Timstories

Thursday, March 6, 2025

Piute Log...How to Recycle a Horse 1991

Things happen: on occasion a horse or mule will meet an untimely end deep in the backcountry. Over the years, packers and private stock-users shared stories about horrible wrecks they’d witnessed firsthand or heard about. (One, forever lodged in my brain, about an entire string of mules that went over a cliff when one slid off the trail and drug the rest with it.) I had a few close calls of my own but, fortunately, never killed a horse. Never had to put one down. I was lucky. ◦◦◦◦◦ This installment of Piute Log is about the time I had, not one, but two dead horses on my hands. The first was struck by lightning and, shortly thereafter, another suffered a freak accident—this one, just half a mile from the cabin. ◦◦◦◦◦ References to cattle: around this time, portions of the upper West Walker drainage were part of a long-time grazing allotment used by a local ranch family. When the cows came on, the fenced “administrative” pasture at Piute would routinely get broken into—calves would wriggle their way between the strands of my decrepit drift fences and their moms would crash through after them. Hikers would occasionally not close gates behind them. Either way, every so often I’d come home after a long day on the trail to find a dozen bovines munching down my horses’ autumn feed. (The grass on my side of the fence was greener, apparently.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Mike and Rene were a couple from Fallon, NV, who came up several times each season without fail. They almost always camped in Upper Piute Meadows—“good people” and model backcountry stock-users. We became friendly and would often share a meal when they were around. Mike Vidal was a real character: late forties around this time, a lineman by trade; former mule-packer, endurance rider, rodeo calf-roper, nonstop talker. Raised in Orange County, this former surfer somehow transformed himself into an authentic cowboy-type and spoke with a flawless Nevada western twang. Now, Mike was somewhat notorious for losing livestock in the backcountry. Misplacing four-legged animals in the mountains is shockingly easy—nothing to be ashamed of, but it’s always embarrassing if someone else finds the escapees before you do. (The lost horses mentioned in this piece were finally located a couple of weeks later, miles from where they’d gone missing.) ◦◦◦◦◦ One last note: “hobby-horsers” is a mildly derogatory term for a distinctive breed of private stock users—moderately wealthy people as a rule; inexperienced and/or clueless in the art of backcountry stock-use. Though well intended, hobby-horsers—hands down—do more damage and commit more livestock-related eco-crimes than any other category of wilderness visitors. Mostly out of sheer ignorance. Their equally inexperienced, high-strung animals typically live at boarding facilities and are often freaked-out at being in an unfamiliar situation. I’d spend a lot of time with these folks when we met on the trail, educating them. Like Mike and Rene, a few became regular visitors and over the years I got to see just how much my added efforts paid off. Small victories.

13 Aug (Mon) Back from Yosemite, heading into Piute. Greta packing the trailcrew into their camp at Fremont junction today. She asked for help. Well, of course! Both of us had things to take care of first so by the time we were out at the barn saddling and gathering tack it was almost noon. The crew was already at the pack station with their stuff so we hustled out there. Got everything of theirs loaded onto five animals and finally achieved escape velocity. ◦◦◦◦◦ Met some hobby-horsers just past Lane Lake—a couple, recently moved to the area (Carson City), who plan to visit on a regular basis. Gave them a good talking to and a copy of the Backcountry Stock Users booklet (always carry one in my saddlebags) and marked the best stock camps on their map. They were appreciative and seemed “okay.” We’ll see. With hobby-horsers you never know—even if they’re wearing ridiculous costumes and their gear is all shiny & new and they’re riding $20,000 Appaloosas, sometimes they actually know what they’re doing. A few of them—not many, but a few—have surprised me. ◦◦◦◦◦ To the crew camp, already past quittin’ time. Dropped the loads in minutes. Greta headed back out and I pressed on. Another long day for my boss. ◦◦◦◦◦ In Lower Piute, rode up on some guy erecting his tent right by the trail. Turned out to be a Scout leader who’d somehow gotten separated from his wards. Nice fella. Surprisingly calm and unperturbed, given the circumstances. With incisive questioning, figured out where his group was located (he couldn’t recall the lake’s name) leaving him much relieved. ◦◦◦◦◦ Home at last. Hey, what’s this? Two messages tacked to the cabin door. One from Dieter, the guy camped with his family up at the head of the meadow. Something about a dead horse…please advise. Oh, no. The other, a crumpled note from Mike Vidal, apparently delivered by a backpacker. He and Rene were at Tilden Lake [fifteen miles distant, in Yosemite NP]. Two of their horses had run off and—not exactly sure why—he wanted to let me know. Now, I hardly ever find notes left on my door…only a few times, total. Today, two of ‘em. And this: when I arrived there were at least twenty cows on the cabin side of the drift fence. Hate that! Ran ‘em out, Rawhide-style—that is, at full gallop, hyah-hyah!ing at the top of my lungs. Red thought I’d lost my mind. Fresh pies everywhere. Looked like they’d been in for a couple of days. Sigh. Cow flops in the yard. A big one right in front of the porch step. (At least, no cow dookie on the porch.)

