Piute Log...Floating Meadow 1994

Less than a mile down canyon from the cabin was an obscure meadow known only to sheepherders, the local family  who formerly ran cattle in the area, pack station folk, and a few rangers past and present. (Of course, for The People who lived here for millenia before Europeans arrived, this spot was simply part of their greater home.) Though only a few hundred yards off the main West Walker trail, “Sheepherder Meadow” was completely hidden by a low forested ridge. Few people would find themselves tempted to follow the bed of the little brook that crossed the trail (which flows only in spring) up through its narrow draw before opening into a lovely, one acre glade. The Summers family, who for decades ran their cattle up in the West Walker headwaters, had a semi-permanent basecamp under some aspens on its eastern margin. The Summers, whose ranch was some miles downriver, outside the little town of Coleville, eventually stopped using their grazing allotment in the Upper West Walker country and, not surprisingly, abandoned a lot of old equipment and fencing material at their former campsite.

7 Sep (Wed)     ◦◦◦◦◦ Went into Sheepherder Meadow, first time in two years. Right off, found an old dump of rusty cans, probably forty years old. Loaded them in a sack and dropped it off at the campsite—all that old junk there needs packing out, including a couple of rusted-out 30 gallon drums, dozens of fence-stakes and heaps of wire. Groan. ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed home. Figured it was such a dry year I could walk right across the normally boggy meadow through the marshy area on the south end. Wrong! Double wrong!! This meadow is spring-fed and always wet. In fact (and I’ve experienced this before) the whole meadow out in the marshy section is nothing more than a thick turf growing on top of a concealed pond. It’s the most incredible sensation, actually quite disorienting and a little scary. A good way to describe it is that it feels like walking on a waterbed. Kid you not. Take a step and your boot sinks in enough that water starts welling up around it and the whole meadow surface in the immediate vicinity undulates in waves. Feels like you’re gonna punch through and get sucked under, eeeck! So I got almost to the far edge of the meadow but up ahead could see open water. (I’d completely forgotten discovering this sad fact on my last foray.) Tried to skirt it but had to backtrack all the way around; got almost frantic retracing my steps through the tall sedges, quagmire sucking at my boots down where I couldn’t see. Got all wet and muddy but made it out alive. When my brother comes to visit I think I’ll bring him here to the “floating gardens” just to blow his mind. ◦◦◦◦◦

     ©2018 Tim Forsell               15 May 2018                         

Piute Log--Peter Had a Plan 1997

11 Aug (Mon)     A much-needed day OFF. Colin [fellow ranger] left after unhurried late breakfast and I thereafter retired to my bunk with book and kitty. Took three long snoozes between reading sessions. ◦◦◦◦◦ Got woken from the last nap by a knock on the door. Uh-oh. It was Ruth, a woman from Arcata who’s been camped nearby with her husband and nephew these last few days. She informed me that the nephew, Peter, had minutes before been fishing just downriver from the cabin and slipped on a slimy rock. Wearing sandals, his foot slid into a crack and it looked like he’d broken a big toe. Ruth had me follow her across the river to check him out. Tom, the husband, was there with him, the kid clearly in pain. Went and saddled Red and got him back to their camp. I’ll show up there early tomorrow and we’ll ride out together. Ruth and Tom will walk. (Lucky that I have the extra horse.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Two other things worth mentioning: A guy camped up at the head of the meadow stopped by later. One of his horses lost a shoe and he needed nails, a replacement shoe, and tools. Two days straight I’ve busted out shoeing equipment! In my ten seasons, visitors have borrowed my shoeing “kit” three times now—total. ◦◦◦◦◦ The other item is a classic example of ranger mentality. Couple days ago I made a batch of tapioca pudding. Had one bowl left which I was very much looking forward to eating this afternoon. When I went to get it out of the cooler, found two big fat flies in there as well. This has happened before—they can squeeze through a little gap, thanks to the plastic lid having somehow become warped. Anyway, one of ‘em was standing in the middle of my bowl of pudding, looking pretty hypothermic. Grabbed the bowl and blew the fly off but then noticed that the pudding’s surface was liberally and randomly strewn with shiny little rice-grain-shaped fly eggs. Aargh!! Eeew!! But I wanted that pudding real bad so just scraped off half the surface layer/skin with a spoon and then wolfed it down without further thought. Most folks would find this pretty disgusting, I suppose. Not so the ranger. No way I’m throwing this out. Pudding was yummy, mmm-mm!   

