggle through a thatch of needle-lined twigs. Fifty vertical feet gained me a view of the courthouse roof with its vents and conduits, of office interiors, traffic zooming by on the highway. Beyond there: tree-lined streets, quaint neighborhoods, and off in the distance a broad swath of the majestic Sierra crest providing scenic backdrop. From my airy perch the sound of traffic passing through town was once again prominent; semi trucks, an intermittent roar. 

After fifteen minutes I’d had enough sightseeing and clambered down. I looked before leaping off the lowest limb back onto the lawn, brushed off my hands, and took a casual victory stroll. Nobody was standing at their window staring at me, phone in hand. Good. The Sun was low in the west, its light slanting in with autumnal glow. Half the lawn was already in shade. The old trees looked a little different now, as I’d known they would—a consequence of altered perspective. I stood in mild reverence beneath a handsome, middle-aged cedar of Lebanon, taking the air with a warm glow inside. 

Suddenly, it began to rain…to rain feathers. Tiny feathers, backlit by the sun, were wafting down around me. What? After several moments of confusion, this flash of insight: a small bird was at that very moment being torn to shreds and devoured by another bird. The circle of life…you know: nature-red-in-tooth-and-claw. I looked up, made out the general vicinity of the rain of feathers’ origin, and stepped back. Back a little farther. There it was, yes: the silhouette of a sharp-shinned hawk standing atop a limb, forty feet off the deck. “Sharp-shins” are smaller cousins of the goshawk and Cooper’s hawk, all three species members of a subgroup of swift-flying, athletic raptors. They feed mostly on other birds, which they pluck before eating. (I have no idea what evolutionary advantage their sharp shins confer.) The drifting feathers were quite small—songbird-size. Sharp-shinned hawks, common in urban areas, are just who one would expect to find first plucking then eating mini-fowl in a tree in a town. Voilà.

            My inner scientist rose up again, inquiring, What species is being consumed? Most of the feathers making it through the needled boughs were drifting in a southwesterly direction into oblique sunlight. I tried to catch a couple for ID purposes, at first going after the big ones (wing and tail feathers) that were helicoptering down in the fashion of winged maple seeds but found them difficult to catch on the fly. I’d chase after one, get blinded by sunbursts, grab thin air. Then dash after another. I could’ve picked fresh-plucked feathers off the grass at will but, for reasons unknown, felt a compelling urge to catch one in flight. Off and on the little hawk came into my line of sight. Once, I stopped to watch—long enough to see its predatory head dip repeatedly, tearing off chunks of tender warm flesh before gobbling them down. I could see blood drip from its beak onto the fat branch where it stood while downy feathers floated earthward on the gentlest of breezes. Resuming my chase, I darted after feathers like a child chasing bubbles until it dawned on me that someone glancing out their window might finally notice that there was some madperson acting crazy out on the lawn. At that, self-consciousness took over and my private magical moment came to an abrupt close. But not before the latent scientist—someone I barely knew right then—made his final identification based on a breast feather’s faint brown streaking: Female and/or immature house finch. Both of us, me and the scientist, standing on the Inyo County Courthouse lawn under a December sun, under the watch of old trees whose sole arbor-aspiration was to abide. 

 

 

          ©2020 Tim Forsell                                                4 Dec 1994, 29 Jul 2020, 29 Jan 2022

  

When You Love Where You Live

 IT SNOWED RIGHT AFTER MEMORIAL DAY. Maybe an inch, one measly inch, fell here at the ranger cabin in Piute Meadows where I live five months out of the year. Nary a drop of moisture since that day in May. I can’t even remember the last time it rained. After four dry winters in a row, 1990 is shaping up to be more of the same. I’ve worked around these parts since 1983 and this has been the longest dry spell yet. 