→ 17 visitors → 10½ miles

14 Aug (Wed) While I was over in Yosemite the meadow turned gold. In just those few days of being gone, Upper Piute went from green-tinged-with-gold to gold-tinged-with-green. Always happens around this time of year: I stand on the porch and gaze out at the meadow, hardly able to remember when it was that pure, malachite-green of Earlyjune. Definitely one of those poignant moments that occur every season, just the one time. There are others, others like it, all of them bittersweet. ◦◦◦◦◦ Turned into a weird day. After breakfast, saddled Red and went to visit the dead-horse people. They were getting breakfast ready (smell of frying bacon drifting through the trees so good). Dieter took me over and introduced me to the victim, clearly visible under a blue tarp not fifty yards from camp. Here’s the story: They got packed in last week and brought along one horse to ride—theirs, not the pack station’s. This ten-year-old mare was being broke to picket off a front leg. She didn’t like it at all and wigged out, lunging against the picket line until somehow getting flipped over, landing on her hip. They saw all this from camp and actually heard something snap. Oooh. The poor mare was in agony, grunting they said, and broke into a foamy sweat. She got stood up, quivering all over, leg dangling useless. When Dieter tried to lead her farther away from the river she almost fell so he put her down on the spot using the pistol he‘d brought along for just such an emergency. A “bad scene,” as we say in the business. I told him how things stood: your property—your responsibility…if necessary, we can take care of it, will bill you, et cet. Totally winging it…truth is, I had no idea how such things get handled or even what would happen to the corpse. (Bart told me how he had to buck up a dead mule with a chainsaw one time.) (The Park Service uses dynamite.) Dieter agreeable to the terms, such as they were. ◦◦◦◦◦ Then, to make this morning even more tremendous, one of their boys told me there was a dead deer in the river. “Right over there,” he pointed. When-it-rains-it-pours syndrome! Sure ‘nuf, just down-river from their camp: a spotted fawn, couple of feet under, tangled in the branches of a submerged snag. Must’ve got swept away following mom across the river. But it sure was dead, with a veil of green algae and skin starting to peel off the face. This being my drinking water supply I just sighed, rolled up sleeves, took off my boots, waded in, and drug the unholy thing out. Weighed maybe twenty pounds, wet. Holding the dripping remains by one front leg at arm’s length, I carried it up the hill to dump behind a log or boulder for the coyotes to find. Got maybe twenty yards before Dead Bambi slipped right out of my hand. That is, its leg slid through a tube of sloughing skin. The rotting carcass hit the dirt with a terrible soggy thud, leaving me—a moderately squeamish child of the suburbs—standing there breathing through my mouth with a fistful of slimy fawn skin. Which I flung away in a hurry, lemme tell ya. Just left the corpse where it fell. No way am I gonna pick that thing up again, unh-uh! Looking down and seeing my dominant hand covered with greenish-brown, slime and getting a fat whiff of that soul-piercing death-stench…. Well, first time ever, I felt that proverbial lump rise in my throat. An apt expression; I get it now. This was definitely the closest I’ve come to hurling out of sheer revulsion, like people do in movies. ◦◦◦◦◦ Back in camp, Sarah handed me the high-line I’d loaned them, neatly coiled. Dieter said he’d bring a rope next time; told me he’d read the Backcountry Horseman’s booklet I gave him last week and got a lot out of it. This one’s coming along well. As for the poor mare, I have no way of knowing if they blew it or if it was “just one of those things.” ◦◦◦◦◦ Stopped by the cabin for dry pants and to try and wash that gawd-awful stink off my hand. Ivory soap didn’t begin to cut it so I went out in the yard and scrubbed my hands vigorously with dirt, then tried again with dish detergent. Not quite gone but oh well. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode down-canyon and stopped by Doc’s camp to say hi. He was up for a couple of days doing trailwork and invited me for tea tonight. Down in Lower Piute, surprised to find the lost Scoutmaster still in his emergency bivouac, talking with several compatriots—one of multiple groups out searching for him. Ten a.m. and he hadn’t even taken his tent down! Kinda would’ve expected the guy to be off at dawn—to maybe not prolong his troop’s worry, at the very least. Go figger. But we had another nice chat. I gave them the standard tips for Scout troops (No new firerings! Don’t burn foil! Dig a latrine!) and explained the cow situation. ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed for Long Lakes where I cleaned up a brand-new camp built on a recently cleared, hardened site. The last occupants had done some major trenching around their tents, excavations that unearthed a bunch of broken glass and bits of rusty cans from days of yore. Filled in trenches and loaded my trash sack. Now, I’ve offered commentary on such matters many many times in this here log, just to vent steam. But answer me this: Why is it that NO ONE! EVER! fills in their tent trenches before they leave? I can’t recall a single instance of seeing where people back-filled their blankety-blank trenches—not once. Why is that? WHY?! (Phew. I feel better.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode the PCT to Walker Meadows. This was a death-themed day, it seems. A real Dio de los Muertos. Rode over to check on my other horse carcass and was stunned to find it…gone! Only thing left was a brown patch in the still-green meadow though the place still stunk pretty bad. Found the skull and a few gnawed bones under nearby trees, drug off by coyotes most likely. Amazing! Ma Nature sure takes care of business! Piles of bear poop scattered about. This unlucky horse was struck during that lightning storm on I think 19 July. First saw it seven days later, bloated but almost intact. Less than three weeks later, the whole thing’s already been recycled; nothing left but bones, some excrement, and localized stench. ◦◦◦◦◦ Down around the Cinko Lake junction, here comes a group on foot, leading llamas. Finally got to meet Jan and Stan Hunewill, owners of the Hunewill Ranch down in Bridgeport Valley. Been hearing about these folks since I first arrived in the area. Stan is, what? fourth generation? Pioneer family, name on maps forevermore—part of the landscape. I’ve wondered what it must feel like to have that long-time, deep-in-the-bone connection to place. It was obvious right off that these are two fine specimens of humanity…top shelf. I’ve only ever heard nice things said about them, which is rare. They were vacationing in their back yard with friends, everybody leading their own pack llama and looking pretty darn happy. So Redtop got his first introduction to the South Americans. He reacted quite well (all things considered) to a head-on meeting with hideous, long-necked space-aliens. He acted terrified but also seemed curious—which, I thought, was a lot better than only being terrified. Oh, they must look horrible through his eyes! ◦◦◦◦◦ Home at a reasonable hour. Had a quick dinner, then down to Doc’s camp with Rip [my black cat] for tea. Got there before sunset. Doc was just sitting down to a panful of typical Doc-stew—beans with chunks of Spam and onion, looked like. Mugsy enjoyed his share with kibble mixed in. We sat around a tiny Doc-fire gossiping while Rip the shadow-cat wove in and out of the firelight, slinking around the perimeter. Doc got a kick out of my day’s happenings. ◦◦◦◦◦ Walked home in substantial darkness, sky half-cloudy-half-starry. (I never take a flashlight.) Humid and abnormally warm with a tremendous display of lightning going on to the east and more intensely to the north, flash after flash. Too far away to hear thunder. Odd weather.

→ 31 visitors → 16½ miles → 1 firepit → 5 lbs trash

Six days later: 20 Aug (Tue) ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode back to Piute tired and happy and relieved to be going home. [I’d been in the trailcrew camp working with them for a few days while the cabin was occupied by Forest Service people.] Met two backpackers who’d passed by shortly after the FS folks left. They saw a bear in the yard—bear with a white chest. I miss all the good stuff! Sounded like the bear I chased off two years ago. Prob’ly the one that ransacked the cabin in ’87. Guessing it’s been feasting on horseflesh. ◦◦◦◦◦ Got unpacked. Happy horses home at last, grazing merrily in the hollows where the grass and sedges are still green. Cow bells ringing out back, all the world at peace. Took my river bath. Flies horrible all of a sudden—can’t help but think they’re connected to the not-so-fresh carcass half a mile from here. So after my dip, Rip and I went to check on the decay process. ◦◦◦◦◦ Started smelling that smell a hundred yards off. Rip, sniffing the air, wary. Ursa had already gotten into it—hole in the neck, belly skin ripped off exposing guts. One hind leg torn off entirely. Rustling sound of a hundred-thousand maggots prominent in the otherwise silence. Didn’t stink too awful bad. Claw marks on the hide and that dreadful, leering, toothy death-grin. I then did something strange but, frankly, very Tim-like. Sort of a science experiment, actually; an investigation into feline behavioral psychology. What I did was toss my cat onto the horse’s back. To see how he’d react and also to gauge, by the sound produced, the carcass’ internal condition. Result of experiment: Rip bounced off as if I’d tossed him on a hot stovetop. The carcass sounded as if it were mostly hollow, covered with brittle parchment. The decomposition process is well advanced and in a couple of weeks this horse should be mostly back in the system. Walked back by moonlight.

Four days later: 24 Aug (Sat) ◦◦◦◦◦ Still light after dinner so I strolled up to “Deadhorse Meadow.” Amazed to find the carcass down to mostly bones already, a seething pool of maggots filling the body cavity, rustling feverishly in the last light. An unforgettable, haunting sound. It didn’t even smell that much. Well, that is, until you get up close. ◦◦◦◦◦

Two days later: 26 Aug (Mon) ◦◦◦◦◦ Dropped down a gulley back into Piute Meadows. Visited the horse remnants, now a stringy pile of bones dragged off under some trees. Not much left but head and legs and maybe a few thousand fly larvae. One hoof lying nearby, cleanly separated from the ankle bones. (It looked like a big hunk of yellowish plastic.) It’s been two weeks, today, since this horse breathed its last. Thanks to lots of maggots and one bear, with a little help from coyotes and beetles, the job was completed in near-record time and well under budget. Didn’t need a chainsaw nor dynamite neither! It’s been very interesting and informative to watch the whole process. Let’s not forget this great truth—decomposition makes the world go ‘round. ◦◦◦◦◦

Two-and-a-half weeks later: 12 Sep (Thu) ◦◦◦◦◦ Checked out the former carcass, now reduced to a pile of bones and dried skin. Rip warily approached on his own, only mildly interested now after his several visits. But he took a few long, furrowed-brow, wrinkled-nose sniffs. Clearly not offended by the smell. I watched his face and body-language and wondered what he was experiencing. No idea. Not a clue. ◦◦◦◦◦

