Piute Log...My Deer Friends, Part 2

 Deer were a continual presence in my world. A constant. I’d see them every day, out on the trail or grazing in the meadow, near the cabin or off in the distance, lending the scene a pastoral air the way large grazing animals do. ◦◦◦◦◦ There was one thing in particular that changed, or rather established, my “relationship” with the local deer: the big hunk of compressed salt sitting on the flushed stump of a fallen lodgepole about ten yards from the cabin’s south window. Of course, animals require salt and working livestock, with all the sweating they do, need a steady supply. It turns out that deer have a powerful craving for it as well. When I first started visiting the cabin the salt block was out in the corral, which was behind a rock outcrop and not visible from the cabin. I’d see deer heading there constantly and, at some point, got the bright idea that if it were closer to the cabin, I could watch them come and go. (Interestingly, I never saw any other forest critters at the salt aside from Cassin’s finches, pine siskins, red crossbills, and pine grosbeaks—all members of the finch family. No other birds.) ◦◦◦◦◦ The salt block changed everything, adding a dee-lightful new element to my life. Suddenly, there was a steady stream of large wild animals just loitering around, right outside. I discovered that there was a network of trails, like spokes on a wheel, all leading to my front yard. Deer from all over would come visit. Many I recognized and would see regularly. Over the course of seventeen summers, I spent a fair amount of time standing by that window or out on the porch watching little deer-dramas unfold and learned many things, things that I’d never imagined. (What intensely curious animals they are, for one thing—curious as cats.) I saw spotted Bambis turn into deer-teenagers…watched young bucks settling scores and does being flat-out mean to each other for no apparent reason. We’d all stare at each other, each wondering who exactly it was staring back. I understood early on that no deer was ever going to trust me and that I’d never come close to knowing what was inside them. But deer enriched my life in ways that I can’t explain. They impart a sense of wellbeing—a soothing reassurance that all is as it should be.

8 Jun 2000     Fine day. Deer in the yard since I put out the salt block two days ago. (One if the first things I do every spring….) ◦◦◦◦◦ [That evening:] Took a bath on the slabs, frigid quick-dip in cool wind with big snowpatch ten feet away. Enjoyed making acquaintance with the new crop of young deer in the yard.

9 Jul     ◦◦◦◦◦ Watched a five-point velvet-antlered buck out on the salt block. A doe was with him but he kept chasing her away. Then the two went off in opposite directions. I’d assumed they were a couple but…Duh!! Bucks and does don’t travel together in the summer, remember? ◦◦◦◦◦

5 Aug     Woke up, got outa bed, looked out the window first thing as per usual. Yowza! Count ‘em: three huge, well-endowed bucks gathered around the salt block stump. Never seen so much bulk deer-flesh and -antler in my yard at one time! Two of the trio were 5-pointers—twice forked horn with eye-guard [a smallish nubbin, low on the antler]. The biggest of the big fellas, the one with widest spread, had six points on one side (one tip just starting to branch) with five on the other. A magnificent creature who weighs at least as much as the ranger, fully clothed with boots on. Engrossed, I watched all three dipping on the lick at the same time and from my window it looked like all their antlers were tangled in a snarled knot. Biggest big-fella soon became annoyed, flailed at the others with his front hooves and ran ‘em off (mean grump). Then back for more while the other two looked on, cowed. He licked and licked and kept on lickin’…was at it for a half-hour straight. Made me pucker up just thinking about it….  He came back repeatedly through the morning hours and, later, I watched him going after Lucy. He was intensely curious about her, completely focused. ◦◦◦◦◦

14 Oct     ◦◦◦◦◦ When we got home there were seven deer at the salt block. I was up on Woody, leading Val. Three does, four deerlets, all in their new gray spot-free autumn plumage. Quite the charming vignette. Haven’t seen any deer for a couple weeks now (hunting season—everybody “laying low” apparently) but I know they’ve been coming in the night to get their fix. What was special about this incident was how they let us crash their party—all of ‘em clustered around the stump, acting like they owned the place—and just carried on licking, with the multi-tongued lapping sounds clearly audible in the silence. The delicate-featured gray late-fawns gaped at me like they’d never seen a human…moms, completely unconcerned. (Their unconcern a “teaching moment” for the youngsters, perhaps.) Rode up real slow, trying to see how far we could take this before they all bounded off. Woody was eyeing them with obvious interest. Val, dunno. I tried not to stare. By no means the first time we’ve ridden up on them while they were at it but this was maybe the closest we’ve ever come. Everybody was jostling for a place at the table and clearly nobody wanted to leave. I got Woody to the hitch rail but they’d become nervous and backed off a little. ◦◦◦◦◦ At this point, Piute entered the picture in dramatic fashion. After waiting all day for his friends’ return, he fell in line behind us right after we crossed the river and followed us into the yard. Then did something outrageous but entirely in-character: a cantankerous bully, Piute took one look at the interlopers…and ran them off! With ears pinned back and a Clint Eastwood menacing squint, he lowered his head and slowly walked toward the pack. His message, clear: MY salt! Beat it, assholes! Leave NOW! Piute can be a real jerk. He broke the magic spell, spoiled the moment. Thanks a lot, pal. ◦◦◦◦◦ Living here, I’ve always had this fantasy: that the wildlings would accept my presence to the point that I could saddle my horses, walk around the yard, sit around a fire, whatever…walk right past them and they’d just go on about their business while I went about my own. That’s all. Just not be feared, not be seen as a threat. As a kid, I remember seeing these religious pictures, variations on a common theme: a seated Jesus with children in his lap and at his feet, each of them gazing up at him in adoration with various wild animals gathered ‘round as well, more in the background. There were a number of versions; pretty much every Christian family had one in their homes. I remember looking at ours, wishing wild animals would come hang out with me and have no fear. I had no interest whatsoever in white-robed Jesus (always spotless white robes) or the adoring children at his feet. It was all about the notion of how great it would be to have animals accept me that way. I’m suppose my childish reaction is pretty much universal but I’ve always had this “ideal”—a fantasy image of myself as part human/part animal, able to mingle freely with the wild ones. That’s why I’m always thrilled, like today, whenever they let me into their world—even a little. ◦◦◦◦◦

