31 Jul (Sun) Up at 5:30, earliest in a while (I’d set the alarm). Off by 9:00. ◦◦◦◦◦ An aside…. Some people might wonder why it would take three and a half hours for me to get underway. Three and a half hours? Really? Anyone interested in why? Probably not, but I’ll explain/justify anyway. ◦◦◦◦◦ Well, first off, I tend to be slow in the morning. It’s not that I’m not a “morning person.” I just don’t like being rushed in the morning hours. I have no problem getting underway as early as needed when there’s any kind of plan. But I’ll happily get up much sooner than necessary just to have plenty of time to futz around. Like today, typical morning routine: Maybe ten minutes after the alarm went off I was still in my sleeping bag, petting the purring cat on my chest, coming up with a plan. Dawn in progress. Got up and got a fire going in the stove. Went out to pee and used that time to scan my beloved meadow and admire a last-quarter moon just coming up over the ridge. Horses, right over there by the river—close by for a change. So I went back to the porch and got an empty nosebag, shook it so they’d see. Went back in the cabin, boiled water on the Coleman and made cocoa. Sat at the table with steaming mug and read a bit of Muir—My First Summer in the Sierra (amazingly, for the first time). Horses wandered over so I went out, grabbed that nosebag, scooped some grain in, and took it to the corral. Horses followed me right in and I locked ‘em up. Made tea. Wrote a quick letter to a friend. Then breakfast: fried a couple of eggs and ate standing up while keeping an eye on the bagels toasting directly on the stove top. Then did dishes, tossed the wash and rinse water over the little rock bluff outside. Rustled up a lunch, wiped all surfaces down. Hauled in a few arm-loads of the firewood I’d split yesterday, piled up around the chopping round. Finished tidying cabin. Went out and fetched Red to the hitchrail. Brushed, saddled, and sprayed him down with bug juice. Got suited up in my ranger costume. And all of a sudden, poof!, it’s nine o’clock! Actually, I was pretty happy to be off so, ahem, “early.” (If the horses had been way in the back as per usual it’d be after ten.) Things just seem to take longer in the backcountry. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode up to Black’s camp [old established camp at the meadow’s far end] to visit the Armstrongs. We’d chatted briefly on the trail yesterday as they were on their way in. Gene asked about a good dayride they could take. I suggested going over Kirkwood Pass, up the north fork of Buckeye Creek, and down Long Canyon. Wanted to show them on the map ‘cause the old trail turnoff to Beartrap Lake is not obvious. Gene had all sorts of queries so the “quick visit” ended up eating up forty-five minutes. Finally headed downcanyon and barely made it through the front gate before running into the “Second Winders,” a church group I’ve met several times before. Gave ‘em the full ranger treatment. Then a couple of smaller parties. Within an hour I’d gotten three separate praises for my “ranger note.” ◦◦◦◦◦ Up to Fremont Lake where I found the trailcrew on their lunch break. No backpackers around, nary a one. Amazing! July—peak tourist season! Backtracked over to the job site; lots of wall built already, soon to be rip-rapped, Yosemite-style. But it’s a shame—they’ll only finish one bad section this year and if Mark, God forbid, actually leaves Bridgeport (like he’s been threatening to do for the last five years) this bit of trail may never really be safe for stock travel. In fact, no more than a hundred yards from the job site, Red was tip-toeing up one of those angled, slabby bits. Suddenly, both front shoes skidded off. Red fell to his knees and I got spilled off. Fortunately, uphill. And fortunately, I was ready (had my toes right at the edge of the stirrups so my feet wouldn’t get hung up just in case he were to fall down) and didn’t break anything or even lose blood. Lucked out—again! ◦◦◦◦◦ On to Cinko Lake via the West Fork trail. No one there, either. One of the main camps by the trail: some failed-human loser had taken a dump right in the camp (undoubtedly, just before leaving) and there was his poop-shmeered t.p. “hidden” behind a log. Of course, I cleaned up the mess—scraped up the pile with two flat rocks, burned the t.p. ◦◦◦◦◦ Down the big long hill and home. The Armstrong party passed by shortly after I arrived, heading back to camp. Along for the ride was Gene’s eighty-two year old mother. They all waved and Gene yelled, “Thanks for the hot tip!” Yer welcome! ◦◦◦◦◦ Took a walk with Fenix and when we got back, went for my bath. Both cats followed me over. But first I sat on a grassy bank near the swimmin’ hole and watched a spectacular sunset—clouds turned all pink before my very eyes. Just beneath my perch were several big hunks of turf that have peeled off the bank in the spring flood. Now, they’re little temporary grass-covered islands. Fenix leapt onto one. He was already pumped up but then spotted a few little troutlets. His tail began to wag furiously. Something about it reminded me of the scene in Wizard of Oz when the Cowardly Lion, Scarecrow and Tin Man were marching into the Witch’s castle, the Cowardly Lion’s tail was wagging wildly from under his “borrowed” guard’s uniform. Fenix inched down to the edge and was poised to leap right in. I really thought he might do it. Then Velcro sproinged himself onto the island, too, and started attacking that impossible-to-resist tail, crawling all over Fenix who ignored the kitten, intent on stalking baby trout. Finally Fenix stabbed a paw deep into the water but it came up empty and he shook it off with the most surprised look. I laughed and laughed. It was too funny! Youda hadda been there….
→ 39 visitors → 2 firepits → 2 lbs trash → 18 miles
©2022 Tim Forsell 19 May 2022
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