Saturday, February 1, 2025

Piute Log...He Insisted On Following 1991

Every summer I’d haul my two cats up to the cabin. (They got packed in on horseback…but that’s another story.) The kitties kept my solitary existence’s loneliness at bay and took care of the rodent problem as well. Back then, it never entered my mind that keeping domestic cats in a designated Wilderness setting might not be a good idea. In this I wasn’t alone: my friends and co-workers—including Forest Service superiors from the district ranger on down—all knew that I had cats at the cabin. Not a one ever so much as hinted that this wasn’t okay. Backpackers who stopped by to visit were utterly charmed by them. ◦◦◦◦◦ My, but how times have changed! It’s amazing, the degree to which cultural norms have shifted in just the last quarter century—a good example being how people's attitudes regarding pets have changed. I imagine that, today, many would be appalled by the way I let my cats run free in the backcountry. Well, when I was a kid, the only people who kept cats locked indoors were little old ladies living in apartment buildings. Dogs, at least the ones that weighed more than seven pounds, slept outside. (They had their own houses.) Back then, it was understood that cats came and went as they pleased—they were cats!—and if Fluffy disappeared…well, these things happen. The whole family would be devastated by the loss and then, a couple of weeks later, you'd go to the pound and bring home a new one. So that was the prevailing outlook back then: a cultural relic from the days when farmers’ and ranchers’ dogs and cats weren’t pampered pets—they were animals with jobs to do. ◦◦◦◦◦ Starting in the mid-80s, when I was on the road a lot of the time and living out of my truck, I usually traveled with one or two cats. (Fortunately, I was able to leave them with my folks when the need arose.) We lived nomadic, adventure-filled lives and the cats were fully on board. We bore the risks, together. When camped out in the sticks the cats generally came and went as they pleased. While in transit they’d be stuck in the camper with me at night but there were a number oft-visited spots where the cats felt completely at home and were free to roam. ◦◦◦◦◦ Now, there’s this new phenomenon: the so-called Adventure Cat—felines who accompany their human companions on campouts…who get taken along on hikes and canoe trips. Adventure Cats wear collars with tags and have fancy harnesses. They’re always leashed. They have chip implants and are fully vaccinated. The cat featured in this piece—Rip—was a TRUE adventure cat, not like those four-legged suburban posers. In the outdoor escapade department, Rip was the real deal. This was his fifth season at Piute. Rest assured, my cats absolutely love living in the backcountry. There's a lot of fun to be had there and they were never bored.

3 Sep (Tue) ◦◦◦◦◦ It got all gray and stormy and at around 3:00 a tremendous windstorm blew up. Never seen anything quite like this one. For a solid half hour, it was blowing at a steady 25–30 MPH, and I think that figure is pretty accurate. I'm not talkin' gusts—it was a steady honkin’ gale out of the SE that at times built to a minor roar. It howled! Tall lodgepoles swayed like saplings. Opaque dust clouds raked the yard while pine needles and twigs rained down on the roof. Had to latch the window by my bed shut (it was flapping up and down) and blocked off the cat door with the cast iron griddle as well. Heard the plastic buckets tumbling around on the porch. Astonishing amounts of dust and grit blew through window cracks and from under the eaves, coating all surfaces. Eventually it calmed down and started raining—not hard, with in-cloud lighting and out-of-cloud thunder. Whew! That was somethin’ else! ◦◦◦◦◦ After it was all over Mr. Rip and I walked up to Howard Black’s Camp [half a mile away, at the head of Piute Meadows] to greet the Monty Mills group. They’ve been coming up each summer for some years now. Monty is the leader of a country band down around San Luis Obispo way and, not surprisingly, has a “large” personality. Nice buncha folks. Everybody delighted to make the black cat’s acquaintance. Rip strolled nonchalantly amongst dogs and horses and people and even allowed himself to be picked up (by people only) and fawned over. Great visit. And it got us invited to supper tomorrow. Spectacular sunset going on and we all crouched by the riverbank to watch. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rip and I wandered back home. Approaching the cabin, saw lantern light inside. On the porch: a familiar raincoat and white cap. Jan! She showed up! Last time I saw her was right here, late June. She’d hiked up through pretty stiff rain and lightning and that crazy wind. ◦◦◦◦◦ Real hungry, both of us. Shared a can of Chunky® soup and crackers. Set up “the big bed” in the loft. Read and got caught up a bit before sleep.

→ 6 visitors → 2 miles

4 Sep (Wed) [Out on the trail all day with Jan, doing trailwork] ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed home. One solitary backpacker at Upper Long Lake. Disconcerted (to put it mildly) to discover that cows have grazed along the shores of both lakes. This should not be! Just having them up here in the highcountry is bad enough but wandering around in the forest and grazing the lake shores, crapping in the campsites? Absurd! ◦◦◦◦◦ Rained some. Home in time to get cleaned up and head out for dinner. Rode the ponies, with black cat in my lap. Started raining in earnest. Of course it did! ◦◦◦◦◦ Had us a fine eve. Rained on and off, forcing everybody to crowd under the tarp at times. Excellent chow: grilled chicken, corn-on-cob, roast ‘taters, three-bean salad, fresh-baked Dutch oven peach cobbler for dee-zert. Yum! ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode home in dark-dark lit only by a few stars peeking through the cloud cover, cat squirming in my lap. (He would have much preferred to follow on foot, I could tell.) Home at 10:00. Books in bed.

→ 5 visitors → 12 ½ miles

5 Sep (Thu) Slept in til 8:30. (!!!) Clouds on the horizon again and a misty meadow. The bunch from Black’s Camp rode by on their way to Cinko (“Cecil Lake,” they called it). Made pancakes for breakfast. Caught up in this log while Jan did dishes and swept up. ◦◦◦◦◦ After packing a lunch, we walked downcanyon with shovels. Rip followed. First time I ever took a cat out on the trail! Tried to shoo him off but he absolutely insisted on following. Jan and I cleaned WBs, replacing two of the old wooden ones using giant rocks. This took several hours, by which time the ol' back was starting to scream. Rip lurked while we worked, going off on little forays. ◦◦◦◦◦ Après work: from just past Bart’s Meadow we three hiked straight up the hillside to Point 8516—gorgeous spot with granite slabs, some fine junipers, excellent views. Rip rode on my shoulders part of the way. Rain imminent. When it started to drizzle we contoured back upcanyon. ◦◦◦◦◦ Back at the cabin, the sky began to grumble, sporadic lightning flashes going off in the clouds. Then it dumped. Within five minutes rivulets were flowing in the yard. By the time it quit, all the duff I put under the hitch rail the other day to fill in low spots had been washed away. We sat on the porch with Rip and Spring, watching the show. Wonderful time. Ahh, the smells! It even hailed for a while. Got a wild hair: both of us stripped and took “showers” simply by stepping off the porch; Jan got scoured clean by hailstones but it was only raining lightly by the time I took mine. So Jan assisted, pouring a bucket of water over my head. Most invigorating! A real pleasure to towel off in the warm cabin (for a change). ◦◦◦◦◦ Had a scrumptious meal c/o Jan: white rice with steamed cabbage, smothered in miso-tahini-mustard sauce, plus cabbage salads. ◦◦◦◦◦ Up to the loft to read our books, both of us plum tuckered out again. It continued raining, at least til we fell asleep. Very odd weather.

→ No visitors → 2 miles → 9 WBs cleaned → 2 WBs built

Rip was a truly amazing feline—in many ways, the best I ever had. This one loved to hike. Like a dog, Rip would come when I whistled. And, the way dogs do, he’d run up to me and give me this very pointed look that said, in all but words, “Let’s take a walk! Right now, please!” On these cat-walks, if he got tired, I’d drape him over my shoulders and press on. He’d ride there happily until getting his wind back, at which point he’d vibe me that he wanted down. Rip was full of joie de vivre and was very loving in an undemonstrative way. We’d have us these amazing wordless conversations. Another thing: this cat would disappear for days at a time. (I called these excursions, “kitty gone walkabout.”) Just when I was starting to get really worried, Rip would wake me up in the wee hours, bursting through the cat-door. Flood of joyful relief at the prodigal kitty’s return. He’d scarf down some crunchies, jump up on the bed, say hello, then spend the rest of the night curled up by my head, purring. ◦◦◦◦◦ One time, I left for my days off—something I seldom did. Four days later, riding back to Piute, I ran into Doc Grishaw on the trail. Doc had been staying at his basecamp, a little over a mile downcanyon from the cabin. Doc basically lived in this camp for most of each summer—putting up packers returning from long spot trips, doing trailwork, and entertaining friends and family. He slept on the ground and played his violin when no one was around. Quite often, I’d get invited to come down for dinner and Rip would always tag along. Once there, he’d lurk around at the edge of the fire light, eyeing Doc’s dog, Mugsy, with whom he had a peace treaty of sorts. When I met Doc that day he said, “If your black cat isn’t at the cabin when you get home, come on down for supper. He’s been showing up every night, looking for you.” ◦◦◦◦◦ The following year, I was camped out near Lone Pine among the boulders and granite outcrops of the Alabama Hills, where I often stayed during my off season. Rip went off in the night on one of his nocturnal missions and never returned. A coyote got him, no doubt—the fate of several of my kitties. He was only six when he disappeared. But that cat lived all of his nine lives.

