Upper Piute Meadows, where I spent sixteen summers (1988–2003) is a choice bit of High Sierra landscape; definitely National Park caliber. Indeed, the craggy peaks visible from the cabin—Hawksbeak, Ehrnbeck, and Tower—lay astride the Yosemite park boundary. All three happen to be situated on a section of the Sierra crest that jogs to the west for several miles—something of an oddity in the generally northwest/southeast trending range. This east-to-west orientation results in the three peaks having directly north-facing walls that get more shade and thus hold snow longer. Winter storms from the Pacific dump large quantities of snow when they slam into the Sierra crest, a lot of which piles up on the crest’s lee side. Over time, thanks to that anomalous jog in the crest line, peaks at the head of the West Walker River watershed accumulate more than their fair share of snow. Through time, the net result has been a succession of glaciers that were deeper and flowed farther than almost all those east of the Sierra crest. ◦◦◦◦ My summer residence was located at the lower end of a mile-long meadow filling the bottom of a deeply incised valley, with slopes on either side rising over two thousand feet. These steep slopes, the flanks of towering ridgelines that rise above other glacially-hewn valleys, are topped with jagged peaklets. During cooler climatic intervals in the past these high points were the only land protruding from ice caps that almost buried the entire region. ◦◦◦◦ Piute cabin is located on a little rise near the meadow’s southern tip, just upstream from where the meandering upper West Walker River cuts through bedrock before plunging down a cliffy gorge. The slope across-river from the cabin is granitic while the east-facing slope opposite is mostly made up of a metamorphic rock known as hornfels. Both are timbered but with different shrubs and trees and notably different topography.◦◦◦◦ I dubbed the entire slope behind the cabin “Piute Wilderness”—a place where, aside from myself and a few friends, virtually no one ever ventured. The slatey hornfels (of sedimentary origin) retains strong bedding planes that, subjected to glaciation, can form broad, flat benches—a joy to stumble upon unexpectedly as they make for stretches of gentle strolling on otherwise steep and rugged terrain. The hidden benches on this mile-and-a-half-broad heavily timbered slope harbor several secret ponds, heavenly spots all. ◦◦◦◦ Exploring all the nooks and crannies of Piute Wilderness was a joy. I’d usually start these jaunts from the cabin. There are no trails aside from those made by deer. After scrambling up several hundred vertical feet you unexpectedly run into a vale cut by a rivulet that’s fed all summer by permanent snowfields. For much of its length it flows parallel to the overall slope of the mountainside, passing through a shaded forest of red fir, mountain hemlock, and lodgepole pine. The charming streamlet is lined with colorful flower gardens interspersed with smooth rock slabs and tumbling cascades. It had a feeling of utter solitude and an untrammeled, primeval quality that I cherish…food for the soul. (Praise be!, the Sierra Nevada holds untold numbers of these off-the-beaten-path pockets of Edenic wilderness.) ◦◦◦◦ The first of these entries is from an early exploration; the second tells of starting, for the first time, from where the little creek joined the West Walker a half-mile downriver from the cabin. It was this particular excursion that led me to name the brook “Dinky Creek,” having realized that I’d spend lots of time exploring this gem. And wanting to make it my own.
7 Aug (Wed) ◦◦◦◦◦ Needed to walk so headed down the gorge below the cabin, then cut up toward the snowmelt-fed watercourse that spills into Cranney’s meadow. Hit the little creeklet lower down than on previous outings. (Usually I climb straight up from behind the cabin and run into it somewhat higher.) Passed through an almost painfully gorgeous scene: a broad dike of layered volcanic rock runs through the mountainside thereabouts. The creek has cut into it, forming a narrow, twisting defile. It spills out of this thirty-yard-long mini-gorge through an impressive “gateway” flanked on either side by a veritable grove of monkshood (rare around these parts) in full bloom. I scrambled up to this doorway and walked right in. Holy, Holy! The walls on either side are encrusted with mosses and ferns and the creeklet hurries through on a smooth naked slab of tan-colored andesite. In places like this, catching glimpses of genuine perfection gives me a powerful urge to sit down and stay awhile. Like…for a few days. It somehow feels wrong to just walk on by. Disrespectful to the Creation, as it were. ◦◦◦◦◦ But much yet to see so I wandered on upstream where the creek alternates between disappearing into the mountain and reappearing where it flows over solid rock hidden beneath soil and rubble. The wildflower display: one of the finest I’ve seen all summer so far. Corn lily and red columbine under attack by aphids. Followed this minor creek as far as the mouth of a tiny cirque (its point of origin) and found a stunning viewpoint atop a point of rock with Piute Meadows and all down-canyon laid out. Contoured the slope and onto benches and discovered a string of four sweet little tarns. One, entirely rock-bound and right on the edge of a bluff. So fine. Followed the ponds’ drainage down steeply and hit the Tower trail just past the head of Piute Meadow. An inspiring journey into purest Sierra wilderness—to places where no one ever goes.
