Piute Log...Underwater Test Flight 2002

The first part of this entry is about basic ranger-stuff along with the discovery of some “new” nineteenth century sheepherder carvings—always a thrill.  The latter part records a classic nature lesson consisting of a brief meeting with a young sandpiper. Non-birders might be surprised to learn that several types of shorebirds are found in the High Sierra backcountry. One, the spotted sandpiper, nests near lakeshores and in meadows bordering streams. Most summers at Piute there was at least one family being reared along the slow-rolling river. Both adults (but mainly the female) build grass-lined nests under turfy overhangs but on more than one occasion I stumbled on a “nest” consisting of eggs (camouflaged with irregular spots that looked remarkably like the salt-and-pepper granite gravel) laid in a shallow depression on a sandbar and virtually invisible. Adults do the “lame duck” thing to lure predators away from nest or young. (Didn’t fool me….) Spotted sandpipers are atypical in that the male provides most of the adult supervision, keeping an eye on the precocious young (they’re out and about, feeding on their own, soon after hatching) while the female is off, fattening up after the egg laying and brooding is over. I’d often see one of the adults working the shallow edge of the sandbar where I bathed, right across from the cabin. They have a delightful and distinctive habit: a continual, graceful bobbing motion as they feed. Handsome birds, the sandpipers were one of those animals that made you glad just knowing they were around. 

18 Jul (Thu)     Cloudy again and warm. Did a load of laundry but it rained a bit so a coupla times had to hustle my wet pants back into the cabin and the soggy socks, too. 

◦◦◦◦◦ In the afternoon, walked up the Kirkwood trail to get that tree I’d “ignored” on 7/5. It was farther than I remembered. Of course—naturally!—the thing lay beside one of the mosquito-infested bogs that line sections of this trail. It was pretty hot and humid and my little folding saw kept binding in the 12” cut. Sweated profusely while being mobbed by bugs various. At times, straightforward tasks take on semi-heroic proportions up here. That is, in the sense that cityfolk could hardly imagine what it’s like to do strenuous labor under these conditions, in a situation they know only from recreating with a pack on their backs, and where they find enough challenge in just traversing the land. Here I am chest-thumping again and being over-dramatic. But, honestly, it seems pointless to repeatedly engage in these downright masochistic battles when there’s absolutely no reward or acclaim. Usually, no one even notices. Or cares. People could easily walk (or ride) around that downed tree. They’d trample a few plants that’ll never grow back but what the heck. We do these things, routinely, because we’re rangers. Bakers bakes bread. Weavers makes cloth. Rangers clears trails. So, shut up, Smith. ◦◦◦◦◦ On the way to the job I spied a “new” old carving—a simply rendered “91” carved on a slender lodgepole exactly like the one carved on a similar tree by the trail just south of Vidal’s camp. Then, after finishing my tree job, went exploring expressly to look for some other new carvings. On a natural bench on the hillside, maybe a minute’s walk from the trail, found another stunning carving, this one clearly dated 1882. Numerous letters (probably initials). Finding these two new glyphs [short for “arborglyphs”] in the course of a short outing just thrills me—not only in the finding of something of historic value written on living trees, but as a reminder that there’s still loads of cool things waiting to be discovered right in my backyard. ◦◦◦◦◦ Strode on home. At the head of the meadow I surprised a mother grouse and one of her brood who both flew up into the nearest lodgepole. We squinted at one another through the tangle of branches. Unless she was a particularly unlucky grouse, there were other young cowering in the grass nearby. ◦◦◦◦◦ And, just a few minutes later, met another feathered infant. It’s that time of year: for a period of a few weeks in July you see fledglings all over the place. Baby juncos and robins and quail leap up practically from underfoot. (Scares the piss outa you.) There goes a scruffy little bird with hardly any tail struggling to reach the shore or the lowest limb of a tree with its parent(s) cheeping/chirping/quacking in alarm. ◦◦◦◦◦ I’d crossed the river on the log at Vidal’s camp. Skirting the bank, spooked a fuzzy young spotted sandpiper. We’re talkin’ a measly powder-puff of a bird with ridiculously long legs. To escape giant predator (me) it leapt into the river and started swimming away, upstream as it happened. Sandpipers’ toes aren’t webbed—they’re wading birds, not swimmers. So the critter was making almost no progress. I turned to go but got only a few yards away before that voyeuristic, scientist inside me took over. The wee small scientist-voice chided me: “You don’t get to check out a baby sandpiper any ol’ day, now do ya?” So I back-pedaled a few steps and got to witness yet another amazing bird-thing. (Never did see an adult.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Making no headway against the current, the precocious chick dove straight for the bottom, a submerged sandbar. Its adolescent plumage of grey and white pre-feather bird fur, unfortunately, made it quite buoyant—there were numerous air-bubbles trapped in the downy fuzz—and it was clearly struggling to overcome the floatiness. It “swam” straight down a good two feet using wings and sorta frog-kicking ‘til hitting bottom. Then it began to “fly” and run simultaneously, still headed upstream but against little or no current. Its wingbeats were in slow motion but this bird was most definitely flying. At the same time it was ever-so-slowly making an escape on toothpick legs, leaving delicate little bird footprints in the bottom silt. With no emotion whatsoever I observed a fine rain of sand grains falling away behind each languid stride and the thin train of bubbles escaping from its mouth. You see, for me as well, all this took place in a sort of dreamy slow motion, a side-effect of the condensed nature of time when whatever you’re experiencing takes on the quality of a vision. (This whole deal was so much more vivid and arresting than my encounter with the grouse—entirely different.) I was on my knees, staring into the river like into an aquarium, somewhat outside my normal self. What I saw was a brave newcomer on planet Earth, most cleverly designed, flying through water long before it could fly through the air! Holding its breath all the while, terrified no doubt. Mesmerized, found that I was holding my breath, too. ◦◦◦◦◦ The sandpiper was probably under water for ten, maybe fifteen seconds. It suddenly stopped fleeing and just like that bobbed to the surface like a cork, coming up under a screen of sedge leaves that were dangling from the turfy bank. It was partially hidden and hung there motionless. I looked down and saw tiny bird tracks in the silty mud so knew it hadn’t been a dream.