11 Aug 2002     ◦◦◦◦◦ This eve a hale 5-point buck showed up in the yard and worked at the salt block off’n’on for maybe an hour. Rare to see one around the cabin in broad daylight in August (bucks mostly hanging out on high ridgetops now) but as always a treat. Aside from the ever-unseen lions and seldom-seen bears, buck deer are the sole “big game” animals in these parts and there’s that special something about large animals…probably based on respect for (fear of?) their physical strength as much as the visual appeal. I suspect this handsome fella was so nonchalant because he was raised around here and has known me since his ma started bringing him around, back when he was still in spots.

 

           ©2021 Tim Forsell               19 Feb 2021

Biocomplexity: The Third Infinity...Prologue (Part 2 of 2)

We have here the latest (hopefully last) version of the prologue to my book-length treatise The Demeaning of Life, now entitled Biocomplexity: The Third Infinity. I’ll present it in two parts…this is some prettty rich food-for-thought. ◦◦◦◦◦ The subtitle, I should explain, refers to seventeenth century mathematician and philosopher Rene Pascal’s positioning of humankind between two infinities—the infinitely small and the infinitely large. Others have subsequently proposed a “third infinity”—the infinitely complex, as encountered in nature. ◦◦◦◦◦ This is a significant rewrite of the opening to what started out as a lengthy essay, began in 2012. (If I may say so, it’s very much improved.) The subject? Wellll…it’s complicated. In ten-words-or-less, it’s about The Meaning of Life. More to the point, I draw attention to the notion that the whole of life—the “phenomenon” of living matter—is in serious need of revision. Fact of the matter is, no one really knows what life is…much less, how it got started, why it works so well and why there’s so much of it. With time’s passage, science has come to rely almost exclusively on truly astonishing technologies. But as we probe deeper and deeper into what were once rank mysteries, biology has veered away from its original focus—the study of living organisms—turning into almost a sub-branch of both chemistry and physics. With ever-greater attention on minutiae, driven by data mass collection, biologists have gradually lost sight of the bigger picture. Their findings have revealed that the degree of complexity and sophistication we see throughout nature can no longer be viewed as a product of randomness and chance. Natural selection is not the sole driver of evolution. And no one has the slightest clue about how life began in the first place. Drafts of chapters I’ve posted previously explore these things and more, adding layers to my argument that the entire field of biology is in need of a reboot. ◦◦◦◦◦ From the last paragraph of this prologue:  “With an approach emulating Darwin’s Origin of Species, this work too boils down to ‘one long argument,’ bringing together a range of up-to-date information and evidence from many scientific fields as fodder for thoughtful speculation. Its objective: to present an alternative way of looking at the natural world.” 

 

Prologue.  Problem? What Problem? (Part 2)

 

As things stand, many of those reading these words would be, not just unmoved, but would instinctively react with something between skepticism and outrage. Question science? Heresy! Given the heady, hi-tech climate of our times, few people are ready and willing to contemplate what amounts to a simple, reasoned appeal to scientific humility. Why are so many so confident we understand things that in truth we don’t fully understand? Answers to these questions can be traced to our cultural milieu and how it affects the way we perceive the world, think about it, talk about it, and write about it.

In philosophy, “empiricism” is the belief that knowledge is derived from sensory experience (as opposed to pure reason or intuition) and that knowledge once gained is tentative and subject to continual revision. One of science’s major precepts is the notion that any entity can best be understood by way of an approach based on observation and experiment—what we call the “scientific method.” Despite recognized limits to the empirical pursuit of knowledge, with its baked-in acceptance of doubt and emphasis on non-certainty, many people—scientists and non-scientists alike—remain convinced that biology’s thorniest problems will eventually yield to technological innovation wielded by creative minds. Those less sanguine about scientific progress in general see life as an abiding mystery, an enigma the human mind can’t fully comprehend. Either way, life’s deep-rooted complexities are daunting to behold and most scientists freely admit that we’re a long way from anything like a complete understanding of nature, of life. (Some, that we’ve barely scratched the surface.) 

But even among those who realize just how far we are from a thorough understanding of living nature, few are willing to entertain the notion that shadowy biological life-laws await discovery—namely, legitimate physical/chemical principles relevant only to animated matter. Elemental laws of nature whose cryptic influences produce little in the way of measureable (or even observable) evidence. Skeptics dismiss this idea as laughable. But note: since the mid-twentieth century scientific progress has relied almost exclusively on costly instrumentation and is largely data-driven. As a result, there’s a widespread conviction that what our highly sophisticated instruments can’t identify and measure isn’t strictly real. I believe this attitude blinds us to the possibility that subtle biological principles await discovery—principles that have somehow eluded detection. Eminent scientists including theoretical physicists Paul Davies and Freeman Dyson, molecular biologist Franklin Harold, and biophysicist Harold Morowitz have all suggested as much—and they’re by no means alone. Each maintain that imaginative, unorthodox ways of looking at long-standing problems, problems like the origin of life, are essential if we hope to plug gaps in our ever-expanding body of scientific knowledge. But funding for such quixotic ventures is at present nonexistent and few are willing to risk reputation and career to go off tilting at theoretical windmills. 