25 Aug (Sun) OFF. ◦◦◦◦◦ In the afternoon I took a stroll. Crossed the river and walked along the rim of the gorge, down to where the river bends north again, near Bart’s old basecamp. Crossed back over on a log and followed what I’m now calling “Dinky Creek,” from where it spills into the West Walker on up to its very source. (Went as far as the mouth of a little cirque a couple of weeks ago.) Haven’t done the bottom section before since I usually start by hiking straight up the hill behind the outhouse. The lower stretch is quite steep—a series of steps with lovely micro-meadows, flowers now almost done blooming. Got to where I’d intersected the creek on my last hike and followed it through that cool mini-gorge again (a short, narrow section only a few yards wide hemmed in by vertical walls). Barely a trickle over the slabs now. Scrambled up to the top this time for the view down into it. I was standing on a tiny ledge taking in the scene when I decided to head back home instead of doing the whole hike. Feelin’ pretty beat. But I was on the “wrong” side of the creek, meaning I’d have to clamber back down into it and climb up the other side. No big deal but then I spied a small ledge just opposite me on the other side and a bit lower than where I stood. A crazy thought: Hey! I could jump that! The gap was close to ten feet across with a sheer twenty-five foot drop to the slabs. Inched down to a really good take-off point and sampled the jump in my mind just to get the adrenaline pumping. Then that all-important “wild hair” thing took over and I heard these words in my head: Just do it! Just because you can! And I allowed myself to be tricked (again) and leapt without further deliberation. One of those deals where you feel complete certainty but know that you can’t stop and think it over—immediate action is required. ◦◦◦◦◦ The target was flat but quite small, with a thin plate of exfoliated rock laying on it that looked like it might possibly skate so I landed with right foot on the slatey piece and the other on soil right on the rim, a bit higher. It was a good, solid leap. Unfortunately, my right shin came into contact with the edge of a sharp flake protruding from above my landing pad. I came to a stop in a crouched position and as I straightened, started to sway backwards. Was mostly focused on a brand new pain in my lower leg but then became aware that I was slowly starting to sway backwards. Body was in balance, though, so I just swung back over my feet. Phew! But: I’d barked my shin pretty good and blood was running freely down my leg, soaking my sock dramatically. Voice in my head again: Only a flesh wound! [Monty Python reference…to be read with mock-British accent.] Headed home and walked it off. Final note: At some point, I wrote at the top of the page: “Days later, noticed a tiny sliver of bone sticking out of the thick scab. (It was a solid month before the thing finally fell off.)”
By the way—this wasn’t an isolated event; it was the sort of thing I’d do for amusement. See: climbers at times find themselves in situations where leaping across some yawning gap is either compulsory or much preferable to the arduous detour. For mountaineers, “technical jumps” are just another specialized skill (and something I happened to be good at). ◦◦◦◦ This next entry—sort of a follow-up to my leap-of-faith—took place almost five years later, in 1996. At the time I was in a committed relationship with a woman. She had two children: Sage, 15, and Johanna, 10. Both kids were staying with us at our place near Lone Pine that summer and made several multi-day visits to the cabin with their mom. ◦◦◦◦ After lunch one day, we all walked up the hill directly behind the cabin to a remnant patch of snow for some glissading. “Glissading” is skiing with just your boots on; it can be great fun when the snow is right. I’d been to this spot some days before and knew the kids would enjoy themselves. (Sage, already a full-on gonzo skier at fifteen, went on to be a major star and was featured in many films doing terrifyingly wild stunts.)
8 Jul (Mon) …. After lunch we tromped out to the outhouse and on up the hill toward Ranger Notch to do some glissading. The place I’d been to a week ago was not as good this time (snow surface rougher plus rocks and willows now poking through the runout zone). We had many fine runs, though. Sage went nuts of course; he and I shooting down the steepest pitches while Katie and Johanna took lesser slides. But we got them both on some steeper bits—better snow there—and I thoroughly enjoyed having Jo slide down into my arms, huge smile on her face, catching her and whirling her around. Sage was doing airborne 360° jumps off the lip and then he and I took turns standing like a statue while the other shot past as close as possible going probably twenty miles per. Had a great time! This is the sort of activity I’d never do alone…one of those things that’s better when you can share it. ◦◦◦◦◦ Jo was pooped. All of us were. We slogged back down the hill. And here’s a curious incident: Got to Dinky Creek, intersecting it right at the little gorge cut through the andesite. We’d been there last summer as well and I’d showed the kids the place where I leapt across the gorge on a whim, simply because I could. When I made that jump (maybe a bit shy of ten feet, downward, onto a tiny ledge near the top of the bluff) it went as planned except that my right shin briefly made contact with a protruding sharp edge that scraped off a chunk of my hide, ouch. ◦◦◦◦◦ So…the “curious incident” in question took place as we crossed the creek just upstream from the gorge. Hopping from a round rock mid-stream to the rubbly far shore, I landed on a flat rock “platter.” (The andesite tends to slough off in platy flakes.) The thing looked solid—I’d sized it up before jumping—but no!, it flipped up, catching me on both shins. Little in the way of blood but it did hurt pretty good. A couple of minutes later, hobbling, I suddenly realized that the very last time I’d barked my shins—which, I should note, are both absolutely plastered with scars—was that time, about five years ago. And not fifty feet away.
©2017 Tim Forsell 12 Feb 2017, 21 Oct 2025