            →  1 mile        →  injured backpacker 

12 Aug (Tue)     This jumbo-sized day began with my alarm going off at 4:15. Did all the things I do every morning (including leisurely tea-sipping and lap-cat-petting) and got to Ruth and Tom’s camp “on time” right at 8:00. They were just striking their tents and I was momentarily a bit peeved that they weren’t ready to roll but it was a frosty morn and the sun wasn’t yet up. Started loading their gear on Valienté as we chatted, no time wasted. (Packing out their gear so’s we could all basically make it to the trailhead around the same time.) Peter was hobbling around, pretty cheerful all things considered. He didn’t appear to be in agony but was certain the toe was broken and wanted out ASAP. ◦◦◦◦◦ I should describe this kid because he was so unusual (even though I’m, ahem, actually writing this almost two weeks after the fact and feel the urge to skip details and “catch up” to the present). So here goes: Ruth, again, is Peter’s aunt. Earth-motherish. Tom is very pleasant and urbane. (They met in Africa where both were doing research of some kind.) Two days ago Ruth turned 40. In fact, this trip’s “purpose” was to climb Tower Peak in celebration of that milestone day. Unfortunately, they didn’t quite make the summit due to a late start and some unspecified difficulty with altitude. ◦◦◦◦◦ Peter is uncommonly adult for someone of fifteen tender years. (Note “adult,” as opposed to “mature.”) He lives near Seattle and is far and away the most ambitious and driven young person I’ve ever met. Very self-assured, articulate, and direct. From his speech and manner, he could easily pass for 18 or 19. Now, this kid has got his whole life charted out. And on a tight schedule, no less. While not so very far beyond puberty, he’s somehow signed on with the Navy’s “Reserve program.” (Don’t really get any of this.) Peter’s plan is to finish his high school-ing at one of their academies, train to become a Navy jet fighter pilot, start college while still enlisted, and give them the required six years of service. After getting out, the Navy will pay for the rest of his college education and he’ll finally finish up with a masters in marine biology and, I suppose, remain in the Navy reserves…forever. Fair ‘nuf. ◦◦◦◦◦ We talked lots on the way out (plus some, yesterday eve). He clearly relishes talking about himself, his plans and many accomplishments. I wasn’t offended by any of this—he’s young and “special” and full of himself. But will admit that, with the visitors, I’m pretty much accustomed to being the “star,“ being relentlessly questioned and pumped for information about myself and my fabulous life. (Read that last with an ironic edge on “fabulous life.”) Peter, on the other hand, was focused on showing me what an awesome human being he was and freely offered up many examples. At one point, he did ask if I liked my job or something to that effect, purely as a requisite social gesture, but I gave a curt reply and he pressed for no more personal information. ◦◦◦◦◦  So I got a number of factual tidbits, dropped not-so-casually, that let me piece some of his story together: Currently, Peter is working towards an EMT certification. Has just returned from Louisiana, where he got his pilots’ license (this, no doubt, a big jump on his peers when it comes to getting into Navy flight school). He plans to parachute out of an airplane on his 16^th  birthday. Has done some rock climbing and mountaineering…wants to climb Mt. Rainier soon. Very handy with computers (his father is a coder). Rides horses regularly, so nothing particularly novel about being in the saddle. When he asked me if I hunted and I answered in the negative he said, offhandedly, “I used to bow hunt.” I thought to myself, Used to bow hunt? What, when you were eleven? At one point I commented, “Your peers must be pretty impressed by all your accomplishments.” He replied with what I’d already found to be a stock phrase: “OH-yeah,” like one word, heavy inflection on the “oh,” spoken with a tone of smug self confidence. When he was telling his plans for schooling and future career I commented, “Sounds like you’ve got your life pretty well mapped out already.” He replied, “OH-yeah,” and totally missed the irony. I shouldn’t be so critical but being irritatingly superior is obviously a big part of who this kid is. Can’t help but admire such incredible focus and the sheer determination to be extraordinary. But I can easily imagine the pain and misery in store for him down the line…the inevitable humbling that awaits those who have such unchained egos. The life-long quest for more experiences. For further validation. I forsee repeated failures with women, multiple divorces, emotionally damaged children…the alienation of friends and co-workers as he rockets up the ladder, two rungs at a time. The problems and remorse that go hand-in-hand with doing whatever it takes to succeed. Whoever he is, Peter will no doubt have an amazing life. But it’s not too likely that he’ll ever really know himself or learn to go slow and relax; his life will always be full-speed-ahead and he’ll probably die without ever knowing his own soul. End of sermon. ◦◦◦◦◦ We cruised along, chatting most of the way. Met many visitors but didn’t give them much attention. One cool thing: met a couple who’d been at Roosevelt Lake. They were fishing from an inflatable raft when they saw a garter snake with a fish in its jaws. The snake swam across the lake and they followed it to the shore, then watched snake ingest its prey à la “Welcome to the Wild Kingdom.” They were stoked, recounting the story. ◦◦◦◦◦ Ran into Doc, out pruning trees, and remembered to ask him about the little card I’d found the other day attached to several balloons that had sailed here all the way from Marysville [A town north of Sacramento, 125 air-miles away.] (The little card was a sort of pledge that read, “DRUG FREE—THAT’S THE WAY FOR ME!—If you find this card, please send it back to me!” and was signed by an eight-year-old named Carrie before being cast off.) I’d written the name of the grade school in my notebook to show to the Doc, who lives in Yuba City, the town next door, when I saw him next. Told him the school’s name and asked if he was familiar it. Well, he definitely was. Get this: Doc said that his wife, Liz, used to substitute-teach at this school when they first moved to Yuba City! Doc didn’t seem terribly impressed. I found it slightly remarkable. ◦◦◦◦◦ To the pack station and left my charge with best wishes before heading back in. Got home after 7:00. Oh—one last thing: Peter’s plans had changed. After this trip, he was signed up for some kind of  Leadership Training (part of his Navy Reserve gig). But now, with his busted toe, he wouldn’t be able to attend and bemoaned the fact that, without this particular training session under his belt, couldn’t “advance in rank” (???) on schedule and would “lose an entire year.” (???) 