Another important point needs to be introduced straight away: the idea of life’s innate hyper-complexity. To be more specific: the concept of complexification as an inescapable spin-off of life’s penchant for generating order from chaos. From here on, biological complexity in all its manifestations will be treated as an attribute of living matter—an innate characteristic common to all life forms…a quality…a “thing.” As such, it merits designation and I’ve settled on the word “biocomplexity” to denote the concept. [footnote: For some time I was under the impression that I’d invented a new term…only to learn that, as of 1999, “biocomplexity” had been introduced as a discrete area of study examining “properties emerging from the interplay of behavioral, biological, chemical, physical, and social interactions that affect, sustain, or are modified by living organisms, including humans.” The word will be used here in its wider sense, as a quality arising from the multilevel interactions exhibited by all life forms.] The recognition of biocomplexity as a discrete feature common to all forms of life will bring us closer to understanding life’s deeper nature.  

As for the biological machine metaphor, this centuries-old depiction of living things as machines skirts critical differences. Machines, by definition, have to be designed and assembled. Machines don’t build themselves…can’t replicate or carry out self-repair. Machines never “evolve” or adapt on their own. They lack autonomy and agency—the capacity to act. In contrast, primitive microbes employ staggeringly elaborate schemes to steer development, reproduction, communication, regulation, and maintenance. Investigators have never been able to locate, in any type of life form, a centralized command center that governs the whole organism. In fact, biologists are just beginning to confront the notion that every developmental or regulatory influence is subject to further regulation, also regulated—an infinite regress with no vertical hierarchy, no “higher” or “lower,” nothing that can be said to be in charge. 

With any highly complex matter, inapt terminology leads to misinterpretation and error. It’s clear that our limited grasp of life-as-phenomenon is partly due to linguistic deficiency. Right now—lacking suitable terminology, there’s no way to accurately express what I’m attempting to describe. But this is what we’re faced with: all living things and all their entangled life-systems are guided by some form of whole-organism, decentralized, coordinating influence that beggars description. This is the root of the “problem.” We’ll delve into all this later, but for now—this thing deserves a name. Call it what you will; call it ”shared organismal intelligence.” Or call it “life-logic.“ But call it something. To give whatever-it-is a face, to make whatever-it-is real. So that we can start talking freely about matters of genuine consequence. To that end: in order to underscore its singular nature, when being considered as a collective phenomenon in all its wholeness and unity, “life” will henceforth be rendered “LIFE.” 

Returning once more to the machine metaphor: machine language fails to convey the essence of coordinated, cooperative interactions taking place in organs and tissues and cells. Machine terminology explicitly denies the organism agency and excludes the narrative thread of its event-full life. Likewise, the proliferating use of computer jargon in biology has a similar effect by fostering a sense that organisms are preprogrammed automatons running on binary code. Using bio-free language is counterproductive, guaranteeing that crucial aspects of the LIFE phenomenonget lost in translation. 

All scientific fields go through adjustment phases and periodic course corrections. As we come to a fuller understanding of how the living world operates, innovative scientific terms will materialize as need arises, leaping into common usage virtually overnight—words and phrases with just the right tenor and tone to complement a more nuanced view of LIFE. An updated biological lexicon will shift focus from mechanism and information-processing to address LIFE’s subtler, qualitative aspects. (For example: at present, we lack discrete terms that could help elucidate borderline taboo subjects—like the intentional actions, the behaviors exhibited by plants, cells, microbes…even viruses.) The future will see other changes including the introduction of biological principles and hypotheses that have what might be called a different “flavor.” For instance, some proposals will be couched in language that can address LIFE’s signature paradoxical qualities. Similar to what’s currently taking place in modern cosmology, working theories will be derived from impossible-to-prove inferences that, nonetheless, agree with observation. This approach to biological theorizing, while clearly limited in scope, may yet be capable of shining some light on unsolved problems. As always, change will be met with staunch resistance. Biology, like present-day cosmology, will soon be pressing up against the boundary between science and metaphysics; controversy and discord will be rife. Anticipating the coming challenges, celebrated twentieth-century microbiologist Carl Woese wrote, “A future biology cannot be built within the conceptual superstructure of the past. The old superstructure has to be replaced by a new one before the holistic problems of biology can emerge as biology’s new mainstream….”  

Scientists attempt “to explain the unknown with the knowable,” devising theories whose objective is to describe or explain natural phenomena. Theories are then subjected to tests that can establish or refute their validity as part of a stepwise process. That’s all. Scientific theories aim for accurate representations of reality, not final answers. Nothing in science is permanently settled; there are no indisputable facts, only suppositions presumed to be valid until proven otherwise. One of my objectives is to challenge long-standing assumptions and fixed positions. In that light, I invite readers to approach this material in the spirit of open scientific inquiry, which simply asks us 1) to question assumptions and beliefs and then, 2) be willing to modify them as new information presents itself. While these venerable axioms likely seem self-evident, it needs to be emphasized: we are fallible beings—creatures of deep habit, mental as well as behavioral, continually subject to influences that impact the way we perceive…everything. Evolutionary biologist Lynn Margulis:

 

Our outlooks shape what we see and how we know. Any idea we conceive as fact or truth is integrated into an entire style of thought, of which we are usually unaware…. Call the dominating inhibitions that determine our point of view whatever you wish. They affect all of us, including scientists. All are saddled with heavy linguistic, national, regional, and generational impediments to perception. Like those of everyone else, the scientist’s hidden assumptions affect his or her behavior, unwittingly directing thought.