Tuesday, December 31, 2024

Piute Log...Rod the Goat Man 2001

1 Jul (Sun) Woke up so stiff and so sore…could barely squeeze my thrashed, scab-covered hands into fists. [This, from three days of sawing up a gigantic lodgepole that had fallen into a narrow spot on the trail in the Buckeye Canyon.] Leaving today to get horses shod. ◦◦◦◦◦ Hit the trail a little after noon. At the Hidden Lake junction, turned off to check that trashed campsite right by the river. Red, bringing up the rear, cut the turn and in doing so his pack box clipped the sign, knocking it down (post all rotted). Thanks a lot, Red! Another chore to add to the long list. ◦◦◦◦◦ Then, just minutes later, had me another little equine-related NDE [near-death experience] up on Bamboo Flats. Up ahead I saw goats which meant that Rod Davis was on the loose. Haven’t seen him for several years now though he comes through this country at least once pretty much every summer. Some years I’ll receive messages from backpackers along the lines of: “We met this funny old coot with goats who said that if we saw the ranger to say ‘Hi.’” Rod, now 78 (just did the math), is still travelling solo and climbing mountains, always with at least one goat, sometimes with his dog as well. Anyway, he came over the rise and I saw the smile-of-recognition spread across his face. Each goat had a crisp, new, rain tarp covering its tiny load; bright blue and kinda billowing up at the sides. Piute stopped without me asking and stood stock still, staring straight ahead, ears on full alert, a full-body quiver. And then, with no warning, he blew up [western-ese for “went apeshit”]. He crow-hopped, reared, danced a little jig, spun around a couple times, and smashed into Woody for good measure. Full-on rodeo. Fortunately, we were in an open spot. I dropped the lead rope, went for the horn, and just held on. After a good long while (maybe three or four seconds) I began to wonder why he wasn’t cooling down at least a little. I had my back to Rod and the goats for most of this but at one point glanced over my shoulder and saw that they were still coming toward us. I yelled, “Rod! Get ‘em back!” but he kept advancing. “Rod! Get ‘em away! Get Back!” He stopped. Goats stopped. Piute continued trying to rid himself of me so that he could run away and maybe save himself. “Rod!! Get ‘em outa sight! I’m gonna get hurt!” The old man—who is very deaf—just stood there while I screamed (more like wailed), “ROD! Can’t you hear me?!! GET ‘EM AWAY!!” Finally he got the message and led them back over the rim. Before they were fully out of sight, I was able to execute an emergency dismount with fairly clean three-point landing. Tied my horror-struck saddlehorse to a stout sapling. The other two, by the way, had remained calm throughout. Piute and I, on the other hand, were both shaking with the adrenaline-squirts. I walked over the crest of the hill to go have a little chat with Rod. I was pretty steamed but we shook hands. “Hey, I’m always glad to see you, Rod, but I could’ve been killed back there. Or worse. Couldn’t you see that my horse was going bananas? Why didn’t you get ‘em off the trail? You know that a lot of horses freak out when they see these little monsters of yours.” He said, “Well, usually if a horse spooks a little he gets over it pretty quick. I saw two other packers today and their horses were okay.” I gave him the “stern ranger lecture” and admonished him to get his entourage well off the trail whenever he sees livestock coming. ◦◦◦◦◦ No further mishaps. At Cranney’s, both Craig and Scott, the new packer, told me about their own not-so-pleasant encounters. Scott’s story, a lot like mine: horse wigged-out…Scott, yelling at Rod to get ‘em the #$&@! away…a clueless Rod totally ignoring him. The old man has a real blind spot where his furry pals are concerned. Hopefully I’ll see him again when I come back in and can reinforce my message. ◦◦◦◦◦ Stopped at the Old Ranger Station and copped a shower at Greta’s. Looks like she just got back from the Tahoe fire—gear strewn everywhere. Ran into her in town but she couldn’t talk. She looked haggard. Tomorrow, I’ll be ferrying horses back and forth most of the day but have to stop by the office so she can tell me the full story.

→ 3 visitors → 11½ miles

The following day was spent helping ferriers and shifting stock. After work, I drove to Mammoth for supplies and witnessed a big lightning fire that was taking off in earnest. Next day:

3 Jul (Tue) Eerie sunrise with Bridgeport Valley full of smoke from that new fire down near Mammoth, sun weakly lighting the Sawtooth through ruddy filter. ◦◦◦◦◦ Got away at a respectable 11:30 with giant load of supplies in tow. At Cranney’s, visited a bit with Scott. He seems pleasant enough. Craig told me that he’s one of those know-it-all types, which can be irritating (to say the least) if you have to work with them. When I arrived, Scott was training a couple of green horses. Turned out I had a sort of replay of the first time I packed out of Leavitt Meadows Pack Station in ‘87: Doc Grishaw, who I’d only recently met, was working in the yard when I showed up that morning. He hovered around the whole time—furtively watching how I brushed and saddled and loaded the horses, assessing my skill level and indeed my very character. (I’d been forewarned by Jim Kohman, who’d gone through the same screening process two years previous.) So I kept my eye on Doc, furtively watching him watching me. Same with Scott, who was clearly sizing me up. And just like with the Doc, he eventually couldn’t stand it any longer and came over to offer a couple of little “helpful hints.” ◦◦◦◦◦ On the trail, met a big family group of fourteen interrelated souls heading for Roosevelt Lake. Rode up on them right at my ranger sign, which several were just then perusing. (Love it when this happens.) Had a fruitful contact. A half-gaggle of children various sizes clustered around. As always, they wanted to know the horses’ names. “No, don’t touch his face! Just stroke him gently on his neck. That’s it.” Toward the end I asked if there were any questions. Boy of maybe eleven raises his hand like he’s in class and I point my finger at him. “Does lightning ever strike the ground? Around here, I mean?” Another storm was brewing and there’d already been some distant thunder. “Sure! All the time,” sez the ranger. I see eyes open wide. “See that big pine tree over there with the black scar at the base? That’s from a fire that started when the tree was hit, maybe fifty years ago and the bark’s partly grown back. If you were to cut that tree down, you’d probably find half a dozen burn scars where the bark and then new wood grew back over them.” A bit later, I was talking with three backpackers on their way out when the family group caught up and started passing by. Here came that boy again, with a couple of adults and more kids. “Hey! There’s something I forgot to tell you.” Everybody gathered ‘round and I got all serious and talked slow. “Some time back the world’s top lightning-ologists got together with all their data and they figured out—don’t ask me how—that lightning strikes Earth’s surface…three…thousand…times…per second. You think about that.” ◦◦◦◦◦ Ran into Rod Davis at the Fremont junction. He was camped at the site the trail crew uses, off in the forest and hidden from view. He knew I was coming back in today and, hoping to meet up again, Rod and the goats had been patiently waiting up on the hillside. After spotting me, he tied all three to trees and hurried down to catch me. We talked a while. Neither of us mentioned our little fiasco of 7/1. Rod took pictures of me and the horses. (He’s never done that.) When I was about to ride on he said, “I’m really glad to see you again. We waited here a couple of hours and I was about to give up on you. We’ve seen each other so many times that I’ve gotten to feel like I’m your friend.” Really touched, I said, “Well, you are my friend, Rod.” A warm parting handshake. I’m thinking maybe Rod knows his mountain rambles are numbered and that this could be our last meeting. What a character! Obviously a loner and a bit odd. I don’t recall him ever mentioning his wife and now I can’t recall what he did for a living. He’d been a cowboy, in Montana, when he was young. He’s a Seventh Day Adventist and has been a vegetarian for thirty-plus years; walks every day with his four-legged friends. May you stay forever young, Rod Davis. ◦◦◦◦◦ Back at the cabin, two couples, packs off, checking out my rock collection and digging it. The usual, “Did you find all of these around here?!” A very nice visit. Always gratifying to meet people who truly appreciate this place. Yet another couple was camped nearby, on this side of the river, and I later saw them meandering around the upper meadow during a particularly wonderful sunset with near-full moon, pink mountains, purple clouds and shifting moody mists. They were getting the full dose and I felt happy for them.