Come mid-July, the Eastern Sierra finally got some much-needed rain when a ridge of high pressure parked itself off the coast of Mexico, triggering a spate of classic California-style monsoonal weather. Steady streams of juicy tropical air made for muggy days, a rare phenomenon in mountainous country. The day’s first clouds would roll in early, a dependable indicator of coming rain. Starting around nine a.m., barely-there wisps would appear out of thin air—tumbling shreds of gauzy vapor that melted away like mirages only to rematerialize seconds later. Throughout the morning hours these cloud-embryos multiplied, turning into puffy little things that got bigger, grew some more, merged, and gradually metamorphosed into soaring black-bellied thunderheads. 

Throughout the whole tropical phase, after breakfast cleanup and chores sundry I’d pack a lunch, get my things together and be off. Out on the trail shadows raced by, the sun winking on and off as if someone were flipping a switch. From high places I’d see the tops of far away Cumulonimbus skyscrapers billowing up from behind intervening ridgelines. Later I might be doing a little trail work (bent over a shovel or sawing a fallen tree, paying the heavens little heed) and suddenly notice that the sky’s    remaining blue parts had all but vanished. And be glad I’d packed that slicker. 

Once it got underway the monsoon produced powerful electric storms, typically accompanied by hail or torrential rain—or both. Highcountry thunderstorms are often localized and seldom last long. But when the sky grows dark as dusk and that first far off rumble sounds, you know what’s coming. There’s a noticeable tension in the air, the proverbial calm before the storm. Ions swirl. Charges accumulate. Currents congregate. And then: dazzling ribbons of white light, gone before you even begin to grasp what you’ve just witnessed. Unnoticed, your jaw drops. Eyes widen, heart valves flutter. You feel a cocktail of wonderment, joy, and primal fear. The full-on, certified rippers let loose an array of claps, booms, sharp cracks, or those delightful resonant peals that fade away in rumbling rolls. After a beefy ground strike there’s this full-body expectancy—an actual physical sensation—as you count off the seconds in your head…waiting, waiting, waiting for the tumult to commence. From a safe location, first rate lightning shows are one of outdoor life’s sweetest treats. (Or, if trapped on a ridgeline or rock face when the bolts start slamming down, an unparalleled opportunity to become acquainted with mortal terror.) Either way, you don’t “watch” a thunderstorm. You’re a participant. 

In a normal year, from the beginning of July through August, towering Cumulus thunderheads in the afternoon are standard fare along with sporadic lightning events. Tropical influence amplifies everything: earlier cloud buildup, darker skies; storms are more intense, hailstones larger. This summer, all the weather drama transformed other-wise ordinary days into would-be adventures. Each and every one of these days came with a guarantee of sweet smells and lights and moody aftermaths to savor; maybe a rainbow or two. Added bonus: fiery, unending sunsets—the kind where half the sky is already black and turning starry when the last hint of color finally fades to grey.

Not long after the 4^th of July there was a run of nine straight days here at Piute Meadows with at least some rain. At some point on each of those nine days there were flashes of lightning in the immediate vicinity or thunder, unaccompanied by any preceding flicker, coming from points unknown. Once it became clear that this was a true monsoon cycle, I’d carry my mug of coffee out on the porch to greet the new day. And stand there, sun warm on my face, with a bring-it-on feeling animated by the prospect of what this one might have in store—emotion above and beyond my typical early morning good spirits. A subtly different outlook; like a double dose of the keen anticipation wilderness rangers generally feel the moment they wake up each day. 

 

The wet weather arrived on July 6^th, the day I left Piute on a “town run.” That is, a quick resupply trip to Bridgeport, where the Forest Service district office is located and groceries are to be had. But first came the four hour ride to Leavitt Meadows—to the pack station where my stock are boarded when I’m away and where the truck is parked. There were four of us, actually: my usual ride, Ramon, and pack horse, Valiente (both, seasoned veterans) plus our latest recruit, Becky—a six-year-old mule acquired last fall as part of a trade-in. With equines, six is the equivalent of awkward teenager. What this newcomer needed most of all was backcountry experience; good, honest labor to help burn off all the nervous energy and insecurity. To that end, I’d been using her to haul sacks of grain and alfalfa pellets up to the cabin for autumn feed. For this trip, though, Becky was along primarily because she couldn’t be left behind all by herself. As a rule, mules can’t abide being left alone. And this one was an accomplished escape artist. 