→  2 WBs cleaned     →  1 visitor     →  1 tree removed     → 250 lbs rock     →  4 ½ miles

This event was unusually moving for some reason and I thought about it for days. It’s still a vivid memory. (A brief aside: only later did I realize that, in addition to adding forward momentum, the flying motion was also providing downward pressure that kept the bird on the bottom so that it could run. As soon as the sandpiper stopped“flying,”it shot straight to the surface.)  

        ©2018 by Tim Forsell                                                                                                                           

               16 Dec 2018

Piute Log...Greenhorn Ranger Still 1989

From my second full season at Piute. These early logs were pretty bland, consisting mostly of lifeless entries talking about travel, trail conditions, and work accomplishments intended for my boss, Lorenzo. There were a few interesting anecdotes, though. Here’s four from the distant past worth reading. Perusing these early logs now, I’m struck by how callow I was in those early days…how “young” I sound in my writing style. But it’s clear that my scorn for babes-in-the-woods incompetence was already evident. I suspect that most, if not all, rangers use their logs as a vehicle for venting frustration. For any ranger, it’s hard not to take personally the sort of minor crimes encountered virtually every day. In fact, what anybody who works in Wilderness has to learn if they want to remain in the business is the ability to let such things not eat them alive. 

1 Jul (Sat)     July again?! Already? Back up to Fremont Lake to greet the masses. Rode Ramon with shovel in hand. Spent my day tearing out the huge condo [giant firepit] just as you arrive at the lake. Hid the rocks on the hillside and tossed smaller ones in the lake. Taylor and Dave came in with a load of dudes and left with the stock awhile later, informing me that a bear got into their basecamp that very morning and tore things up good. Said this had never happened to them before here at Fremont. ◦◦◦◦◦ Backpackers started streaming in at about 1 p.m. and I gave many ranger lectures. Doing much better at it this year. Kept me from my work, though. Dug a huge hole (moved probably a cubic yard of soil) and shoveled all the coals and ash in after separating the sleazy melted cans and plastic and broken glass. Oh well. Was getting late so I quick ran around the shore to pick up more trash and see how all the folks were doing. About 75 people walked past me as I was working on the firepit. ◦◦◦◦◦ On my way back to the cabin, just before the Harriet junction, found three bozos camped by the trail who’d built a new firering right in one of the little sedge meadows there. Gave them a very stern ranger lecture and, in this case, actually enjoyed watching them squirm. They seemed to understand although the leader admitted to knowing that they were “being bad.”