          → 48 visitors           →  successful evac          →  1 lb trash           →  23 miles

        ©2019 Tim Forsell         5 Nov 2019

          

Piute Log...Charismatic Mini-Fauna 1991

A local beauty-spot, known to few: the minor gorge of Cascade Creek, which starts its brief journey at Dorothy Lake Pass on the Yosemite border, flows through several lakes in short order and then down a steep slope (a lateral moraine, actually) before dumping into the West Walker. The High Sierra holds literally thousands of these little creeks, named and nameless, fed by springs and snowmelt. Each and every one sports picturesque waterfalls and frothy torrents, hidden glades…countless scenes worthy of long, appreciative gazes. Cascade Creek’s half-mile-long gorge, cut through ancient metamorphic rock, is paralleled by a well-used trail. To most hikers, this dusty stretch of stock trail is an annoyingly long hill to surmount on one’s way to the lake destinations above or a compulsory grind along the route into The Park. For those inclined to explore, though, it’s easy to get pulled off the too-beaten path in those few spots where tumbling water can be heard nearby. The reward is a pleasant stroll along the gorge’s edge (or, in times of low water, to actually get down in it and scramble/climb up the numerous cascades and short waterfalls). During the course of a season, I’d usually amble up or down it once or twice…just for the joy.

22 Oct (Tue)     A tremendous wind blew up in the night—that’s what last evening’s orange glow in the west was all about. Perhaps the last good weather for awhile. Actually, it was pretty cold and windy yesterday—I already forgot!—but nothing like this. ◦◦◦◦◦ So I hunkered right by the stove in my little folding chair and read, Rip insisting on being in my lap. It wasn’t so very cold—only got down to 43° last night—but the wind was streaming through all the cabin’s cracks, chinks, and gaps and I had to duct-tape the cat-door shut. The howling wind made the cabin an inviting sanctuary but, finally, hit the trail with hands a-pocket at around noon. ◦◦◦◦◦ From the main trail, crossed Cranney’s meadow and followed the east side of the river down to Cascade Creek. It’s a tangled jungle in there compared to most of the forested areas hereabouts. ◦◦◦◦◦ Up Cascade Creek again. Not so windy in the creek bottom. All the little trout-holding pools that were glassy-calm the other day are now covered with twigs and willow leaves and fir needles. Makes them even more lovely in a way; reminds me of back east…very autumn-ey. ◦◦◦◦◦ A sweet treat at Lower Cascade Falls. Was just getting ready to climb through the marble slot when I spotted a tiny rufous-colored critter out of the corner of my eye: a winter wren! First one I’ve seen in the drainage, though they must be summer residents. I froze and it obligingly flew into the folded marble at the base of the falls. While it was out of sight I rushed up and crouched behind a little wall of rock. It eventually came out of a crevice and started inching its way up the wall. Winter wrens are the tiniest of birds, little round fluffy feather-balls, mouse-like, a darker brown than most wrens, the color of shadowed forest floor. They bob and twitch and, like other members of their family, are exceptionally tame. The tail is ridiculously short and stubby, maybe 3/4” long, and it sticking straight up at almost a right angle to its back. For some reason this is smile-inducing…reminds me of a happy kitten’s tail held aloft. ◦◦◦◦◦ The little critter climbed right up the vertical wall picking minute somethings from the seeps and mossy clumps, clinging to rock or moss with its tiny-tiny claws. It “walked” up the rock, occasionally fluttering higher. Watched the him/her/it for ten minutes ‘til I started getting stiff (needed to press on, anyway) so I stood up to go. But the mousebird, instead of flying or scurrying off, just went about its business. I tip-toed within six feet while it calmly took a quick bath in a little pool at the lip of the fall. When it disappeared from view I rushed up and climbed the marble wall. Peeking over the lip, there’s the sassy little character only four feet away. It glanced at me over its shoulder a few times, checking me out, but showed little concern for my presence. Tiniest glittering black eyes, a delicate little bill, with subtle patterns on flanks and wing feathers you can only see up close. It hopped into holes and tunnels in the marble, constantly picking up tidbits, things invisible to my eye. Another outstanding nature show, the sort of thing you see in holy places like this one. Thank you! ◦◦◦◦◦ I was back up on the trail shortly and retrieved my cached shovel. Cleaned waterbreaks to past the Cascade Creek crossing (including ten new drainage dips—I’m still learning to see the trail run-off patterns) and rebuilt a defunct number using one giant slab. Moved much loose stone off this always rock-filled rocky trail with wind howling all the while. Grit in the eyes, alas. ◦◦◦◦◦ Stashed shovel and headed home. Took the old trail from the Cascade Creek bridge down as far as the Cinko Lake junction. Noted western blueberry growing in those marshy flats with red heather and Labrador tea. Also found a “new” really old camp, used since we hairless apes started coming here, one I’ve cleaned out several times without noticing the profusion of oldcarvings on lodgepoles: 1888…95…1902. A “JFG  188?” (This is the guy who carved the one from 1879 that’s on the downed log near Point Camp, the only other carving I’ve seen of his.) I’ll definitely explore in there some more, hopefully find others. A cool find as I’ve not noticed any other arborglyphs along the Cascade trail. ◦◦◦◦◦ Reversed my route aside from getting back on the main trail sooner. Home a bit after six, wind still howling. No bath toooo-night, nope! It is October, after all. Fired up the stove and got warm. Later, it started to rain and continued off and on ‘til sleeptime. ◦◦◦◦◦ Before hitting the sack, walked to the firewood log [a nearby fallen log I was cutting up for firewood] in rainy dark to retrieve the crosscut. (Glad I remembered—would hate to let Fang get rusty.) Rip came along and didn’t seem to mind the rain at all—he raced and romped in the dark! Some cat he are!