The day of departure started out fine and fair. But clouds soon appeared; showers followed, then light rain most of the way. With bad luck, just minutes before we arrived at the pack station it began to pour. Those wearing steel shoes didn’t seem to mind a bit but the ranger had to unload and unsaddle and stash all the gear in a full-on deluge. Everything got soaked. And sure enough, the rain let up right after I’d finished. Like it always does. (Or seems to do.)

The following day it was back to the cabin with clean clothes and fresh food in tow, plus a stack of lumber slated for construction projects. The wood was cached at the Forest Service warehouse in town, just waiting for a time when an extra pack animal was available. On the ride out I realized that here was a perfect opportunity to bring in that lumber so I spent all morning trimming boards and posts into seven-foot lengths—standard eight-footers are too long to safely pack on horseback—and made up a pair of taped and tarped bundles. After using up half my day getting everything together I drove back to the pack station. When I climbed out of the truck, there were my three standing at the corral fence, staring at me. An easy catch for a change—all four of us  eager to get back home. Becky got the groceries, laundry, three gallons of lantern fuel, and two sixty-pound sacks of oats. Valiente, was entrusted with the bundles of lumber (eighty-plus pounds each) which I slung off his packsaddle crosstrees, running fore and aft on each side. You need a dependable beast of burden for this sort of undertaking and I knew from past experience with other weird loads that steady old Valiente was the man for the job. Still, cargo extending past nose and tail always spells t-r-o-u-b-l-e. For one thing, the animal can’t turn its head; if it tries, gets poked in the face and panics, there will likely be what packers refer to as a “wreck”—any unplanned event that ends in tangled-rope disarray, with or without blood and broken bones. I tarped the whole load and lashed it down tight with fifty feet of rope. Though well balanced it would be prone to uncontrollable fore-aft sway—a not-good thing. My plan was: go slow, keep a sharp eye on old Valiente, and try to get everybody home safe and sound. 

What with all the prep work it was mid-afternoon by the time we got underway. Today appeared to be a repeat of the previous one, weather-wise. Blue sky had quit the field and that menacing grey matter looming moistly overhead looked ready to start unloading at any moment. Last thing I did before climbing up on Ramon was to don my slicker, something I generally wait to do until the rain actually starts. And off we went.

From the pack station’s back gate a connecting trail angles toward a shallow ford near the head of Leavitt Meadows, half a mile away. Once across the river this connecter joins the main West Walker River trail as it traverses the hillside rising above the meadow’s eastern edge. From that side of the valley, Tower Peak’s imposing bulk is briefly visible off in the far distance, fifteen miles away, astride what is both Sierra crest and Yosemite Park border. During those few minutes where Tower Peak can be seen from the trail, several bolts touched down in the vicinity of its castellated summit, so far away the thunder never reached our ears. Those multiple strikes got my attention but the horses and mule didn’t even notice—it’s not so much lightning as its sonic aftermath that puts livestock on full alert. Thunder definitely puts them on edge, especially when it comes in tandem with the strike. (With equines, anxiety is infectious; it spreads through the ranks—sometimes in an instant—especially when one animal is a nervous type to begin with.) Valiente was right behind me with the mule bringing up the rear. I held Valiente’s lead rope and Becky was “necked” to the big packhorse—that is, her lead rope ran along Valiente’s side and was tied in a dangly loop around his neck. I’d given her extra slack so she could trail farther back and avoid getting hit in the face by the lumber that was jutting a good foot beyond Valiente’s rump. Becky, being crafty by nature, took full advantage of having more slack to work with: again and again she’d rush ahead, creating sufficient time to mow down whatever green thing grew within reach before getting caught short. Most of the ride I could hear her chomping away.