      → 86 visitors      →  2 lbs trash bits      → 1 pit, 1100 lbs rock      →  12 miles

2 Jul (Sun)     ◦◦◦◦◦ Stopped by the bozo-camp of last night and gave them another lecture. Then met three guys heading up the trail who I’d talked to at Fremont yesterday. Asked them where they were headed and one guy replied, “Home!” They were going the wrong way! They’d seen the sign on the West Walker trail when they came down the hill from the lake—and thought it was wrong! Yet another amazing, true tale of backpacker ineptitude. ◦◦◦◦◦ Met a crazy botanist (a taxonomist) whose specialty is onions. We talked a bit. His name is Dale McNeil and he’s described several new species, apparently—one just recently, from down in Kings Canyon NP. He’s working on the new revision of Jepson’s California flora. ◦◦◦◦◦ Lots of non-compliance today. All the usual lies but a couple of parties had picked up fire permits in Miwok [Ranger district on the other side of Sonora Pass] and were told they didn’t need a Wilderness Permit here. [At this time, technically you didn’t.] ◦◦◦◦◦ Met Matt Torley [another packer] and his wife, Sue, at Roosevelt Lake. He congratulated me on not being married yet and advised me to keep my bachelor status as long as possible. He said this with a hearty smile while his wife sat on her horse right behind him, she smiling too. That was kinda weird. ◦◦◦◦◦ Back to the cabin at 8 and done unloading by 9:15. A full day.

       → 49 visitors             → 21 miles             →  55 lbs trash (mostly old barbed wire)

5 Jul (Wed)     ◦◦◦◦◦ In the evening, went exploring. Hiked up the hill across the river and down aways into a little drainage that dumps into what Doc calls “Sheepherder Meadow.” Surprised to find myself there—it’s tucked away back behind a forested rocky hill and you’d never know from the trail that it was there. Bee-autiful spot. Made a big mistake, though, trying to take a shortcut across the thing. It’s very boggy on the south end. I’ve been in spongy bogs before but nothing quite like this. That whole meadow is afloat on a hidden lake, apparently! It felt like walking on top of a waterbed except I was sinking up to my ankles in muck in places. Kinda scary, like quicksand. The thing was undulating all around me. Once I stopped and watched: took a hop in place and watched the surface all around me heave and roll in departing waves. Absolutely amazing. It got worse the farther I went so decided to beat a retreat before it swallowed me up. “Ranger Goes Missing…no clues in disappearance…searchers confounded….”

11 Jul (Tue)     Lorenzo brought in a bunch of fresh food yesterday (bless him) so we had bacon and eggs and English muffins for breakfast! After, we went out to catch Pal for Lorenzo to ride but they wuz gone. Walked all the way to Howard Black’s camp, crossed the river, and came back on the other side. Finally found them at the edge of the meadow in a little hideaway up in the trees. An hour and a half well-wasted…. ◦◦◦◦◦ I stayed home alone today and had a real day off—I’ve just worked 21 straight days. Not that I didn’t want to—just been busy and enjoying work. Read and wrote and ate popcorn. Also, installed my “ranger’s greeting sign” on the big tree by the trail outside the cabin. That took an hour or so. ◦◦◦◦◦ Great dinner: fried pork chops, smashed potatoes, gravy and corn outa can. Doc stopped by as we ate and sat in the grand easy chair smoking his pipe and had tea and sang us “Old Man Walker,” á capella.          