 

Wise words. As for my own perceptual impediments: with no ideological axe to grind and no conventional philosophy or religion to uphold, I simply wish to know—to the  extent my limited faculties permit—why our world is the way it is. With an approach emulating that of Darwin’s Origin of Species, the work in hand comprises “one long argument,” bringing together a broad range of up-to-date information and evidence from diverse scientific fields as fodder for imaginative speculation. Its objective: to present an alternative way of looking at the natural world, to view what I’ve termed LIFE through a new lens. My hope is that readers will take away a heightened appreciation for all the wonders that surround us…wonders that live within us.                                        

          ©2021 Tim Forsell              7 Sep 2021                                                    

 

 

Biocomplexity: The Third Infinity...Prologue (Part 1 of 2)

We have here the latest (hopefully last) version of the prologue to my book-length treatise The Demeaning of Life, now entitled Biocomplexity: The Third Infinity. I’ll be presenting it in two parts…this is some pretty rich food-for-thought. ◦◦◦◦◦ The subtitle, I should explain, refers to seventeenth century mathematician and philosopher Rene Pascal’s positioning of humankind between two infinities—the infinitely small and the infinitely large. Others have subsequently proposed a “third infinity”—the infinitely complex, as encountered in nature. ◦◦◦◦◦ This is a significant rewrite of the opening to what started out as a lengthy essay, began in 2012. (If I may say so, it’s very much improved.) The subject? Wellll…it’s complicated. In ten-words-or-less, it’s about The Meaning of Life. More to the point, I draw attention to the notion that the whole of life—the “phenomenon” of living matter—is in serious need of revision. Fact of the matter is, no one really knows what life is…much less, how it got started, why it works so well and why there’s so much of it. With time’s passage, science has come to rely almost exclusively on truly astonishing technologies. But as we probe deeper and deeper into what were once rank mysteries, biology has veered away from its original focus—the study of living organisms—turning into almost a sub-branch of both chemistry and physics. With ever-greater attention on minutiae, driven by data mass collection, biologists have gradually lost sight of the bigger picture. Their findings have revealed that the degree of complexity and sophistication we see throughout nature can no longer be viewed as a product of randomness and chance. Natural selection is not the sole driver of evolution. And no one has the slightest clue about how life began in the first place. Drafts of chapters I’ve posted previously explore these things and more, adding layers to my argument that the entire field of biology is in need of a reboot. ◦◦◦◦◦ From the last paragraph of this prologue:  “With an approach emulating Darwin’s Origin of Species, this work too boils down to ‘one long argument,’ bringing together a range of up-to-date information and evidence from many scientific fields as fodder for thoughtful speculation. Its objective: to present an alternative way of looking at the natural world.”

Prologue.  Problem? What Problem? (Part 1)

The reality of organic systems is vastly untidy. If only their parts were all distinct, with specific functions for each! Alas, these systems are not like machines. Our human minds have as little intuitive feeling for organic complexity as they do for quantum physics.   

         Randolph Nesse

SCIENCE MAY WELL BE HUMANITY’S greatest innovation, extending perception of the observable universe beyond what we can see and touch to encompass the infinitely small and inconceivably distant. In the broadest sense, “science” is a mode of thought, a process of inquiry, an intellectual tool. We need reminding from time to time that science as we know it has been around for only a few hundred years—not long at all, especially when you take into account the prodigious accomplishments of cultures that existed for millennia prior to sixteenth-century Europe’s Scientific Revolution. And while most of us have a solid sense of what science is, it can be hard to put that understanding into words. After all, science’s origins—even how to define the word—have been subject to endless debate. (Scholars still argue over matters like Who deserves most credit for ushering in the modern era?) Amazingly, it wasn’t until the early nineteenth century that science’s so-called modern era begin to take shape, with all its familiar professional institutions and conventions and arcane terminology in place. And then things took off in earnest: in no time at all ordinary human beings deconstructed atomic nuclei, probed the far reaches of space, and began to dream of other universes. Nuclear physicists have identified scores of short-lived subatomic particles, with no end in sight. At the other end of the spectrum, a telescope in low Earth orbit transmits digital information back to the surface to be converted into photographic images like the one showing hundreds of galaxies that look like fuzzy stars, galaxies so distant they appear as they would have looked shortly after the Big Bang. Monumental endeavors like these have come to seem almost commonplace. Strange, that we seldom pause to think about just how remarkable it all is. All of it. All thanks to science and hard working scientists. 

And us (that is, humans)—sole surviving lineage of an evolutionary experiment that may or may not stand the test of time. Our primal ancestors just showed up one day; a new species of mid-sized mammal that fashioned its own niche by standing on two legs, freeing up the hands. They hunted, gathered, and scavenged much like other animals but lacking sharp teeth and claws had to rely on their wits to survive, resulting in a burst of evolutionary innovation. These proto-humans learned how to learn. Grunts and growls morphed into language and song. Their dexterous hands were seldom idle and the cleverest among them stumbled on novel ways of doing and making. Tools were contrived, fire tamed. Over time, some of their daily activities came to have little connection with procuring food or otherwise helping ensure survival—music and art, for instance. Against odds a few small bands persisted and eventually thrived. Generation after generation passed on to their young the experiential wisdom they’d acquired. And now, thanks entirely to descendents of our early forbears, we have microwave ovens, GPS navigation, and digital-everythings at our disposal. Contemporary versions of those distant relatives perform arthroscopic surgeries and design transgenic food crops. We discovered ways to harvest the energy of the atom and transform entire landscapes to suit our needs—even figured out how to build better mousetraps. 