The storm was imminent. Just as we began to climb out of the meadow, blustery gusts of wind appeared out of nowhere, as if they’d been hiding in wait. A fat droplet slammed my hat brim, then another, then three or four more. A minute later the zephyr died as quickly as it had risen. But, up ahead, a semi-opaque curtain bore down on us at a fast walking pace, accompanied by the clamor of raindrops without number meeting ground head on. Farther upcanyon, discrete regions inside the purple-grey cloud mass were lit from within by sporadic flashes. Thunder reverberated and rereverberated off the glacier-carved canyon’s lofty walls. Lucky me, I got to witness all the drama from my saddle (a front row seat, as it were). All the while inhaling the most alluring fragrance—a bouquet of damp soil, newly wet sage and bitterbrush and mahogany with undertones of pine, juniper, and sun-warmed granite. This olfactory elixir represents the mid-elevation eastern Sierran version of Earth Essence. Breathe it in—you have only minutes to relish this ephemeral perfume before falling rain washes it back into the soil.

Three hours and nine miles later, we crested a long grade, rejoining the river near where it enters a series of narrow gorges. Over the next mile the trail passes through some idyllic mountain scenery: glades rimmed by lodgepole pine forest and willow thickets…broad oxbows, river just a whisper…a marshy pond, half covered with water lily pads and backed by a black-streaked granite wall. It was still raining but thanks to my calf-length oilskin slicker, leather chaps, and hat cover I was warm and dry (that is, aside from cold hands, numb with gripping sodden reins and lead-rope). In a reverie, I half-listened to the hypnotic cadence of a dozen hooves slapping into puddles—muddy puddles that currently filled long stretches of the dead-flat trail. After continual ups and downs and rocky roads, this restful passage marks the point on my long commute where a certain mental pressure begins to ease off; where home starts to feel close at hand even with two miles yet to go and one final hill to climb. I’d long since exhausted my capacity to relish the storm, having slipped into that drowsy-dreamy state all weary riders know well. Random brain chatter sufficed for cheap entertainment. The lower back pain had arrived right on schedule. My knees ached and I was ready to be done, hankering for that cozy log cabin up ahead…a snap-crackle fire going in the old wood stove…a steaming mug of orange pekoe tea in hand, purring cat on my lap. 

Another storm cell rolled in and the rain picked up. It was late; with evening coming on fast and the heavy cloud cover it was getting darker by the minute. Fresh lightning woke me out of my semi-stupor. Here it comes again!Flashes illuminated the dim-lit forest in terrific detail for split seconds at a time, followed by deep rumbles that swept through the trees like a wind coming from everywhere at once, coming in waves that I could hear approaching—waves that passed right through me before racing off in all directions. Whoa! That one was close! The horses and mule were scared now, which gave me pause. Hoo! We’re right in it! What about a near strike? What’ll these guys do? You ready?I hadn’t been paying all that much attention to Valiente. Or the mule. We’d been clomping along at a steady pace for hours without incident so I just kept my head down and ignored (as usual) (again) the wee small voice that offers wise counsel for free. 

Not that it would’ve made much difference.

            The instant before everything started happening all at once I both felt and heard a crackling sizzle that seemed to dance on the surface of my soggy raincoat—a sound something like what you hear standing under a power line in dense fog. I knew what this was and what it meant but there was no time to think, no time. 

A monumental flash. 

An earsplitting CRACK!

A resounding ba-BOOM!

That penetrating smell—

—one thing, one great-big-thing that swamped all my senses. I didn’t witness the stroke but knew in my bones what had just happened: an electric bomb detonated     behind me and to my left; definitely within a hundred feet, perhaps even closer. I know this because the flash and ferocious roar, along with the pungent tang of ozone, came in the same instant. (If you smell the distinctive, “clean” odor of ozone…it was close.) 