     ©2018 by Tim Forsell                                                                                                                                    16 Nov 2018

Piue Log...Fossilized River 1994

During my time at Piute Meadows, my brother would usually come up for a visit in the fall. Steve, my only sibling (older by three and a half years), also happens to be my naturalist-mentor. He had a “thing” for the feathered-kind at a very tender age and by the time he was eight was a serious and pretty accomplished junior birder. By the time I got to be that age, Steve’s interests had expanded considerably into other areas of natural history. We both became devotees of the natural world, with somewhat different areas of expertise.◦◦◦◦◦I was often well-behind in my daily log entries (it was a constant struggle to keep up) and would stage marathon writing sessions in an effort to catch up on a week or more’s worth of days. I typically wrote these post-dated entries to make them read as if they were composed more or less in the present and tried to maintain a consistent “tone.” But it’s fairly obvious that there was a less-than-spontaneous narrative being recorded.◦◦◦◦◦Also worth noting: it was only later in my “career” that I decided, in the interest of honesty and authenticity, to cop to my varying moods. In truth, I was prone to depression during times of love problems and chronic health issues. In the case of this particular entry, I appear to have been in a reflective, somber mood because this one has an unusually philosophical, even pensive character that sounds a bit out of the ordinary. Also, it’s obvious that I’d pulled out my well-worn copy of Mary Hill’s “Geology of the Sierra Nevada” and done a little research; I was learning about such things as I went along and certainly didn’t know about Miocene geology off the top of my head.

14 Oct (Fri)     Cold again (20°) with a high cloud layer. When I got up to feed the equine-kind the pygmy owl was hooting and I whistled it up—it came to the edge of the yard and perched in the top of a tall snagtop lodgepole. [Pygmy owls are known for readily responding to a crude imitation of their simple call.] ◦◦◦◦◦ Today was the day for a long walk—we can’t just sit in the cabin all day burning firewood. So we walked back up the Long Lakes trail with an objective: I wanted to show Steve a unique geological feature, a thing I’ve visited only once before, myself. (It’s off the trail aways and kinda hard to get to.) We walked to the PCT metal bridge, skirted Walker Meadows visiting old sheepherder camps and found a sheepherder carving that I’d never seen before—a neat one, right off the trail. Also we found a dead pygmy owl right by the PCT, pretty much decomposed but still partially feathered. ◦◦◦◦◦ At Kennedy Creek it started to snow. (More like a sleety rain at first.) Leaving the trail, we climbed up the hillside to the north and along the way ran into a stunning juniper I’d never seen, a tree only fifty feet tall but with a massive trunk—much of it without bark and all furrowed—an honest ten feet in diameter from one aspect. It was very symmetrical and pleasing to the eye, surely at least a thousand years old. (And I don’t toss that figure out lightly.) We were both overcome with admiration for this patriarch—really, one of the very most impressive trees I’ve seen up here, period. ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed straight up the slope, close to the route I’ve taken on horseback to get up to Ski Lake. In my customary kinda sneaky fashion under such circumstances, I planned our route so we’d step around a corner and arrive right on top of the “feature.” When we got to the place I said, “Let’s head over here—there’s a good viewpoint and we can rest before the final climb.” Steve was huffing and puffing and wasn’t terribly keen on climbing higher in the falling snow. We stood there for a few minutes while I waited for him to notice the unusual topography but he was concerned by the deteriorating weather and wasn’t focusing on our surroundings. Finally spilled the beans: “Umm…actually…this is it.” ◦◦◦◦◦ We were standing on an outcropping of the brown volcanic rock that covers much of the Sonora Pass region. The technical term for this stuff is “lahar,” an Indonesian word for hot volcanic rock mixed with water, mud, and other rock that actually flows—sometimes at tremendous speeds. (As opposed to true lava.) My book says that this stuff all belongs to the “Relief Peak Formation,” an andesitic mud-flow dating from various stages of the Miocene Epoch. It covers literally thousands of square miles of the northern Sierra region. The “andesite-breccia” (breccia = broken rock) on this slope is studded with granite boulders and cobbles. Some of the biggest boulders are six feet across and are perched atop columns of breccia (the boulders acting like umbrellas to preserve the columns under them from eroding away). And there are little bluffs that expose in cross-section a sort of mega-conglomerate made up of granite cobbles along with other volcanic and metamorphic rocks. The really striking thing is that the granite boulders are all rounded and polished in a way that can only have been achieved by being tumbled in the riverbed of a major river. Steve is also interested in geological matters and I wanted him to try and interpret this scene like I’d done a few years back. (When I met that geologist, Jack Quade, at Dorothy Lake this year he confirmed my theory.) ◦◦◦◦◦ It took a little prompting but Steve figured out the puzzle: we were standing on an ancient river bed that had been inundated by one of the lahar mudflows during the long period of volcanism in the Sierra that covered this country with that dark brown, fine-grained volcanic rock that’s so prominent in the Sonora Pass region. The lava slurry, full of angular chunks of parent rock, had coursed downslope into a flowing river and mixed with the giant cobbles in its bed. This one tiny remnant, perched on an obscure mountainside, overlying glacially carved granite bedrock, has survived multiple glaciations and is the chance remnant of a time long past; these granite cobbles used to be tumbled in flood-times by a long-gone river that flowed somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty million years ago!! There are glacial erratics dating from the Pleistocene all around the West Walker—right in the yard at the cabin a large boulder of Cathedral Peak granite, carried some miles from the crest, is lying atop far-older metamorphosed marine sediments on a small bluff of this truly ancient rock tilted 90° (its bedding layers evident). I’ve often been impressed thinking that this particular stone has sat there in place for at least ten thousand years without moving an inch. But the boulders on that hillside where we were standing, that look just like any other granite boulders at a casual glance, have also rested in place for a long time. In fact, they’ve been sitting there quietly for perhaps two thousand times longer than any of the local glacial erratics. ◦◦◦◦◦ Here’s further proof of the severe limitations of the human mind. We just don’t have the equipment available to perceive things on this scale; when we try, the red lights start to blink—TILT!—and we have to back off lest our brain cells burst from over-heating. Using my imagination I can dimly comprehend that the river cobbles above Kennedy Canyon are much “older” than the glacial erratics but, intellectually I fail—they look pretty much the same! Just granite…. ◦◦◦◦◦ I am humbled yet again and see all too clearly that my existence is exceedingly, tragically (for me) brief. I’m basically no different than an insect—here today and gone tomorrow, la la la. The sun rises and sets again and again, endlessly, and my place in this world is more or less irrelevant. I’ll be gone altogether too soon and not be missed by the trees and stones and crumbling, ephemeral mountains. The glaciers will come again to alter this ever-changing landscape. Amen. ◦◦◦◦◦ We walked home slowly, on human time. Took several more little cross-country detours to visit places I’ve not looked into yet. Stopped off where we’d found the dead pygmy owl this morning so I could lop its off head. (Used my Swiss army knife. I’ll boil it up to make a lovely little skull specimen.) And, in the vernacular of southern California, I “grossed Steve out” by pretending to lick the blade of my knife clean after the beheading. Well, he was pretty disgusted after that little joke when I licked my fingers and swiped the blade with them before wiping it on my filthy pants. ◦◦◦◦◦ From Walker Meadows we headed east and eventually hit the trail where it passes by Little Long Lake. At a point where he “knew where he was” I left Steve to walk at his own pace (at his request) and marched the last couple miles home alone. Back at the cabin, took a short stroll up-meadow with kitties for sunset views. ◦◦◦◦◦ After dinner, read aloud to Steve again—a couple of stories from climbing magazines, including a hilarious one by this well-known Everest climber who invited his Sherpa guide to the States and the comical things that the little man from Nepal encountered/endured.