Again, this vast reservoir of scientific know-how was gained practically overnight, mostly through the efforts of regular people working in labs and observatories or out in the field, driven by sheer curiosity and that uniquely human desire to know. To understand. Today, the fruits of our highly advanced technologies, developed over mere decades, are widely available to the unwashed masses—things our great-grandparents would never have imagined possible. (My mother’s mother, born shortly before the first airplane flight, watched men walk on the moon…and then saw thirty more summers.) But as for us: life in the twenty-first century makes it even harder to fathom just how far we’ve come as a species since those strange arboreal primates warily emerged from a forest somewhere in East Africa, squinting in the harsh light there at the edge of their first New World. How could it be that in only six million years or so—minutes, in geologic time—bipedal ape-like creatures with opposable thumbs went from crafting crude stone implements to fabricating microchips and reusable rocket ships? Amazing. But it was the gift of one particular invention—science—that made such things a reality. 

Hi-tech wonders aside, the imaginative use of standard scientific techniques can yield startling, unanticipated discoveries. Just think: chemical analysis of two completely unrelated materials (mineral deposits in caves and minute air bubbles trapped in ancient polar ice) has allowed meteorologists to recreate primordial atmospheres and paleoclimates. By splicing a human gene containing instructions for producing insulin onto bacterial DNA and then cultivating these genetically modified microbes in vats, single-celled organisms are in effect turned into chemical factories. And now we receive accurate—accurate!—seven-day weather forecasts, available around the clock thanks to that pocket-sized computer no one leaves home without. Near-miracles like these are legion. Human ingenuity appears to be almost without limit.

But there’s another side to this story. All our stunning technical achievements, placed alongside an equally impressive stock of hard-won knowledge: the sum total shines a spotlight on certain pivotal questions—questions thus far stubbornly resistant to scientific inquiry. Some notable examples: 

Atomic matter—that is, what our world is made of—accounts for a mere five percent of the universe’s mass-energy. The other ninety-five percent consists of unknown, undetectable forms of matter (“dark matter”) and energy (“dark energy”). 

Scientists still have little more than vague notions of how life sprang into existence (notwithstanding the buoyant claims of science writers and pundits who routinely assure us that answers to this age old mystery are at hand). Competing theories based on surmise and wishful thinking are treated as established fact. Attempts to create artificial life have essentially gone nowhere but, ditto the confident claims.

Human consciousness. Despite steady progress in areas such as the mapping of brain circuits, measuring their activity, and pinpointing the mechanics of memory storage, consciousness remains a persistent mystery—the deepest riddle of all. 

As for the life sciences: we’ve yet to determine the basis of biological form and pattern (for instance, why fingers and toes come in threes, fours, or fives but never sevens). And as to how species diverge, or even what constitutes a species—there’s still no widespread consensus on such key topics. Many evolutionary processes are still poorly understood and subject to heated debate. 

These issues share a common thread. Namely: the “problem” of biological complexity. Problem? What problem? Thanks in part to an ever-increasing capacity to generate and process mountains of data, contemporary researchers find that the study of life is growing more complicated with each passing year—particularly at molecular scales. The latest findings of biochemists and molecular biologists reveal layered intricacies their predecessors never anticipated. Incredible as this may seem, leading biologists of the mid-1800s believed cells to be little more than shapeless, unstructured containers filled with water or slime. But even now, the ways cells interact with their neighbors, how cells coordinate their specific roles in tissues and organs, certain aspects of their most elementary properties: basic matters like these still present explanatory hurdles. The same goes for the macro level and on up the ladder of life’s vast web of interdependence. Here, too, ecologists stare down another seemingly bottomless well of multiplying complexities. Their studies frequently reveal unforeseen connections—at all levels, at all scales. Nothing in biology is as straightforward as once imagined. Nothing.

There’s no end to the mind-boggling intricacy associated with each and every aspect of the natural world. Of course, biology isn’t alone in this regard; each scientific field has its own complications and unresolved problems. And every discipline has its own way of approaching them. Physicists, for instance, face the unsettling prospect that subatomic particles may not be the ultimate material division. And whatever it is that matter comprises will most likely remain beyond experimentation (or, worse, beyond comprehension). Likewise, biologists—unable to establish the precise point where chemistry, physics, and that enigmatic spark of life converge—may never settle on a definitive foundation for their own field. This built-in ambiguity sets biology apart from most of the other physical sciences. Where does the study of life even begin? 

Analogies shed light on complicated matters, making hard things easier to grasp. For example, there’s this time-honored simile dating from the seventeenth century: Organisms are like wonderful machines. Without question, viewing living things as elaborate machines provides a clearer picture of their multipart structures and interconnected systems. Indeed, many people argue that living things are machines—literally. Others believe this undervalues the extreme degree of functional complexity that all forms of life display; after all, our most advanced machinery pales in comparison to the most primitive mud-dwelling microbe. The sophistication of things like pea pods and feathers and snail shells and ankle joints are simply taken for granted, seldom eliciting the wonder they so richly deserve. Our days are full to overflowing already and we simply can’t spare the time or energy it takes to be astonished by run of the mill miracles. Vital natural processes—a perfect example being the ceaseless, rhythmic beating of our hearts—go unnoticed in much the same way we reflexively tune out distracting noises. 