                        →  4 ½ miles     →  1 lb trash     → 17 WBs cleaned     → 1 WB built

     ©2019 Tim Forsell          14 Oct 2019                                

Tax Guide Absurdities

For years, when tax season arrived, I’d receive both my federal and state tax guidebooks in the mail, a jolting reminder that the time had come around yet again. They weren’t mass mailings; these copies were specifically addressed to me and included the special peel-off labels I’d attach to my finished tax returns, somehow magically speeding their processing. But they never came with the actual forms to be filled out—these I’d pick up at the Lone Pine Post Office. In the lobby with the town’s thousand-plus mailboxes, open at all hours, there’d be stacks of the various common federal forms—1040s, 1040As, 1040EZs—along with the corresponding California State versions. And you could take your pick. There were always bales of them—far, far more than this little town needed, and I’d yearly marvel at the many tons of waste paper generated and spread all across our fair nation. 

            For some reason, in 2010, I never received my federal tax guide in the mail and eventually, when it never showed up, assumed that this was some new money-saving deal. There were no guidebooks in the P.O. and, when I asked one of the clerks, he suggested that maybe they had them over at the library.

            The Lone Pine Library is a classic small-town, one room affair. Rather sad, in fact, with an appalling collection of hand-me-down books but a pretty important civic commodity to the folks who used it. At the time, it had two clunky PCs that received a lot of use. By this time it was early April—down to the wire as usual—so I went over there to try and find myself a copy of the booklet. They had none of the usual kind but the librarian handed me a half-inch-thick, glue-bound almost-a-book with a flat spine and actual cover:

TAX GUIDE

FOR INDIVIDUALS

        Publication 17

      Catalog Number 10311G

Back home, perusing the guide, it was obvious that this wasn’t what I needed. There were no step-by-step instructions. This was the Official Guide for all matters relating to paying one’s taxes…the esoteric and arcane…the nuts and bolts. And it quickly confirmed my long-held impression that, completely aside from having to part with our hard-earned income, taxes are indeed the most complex and dreadful thing we have to deal with as citizens. Page after page after page of mind-numbing categories and sub-categories of rules and regulations with just the sort of titles one would imagine came with such byzantine matters. Here are a few sample headings:

         Wages, Salaries, and Other Earnings

Keeping a Daily Tip Record

            Adjustments to Qualified Education Expenses  
            

                            Limits on Rental Losses

          Special Rules for Certain Employees      Fringe Benefits                        

Recapturing (Paying Back) a Federal Mortgage Subsidy  Education To Meet Certain Requirements What If I Made a Mistake? Gains and Losses     What Acts Result in Additional Taxes? Provider Identification Test   
How To Deduct Alimony Paid  Impairment-Related Work Expenses           Allocation of Interest Expense  Taxation of Nonperiodic Payments How To Report Interest Income How To Figure Each Payment    Rule 13. You    Cannot Be a Qualifying Child of Another Person  Capitol Gains Distributions          Determining Fair Market Value    Performing Artists and Fee-Basis Officials                    
    Entertainment Expenses    Non-Deductible Expenses 

                     
                  Taxes and Fees You Cannot Deduct

Your Rights as a Taxpayer

Astonished (and in a not-so-good way), with my brain growing increasingly muddled, I stumbled  upon Other Income, page 137. What follows are some choice excerpts under that benign-sounding heading, reproduced in original form and, to all appearances, neither ironic nor intended for levity. (After all, what could be more serious and less humorless than a government-issued tax guide?)