→ 24 visitors → 1 lb. trash bits → 10½ miles

Thursday, December 19, 2024

Piute Log...On Living With Bugs 2001

First trip of the season in to the cabin…just starting to get things in order. (Putting up the drift fences is one of the first chores when opening up. Lest the horses decide to leave.)

26 Jun (Tue) ◦◦◦◦◦ After lunch and coffee I got the front drift fence into a standing position. It’s completely thrashed and not much of a barricade. (Still, it looks like a fence and that’s usually enough to keep horses in.) All that’s left now is the across-the-river section of the back fence which requires two people to drag across. Mosquitoes positively HORRIBLE. I was sucking them up my nose and down my throat; trying to breathe through clenched teeth and not through the nose. Which is tedious, in case you’ve never tried doing that. Life in ranger-world, oh, boy. ◦◦◦◦◦ And, speaking of insects, here’s another gritty tale of living in the backcountry: After lunch, I “had to go.” Stepping into the shitter, I was greeted by a diffuse cloud of teensy weensy bugs that drifted out the open door like smoke. I knew what they were: moth flies—minuscule critters not much more than 3mm long…actual flies shaped like moths, with broad, fuzz-covered wings. Totally harmless and for the most part inoffensive. They lay their eggs in mucky places like shower drains and…outhouses. (They’re also known as “drain flies.”) I see them in the outhouse all summer long and, most mornings, find a few that bivouacked in between sheets of the roll of TP. On this day, conditions must have been ideal. I was witnessing a fresh hatch.Several thousand in a grand exodus, heading for the promised land. Never seen this before—this swarm thing. Must be the warm, humid nights. But because I was, ahem, in something of a hurry I plopped down on the seat and did my business. As I sat their, scores of the little buggers flew out of the triangular gap between my thighs, making their escape. I could feel (barely) these insubstantial critters bouncing off my bum, heading for daylight. A somewhat disconcerting sensation. Kinda disgusting, to be honest, even by my fairly lax standards. ◦◦◦◦◦

28 Jun (Thu) ◦◦◦◦◦ Flies just awful. Saddling up, the greenheads were assaulting the horses. Tied to the rail, all three stood there totally helpless until I got their saddles on and was able to hose them down with bug juice. Piute, who seems to be particularly thin-skinned, had probably a hundred and fifty gnawing on his chest and legs and privates all at the same time. It was a ghastly sight. Imagine what that must feel like! These gargantuan horseflies with creepy-looking green eyes carve out little chunks of flesh—leaving holes big enough that blood oozes from them. They cluster like hogs at the trough around the small, open wounds they’ve created, sopping up the blood like alien vampires. Poor Piute was covered with hundreds of welts. The equines really suffer at this time of year. At least when they’re out in the meadow resting they can stand side-by-side and alternating head-to-rear, swishing their tails to keep the wing-ed devils off each other’s heads and chests. ◦◦◦◦◦ More bugs bugging: On the way over Kirkwood Pass we entered several “yes-fly-zones.” For long stretches, we’d be literally swarmed by face flies. Veritable clouds of ‘em surrounding the horses and my humble corpus, buzzing ears and eyes and bouncing off eyeballs. Harmless, non-biting dipterans apparently designed strictly to drive one mad. On both sides of the pass and all the way down to the Forks of Buckeye we’d enter and then leave these fly-controlled zones. They’d be horrible for a stretch and then, just like that, totally manageable. ◦◦◦◦◦

Monday, September 23, 2024

Piute Log...Good Day On the Trail 1996

28 Jul (Sun) Rained a bit in the night—most unusual. I woke a couple of times hearing the telltale patter. Only got down to 53°; downright sultry. Feels weird, it being this warm at dawn. ◦◦◦◦◦ Today was a day to recharge the batteries. Woke up beat. Stayed beat. Did nothing work-like and napped repeatedly. After two long days of trailwork plus hours in the saddle getting there and back, I needs a rest. Not used to laboring in semi-tropical weather, sweatin’ like a pig. The last couple of days I’ve been vaguely aware that I was working way too hard in the humidity. Whenever I’m work-working, I go at it like “a man possessed.” Trailwork, for me, has always been a sort of penance; a way to vent pent-up angst—an outlet for the wild energy I used to offload on a regular basis, scaring myself silly on solo climbs or slogging up peaks. For whatever reason, I’ve never figured out how to pace myself like a normal human being. My pattern, repeated over and over, is to go like a racehorse until exhausted. No surprise that I wake up on morning-afters like this with a knot in my back or neck or just plain toasted and have to stay home to recuperate. ◦◦◦◦◦ Two sets of visitors stopped by today, both of them stock parties. The first bunch was from Reno: “Jack-the-wagon-man,” along with his two exceedingly wholesome teenaged kids and an old friend. It’s been a few years since we last met. Jack, so I’m told, is a renowned wagon expert. He usually comes up with the emigrant trail historians who search for artifacts as a way to locate and map the exact route. Jack’s special talent is identifying any rusty chunks of iron they find with their metal detectors; if it’s part of a wagon or cart, he’ll know what it is. (An aside: Jack is building a stagecoach replica in his garage. When I asked him how it was coming along, he mumbled something about hoping his wife wouldn’t divorce him.) Anyway, they were on their way to Tilden Lake [in Yosemite NP] but took a little detour so that Jack could show his son and daughter the old cabin where their parents spent part of their honeymoon. I held the kids’ horses while they took a quick peek inside and it warmed my cockles, watching their reactions. ◦◦◦◦◦ Roused from one last nap in the late afternoon, had a cuppa coffee, took a short stroll, and (finally!) installed the hammock.

About this hammock: In the early years, I had it up in a seventy-foot-tall Jeffrey pine. This stately pine grew straight up the side of a thirty-five-foot vertical cliff. Its lowest limbs curved down to the top of the little bluff, which is how I was able to monkey my way up into the tree in the first place. There was a perfect spot to hang the hammock just a few yards below the top—a great location for a cozy aerial perch, with sweeping vistas of the whole upper canyon and Sierra crest. Unfortunately, this tree was across the river and several hundred feet up a steep hillside. The stiff, ten-minute hike from the cabin made it a little too far away for regular after-work relaxation. So, starting in 1994, I installed the thing closer to home: forty-some feet up a mature lodgepole pine, just yards from the cabin at meadow’s edge. Leaning an old aluminum ladder up against the trunk got me to the lowest limbs and, after thinning some branches, the climb was a cinch. I spent a lot of time up there, usually in the evening after work. I’d often bring one of the cats along. How? In my daypack, zipped in with just his head poking out. The cats didn’t care much for the trip up but, once in the hammock, clearly enjoyed being there. In fact, on occasion one of them would climb up on his own and join me. (The cats always climbed down, unassisted.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Relaxing (‘slounging,’ I called it) in a hammock up in a tall tree is mind-altering. Partly, I think, it’s from being up off the ground, all safe’n’secure; partly from what trees do to you when you’re resting in their arms. ◦◦◦◦◦ Case in point: One year, a Wilderness-outing group showed up at the cabin when I was home. College students. I was visiting with them when one young woman spotted my hammock. I could see she was extremely curious so I said to her, “Wanna try it out?” Her face lit up. “Can I?!” I ended up letting anyone who wanted to climb up and spend a few minutes in my hammock while the rest lunched. Almost everybody took me up on the offer. They came down, aglow. The following summer, I met another group from this same school; same leaders. One of them informed me that the previous year’s participants all agreed that the high point of their trip was the ranger’s hammock. “They couldn’t stop talking about it,” he said.