                        → 12 miles            → 2 lbs trash           → humilifying sights

      ©2018 by Tim Forsell                                                                                                                                                      17 Nov 2018

                                                                                                                    

Piute Log...It Hissed and Growled 1989

Entries from just my second season at Piute. One of the very best things about working and living in the backcountry was the ever-present opportunity to have unexpected encounters with wild critters. Unfortunately, those first few seasons I wasn’t recording many nature observations, focusing more on work and travel (and meals eaten). Later in the game I devoted more ink to neat experiences such as the following.

25 Jun (Sun)     Continued an initial patrol of the country, riding to Harriet Lake and beyond with my little axe. ◦◦◦◦◦ Just after passing the Harriet junction and crossing the river I heard a strange sort of a “wailing” sound coming from back around the West Walker trail. Being a ranger, I felt duty bound to investigate so rode on back. Heard the weird sound no more but, almost back to the river, a baby coyote suddenly dashed across the trail right in front of me and scuttled under a fir sapling. I jumped off Ramon (who just stood there) and parted the low-growing boughs to get prime views from just a foot away. The pup hissed and growled, lips curled up to display a mouth full of tiny but very sharp teeth—pretty fearsome in a small way. Its fur was very soft and lustrous pale brown, tawny I guess is the word. Definitely baby-fur. Of course, I wanted to stuff the little wilderpup in my trash sack, take it home, and keep it as a cabin pet. ◦◦◦◦◦