The following brief discussions are arranged in alphabetical order. Income items that are discussed  in greater detail in another publication include a reference to that publication.

Bribes. If you receive a bribe, include it in your income.

Illegal Activity. Income from illegal activities, such as money from dealing illegal drugs, must be included in your income on Form 1040, line 21, or Schedule C or Schedule C-EZ if from your self-employment activity.

Kickbacks. You must include kickbacks, side commissions, push money, or similar payments you receive in your in-come on Form 1040, line 21, or on Schedule C or Schedule C-EZ (Form 1040), if from your self-employment activity.

Stolen Property. If you steal property, you must report its fair market value in your income in the year you steal it unless in the same year, you return it to its rightful owner.

Pulitzer, Nobel, and similar prizes. If you were awarded a prize in recognition of accomplishments in religious, charitable, scientific, artistic, educational, literary, or civic fields, you generally must include the value of the prize in your income. However, you do not include this prize in your income if you meet all of the following requirements….

Is this some kind of twisted joke? Some little farcical nugget that someone whose job involves preparing such documents tucked away to bring some much-needed mirth to a cheerless task? After reading through it several times, I think not. It must be a sort of gesture, a bow to the principle of fairness and equality. But, seriously.

 Better watch out, all you Pulitzer and Nobel Prize-winners! You may be audited!

      ©2019 by Tim Forsell           17 Oct 2019

                                                                                                                     

Piute Log...Bear in the Cabin (Again) 1991

This, the last of a long season—the only one where I was kept on into November. That year, in order to minimize the time seasonals would be eligible for unemployment compensation, the Forest Service kept us rangers working part time for an extra month. (It was a complete waste of everybody’s time and they never tried it again.)◦◦◦◦◦About the several references to dead horses in this entry: this summer was notable for my having to deal with two of them, both owned by private stock-users, both died by accident. One was hit by lightning and the other fell and broke its hip. The latter was just up at the head of the uppermost Piute Meadow, less than a mile from the cabin, and over the course of only a few weeks I got to observe the fascinating process of its reduction to scattered bones. More on that later….