What happened next is a little murky. Apparently I missed the next bit—the part where Valiente rushed up on Ramon’s right side and Becky, thanks to that extra lead rope, swung all the way around to his left. Back in my skin again, I was horrified to discover that the three equines had taken flight, taking me with them. Their herd instinct, in time of peril, tells them to tighten ranks and everybody run for your life. Fair enough. But that made for a lot of red meat stampeding up the trail, wild and witless. My legs were both pinned between several hundred pounds of loose freight that was flying up and slamming back down—for any packer, a dreadful sound. There was a confusion of ropes to contend with. Perhaps some shouting; if so, I missed that as well. Panic, on my part, was supplanted by instinctive impulse: inner commands advising me to just hang on and ride it out. I was dimly aware that I might well be dragged from my saddle in a snarl of ropes and killed. But out of pure good fortune we happened to be in one place where there was nothing more substantial than pine saplings to crash into. (I vaguely recall mowing down a few innocent bystanders.) Hauling on Ramon’s reins, I gradually managed to get things back under a semblance of control. Valiente and Becky somehow sorted themselves out on their own. Then: everything came to a standstill. No billowing clouds of dust at the denouement for dramatic emphasis; just the insistent patter of rain.

Now there was time in abundance to process information and imagine how this near-tragedy could have turned out. I’m guessing the whole ordeal took place in a long five or six seconds; it’s hard to say. Some of the mortal fear that would have come into play if our mad dash had gone on any longer finally caught up with me. I felt queasy and jubilant, both. Could’ve died! Didn’t die! Lucked out again! The other survivors stood in a huddle with nostrils flaring and eyes rolled back so the white bit showed. Their heads swiveled back and forth, looking for something—something they could actually see and run away from. Becky, those ludicrous jumbo-size donkey ears of hers at full alert, snorted once, twice, thrice. To help dissipate my adrenaline-laced nausea I let loose a couple of full-throated wolf howls, which did not help calm the mule. The electric part of the storm was more or less over but Becky jitterbugged the rest of the way home, dodging invisible demons. As for me—I was now fully awake, with a renewed appreciation for simple things, like the wholesome pleasure that comes with breathing cool mountain air (for one). And remembered something I’ve known for ages but had let slip: the way numb hands and aching knees and all-purpose weariness can enrich Experience, serving as reminders that we inhabit a sensate body. Heading into the home stretch I could once again feel and hear the rain and smell the delicate scent of dripping-wet pine forest—things that only minutes before had barely registered.

 

Building trail is a quintessential ranger activity, one that I particularly enjoy. Two days after my close call I was miles downcanyon tackling a long-overdue project: rerouting fifty yards of trail to circumvent a bad place where tree roots, exposed by erosion, had turned into a real hazard for pack strings. More precipitation was in the offing. The fix was to be a switchback that would bypass the bad section entirely. It required heaps of digging and rock-grubbing plus there were boulders to shift and a few small trees that had to go. (I’d cached tools at the site on a previous trip.) I was halfway through the job and fully committed when the rain came. So I carried on, sweating hard in my slicker for a couple more hours while long-suffering Ramon waited patiently, dreaming horsey dreams. Once finished, I hid my tools and we headed for home. The rain eased up and finally quit. No backpackers about…no one at all. Forest sounds and smells gentled my senses. I was beat and sore but brimming with contentment, a brand of self-satisfaction that comes with hard labors and a worthy task complete. Or maybe I was experiencing the lingering aftereffects of my recent brush with mortality and just felt glad to be alive.

The next day, feeling not so keen to go out in the rain again, I opted to stay put. There were plenty of indoor chores to keep me occupied. This  turned out to be the stormiest day thus far with showers starting around ten, building in intensity and    continuing well into the afternoon without pause. Not being out in it, I was loving the wet weather; last season we had but one thunderstorm all summer long and I’d almost   forgotten how invigorating they can be. After lunch I carried a chair out on the porch to write in my journal and enjoy the storm. My two cats, Rip and Spring, were asleep up in the loft. I hadn’t seen either since breakfast and wished they’d come keep me company. My stepping outside woke them up and it came as no surprise, knowing these two, that hearing me go out would pique their feline curiosity. Sure enough, a minute later they both popped through their cat door. Spring ignored me but Rip came over to say hello before they both jumped up on the saddle rack. After a ride, I drape damp saddle pads and blankets over the saddles’ seats to air them, making for an ideal soft kitty hangout spot. (Both cats will spend hours curled up on those blankets, snoozing or gazing out over the meadow.) Now, they were already folded up into compact cat-balls, squinty-eyed and all set to nod off again. I’d pause from time to time between scribbling and pondering to look over at them. One, a tabby; one jet black; side by side facing the meadow with tails wrapped, sealing off drafts: an image that captured the very essence of feline contentment. It melted my heart and re-melted it each time I glanced over. Rain drummed on the porch roof and dripped off its eaves and we were all so terribly cozy. 