So, why was this youngster wandering around in the woods by itself? It likely had siblings. I’d have to guess it just wandered off after waking up from a nap while mom was hunting for lunch. Things like this probably happen constantly out in the world at large and I was just lucky enough to be there at the right time. There’s little doubt that the pup and its mother were reunited—not too likely that other diurnal predators were about but a passing redtail hawk would’ve grabbed it in a heartbeat. Untold numbers of baby-whatevers get eaten while the mother is off taking care of business. (By the way: if it’s not obvious, I was being facetious in that remark about feeling “duty bound to investigate.” Of course I was going to investigate! Who wouldn’t?)

3 Sep (Sun)     ◦◦◦◦◦ Sitting on the shore of Stella [Lake], I heard a roar and looked up in time to to see an immature golden eagle cruise right over my head, less than forty feet up, doin’ about fifty-five. Its wings were tucked…what a sound. ◦◦◦◦◦

     

     ©2018 by Tim Forsell                                                                                                                                    16 May 2018

Piute Log...Coyotes Play, Too 1994

It had snowed recently—a big autumn storm that dumped an honest foot of snow in the highcountry while I’d been away on days off. Much of it had melted by the time I wrote this entry but it was still a wintry world at Piute Meadows.

10 Oct (Mon)     ◦◦◦◦◦ Around sundown I was sitting in my chair on the porch writing a story about my recent experiences with the big trees over in Sequoia during the Wilderness Managers meeting. As I wrote, there were two coyotes out in the meadow, probably a couple, both hunting voles. One was on this side of the drift fence and came very close—right to the edge of the meadow below the cabin. (The kitties both asleep on my bed so no worries there.) Within five minutes this sleek, fluffy fella caught two voles, both by the charming, classic high-arc pounce made famous by nature documentaries. Mr. Coyote—I’m pretty sure it was a he—was obviously relishing the hunt. And I learned something new: the second vole was caught only fifty yards from the cabin and, when he had it, the wild dog played with the vole just like a cat would a mouse! Hunger temporarily sated by the first one, the wild dog repeatedly tossed his hapless prey into the air, turning it into a toy. I could see the vole scurrying on the snow in confusion and, uh, terror. (I quickly assumed the role of cool, dispassionate observer.) It would be tossed again, try desperately to escape, nowhere to go, while the ‘yote was smiling with ears straight up—clearly having a splendid time. But then it grew bored with the game and with a single crunch (not audible) and a gulp (visible) the vole was gone, swallowed like a protein pill. “Welcome to the wild kingdom,” I thought to myself. It ain’t always pretty out there…but it’s always real.

       ©2018 by Tim Forsell                                                                                         19 May 2018                                                  

                                                                                                                    

Piute Log...Prodigal Kitty's Return 2003

13 Jul (Sun)     OFF. No Shitbird [my cat] did return in the night. The Wilsons [recent visitors] must’ve spurred him into a kitty-walkabout. He’s disappeared like this before so I’m not particularly worried but it’s just another stress layer on top of my generalized anxiety about the regime change. ◦◦◦◦◦ Took the day off, big-time. Felt deeply fatigued all day. (That trip to Carson City right after the long tour was not a restful day off!) So this is a day of internal collapse to re-fortify. Took a couple of long naps with dreams. Didn’t eat a bite til almost noon…no hunger. ◦◦◦◦◦ At 1:30, walked to Dinky Creek for flowers but almost nothing is blooming since the little creek is already dry. So, back down the hill and across the river to the several flowing springs where I found lotsa columbine plus first leopard lilies and swamp onion and arrowleaf butterweed. Got my rainbow bouquet and toted it home, swatting and swiping, to get it in some water. I truly feel more “at home” when there’s flowers in the cabin. It wasn’t always like this. I almost need them in some hard-to-pin-down way. The greenery…the colors. I look at them all the time and get to scrutinize flowers with a leisure I’d not be able to enjoy while being swarmed. Also, I get to observe various insects that came with (and are continuing to live their lives as best they can under altered conditions). ◦◦◦◦◦ Started a big pot of beans—another rangerly duty. (Gotta have beans handy. Somebody might show up hongry!) ◦◦◦◦◦ No Shitbird. But a giant full moon which I went out and grokked only once before bed. It was a glory on the meadow…what a world. A great horned owl hooting downcanyon aways…first one I’ve heard this season.