And so it is that we’re almost forced to ignore the biological version of a Great Truth—right there in front of us, all the time, just waiting to appear as a blinding flash of insight. The gist of its wordless message is this: Life’s true nature is subtle and elusive. Scientists have achieved a basic grasp of its capabilities, yes, but have only a partial awareness of life’s limitations…little insight into how biological order arises from chaos…barely an inkling of what the organism “means.” Our rudimentary conception of what life IS is clouded by faulty assumptions, preconception, and lack of imagination. As a result, the Western scientific tradition’s portrayal of life is flawed—deeply and irrevocably flawed from the bottom up.

END OF PART 1.       ©2021 Tim Forsell        7 Sep 2021

                                    

Piute Log...Labor Day Weekend 1993

4 Sep (Sat)     Up pre-dawn. Thus begins the big Labor Day weekend visitor onslaught and jam-bo-ree so my goal, as always, is to greet the masses before they commit their minor many crimes. Redtop and I got underway early. Literally tons of people on the trail today. Many small groups mixed in with one randomly dispersed club outing strung out in dribs and drabs over a couple of miles, small clusters and singletons going at their own pace. Their “leader” was that funny old coot with a crooked eye who I met last summer—John Innskeep. (The usual dilemma of deciding Which one do I look into? was moot, since his right eye pointed way down and away.) John’s a trip leader with the CMC—California Mountain Club. Sort of a Sierra Club rival but more focused on peak-climbing. Last year when we met he was by himself as no one had signed up for his trip. This year he got 22 sign-ups and there were no cancellations like there almost always are. So he got permits for two separate groups. Under these circumstances, the two groups are supposed to not camp near each other but, in my experience, usually do anyway. I actually fielded several complaints (well, more like comments) from backpackers. “Hey, ranger, did you see that huge Sierra Club group?” I gave John, heading for Upper Piute and eventually Tower Peak, tips on where to camp and said, “I’ll talk to you later!” (Old ranger trick: helps keep ‘em on their best behavior since the Law might show up again at any time.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Many long talks, from on my high horse or standing on firm terra looking at maps. Did a good job with contacts today; can’t always say that, alas. Had energy and was matching everybody’s expectations with individually tailored ranger jive. Gave everyone time and attention with enthusiasm and sincerity. Answered loads of questions. Many communicated their gratitude to which I sometimes sang out, “Hey! I’m a public servant—you’re paying my salary!” Hokey line but people do seem to appreciate the sentiment. ◦◦◦◦◦ Here comes two more—man followed by a petite woman, a fine looking German shepherd at her side. I spoke to the guy first then glanced over at the woman, eyes invisible behind dark sunglasses but who’s grinning at me fiercely. Recognition. “Well, darn my socks! It’s Marilyn Muse!” (Haven’t seen her since…???) She’s with this friend visiting from Alaska, where they met while she was up there on a temporary FS detail. On their way to Dorothy Lake. Marilyn worked here in Bridgeport for a couple of seasons as an interpreter but moved on, up to Tahoe to take the enviable position of Snow Ranger. She checks out all the commercial ski areas on FS land for lift safety and does avalanche control (recently got her license to work with explosives and is just now being trained to fire the fixed mortars). Skis for free at five areas…first tracks on virgin slopes, tosses grenades onto cornices, probably wears a very cool uniform, the envy of everyone she meets. And she’s the woman for the job, indeed yes. Sage the wonder-dog is a full-on certified Search & Rescue K–9; every so often the pair get on a jet and fly halfway ‘round the world to help locate people trapped in earthquake wreckage, etc. Marilyn is a truly remarkable woman who’s lived a remarkable life—former backcountry ranger, Desolation Wilderness…Eleanor Lake Ranger (Yosemite NP), where she lived in a sprawling house perched above a huge dam on a huge lake which she patrolled by canoe and on foot…Yosemite Valley horse-patrol ranger. Formerly married to the amazing Jim Harper, now a carpenter for Yosemite NP. (He was the guy in charge of rebuilding the avalanched Wilma Lake cabin a couple years back, last time I saw him.) Those two were Tuolumne Meadows Winter Rangers for something like six seasons. Along in there somewhere they also spent a summer as the sole backcountry rangers in Gates of the Arctic NP/Preserve up in northern Alaska where they carried rifles ‘cuz of grizzlies. (I vividly recall her telling me once how they only saw two people the entire season and that it rained almost every day.) More than perhaps any woman I’ve known, Marilyn went for quality-of-life and adventure over family, fiscal security, and status. We’d probably be great friends but this one can be hard to take in long doses—a bundle of raw nervous energy, she talks real fast without completing sentences (or thoughts). Way too over-sensitive…candidly cops to being completely mad…suffers from irrational and vexing doubts and fears and wild waverings, poor thing. But so good-hearted and genuine. Marilyn was one of a handful of cherished “Foresta friends” during my Yosemite years. Her lovely home burned in the A-Rock fire three years back. Jim designed and built the place, which was absolutely gorgeous. She lived there alone after the divorce and told me she just can’t face going back. I get that. Don’t know what she’ll do when Sage goes, how she’ll manage it; shepherds don’t usually live to a ripe old age and Sage is already eight. That dog is her world, near as I can tell. ◦◦◦◦◦  Speakin’ of dogs: earlier in the day, my horse—with me on board—were fully attacked by a dog. (Ironically, a German shepherd.) This was definitely a first for me. Rode up on a young couple with two big dogs. The guy was clipping the leash on one when the shepherd attacked, without any warning whatsoever. He was just calmly looking us over as we rode up but all of a sudden charged, barking and snarling, flashin’ ivory. Red went all Hi-Ho-Silver! on me, got up on his rears and danced around, the humans standing there in shock crying feebly, “No! No, stop!” Red reared again, rank terror in his rolled-back eyes, whites showing. Never good, when you see those white bits. I saw where his gaze went and looked over my shoulder. The dog had a hold of Red’s tail—lips peeled back, mouth fulla horse hair, growling and shaking his head the way dogs do when you try to take away their stuffed-animal play toy. Red spun to the left then spun to the right, dragging the dog around in tight arcs. (Might’ve even been airborne at times, or maybe I’m just imaging that….) I was saying to myself, Do it, Red! Do it! Now! LAUNCH HIM! But nobody ever taught this sweet-tempered horse how to kick so the dog lived. Eventually he gave up, trotted back over to his “masters” and flopped down with that canine-esque smug look of accomplishment. I shouted some things after him that were, ahem, not very professional of me then turned to the couple. Of course they said, all whiny, “He’s never done anything like this before!” That universal excuse for bad-dog behavior. Heard it before. “Don’t matter!” sez the ranger. I was pumped-up on adrenaline and came down on them pretty hard. Said, not bothering to point out that I could easily have been hurt bad or killed outright, “What happens when Fido there attacks the horse some total greenhorn’s riding, one of those pack station outings, and an innocent person gets thrown into a pile of sharp rocks? You’d feel pretty bad, wouldn’t you?” Also, informed them that many horses and any red-blooded mule would’ve sent their friend straight to doggy heaven with one swift kick. “The rule is: ‘Dogs must be under control at all times.’ That can be verbal control. But YOUR dog, plainly, is NOT under control.” Finally lightened up toward the end as my adrenaline wore off but I left those two pretty wilted. They looked visibly shrunken. ◦◦◦◦◦ After meeting so many people on the trail, decided to ride all the way out to the campground and ask Estella to stop issuing permits for the rest of the day. Chatted with her and Bill [camp hosts], anxiously hoping Red wouldn’t take a big dump right in front of their trailer. ◦◦◦◦◦ To the pack station, dropped off mail, and was headed back upcanyon at 3:30. Not many folks on the way in but it was too late by then to visit Fremont Lake as planned. Home at dusk. Had my river bath in full dark and gobbled some cold leftovers. A long day.