[Continuing] Got it up and was slounging away when two fellas on horseback appeared out of the trees, splashed across the river, and headed for the cabin. It was the pair I’d seen a few days ago when I was working down around Fremont junction. We barely spoke that day. They were heading for Beartrap Lake and seemed to be a big hurry so I just waved ‘em on by thinking, Uh-oh…there goes trouble. (Both, all westerned-out with big pistolas and outlandish Bowie knives strapped to their hips—not a good sign.) ◦◦◦◦◦ At any rate, here they were. As the pair rode into the yard I hailed them. Heads swivel, searching. “Hey! I’m up here!” They both look around some more, look up. Finally, one of them sees me. Shocked expressions. Me, in a conversational tone: “Hello there. What can I do for ya?” This was their last day (heading out tomorrow a.m.). Told them how to get to Howard Black’s camp. I’ll go see them in the morning. It’ll be too late but maybe I can at least educate them a little.

→ 6 visitors → 1 mile → hammock up!

29 Jul (Mon) Feeling a bit livelier today. More of this weird weather; a bit cooler at dawn but cloud-puffs already forming. And we know what that means. When I walked out to get the horses, my legs were soaked up to the knees within seconds. I’ll say it again: never have I seen the grass this high. Normally, it’s just wet feet on a dewy morn. ◦◦◦◦◦ First off, rode up to Howard Black’s camp, expecting to find the usual: trash in the firepit, stressed-out horses digging trenches around the trees they’ve been tied to all night…the usual transgressions. ◦◦◦◦◦ Turns out I was wrong for once. My visitors were just finishing packing up. Their horses were tied to trees but resting easy. Camp was immaculate: I was dealing with two seasoned pros. They introduced themselves—Bill Smith and…Bob Smith. Not related. (Caught myself before making some inane, utterly predictable wisecrack.) Bob, from Fallon. Bill lives near Sacramento. Lifelong pals; late 40s or early 50s. These two have been going into the mountains together for thirty-some years now, they said—their main leisure pursuit. Told me how last night, sitting by their fire, all the talk was about was me up in my hammock…wondering how it came about that that guy managed to score their dream-job. Both expressed, in their own words, wistfully, that my scene was their personal notion of the ideal life. Bill: “How did we mess up so bad? Get ourselves tangled up with women and kids and mortgages and commutes? Where did we go wrong?” But they’re both still passionate about the mountains—real Wilderness aficionados. We shook hands and they told me I’d see them again. Made a couple of new Piute-friends today. ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed for Fremont Lake. Red, of course, freaked out when we rode right past the cabin. He figured he was done for the day. We pressed on, leaving his friend Valiente behind yet again—a small tragedy, in Red’s world. ◦◦◦◦◦ Down Middle Piute way, crossing the river, the mystery of what happened to the missing merganser family was resolved: They moved. Downriver! Which means they all floated through the gorge—mostly whitewater as of now. Still nine merganserlings, much bigger now but still nowhere near flight. ◦◦◦◦◦ Started running into a strung-out group bound for Tower Lake. A hiking club from Indianapolis, Indiana (of all places). Every summer they take a backpack trip in a different state. Now, these folks all appeared to be regular middle-class Americans. Hard to put a finger on it but there was this subtle air about them; almost like they were from another country. Very pale-skinned, yes, but they didn’t even talk funny. Still, it was glaringly obvious that these folks were “not from around h’yar.” Turns out there are actually 18 of them in two separate parties (10 in this one). They’d all flown to Reno and rented cars. Get this: the two groups start out at different trailheads, meet halfway, exchange car keys, and shuttle each others’ rigs back to the airport. This is how they always do it. Self-shuttling! Brilliant! I applauded their logistic prowess. ◦◦◦◦◦ On to Fremont. It was after noon by this time; thought maybe I’d run into the trailcrew on lunch break. Just past Chain of Lakes junction, ran into them, already back to work. They’ve gotten a lot done since I last came through here. Talked to everybody (but mostly with Mark) and tossed out complements freely. Mark noticed that I had my little folding saw and asked if I could do some lopping for them—a few hanging limbs, out of reach. Everybody was amused to see me standing on Red’s saddle, sawing away. Mark took photos. Told him that it’d probably get us in trouble if he put one of them in his slide-show. (An inside joke: a few years back Mark put on one of his fabulous slide shows at some Forest Service muckity-mucks gathering. Various head honchos and sub-honchos were appalled to see all these photos of tanned, shirtless, overtly healthy trailworkers flagrantly disobeying allthe safety rules—no long-sleeved shirts, no gloves, no goggles, no hardhats, no sawyers’ chaps! Egads!) ◦◦◦◦◦ Doubled back to Fremont where I ran into a group of—count ‘em—twenty Boy Scouts. Singled one of the leaders and went to work on him. The old two-separate-permits trick. But he knew the rules; knew that I knew that he knew the rules, had no excuses, blah bla blah. Unaware that I was going to let him off, he weaseled and squirmed while I chastised him—the usual dance, in a word. Nice fella…looked just like John Muir. After a thorough interrogation, he showed himself to be very conscientious; a trash-hauling fanatic. I explained the reasoning behind the group size limit. Also told him that, for me, this was a hard rule to enforce seeing as how it allowed horse-groups of 15 with an additional 10 pack animals for a total of 25 head, not counting the packers. I haven’t been able to get too riled up about oversized hiking groups since this one incident, years back: Right in the middle of bawling out a preacher with 18 sheep in his flock, here comes a full-on Bart Cranney mid-summer caravan. Three packers, 15 dudes; probably the full complement of pack mules—well over a hundred steel-clad hooves churning the trail to smithereens. When the parade had passed and the dust cleared, preacher man fixed me with an ironic, questioning look, like, “You were saying…?” It was my turn to weasel and waffle. ◦◦◦◦◦ Ran into two guys with fishing poles at the PCT bridge who went with the 7 head that I’d seen back in Walker Meadows, grazing away behind one of those portable electric fences. Had myself another excellent visit with two thoroughly professional backcountry stock users; people who truly care for the land. They asked lots of good questions. So uplifting to have good encounters with private stockmen for a change—two in one day, no less! Typically, these are my most frustrating, most demoralizing encounters. ◦◦◦◦◦ One last meeting: a lone hiker on the Long Lakes trail. I rode up on him from behind and sensed that something was wrong. (Huge pack with stuff tied all over the outside seemed a little off for a solo backpacker.) Turns out this guy was an assistant scout leader. And, despite having a map in his hand, he was lost. More like confused. Got the poor assistant scout leader pointed in the right direction and assured him he’d get there by dark. He’ll be beat. I tend to not ask temporarily-lost people how they managed to get themselves that way—too embarrassing for both of us. ◦◦◦◦◦ Gave Red his head. Dashed home under full steam. Seriously gray up ahead. It’d been threatening for hours and finally started to rain. At first, the sun was still out. Gorgeous: pewter-gray sky, sun glinting off raindrops. Very high romance-coefficient. It came down hard for a while then stopped just as we pulled up at the hitch rail. Good smells, good lights, good timing. A good day.