The West Walker River, as a named watercourse, originates just beyond the head of Piute Meadows where three boisterous creeks come together in the space of maybe five hundred feet. The new-found river begins its journey in leisurely fashion, winding along through snaky oxbows that run the length of the almost mile-long meadow. On this day the rain came down hard—hard enough and for long enough that the meandering river gathered considerable speed. Opaque with sediment, it rose inch by inch throughout the day, climbing up its turf-rimmed banks and burying sandbars. (Those visible from the porch shrank and finally disappeared as I was writing in my journal.) When the rain finally eased off in the early evening I walked down to the log bridge just below the cabin for a closer look. Rip, always keen for a walk, followed at my heels. Swift flat water coming ‘round the bend was a resolute murmur on top of the muffled commotion of cascading rapids in the narrow gorge just downcanyon. We found the bridge mostly under water with an assortment of sticks and pine cones temporarily  corralled in a swirling eddy on its downstream side. Wildflowers that grow among the grasses and sedges making up the turfy banks were drowning in brown soup. A good part of all this runoff consisted of freshly melted snow washed down from the crest. Standing there on the bank at the spot where I daily dip my water buckets I could feel an icy chill radiating from the river’s surface the way heat radiates from a stove. Rip surveyed the alien scene with great interest, too engrossed by what he saw to notice or care that his legs and belly were soaked. This was my furry friend’s world, too, and his bridge—the bridge he crosses at night while I’m asleep and goes who-knows-where—was half under water. Then: Rip spotted something. I saw his eyes focus with that gleaming feline intensity and followed his gaze. Out past the back fence a mallard hen, following a foray to the river with her brood, was leading them back to the cutoff oxbow pond where they find safety in tall sedges that grow there. I counted six ducklings in a line, struggling to keep up. Robins warbled their off-tune dusk song. An owl called.

Tranquility. Stillness, personified. A feeling of home, of place: “Piute Country.”

 

In the morning, well before Sol topped the canyon’s rim, I went out to catch Ramon and saw that my river was back down and no longer the color of mud. The sky was clear; a fine day was in store. But by the time I had the horse saddled and was ready to depart, clouds had arrived. After crossing the dewy meadow and fording the West Walker we turned right for a change and headed upcanyon toward Kirkwood Pass, bound for Rainbow Canyon on a non-routine patrol. Valiente and Becky, standing together by the river, watched us go. It may have been because they had full bellies and were a bit bored, I don’t know, but the pair decided to tag along and fell in behind Ramon. They followed for well over a mile, as far as the highest meadow, but as soon as the trail began to climb they lost interest and watched us go. Ramon was despondent. When I urged him on he turned his head and fixed them with a look so doleful, so wounded, so hurt, that I had to laugh. Again: all herd animals share a natural impulse to stick together. But Valiente and Becky had one another, after all, and were standing knee-deep in lush green grass. As we went along, Ramon kept turning his head to stare intently in the precise direction of where he’d last laid eyes on his fair weather friends. 

            The view from just below the cabin at this time of year is picture postcard-esque. Verdant meadow fills the fore- and middle-ground. Forested slopes slant upwards, drawing the eye toward the north faces of two eleven-thousand-foot peaks—craggy heights sporting dramatic precipices and icefields, flanked by hanging valleys. But see: well beyond the head of the meadow are several thoroughly unremarkable knobby bluffs rising out of an otherwise featureless, timber-covered slope. Even the highest, most prominent of these minor outcrops (as seen from the cabin) goes unnoticed, overshadowed by tall cliffs and snowfields and jagged ridgelines—features that grab one’s eye and don’t let go. Well off the nearest trail, even that highest, most conspicuous bluff is a place no one ever thinks to visit. A deer hunter might stumble onto its summit every decade or so—maybe. But this humble, unknown prominence just happens to be ideally situated when it comes to providing a fantastic view down the entire length of the West Walker River canyon. For some years now I’ve been thinking, I need to go there.  