 

           →  92 visitors, 40 encounters (personal record, I believe)        →  600’ lopped       

                        →  1 lb. trash bits             →  22 miles             →  dog attack!

 

5 Sep (Sun)     Up at 6:00, grudgingly. Movin’ slow…feeling kinda washed out, no surprise there. Got a later start today and headed for Cinko Lake, hoping to catch everybody moving on beyond Fremont. Only one camp at Cinko, one on the West Fork (unoccupied), and none at Long Lakes. Hello??! Anybody home?Where’d everybody go? On down to Fremont Lake by the backdoor trail and found it nearly deserted. Amazing! They all must’ve packed up and left in a big hurry this morn. ◦◦◦◦◦ Stopped in at Bart’s basecamp and got myself invited to dinner with the Wild Bunch. The “Amenti party” is an extended family group with friends who come up every year, varying permutations around a core group of thirty-something siblings and their spouses. (I started calling them “the Wild Bunch” following our first dinner encounter…a story recounted elsewhere in this log.) Fun people, smart people, happy campers all. I’d planned to check in yesterday. This year’s crowd a more, shall we say, “sedate” version. Nice visit and great camp-made chow by backcountry chef Lynn: roast pork, prawns sautéed with garlic and mushrooms (ate a giant pile of them suckas, yum), rice, fresh-baked reflector-oven rolls, steamed veggies, apple pie. Yowza! I was ready for it. No flaming cocktails this year. ◦◦◦◦◦ Moon finally arrived around 10:30. Good thing—planned on using it. Almost everybody had gone to bed by then (early rise for departure). Saddled Red, flashlight between my teeth. Stellar ride home. Moon topped the trees right as we left. Crisp, not cold…a pleasant buzz on. One utterly riveting vignette as we were gliding along the shore of Upper Long Lake: Luna coursing behind pines on the ridge line, their perfect reflections cast on the skinny lake together with ten thousand stars…silhouetted bushes and trees swiftly passing in the foreground as I rode along. Layers of night-dreamy scenery moving past one another at different rates of speed, the foreground faster, background slower, but all together in flowing unison. Aside from the sound of horse hooves’ soothing clompity-clomp, totally silent and still…haunting silence and stillness, lake a glassy mirror, light from the heavens above. A most beautiful movie to watch from the saddle. I love love love riding by moonlight! One of the very best things of all. Cabin just before midnight.

 

          →  33 visitors, 11 encounters              →  3 lbs. trash                →  700’ lopped 

              → 18½ miles            →  very first yellow aspen leaves!  

 

 

            ©2021Tim Forsell                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

Telegram from the Universe

James Wilson and I had been casually acquainted for thirty-some years but, prior to setting out on a five-day backpack trip along the crest of the Inyo Mountains, had never spent time together—just us two. James, a successful local business owner, was a self-possessed, intelligent, and thoughtful man with varied interests. I was looking forward to what I knew would be some high quality conversation, long overdue. But in many regards we barely knew one another. Five days alone together would change that.