→ 15½ miles → 43 visitors → 3 lbs.trash → 50 feet lopped

Friday, September 13, 2024

No More Sound-of-Silence 2024

THE SUMMER I TURNED SEVEN, my family spent several days at Lava Beds National Monument. This was 1965, the year we went to Oregon on our annual summer vacation. Lava Beds is way up in northern Siskiyou County, close to the border. It was our first time there and we all fell in love with the place. In fact, Lava Beds is where my life-long fondness for open, sagebrush country took root. But the thing that made the greatest impression on me during our initial visit, hands down, was the lava tubes—horizontal caves formed by tongues of red-hot lava that start to cool and harden on the outside while their still-molten interiors ooze onward. Back in those days you could rent one of those old-fashioned Coleman gas lanterns at the visitor center and explore the tubes on your own. For a boy my age, this was quite a thrill. And it was here, during one of our underground adventures, that I got to experience Total Silence and Utter Darkness for the very first time. At the terminal end of this one lava tube, we all sat down and got comfortable. My dad then turned off our lantern. No one made a peep. I remember being awestruck—no claustrophobia or panicky feelings; nothing like that. “Awed” is the word. The air—the space—felt thick and heavy. I waved my hand right in front of my nose: nothing! Having two of my six senses all of a sudden just switched off stirred up some sort of primal emotional response. Whatever it was, it was exhilarating.

Sad to say, this was both my first and last encounter with Total Silence. Due to an ear injury, since my mid-teens I’ve been listening to this high-pitched monotone drone that emanates from somewhere inside my skull: eeeeeee!-weeeeeeweeeee-weeeeee! I’ve lived with this tedious background noise for all these years now and it’s still tedious. And weird, having known all along that this “sound” is nothing more than a fabrication—a fiction contrived by my brain. In any case: no more absolute silence for yours truly.

The shrill humming in my ears is the result of stupidity: a sixteen-year-old me playing with dynamite (figuratively speaking). At school. In the back room of my chemistry class. Yes, that’s right—a classic instance of “chemistry experiment, gone awry.” As it turns out, this was perhaps my dumbest exploit ever and I paid a steep price. And am reminded of it daily. Oh well. Chalk it up to the not-fully-developed teenage brain.

My junior year of high school I took two semesters of chemistry—Chem 1A and 1B, both classes taught by my all-time-favorite educator, “Mr. Robertson,” who is right there at the top of an imaginary list of life-changing mentors. You see, my chemistry teacher, Hank Robertson, was a bit of a climber and mountaineer. Somehow, he obtained my parents’ permission and took me rock climbing during Easter break, with ropes and chocks and carabiners; the works—an experience seared into my memory banks. It was two years before I got to go again but, after that first time, I was already hooked. (“Here, ya go, kid…the first one’s free!”) To further seal my fate, starting right after classes ended in June, Mr. Robertson led a summer-school backpacking course—and that’s how I came to take my first hiking trips into the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

So you could blame a certain chemistry teacher for my dropping out of college to pursue a dangerous sport that would become my life’s chief focus for fifteen years. Which led me to move to the Eastern Sierra where I was a backcountry ranger for two decades before taking a job in the White Mountains and spending two more decades living with the bristlecone pine. [Hank Robertson passed away in 2020, age eighty-five.]

My lab partner, Fran, and I were Mr. Robertson’s pet students that year. We aced all the tests and quizzes. Both of us loved the class—the formulas and equations; breaking down chemical reactions on paper; the beautiful logic behind it all. (Fran went on to became a pharmacological researcher and professor at UC San Francisco.) We used real Laboratory Equipment: graded pipettes and Bunsen burners…test tubes and beakers and delicate balances; handled hazardous chemicals. But it was the man at the front of the room who brought the subject alive. Hank Robertson was one of those unforgettable teachers: handsome, charismatic; always neatly dressed, with that all-important twinkle in his eyes. He certainly had a way with young people—great delivery, wry sense of humor, and an infectious enthusiasm. He’d joke around between periods but during class Mr. Robertson was all business, with a look that would shut everyone up pronto. Like all great educators, he was teaching us how to think. With it came a challenge: You! Figure it out! This was an intoxicating approach for students eager to learn. Mr. Robertson made chemistry fun. He called me Tim-o-thy, and Fran, Fran-chess-ca, pronouncing our names in a mock-formal manner; clearly enunciating the syllables in a way that somehow made us feel respected, even loved. Feelings that were reciprocated.

The next fall, I very much wanted to have Mr. Robertson again. Unfortunately, he didn’t teach any other classes for seniors. But there was this one option….

During my second semester of Chem 1 there was a guy named Ron, a senior, who worked by himself in an adjoining storage room where the chemicals and surplus lab equipment lived. We both ran track (Ron, on the Varsity team; me, a lowly JV) and would see each other at practice after school. I wouldn’t call him a friend but we knew each other. It turns out that Ron was the latest of what must have been a long line of Robertsonian acolytes. He, too, got introduced to rock climbing and later became a serious climber himself. So, while our class was in session Ron was in the storage room performing experiments and getting regular class credits. “Directed Studies,” it was called. Periodically, I’d wander back there to see what my teammate was up to. Ron had his own key to a locked cabinet where the, shall we say, more interesting materials were kept. On occasion, he’d pull a glass-stoppered bottle or two out of the cabinet and put on a little demonstration for our eyes alone. I recall the time he poured out a little two-inch-tall, cone-shaped pile of potassium permanganate and lit its apex. The pile didn’t actually ignite but instead sort of smoldered, shooting up a thin stream of (probably toxic) smoke like a tiny, tiny volcano as it slowly imploded. Very cool!

So I signed up for a semester of Directed Studies, mostly to be around my favorite teacher. I was provided with an instruction manual and a copy of the key to the locked cabinet and it was off to the races. Every Monday, Mr. Robertson handed me a vial of Mystery Fluid. My task: using a variety of analytical techniques (a process called “qualitative analysis”), tease out the Mystery Fluid’s chemical constituents. The fact is that I barely remember my senior year of high school. So what exactly did I accomplish in that cramped storeroom? I really can’t say. With little in the way of supervision and no set schedule, there had to have been a lot of goofing off. There are only a few specific events I can still recall and they all center around certain, ahem, extracurricular activities.

Now, I’m fairly sure that Hank Robertson didn’t show Ron those mad-scientist party tricks. This is years before the internet arrived, mind you. As near as I can tell, the demonstrations Ron staged on my behalf were like schoolyard rhymes—things faithfully passed along from generation to generation. (In this case, by nerdy Chem 1 veterans who took Directed Studies.) One day, while class was in session, I took a break from my qualitative analysis. Prank time! With a 250ml beaker half full of nitric acid in hand, I strolled out of the storeroom and casually placed it under the hooded vent at the front of the room. There was a test that day and the room was silent. With no warning or fanfare, I switched the hood on prior to slipping several paper-thin strips of copper metal into the beaker. In moments, a dense cloud of orange smoke (which I now know to be highly toxic) began billowing from the mouth of the beaker. Quite dramatic! As expected, this caused quite a stir. With an impudent grin, I turned and fled back to my science cave. I shot a glance at Mr. Robertson who was slowly shaking his head, lips pursed—a not-necessarily-angry expression that showed subtle hints of amusement. Or so I imagined. He said not a word. I was his golden boy and could get away with stuff.