1 Nov (Fri)     Heading straight back to Piute. Up before dawn. 15° outside, probably about 20° in the camper. One last shower at Wheeler in the rusty shower with paint flaking down the drain. Wolfed toast and eggs while finishing final clean-up of the guard station. Since I’ve been working in Bridgeport it’s not been left so neat’n’tidy at season’s end. Kinda pointless seeing as how next spring there’ll be a liberal scattering of mouse turds on every surface flat enough they won’t slide off. ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed for town. A clear and delightfully shiny autumn day of the super-crisp variety. Snow quickly melting up the south-facing mountain flanks but there to stay in the high, shady places. Bought food in town, said goodbyes to a few folks I won’t likely see again and drove my truck to the barn to pack. It was sunny and warm there with leaves sifting down from the cottonwoods and blowing around in circles in that little lee zone by the corral. Caught Becky easy and she loaded in the stock truck first try! She’s getting better! Maybe! ◦◦◦◦◦ At the pack station, Bart drove in as I was unloading the stock. I went over to say goodbye and thanks-for-everything just before riding. He was busy packing up leftover food and, like Doc gets, seemed preoccupied and looked a little grumpy so I didn’t try to chat. His only comment worth mentioning was, “You guys sure are gluttons for punishment” after I told him I’d be up at Piute for five days. Told Bart, “I’m not worried about staying warm at the cabin; I’m more concerned about staying warm after I leave.” And then it was “Have a good winter!”s—that all-purpose parting expression us seasonal workers give and receive. ◦◦◦◦◦ Lined em’ out, necked em’ up, and up the trail went we. Horses balky at weird-looking, frozen-over Leavitt Creek crossing but Leavitt Meadows proper was already almost entirely snow-free. A couple of aspen clones at the head of the meadow still totally green and quaking away while other patches were almost bare-nekkid. The snowy mountains gorgeous and foreboding. I’ve never seen them clothed thus. Pure romance. Had that old feeling from early mountaineering days of Nobody knows where I am or cares, feeling the uncertainty and actual danger (mostly on account of the stock, visualizing snowdrifts and hidden slickrock ahead). Rode right into it with eyes wide open. Bart didn’t have much advice to offer aside from two things: to not get off and walk ahead, leading them through the tough spots since, “When you’re walking rather than riding you’re more likely to get stomped if they flounder. That is, if you don’t fall off and get crushed. Other than that, just try to stay on the trail.” ◦◦◦◦◦ The snow started in earnest once we hit the first fir forest. No surprise, there—it’s so densely timbered. Even in midsummer, only the odd shaft of sunlight picks its way through to the ground. And so began a great lesson: I had no trouble staying on the trail because it was already well-tracked. No Vibram®sole prints though—only hoofies and toe-pads. ◦◦◦◦◦ All the four-footers are leaving the mountains, bailing out. Even the birds mostly gone, or so it seemed. Heard not a chickadee nor junco nor solitaire on the way in while I’d seen literally hundredsof robins—they were everywhere—around Leavitt campground yesterday. And the trail was obvious thanks to the prints of bear and deer and coyote all mixed together. None of their usual meanderings through the timber on the hillsides or at least well off the trail; it was time to leave and all the migrating animals had done just that. They jumped on the freeway. None of these tracks were fresh—everybody’d left yesterday or in the night. The mountains had emptied of life, just like that. I could feel the silence. Saw only the tracks of overwintering chickarees bounding between trees to show that anybody had stuck around. It was a stunning realization (for me) to see how the mountains shut down for business at the end of the season—had no idea it was like this. And if I were on the natural rhythm of things I’d be gone, too. It was especially striking to see the big prints showing Ursa marching purposefully through the now-sunken snow on the trail, to imagine those great big hairy slobbering goof-offs hiking out of the mountains heading who-knows-where. ◦◦◦◦◦ Stayed warm and the stock did fine. Watched the trail like townfolks watch TV. One memorable scene: heading up the ’83 reroute before the Long Canyon junction, where all the wild critters had used the old trail. Ranger in leather chaps and green watch cap and Filson wool coat riding big white horse and leading his string up a snow-filled draw, no sign of a trail through unblemished snow concealing boulders and slickrock. My first time riding through virgin snow-covered land. Western-style romance, for sure. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode the last few miles after the sun was down. Sure getting dark early. Snow got noticeably thicker in the last mile and thicker yet by the time we reached Upper Piute. I guess the valley of the upper meadows is a big bowl that storms like this one just sit in and dump. (I’ve often wondered how much snow Piute gets in winter.) At the gate, had some trouble pulling the thing out of the drifted, crusty snow. (Laid it on the ground when I left and it was completely buried.) ◦◦◦◦◦ I’d started having bear-in-cabin thoughts the first time I saw those tracks down in the fir forest—thinking about how those guys were all leaving and wondered if one or two had stopped by the cabin first. All that grain….didn’t close the metal door. By the time we hit Fremont junction, seeing more tracks on the trail, was thinking I’d likely had a visit and started steeling myself. Then, riding the last bit to the cabin past the gate and seeing those big prints crisscrossing the meadow, was certain of it. ◦◦◦◦◦ Tied the horses to the hitch rail in eight solid inches (most people would call it a foot without thinking twice) and headed with trepidation to the porch in waning light. But enough light left to detect general pandemonium and disorder. The porch had been turned upside down and shaken—plastic trashcans full of empty feed sacks emptied, sacks strewn, along with horse tack and sundry porch-inhabiting items. The grain bin was severely chewed-upon and now empty. Worst of all, in the almost-dark, saw that the bottom panel of the wooden door had been chomped through