14 Jul (Mon)     Went to greet the two visitors I heard across the river last evening. As I approached, one yelled out, “Ranger Tim!” It was two I’d met in a bigger group a couple of years ago right at my sign [with a posted greeting from “the ranger”]. They were headed to Rainbow Meadows and Stubblefield Canyon following the route description in the accursed Shaeffer guide. One fella was in his 50s; the younger, a studly guy maybe late 30s. The pair were obviously slathered with DEET—exposed skin, with no swatting motions (like my own incessant waving of hands about the face). I might’ve dampened their spirits a bit—they’d planned to camp where Rainbow Creek joins the West Walker but I told them the place was a mosquito infested swamp and that Rainbow Meadows would be pretty awful as well. Then I mentioned the steep snow-filled gulley they’d have to climb to get across the crest. They both looked at me, uncomprehending. I explained that the “guidebook” made their trip sound casual. But it wasn’t—down in lower Stubblefield you have to constantly cross and re-cross the creek because of cliffs and impenetrable brush thickets. The guide, alas, fails to mention this being a problem during the high-water months. Again they looked at me quizzically (I’ve seen this blank look before—it says, “This information does not compute…it is in opposition to THE PLAN and does not allign with our EXPECTATIONS.”) I told them they’d actually embarked on a fairly adventurous journey but would figure everything out…to just take it one step at a time…that the route was obvious. This pair will learn a lot on this trip. ◦◦◦◦◦ No cat did return in the night. Still not worried but…it’s a drag. Feeling somewhat demoralized again today. ◦◦◦◦◦ Saddled Red and Tom and packed the full kit to go remove some big trees. Rode up Harriet Hill and took out the new downed lodgepole—a rotten S.O.B., two cuts of 16” and 17” with some classic levering action by Blue Max [my “peavy”—a tool, also called a “cant hook,” used for moving logs]. Voilà! Took somewhat over an hour, mercifully in shade the whole while. ◦◦◦◦◦ To the P.C.T. Met three guys lunching at the little creek near Cinko Junction. Kid hiking Mex–Can accompanied for a spell by his dad and uncle, a jolly crew. Nice little visit. ◦◦◦◦◦ Removed the other big tree, a splintered mess: 22” lodgepole fell over a rock (across the trail) and was all rotten inside. Cut it out into 15’-long “strips.” An unusual job, not altogether pleasant but different. ◦◦◦◦◦ After my sweat dried I took the shovel and walked back, rocking and cleaning w-breaks for about a half mile. Some treadwork [clearing and smoothing out rough trail]. ◦◦◦◦◦ Homeward. Picked up about 25 lbs. of limbwood from that earlier job on Harriet Hill. No cat (no surprise). If he’s not home sometime tomorrow night I reckon he’s a goner. But still not too worried. Took my first river bath of the season! It was great but no lolly-gagging while dressing, I’ll tell ya!

    →  13 waterbreaks     →  2 trees      →  450 lbs. rock      →  5 visitors      →  9 miles 

15 Jul (Tue)     Saw a gorgeous (if small) butterfly on the P.C.T. yesterday. This morning I actually identified it thanks to my new Peterson field guide to butterflies: Hoffmann’s Checkerspot  (Chlosyne hoffmanni). Habitat: openings in alpine forest zones. Check. Adults nectar at yellow composites and pussytoes. ◦◦◦◦◦ Just after midnight last night I woke instantly at the sound of plaintive meow out on the porch. Ahhh. Instant flood of relief. Or you might call it the instantaneous relaxation of a psychic muscle that’s been clenched up tight for three days. I was never truly worried. But there are few sensations in this life available to human experience as sweet as the prodigal’s return. Shitbird was still outside making those funny, sort-of tentative sounds and I was whistling the 3-note kitty-call. A merry meeting. He slept by/on my head all night, close as he could get, and woke me a number of times purring and kneading. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to tell when someone short and furry is damn glad to be back home. Where he went and what he’s been up to I’ll never know but he came home skinny as I’ve seen him in months. ◦◦◦◦◦ Took the day off, gladly. Yesterday was another stout effort. A few folks (one group) stopped by, wow-ed by the scene, and we visited on the porch. Bit later I constructed a temporary bridge just below the cabin using some P-cord and a few of the corral rails from the pile stashed near the front gate. Lashed them together and—Voilà again!—bridge over untroubled waters. ◦◦◦◦◦ Up in the hammock where I wrote a couple of letters. All caught up in this log (phew!). And the kitty came home. Thanks!