It turned out to be a perfect day, in more ways than one. I was in no hurry and everything about this moment in time was fresh and engaging. Two miles from the    cabin, about to pass beneath that highest bluff: on a whim, without a plan, I jumped off Ramon and tied him to a sapling by the trail. And then headed straight uphill following an unforested avalanche path half overgrown with snowberry and sagebrush.

Marching upslope, dodging bushes and boulders, a peculiar phrase landed in my mind and stuck there: Goin’ where the deer bed down. I scarcely noticed when this odd turn of phrase first appeared. But then it came again. And again. And kept repeating, at random intervals. It was my own voice—the customary voice we all hear inside our heads—speaking to no one in particular. The quirky refrain, aside from being neutral in tone with no words inflected, had the lilt of an advertising jingle. The words kept       repeating over and over, like a snatch from some old tune that gets lodged in the brain and just won’t go away. Goin’ where the deer bed down…goin’ where the deer bed down. 

Entering a zone of blocky talus, I hop-stepped from rock to rock (goin’ where the deer bed down) and squeezed between boulders, angling toward the bluff’s left shoulder (…where the deer bed down). Minutes before, I’d noticed an uninterrupted horizontal joint splitting the entire face about halfway up. Mountain-sense told me that this fracture line was likely to be a ledge so I aimed for it. At this point the bluff was directly above me. 

I was watching my feet (goin’ where the deer bed down…) when a strange sound, a half-hard-half-soft clatter, grabbed my attention—all of it. My head snapped up just in time to see a big doe sprint across the face on a narrow passageway still hidden from view. Dashing for cover, she reached its far end and vanished. While I’d caught only a glimpse (enough of a glimpse to know it was a she) I heard with great clarity a sound I recognized: the sound of deer hoof striking bedrock. At the same time I felt, deep in my core, a sort of raw vitality that was somehow being conveyed through four slender legs surging in unison—through that inexplicably pleasant sound, the sound of horny hoof on solid stone. A loose pebble she’d dislodged bounced down the face and landed just yards away, shattering a suddenly conspicuous silence. Even as I was wheeling  toward these sounds, vibrant impressions appeared fully formed. I was viscerally experiencing the powerful thrust behind those four lunging legs as if they were mine—a sensation I knew from recurring dreams that I’ve had dozens of times; dreams like “normal” flying dreams (I have those, too) except that instead of flying I hop.

This deserves a little explanation. In these dreams I’m always running away from something; trying to evade, not a specific personage or malevolent force, but some     nebulous form of oppressive authority. I make my escape by way of a series of colossal dream-style “hops”—two-legged kangaroo-hops, repeated leaps that demand all my strength and will. I can actually feel the bent knees, rock-hard thighs; the clenched fists and jaw. And then I’m soaring through the air: wild arcing flights over and through shadowy landscapes, light as a feather and filled with an indescribable joy. Gliding down slow, clenching up tight in every fiber before the next bound…feeling the resistance of earth beneath my feet…sailing off again. And again. My leaping dreams always have this heady sensation of asserting agency; of attaining freedom through sheer power of will. (I don’t need a Jungian analyst to tell me that all this is the articulation of a natural-born rebel’s antipathy toward restrictive authority.) At some point the vision fades and I find myself suspended between two worlds, hovering between normal consciousness and a separate reality. And in that brief interlude where these two disparate worlds intersect there’s a torrent of conflicting emotions: true bliss on the one side of slumber, an anguished sense of loss on the other. An overpowering urge to return to the land of sleep and get back that euphoric feeling…to steal back to a captivating otherworld where I can bound through the air like a leaping stag. 

