One of the great things that came with being Piute ranger was my association with the colorful characters at Leavitt Meadows Pack Station, owned and operated by Bart Cranney. We had an arrangement with Bart whereby I could board my stock there when I was out of the backcountry in exchange for an occasional load of hay—a very loose, off-the-books arrangement that was no doubt technically “illegal.” This made my life a lot easier—otherwise, I would’ve had to truck my horses back and forth from town on a regular basis. It also made the pack station my base of operations for seventeen summers. It was there, starting in 1987, that Bart, Doc Grishaw, and various employees more or less taught me the essentials of how to work with livestock and not get killed. If Doc was there and wasn’t busy, the two of us would chat while I was loading up. When we both had time to spare, he’d sometimes have me and whoever I was with up to the house for tea. Bart, on the other hand, was usually occupied but on occasion we’d talk at length—something I never got enough of. Bart—who was tall and lanky and looked exactly like what a pack station operator should look like—had a quiet charisma and was wise in the ways of running a small business dependent on being mule savvy. And about life in general. Over the years I got to know many of his employees and considered some of them friends. We’d run into one another out on the trail and shoot the breeze. There were always plenty of things to gossip and gripe about. I very much enjoyed being part of these people’s lives and gradually became aware that I myself was a reliable source of juicy gossip in their cloistered world. ◦◦◦◦◦ Bart had one child—a daughter—who, as they say, had been riding since she could walk. Taylor Cranney (all the pack station people had great names) was maybe fourteen when we first became acquainted. Just a kid, she was already taking dudes out on guided day rides. Taylor eventually went off to college and I’d see less of her. But each summer she’d work for her dad, at least during peak season. As she got older we became good friends and ended up with a solid connection. It was always a real treat to see her—top shelf in every regard, she was a fine specimen of humanity. “Tay” was not a frail woman—maybe 5’9”, a physical powerhouse…calm, smart, girl-next-door pretty…exuded integrity and self assurance: the complete package. ◦◦◦◦◦ Taylor was also a classic example of how one never knows what life is going to do with them. I can’t recall what her major was at UC San Diego but I’m pretty sure it had nothing to do with her eventual career choice. She met “Tony,” a Greek boy (whose actual name was Adonis) in one of her classes. Tony’s family owned a hotel in Thessaloniki, Greece’s second largest city. They got married and he took his American bride back home. Tony eventually took over running the hotel with a brother. At first, Taylor taught English (becoming fluent in Greek in the process) but then she and Tony bought a comic book store—that’s right…a comic book store—and Taylor ran it. So: country girl from Coleville, California, a no-stoplight town near the Nevada border, marries a guy named Adonis, moves to Greece, and ends up living in a big city selling comic books. As near as I could tell, she had a happy marriage and enjoyed a good life in her adopted country. Had kids. I believe she eventually bought a horse.
27 Aug (Thu) ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode down to Lower Piute to Cranney’s basecamp for dinner. (Cindy, this year’s cook, gave me an invite when I saw her at the pack station the other day.) Turns out Taylor was visiting, yay! When I rode into camp, some little girls were in the process of telling Tay that the horses were “starting to go down the river.” We’d barely gotten past hello but I asked, “Want some help bringing ‘em in?” Tay said “Sure!” and jumped on a horse, not bothering with a saddle or bridle, and I got back up on Red. ◦◦◦◦◦ Couldn’t find the truants: they wuz gone. We searched all around the big partially timbered meadow/pasture—a place where they shouldn’t have been able to disappear. We wandered all around in there, checking the willow thickets, then I went back up the meadow on my own (Red all wigged out) and finally headed back to the main trail and through the lower drift fence thinking they must’ve gotten out somehow. Sure enough, 200 yards or so down the trail their tracks appeared from out of the rocks and jumped back on the freeway: they were heading back to the pack station, where all their friends were. No time to go get Taylor, knowing these guys were heading home and not wasting any time, so I just jumped on it. Fifteen minutes later, at the Fremont crossing, some campers saw me coming. A man, pointing, said, “They went thataway.” Another guy added, “You’re gonna have to go faster than that, Ranger, if you wanna catch ‘em—they’re only five minutes ahead of you but really moving.” ◦◦◦◦◦ So we flew down the trail, Red totally pumped up now, mad-dashing over terrain he’d never taken at a full-gallop before, rocks be damned. Finally caught up with three bad boys right in the narrowest, cliffy-est section of the roughs and just fell in behind them so’s to not get everybody more excited. Still, this was only pushing them homewards so, as soon as we got out of the narrows, made my move. All four head were now in a knot charging down the trail pell mell in a cloud of dust. I was kicking Red (no spurs) trying to get him to pass, getting sprayed with sand and gravel, whipping tree branches down with my arm like a skier crashing gates. It was very very exciting. But couldn’t get around them. Finally, saw my big chance up ahead: the little reroute Doc and I put in last year that now switchbacks up the hill leading to Bamboo Flats. The three escapees took the switchbacks and I forced Red to run full speed up the rocky gulley where the trail used to go. We just managed to cut them off and had us a brief stalemate there at the top of the hill. I yelled and cussed and they started back up the trail looking chastened (not really) but then one of those rascals cut around me and the chase was on again. Should’ve given it up then and there. But I was fully committed, in that frame of mind where you just abandon yourself and put all trust in the horse. (In retrospect, I may have been motivated by saving the day and impressing Miss Taylor. Yup…that’s probably what was really going on.) Tried to head ‘em off once more by cutting those short switchbacks on the other side of Bamboo Flats. Red dove off this steep hill without any urging and I just hung on, shielding my face with one arm, and somehow made it between juniper branches without getting clocked. But the three knaves ran right around us and flew off down the trail. Time to call it quits. There was no point in continuing so just gave up and turned around. By this time, of course, Red wanted to keep following the others. (Later, discovered that the insides of my knees were rubbed raw and my inner calves were now smooth-as-silk, the hair around the bald patches knotted up in little leg-hair dreadlock clumps.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Less than a mile back up the trail, here came Taylor, still bareback, going full speed. She’d eventually found where the horses had escaped through a place where the old buck-and-pole drift fence was down. Seeing me heading back up the trail, she knew the jig was up and yelled, “F##K!” And that was it—she turned around and started racing back toward camp. I fell in behind her and just tried to keep up, terribly impressed watching this girl gallop full tilt up the rocky trail with nothing but raw talent and a handful of mane. Made it back to basecamp just before dark, in time for supper. Finally got to sample some of Cindy Silva’s famously good chow. We told our story around the camp fire—Taylor pretty embarrassed, of course, by losing the horses. But, hey! We’re dealing with four-leggers here: “**it happens.” It just does. ◦◦◦◦◦ Finally rode home without benefit of moon, by starlight only. Which was plenty. One gorgeous scene in the forest by the river where stars were twinkling on a glassy pool, clear like another starry sky in the river…riding by with the stars blinking on and off through tree branches both in the sky and in the water. Home at eleven. Another A+, four star adventure. Probably not worth risking all our lives, but, hey, we survived. So I guess it was.
©2023 Tim Forsell 26 Oct 2023
Another great entry! Have you ever considered publishing a book?
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