       ©2018 Tim Forsell                                        
             19 Apr 2018                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

                                       

Piute Log...Wing-ed Predators 1994

Over the years I saw so many little nature dramas unfold before my eyes at Piute Meadows. Some were more dramatic than others but they were always moving. To a large extent, this was why I chose to live in the backcountry: to not exactly be a part of the whole web of life but to be a constant witness, to fully comprehend the collective workings of the larger network: to be ever aware of the mycorrhizae under my feet, knowing how these ubiquitous fungal filaments make the meadow “work.” To feel the unseen eagles’ eyes on me, daily, as they made their rounds, keeping tabs on everything that moved in their domain. To unconsciously know when the pines were about to start pollinating and sense when the boletes were probably sprouting down by the river at that one spot. All of it, all at the same time.  ◦◦◦◦◦This entry recounts an incident of a type always welcomed gratefully—events I sometimes refer to as “Welcome to the Wild Kingdom moments,” in reference to the Original Nature Program on television in the 1960s, with its grandfatherly host, Marlon Perkins, intoning those words at the show’s opening. Wild Kingdom was perhaps the first popular media rendering of nature’s red-in-tooth-and-claw side as being an essential aspect of the whole deal (even though the camera would pull away at the moment the lion ripped the impala’s neck open, or when the male-whatever was mounting the female and things were about to get really interesting).◦◦◦◦◦ As a life-long birder, I had an extensive subset of knowledge about feathers. When I’d find one, I was generally able to tell what kind of  bird it had belonged to, what part of the bird it came from. If the sexes were different, what sex. Adult versus immature. Another explanatory note: the two types of hawk mentioned in this piece belong to a group of raptors known as “accipiters” (as opposed to falcons or “buteos,” stocky birds of the redtail hawk variety). Accipiters are slender hawks, agile fliers that dine primarily on other birds. There are three species in North America, all of which live in the High Sierra. These hawks have a notable feeding habit: they always pluck their prey before eating it, being unable to process feathers in their gut like other animals that eat birds feathers-and-all. I would often find piles of feathers out in the forest or in meadows and could usually tell from the type of feather which of the accipiters were responsible. Seeing a goshawk was always a thrill—being a decidedly charismatic and rare bird—and I only saw them on a few occasions around Piute Country.

6 Sep (Tue)     ◦◦◦◦◦ When I went out to saddle Redtop a goshawk took off from the ground at the edge of the meadow just below the yard, carrying something under it like a torpedo. I walked over to the spot and found loads of feathers from an immature sharp-shinned hawk! Imagine: a goshawk catching and eating its cousin, a bird that is basically a smaller version and makes its living the same way (hunting other birds) but happens to be, depending on sex, roughly a third the size. I’d imagine this is fairly uncommon, these instances of predators preying on other predators. ◦◦◦◦◦ And, just a few feet from the pile of sharp-shin feathers blowing in the stiff breeze I saw tail feathers from a male blue grouse. Is this spot a preferred dining area of this individual? Hope so! And when I rode away, flushed the thing again in mid-meal from where it had parked itself right by the front gate. It took off (again) with the torpedo slung under its belly and headed down toward the river gorge for another try at uninterrupted breakfast. An impressive nature drama, particularly since I’d just seen that young sharpshin two days ago hiking up the meadow with Fenix and when he saw it the cat growled and his tail instantly poofed—he knew a hawk when he saw one (though I think it was likely a red-tail that originally imparted his unnatural-for-a-domestic-cat fear of raptors…a fear he was lucky to have acquired in the first place. ◦◦◦◦◦ 

       ©2018 Tim Forsell                                                                                                                                              22 Aug 2018