and bashed in: Bear in the cabin. [There was an outer, grated-metal, “bear-proof” door that I usually left open while the cabin was occupied.] “Ohhh, well,” I sighed out loud. And, Shoulda knowed better, fool, said the older and wiser voice in my head. ◦◦◦◦◦ Left my cohorts steaming (yes, steaming) at the hitchrail and went in to further assess damages. It was pretty much dark inside. I was met immediately by the overturned, formerly full of grain fifty-gallon drum on the floor with contents spread wide and far. Felt for the matches (container knocked over and matches scattered), all the while sighing inside with that peculiar sorrowful resignation. Hard to describe the anticipation/dread I was feeling while lighting the lantern—brain a-whirl, inventorying possible losses with lightning speed. When the Coleman flared to life I was presented with a scene both dismaying and cause for much relief. ◦◦◦◦◦ Taking stock: Bed and bookshelves were untouched. Unpawed. Phew. That meant a less-than-generalized mayhem. Grain everywhere and a sack from the three-high stack on the floor torn open and eaten-on. Cool-pantry open and contents obviously destroyed. Ice chest open and on its side, emptied but inexplicably not perforated. Tall cabinet undisturbed! No doors ripped off anything à la 1987. Several large Ursa-turds on the floor, half-frozen, ewww. (They looked like big wads of granola mixed with molasses.) A mess of slimy gunk all over the other bunk’s mattress. ◦◦◦◦◦ Got the other lantern lit and within minutes knew I’d gotten off easy this time around. Nothing really important appeared to be broken or mangled aside from the door and the grain bin on the porch so I carried a lantern out and unsaddled the boys and girly-mule. Gave them a load of [alfalfa] pellets poured into snow-filled mangers. ◦◦◦◦◦ Wedged the splintered bottom panel of the door back in as best I could and started a fire. [This was a piece of half-inch plywood that replaced the original, bear-destroyed lower door panel.] Taped the giant hole in it shut with duct-tape. (Bear had initially “widened” the cat door before knocking the whole thing in.) Right off I scooped up the bear poop with the dust pan and tossed it over the porch railing, then lit a last stick of incense saved, I guess, for just such an occasion. Ladled grain back into the metal drum with the dust pan—a handy tool!—and raked up the junk. Jim D’s cute tin that held my tea bags was a loss but my good ceramic mug I found laying on the table on its broad mouth, fallen from the shelf above but—miraculously—unbroken. (It has a really delicate, thin rim for a hand-made mug.) The most significant damage was in the back corner where the contents of ice chest, cool-pantry, and “free food and stuff” box had been mauled and/or eaten. (I liked the fact that the “free food and stuff” box took the worst hit.) Some of the ice chest stuff was uneaten and salvageable but the veggies were frozen; from the cool-pantry my dried apricots and peanut butter were obviously missing but other things undefiled. The bear even figured out the door latch instead of just ripping the thing off its hinges! Over all, I was extremely pleased, especially after I’d found my logs undamaged and papers scattered on the floor but okay. A very thoughtful and considerate bear…. ◦◦◦◦◦ I’d had toast and eggs for breakfast and a candy bar and chips for lunch. Starved. It was well-dark and I was just wrapping my head around the idea of dinner after final sweep-up. But before chow prep, took a dose of grain out to the horses and mule. When I got to the round corral my flashlight beam revealed a scene that froze me into my already frozen tracks: right in front of the corral, Zeke was lying on his side, ribs heaving, steaming, and soaked in sweat. Please, oh noooo…not this!◦◦◦◦◦ Even with my extremely limited knowledge of equine medicine, I recognized symptoms of colic. Twisted gut. Agony…can cause death, a bad death.Why now? What to do?All these things in my brain in an instant, all together. The uncertainty, the remoteness, the snow, dark dark night. This was one of those moments when you really get that you’re truly on your own in this world. I had just been starting to think about dinner and it was cold & dark and just so quickly my agenda changed. ◦◦◦◦◦ Walked back to the cabin in a daze, an up-against-the-wall kinda daze. Went for my files and pulled out a piece I’d saved from packing school, an article about equine colic written specifically for backcountry stock-users. I skimmed it and saw right off that my diagnosis was correct. There were several scenarios and one fit this situation perfectly: Horse gets colicky after a day on the trail, situation remote, no possibility of evacuation. Medical facilities minimal.It said to administer painkillers and, basically, to not waste time worrying because nature would take its course. ◦◦◦◦◦ Well, fortunately, I had a small vial of Banamine [equine painkiller] on hand so I shot Zeke up with 12cc, the prescribed dose for a horse his size. He’d scrambled to his feet by the time I went back out there and was standing, sweat-soaked and steaming and quivering all over, pawing at a rock incessantly and tossing his head towards his gut—in obvious distress, poor fella. My heart went out to this horse I feel no fondness for whatsoever. I rammed that thick-gauge needle into his thigh, pushed in the plunger, and went back to make supper and try not to think about him. Left him untied as per the article’s advice. He wasn’t “thrashing” so I wasn’t thinking about having to kill him with a Pulaski. (Not yet, ulp.) I certainly did have visions of a dead horse to deal with in the morning. Another one. And having to call in on the radio. ◦◦◦◦◦ All this made for a rather anxious dinner at eight (felt like a July ten o’clock) of canned soup and crackers. Didn’t have the attention or energy left to make a meal. Plus it was cold and the porch was covered with snow and a bear had been in the cabin and I had no kitties and it was a loooong day. Kept listening for sounds of horse-anguish. Went out later and Zeke was up and eating pellets, still sweating and steaming and quivering but eating.I could hear gut-rumblings—a good sign. I relaxed. He seemed even better, later, and I stopped thinking about having to deal with yet another dead horse. The stars were blazing in a frigid-looking void, a beautiful night. All’s well in the world and I’m still a lucky dog I guess. 

