4 Oct (Wed) Packing out the trailcrew today. My clock’s alarm has been on the fritz so I roused about once an hour all through the night to make sure of not oversleeping. Each time I’d roll over to press the button that lights up the clock face, Shitbird—parked by my head—would stir, jump off the bed, and go eat a few crunchies or have a little drink of water. But every time I checked my clock there was a dense, furry, warm, alive-but-dormant catball curled up right next to my head. ◦◦◦◦◦ Then it was 4:30, which was close enough for government work. Lit lanterns and my already-laid fire with the same match, got the teapot on, and started another big day in the dark. Went out to feed the horses and mule, locked in the round corral. My flashlight beam glinted off four or five pairs of eyes. A frightened snort from one so I shone the light up on my face, “Hey! It’s only me!” Started to pour some pellets into one of the feeders but found that it already contained a load…in recycled form. One of the ne’er-do-wells, most likely Nickel, had done what amounts to crapping on your own dinner plate. I turned the heavy wooden feeder on its side, dumping out most of the leavings but by no means all. When I righted the thing and tipped some pellets in, by golly, they went after ‘em. With gusto. Musta been pretty hungry to eat breakfast mixed with fresh horse doo-doo. Actually, it probably didn’t bother them a bit. ◦◦◦◦◦ 28°F on the porch. Heard the pygmy owl, first time this season. (One seems to show up every fall around this time; prob’ly the same lonely bachelor.) Started saddling at oh-seven-hundred. I’d prepped this day pretty heavily—guaranteed to be a long one. Manda’s whole crew was depending on me and the sooner they get to town the happier they’ll be. So I was out brushing and saddling eight head in the frosty dawn; leather straps all stiff, still-wet pads half frozen. Wolfed down the last of, what?, four-day-old chili while suiting up and that was breakfast. Got underway before sun hit the cabin but it rose on Piute Meadows just as we were crossing the river. Nice touch. ◦◦◦◦◦ Faithful readers of this log—all two of them (you know who you are)—will recall the debacle back in June of last year when Nickel wankered my arm for the season. “He wasn’t broke to lead,” sez our horseshoer, “He was broke to tow.” Fortunately I haven’t had to use Nickel much since then but my right arm is still slightly numb so today I loose-herded him. [To “loose-herd” being Western-ese for “turned him loose to follow on his own.”] ◦◦◦◦◦ Equines being herd animals, I knew Nickel would stick close to his pals. And so he did, falling in right behind the string. We got through the gate and started up the first hill. I looked back: no Nickel. Waited. Waited some more…starting to get angry. The blankety-blank so-and-so finally ambled through the gate all la-la-la. And that was the story all the way to Harriet Lake. (That is, stop…’n’go’n’stop….’n’go…’n’stop) Had to halt numerous times. The string of six would bunch up behind me, gentle morning up-slope breeze bathing us all in a slow moving cloud of pulverized trail as we waited and waited for good ol’ Nickel. He’d finally amble up all casual-like, pausing aways back to nibble a bit of trailside grass. Me: raging inside; definitely some violent thoughts. Mind you, I’m trying to be professional—to show up not just on time but unfashionably early. And this horse, who I already have a vendetta with, sabotaged my plans. Yet again. ◦◦◦◦◦ Turned out we got to the crew’s camp just three minutes behind schedule. (When we rolled in, Michelle paid me a high compliment: “We were getting pretty worried, mister! You’re three minutes late!” ◦◦◦◦◦ Good to see the bunch and get a dose of that earthy trail crew vitality. Of course, everybody was rarin’ to hit the trail. Yesterday, Michelle and Jordan and Jessica climbed Tower Peak—nice going, team!!—and they told me people were slandering me in the summit register. Someone wrote next to my name (from last season) “the ranger is a dweeb.” Another, something about me being a “pork chop.” This had to be the work of my old friend, Deb, who works as a guide for Sierra Treks: joked with her once about how when we first met, years back, in Ventura, she was kinda plump and I said something about her being “a little pork chop.” She hasn’t let me forget. ◦◦◦◦◦ Got out with few problems, slow and steady. But did have one of those weird, synchronistic reality-glitches; the kind where trouble comes in clumps. Or bundles. Or baskets—whatever trouble is served up in. First: right after crossing the river when we left the cabin, found that I’d nicked one of the fingers on my right hand while necking the string. (Truth is, without fail I lose some blood every time I have to deal with livestock.) It was just a tiny nick but it struck a large-enough vessel that the bloody thing bled for over half an hour. And I mean, bled: stained the lead rope and got my fingers all sticky. For a while there, I continuously sucked the blood off and spat red. It was really quite annoying—the darn thing just wouldn’t quit leaking oil. But eventually it did. ◦◦◦◦◦ So: hours later, a mile from Lane Lake, I turned in the saddle to check on my string. Right then Woody, lead packhorse, set back for no apparent reason. Maybe I startled him when I turned. But his head whipped up and the lead rope zinged across the back of my right hand, which at that moment happened to be resting on my thigh. The rope was dallied around the saddlehorn—not supposed to do that, Tim, remember?—and slipped under some tension. (Hence the “zing.”) Ai-i-i-i!! Looked down to see an actual furrow plowed across the back of my hand—a two-and-a-half-inch-long shallow groove. Pale, glistening, not-yet-bleeding, raw man-flesh. No…wait…yep, oh yeah, here it comes! Oh, boy! Welling up out of the tiniest pores, then a nice, steady flow. Bleeding! Again! Oh, well. ◦◦◦◦◦
©2022 Tim Forsell 25 Mar 2022, 27 Jul 26