            Back to the present. I quick scampered up the last stretch (Why the haste?) to find out just how that frightened she-deer had made such a clean escape. Surprise: this was not your typical rough-hewn bench covered with rubble—it was a dead-level shelf as wide as a sidewalk, naked granite polished smooth by ponderous rivers of ice. In places the ledge was strewn with gravel and fallen rock but was largely free of debris, making for an enchanting passage that demanded to be traversed. I didst heed that siren song. 

Traversing the ledge I found where the doe had been resting. Resting until….

Here was a kind of perfection: near the middle of this natural sidewalk, rising out of a nook in the backing wall, grew a squat, bonsai-of-a-juniper. Its lower branches were arrayed gracefully over a hollowed out depression. The stout little tree was rooted in a mound of soil derived from a century or three’s worth of shed foliage—crumbled fragments of juniper “needles” bearing the spicy, brown aroma of decayed cedar. The little hollowed-out spot beneath a spreading green umbrella made for a welcoming place of rest. She’d been curled there in shade beside the twisted little juniper’s cinnamon-colored trunk, legs smartly folded. At ease. This was a terrific viewpoint and the rock face behind her offered further security, with two excellent escape routes to choose from. She’d observed my approach with head high and ears forward, sniffing the air for sign, relaxed and ready. In all likelihood, this doe has known me since her mother first led her to the salt block at the cabin when she was a fawn; she’s probably stood there in the yard watching her own spotted fawns watch me. These vivid images came all in a rush—a sweeping mental picture (parts of it through a doe’s eyes). Without thought I placed my open hand in her nest and felt a residual warmth. Bending down, I inhaled deeply and in return got a whiff of that distinctive, wholesome deer smell. All of this filled me with gladness—with a delight completely out of proportion with having discovered a mule deer’s hideaway. For a moment there I actually considered curling in the doe’s nest with my own limbs folded—a surprisingly powerful impulse. But…but I was too large, alas. In consolation I followed the ledge to its far end and beyond, searching until I found the deep impressions of her hooves in moist, sandy soil. Scanning the brush-covered slope, I saw no movement but knew she was up there, watching. 

A few minutes later, on the bluff’s flat summit, I surveyed my greater home. Something in me had shifted. Whatever it was, it was that doe’s doing. In this grace-tinged state, senses felt sharper. I saw with new clarity, taking in unappreciated or up to now unseen details. Piute Meadows, like a lake the color of malachite, filled this long canyon’s upper end; the river’s serpentine curves were laid out like a shiny metallic ribbon on the greener-than-green lake’s surface; a glory-blue sky festooned with clouds throwing shadows far and wide; the miles-long glacial canyon, not so very long ago overflowing with ice and pulverized mountain, rolled into the distance. Closer at hand: rainwater pooled in shallow potholes, a light breeze ruffling their surfaces; several large erratic boulders on tasteful display nearby—testaments to the noble landscape’s origins, currently at rest. A magnificent silence encompassed all. Rain would come later if not sooner, bringing with it more life-affirming drama in the form of lightning and thunder.

I knew just where the little log cabin was hidden behind a screen of tall lodgepole pines on the emerald lake’s far shore—the place where I bed down. Everything I looked upon had an inner glow (or maybe it was just the day). This much can be said: on top of an obscure granite knob with a fabulous view, with a depth of feeling I can seldom muster, I was seeing this tiny slice of the Earth’s pie I call “Piute Country,” not just from a different point of view but with brand-new perspective. Rebirth and renewal had come via a fleeting encounter with a fellow forest denizen, one of my neighbors. Our eyes never even met. But here’s the meaty mystery—our chance meeting had somehow been telegraphed to my subconscious in advance by a most peculiar communiqué, one that came from who-knows-where. There’s a word for such things: enigmas. They come in many forms, often hard to characterize or categorize. 

File this one under “Gifts from the Universe.”

 

          ©2021 Tim Forsell                                                           1 Nov 1990, 2 Jun 2020, 5 Jan 2022