Most fun of all (thank you, Ron!) was messing around with nitrogen tri-iodide. Here’s what you do: Take a few crystals of pure iodine—little ones, roughly the size of a sesame seed—and place them in a petri dish (a shallow glass container about the size and shape of a mayonnaise jar lid). Pour in just enough ammonium hydroxide to cover them. Within minutes the shiny, metallic-gray crystals expand slightly and turn brown. Using forceps, transfer the what now look like minute clumps of mud to a second petri dish to dry. When the ammonium hydroxide evaporates, the little particles—tuh duh!— are a brand-new substance called nitrogen tri-iodide (NI₃). Note that NI₃ is a very curious compound—it’s highly unstable. So not-stable that the slightest vibration, even a loud sound, causes it to spontaneously disintegrate. That is, explode. (Instability-wise, nitroglycerine ain’t got nuthin’ on NI₃.) So here’s the fun part: while they’re still damp, one can scatter these innocuous-looking granules in classroom doorways or beneath desks. If timed just right, unsuspecting students entering the classroom or sitting down at their desks experience what feels like a tiny explosion going off underfoot—an unnerving sensation, to say the least. Confined betwixt shoe sole and floor tile, the tiny particles detonate with a sound and force equivalent to that of cap-gun “caps” going off.[1] A peerless prank! What a hoot! You should see the looks on their faces, ha ha!

An important caveat: when handling NI₃, it’s essential that one do so while the stuff is still damp—that is, before it has fully transformed into hyper-volatile NI₃.

One day, I had an inspired idea. Time to up the game: instead of those measly little crumbs, I’d prepare a substantial hunk of nitrogen tri-iodide! To that end, I took the biggest crystal in the Iodine jar and gave it the standard treatment. After transferring the thumbnail-sized brown lump to a fresh petri dish, I placed it on a shelf inside one of the floor cabinets to dry and went back to whatever it was I was supposed to be doing. What my intentions were with regards to this little hunk of trouble is a real mystery.

Somewhat later it occurred to me that the lump might be getting dry, in which case it needed wetting down. The eye-dropper was over on the lab bench along with the jug of ammonium hydroxide. I clearly recall opening the cabinet door, gingerly pulling out the petri dish, and lifting it to eye level for close inspection—to see if the lump was sufficiently moist. It didn’t appear to be very moist. In fact, it looked pretty desiccated. My last thought: I’ll just carry this over to the bench and wet it down with the eye-dropper.

Maybe all it took was my breathing on the thing but what happened next was this: like magic, the harmless-looking brown lump turned into a magenta-colored cloud comprised of nitrogen gas and vaporized elemental iodine. Several grams of nitrogen tri-iodide blew up in my face with a sharp-edged, earsplitting !!!BANG!!! that decibels-wise was probably equivalent to a deer rifle being fired ten inches from my nose.

Things got kind of fuzzy at this point. Stunned, with a still-intact petri dish in my hand, I reeled out into the classroom (An instinctive impulse, perhaps, to let everybody know I was still alive.) All eyes were on me. Mr. Robertson was slowly shaking his head, wearing a dour expression with not a hint of humor about his tightly pursed lips. If he said anything I didn’t catch the words because all I could hear just then was a piercing, high-pitched whine through ears stuffed with soft putty. Turning back into the storeroom, in shock, I saw someone’s visage reflected in a glass cabinet door: some idiot in blackface. You see, the face in the reflection was stained a brownish-purple color, with prominent white rings around both eyes—the explosion had blown my glasses off. The front of my shirt was the same color, as was my left arm. (Lucky for me, vaporized iodine isn’t a deadly poison.) Uncontained, the explosion produced nothing shrapnel-like. Still, if not for being a glasses-wearer, it’s likely that my eyes would have been damaged. As it was, my ears took the hit. Several days went by before my hearing returned to normal but once it did there was a residual, high-pitched whine droning in the background—the sound I’ve been listening to without respite for half a century.

Significant details of this fairly major life-event are lost to me. Some of them may be buried in my subconscious. For instance, I have no recollection of being reprimanded by my beloved mentor. (Mr. Robertson dressing me down? That I’d remember.) So far as I know, teachers from neighboring classrooms didn’t rush over to see what had happened. There were no repercussions: no being marched to the principal’s office; the police weren’t summoned; no call made to the miscreant’s parents. (My folks never knew about any of this.) It’s hard to believe there were zero consequences; if this had taken place today, what sounded for all the world like a gunshot coming from a classroom might have led to a full-on lockdown—years of active-shooter drills kicking in automatically…pandemonium spreading like wildfire. The po-leece definitely would have been involved. A teacher would be in hot water. I’d have been suspended, just for starters.

My my my, how things have changed! This was 1976—two or three ages ago…a bygone era where any youngster could walk into the nearest dime store[2] and, without parental consent, buy a box containing twelve rolls of cap-gun caps made with REAL GUNPOWDER. As every schoolboy knew, caps could be used to fabricate what we kids called “bombs” (e.g., home-made incendiary devices that burned, fizzled, or exploded). Incredible as it now seems, it had not yet occurred to any of the millions of parents in our great nation that twelve-year-olds oughtn’t be permitted to buy things made with REAL GUNPOWDER. Or that kids on skates or riding skateboards should maybe wear some sort of protective gear. Me: I was one of those non-psychopathic-but-very-keen firebugs who started playing with matches as soon as they were within reach. At eight, I set a neighbor’s dry summer lawn on fire with a magnifying glass (we were frying ants) and burned my hand tamping it out so as to forestall the mortification of reducing my best friend’s house to ashes. At eleven, I discovered the box of bullets for my dad’s 22 caliber pistol—well hidden, he thought—and pried the heads off a bunch of them to get at the gunpowder. At thirteen, I started a flue fire by lighting opened-up, inverted paper lunch bags that floated up the chimney like little hot-air balloons. (No idea where that idea came from.) At fourteen or fifteen, a “bomb” made of strike-anywhere match heads wrapped up inside multiple layers of tinfoil went off in my hand as I was squeezing the thing into a densely packed ball prior to hurling it against a wall. (The burns were minor.) And these are just a few choice examples. There are many more. Amazingly, I got away with most of these misdeeds. (The flue fire, which took place at around five a.m. when no one else was up, went out on its own after ten utterly terrifying seconds.) But not all of them. (Those missing bullets; that one got me in deep doo-doo.) As a budding empiricist, all through my youth I considered these and similar shenanigans to be legitimate forms of scientific experimentation. I always had this misguided sense, belied by the facts, that I knew what I was doing and was in complete control. Truth be told, this has been a recurring theme in my life—one that I still grapple with.

As for my damaged ears: for the most part, chronic tinnitus is one of those things you can just tune out. It’s barely noticeable unless I’m in a quiet room, say, or in bed at night. The problem is, I simply adore the sound of pure, unadulterated silence and have always been drawn to places and situations where you can’t hear a damn thing: grottos and caves; abandoned mine tunnels; mountaintops on windless days.

For years I lived and worked at a remote educational facility, high in eastern California’s White Mountains (“HOME OF THE ANCIENT BRISTLECONE PINE, WORLD’S OLDEST LIVING THING”). Crooked Creek Research Station, at 10,150 feet—few workplaces are as noise-free: miles from a paved road; no major flight paths overhead; very little vehicular traffic. Visitors often commented on the quiet. Some found it a little unsettling. Others loved it. Every so often, I’d tell the ones who spoke positively about the quiet how much it meant to me, personally, adding, “To me, perfect silence is a kind of music.”

I was pretty much in charge of the station but my official job-title was “cook.” Most days, I’d get up at four-thirty to make breakfast for my guests. Walking to the kitchen, usually in the dark or first hints of dawn, I’d almost always pause for a few seconds and listen to the magnificent sound of absolutely nothing. In the spring and fall, when it’s still fully dark at five a.m., I’d stand there beneath a firmament ablaze with stars and listen for the music of the spheres. These pre-dawn reveries were sweet but, alas, somewhat sullied by my brain glitch—prominent against the impeccable aural backdrop; an acoustic fly-in-the-ointment. Thanks to that bone-headed teenage stunt, the sanctity of raw silence exists only in my imagination. On the other hand, the buzz in my ears has helped me maintain a durable sense of gratitude for the miracle of hearing.

[1] I realize that readers of a certain age will have no idea what a “cap gun” is or what sort of mischief a tweenage boy growing up in the 1960s could get into with a few rolls of caps at his disposal. Google it.

[2] Another anachronism! A “dime store” is the equivalent of what is now known as a Dollar General.