  

→ no visitors         → 10½ miles        → bear visitation         → sick horse

     ©2019 Tim Forsell                                                                                                                                                 

          17 May 2019                                      

Piute Log...The No-Pants Lady 1990

One of my all-time favorite “visitor contacts.” (Our meager record-keeping consisted, in part, of keeping tallies of individual contacts and numbers of individuals.) Throughout my entire ranger career, it was really unusual to meet a woman hiking alone. In twenty summers, I met probably maybe half a dozen. It was rare to see all-female groups from pairs on up. Hopefully this has changed.

2 Aug (Thu)    ◦◦◦◦◦ No problems going out. Had one fairly amazing viz contact: riding along the shore of Lane Lake—nobody around. But there’s a lady having lunch in the “No Camping Here” site by the edge of the water. She had her pack leaning against the log and was herself sitting on an ensolite pad and leaning back against her pack. I veered off the trail to go talk and she didn’t hear me coming over the roar of her little gas stove til I was 20 feet away. She was startled when she saw me and a little embarrassed because she was pants-less! As soon as this became apparent, I discreetly gazed off into the trees while she hastily put her shorts back on. A “big boned gal,” strawberry blond and muscular, rosy-cheeked; a pleasant, soft voice. She had been on the trail alone since June 15 and most recently had come from Tuolumne Meadows. (She had no permit, she said, because she’d hitched to The Meadows late and the permit booth was closed.) She’d gone out of the mountains several times for supplies and hitched rides to towns and back. Also, she was a couple of days overdue because she’d fallen asleep in the sun one day (with no clothes on, I assume) and had sustained severe burns that had made her really sick. To top it off, this woman is from Manhattan where she’d lived most of her life. She made her living as a roofer (had “done a lot of roofing,” she said, wearily). An amazing woman—would’ve loved to have heard her story. ◦◦◦◦◦

     ©2018 Tim Forsell                                                                                                                                                 

          23 Nov 2018                      

Piute Log...Hidden Hawks 2001

1 Sep (Sat)     Big day but not a lot to write about. Talked to many visitors, all small groups, some good encounters. The one kinda nifty thing that happened today had to do with a bird’s shadow. A “bird’s shadow”? Hunh!? ◦◦◦◦◦ As a kid I was a pretty serious bird-person (kept lists and records) and, starting when I was ten, frequently walked up into a canyon in the foothills near my home—my first wilderness. One afternoon I was meandering through the coastal sage scrub and scared up a bird. Didn’t even see it but said to myself, “brown towhee.” This is a pretty standard thing with birders—to say a bird’s name in your head whenever you make an ID—and it almost slipped right by me until I noticed that I’d identified this bird by the sound its wing feathers made as they brushed against the chaparral. As it turns out, this innocuous event was somewhat pivotal for me: the first time I truly grokked that we (humans) are capable of amazing perceptivity and, importantly, that we often notice things on a less-than-conscious level. I’d seen and watched literally hundredsof towhees. And, without ever consciously registering the information, knewthe sound their feathers made against the dense brush they inhabit when they light off the ground. And knew, because of the specific habitat, that this was a brown towhee and not its cousin, the rufous-sided, that lived in the slightly more open places along the creek. The lesson was this: We know a lot more than we know we know. ◦◦◦◦◦ Today I had a similar experience. Was just coming out of the fir forest, heading into Porcupine Flats. Up, and to my right, noticed the flickering shadow of a flying bird’s wings cast through layers of tree branches and broken into a thousand pieces. It’s not as if I saw a clearly silhouetted shadow, but had a sense of a strong, rapid wingbeat from a mid-sized bird. Silence. My head-voice said, “Cooper’s hawk,” but then another part of me thought, How the heck can you tell? I rode out of the dense forest just then into the open, scanning but not expecting to see anything. There, overhead, a Cooper’s hawk was circling. And it just happened to be flying around the crown of the grandfather Jeffery pine [largest tree in the West Walker drainage] and just as it disappeared from view a redtail hawk burst out of the top branches. The much smaller accipiter had been harassing it. Had my head tilted way back, watching, holding my hat on my head, mouth gaped open. Neither bird spoke. Neither did I. But was moved by the poetic beauty of the entire event, yet another seemingly staged nature-drama. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode all the way out to Leavitt Campground then to the trailhead parking lot where I checked the permit books. Chatted with Craig and Dan at the pack station. Craig had a black eye, scrapes, and a visibly swollen jaw. Assumed he’d gotten into a wreck with stock. After a few minutes of smallish talk I finally asked, “Well. What happened to you? Looks like you’ve been in a bar fight.” The bar-fight reference is an old expression used for this exact kinda circumstance: a jive way to pry out the cause of some unexpected, unspecified physical damage to someone’s person. Well, pretty good guess…he hadbeen in a bar fight! Just last night, Craig and a couple of the other packers drove over the hill to Kennedy Meadows Resort. They walked into the tavern right as a brawl commenced and, with the worst kinda luck, Craig strolled right into somebody’s fist. He was knocked out cold (remembered none of this) and came-to at the bottom of a dog pile. Some fun. ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed home. I’d intended to go up to Fremont (talked to five parties, heading there) but spent too much time doling out ranger-lectures today so rode barn-ward instead. This made Red happy. Very clear skies; no smoke.

                        

→  43 visitors            →  500 lbs rock          →  12 lbs trash 
                                                                                                                        
          →  22 miles           →  another great moonrise

     ©2019 Tim Forsell