Just minutes into our long walk we took the first of many trailside breaks, dropping our heavy packs and flopping down on the ground for a sip of water and bite to eat. Neither of us had spoken a word since starting out. We made small talk for a few minutes but then I launched directly into something meatier, a matter that had been weighing on my mind for some time. I just blurted it out: “Uhh, James…do you have any particular thoughts on the origin of life? Any pet theories?” 

A little back-story may be in order here, on the off chance that these might sound like odd things to ask someone I didn’t know all that well, without any warning. 

Around this time I’d taken up reading books about biogenesis—the origin of life—a topic that has intrigued me since I first looked into it. How did life begin? From the very beginning, though, I’ve been shocked by how top experts gloss over the competing theories’ obvious flaws…disturbed by the wild assumptions and logical leaps and scientists taking too many liberties with their best-guessing. The entire field of biogenesis research is fraught with impossible to prove notions and paradoxical chicken-or-egg-type dilemmas…thought-provoking stuff, indeed. Since everything in nature is linked to everything else, the life sciences tend to get messy; thanks to there always being a host of intersecting variables, experiments in areas like ecology can be challenging to set up and hypotheses, difficult to either confirm or refute. Compared to your “typical” scientific theories the predominant origin-of-life scenarios have a distinctly unscientific lack of substance and rigor. Most are based on pure surmise, which isn’t surprising given that no one has any idea what global conditions were like three-and-a-half billion years ago. Plus, there’s virtually no evidence left behind that could support the models. But this was all new to me at the time and there were many nagging questions. I’d been hankering for someone to toss ideas around with and James Wilson, all-around nature lover, seemed like just the sort who’d be interested in such things. 

            The response to my out of the blue query was not quite what I’d expected. Just then, James was gazing off into the distance. After a momentary pause he half turned toward me, eyes askance, lips pressed into an inscrutable Mona Lisa smile. With no sense as to whether or not the topic held any interest for him, here’s one response that wouldn’t have surprised me in the least: “No, not really…I really haven’t given it much thought. Why?” But this is what James said instead: “Oh. [short pause] You’re a seeker.” His flat tone conveyed just a hint of shock or surprise or what could even have been something indicating mild annoyance. The delicate emphasis on “seeker” carried a faint whiff of sarcasm. It’s entirely possible that I misread him. But James did seem ever-so-slightly vexed—maybe from being caught off guard by such a “heavy” question; surprised that I’d thought to ask for his opinion, surprised that I’d think it was something he’d ever given any thought. Maybe a bit startled to discover that I was one of those types who waste their time thinking about things best left alone. This, at least, was my immediate impression. (Truth be told, I had asked the questions somewhat rhetorically just to gauge his response.) There was nothing disparaging in James’s reply but it contained a subtle intimation that he wasn’t interested in pursuing the topic further. We moved on to other things. But I’ve never forgotten this exchange—it struck a nerve.

The point of all this is that smart, well-informed, curious people aren’t automatically predisposed to probe life’s deepest mysteries. My own philosophical bent, on the other hand, blossomed at a tender age. With me it seems to be part of a package deal—chalk it up to an innate proclivity, to my native disposition. There might well be a genetic component though no one in my family is similarly afflicted. I feel no pride at being an incurable ponderer of enigmas and unknowables. And don’t see my penchant for suchlike as having virtuous or noble qualities. If anything, it’s more along the line of a quirk, an eccentricity. Some would no doubt find it annoying. Compulsive rumination has drawbacks and can lead to problems (chronic cynicism being one common side effect). Like most over-thinkers, I’m always happy to raise my glass to the absurd and farcical side of human endeavor—and sometimes even remember to toast my own follies. 

Now and then, circumstances call on me to poke fun at my tendency to veer off into philosophical realms, maybe to spoil a perfectly good conversation: As if from a distance, I hear the sound of pontificating, catch myself and stop cold. At which point I’ll assume an exaggerated, self-important professorial demeanor and tone of voice, and say something like, “Well, as a certified philostopher, I believe that….” Or some such nonsense. Philostopher? Frank Zappa, the late composer, musician, iconoclast, and social commentator, invented this useful term. (Zappa, arch cynic that he was, never passed up an opportunity to deride any kind of pretense.) What exactly does a philostopher do? Why, a philostopher philostophizes, of course! In my adult form, tinkering with the Larger Questions is more or less a form of idle play, an intellectual diversion. Something not too far removed from doing Sudoku or the New York Times crossword puzzle. This, then, is philostophizing—a leisure pursuit. On the other hand, I’ve learned that philostophizing is not an entirely fruitless activity. Which is gratifying to know. 

In contrast, my youthful preoccupation with figuring out what the heck was going on had real urgency and for a few years, starting post-puberty, I naïvely expected some answers, dammit! This, followed by the inevitable distress and disenchantment any budding intellectual experiences once it finally becomes clear that, despite all the ardent questing, no answers will be forthcoming. Ever. That came as a real shock to the system and added to my growing teenage disillusionment. Welcome to reality, kid. Not what you were expecting, hunh? Get over it! Nonetheless, over the years I’ve carried on with my quixotic sniffing-around-the-edges of elusive and intangible things…poking about for clues and hints simply because questing is a pleasurable activity, no matter what one is looking for. And now, as a world-weary old philostopher who knows perfectly well that such avenues of thought consistently lead to dead ends, I’m like one of those seasoned fisherman who could care less if they land any fish. It’s all in the hunt.      

There’s one specific area in the realm of unknowables that still has me spinning the old brainwheels in philostophical speculation: the lingering questions of synchronistic events, which I’ll lump together here with what Carl Jüng called the “meaningful coincidence,” along with those just plain weird, exceedingly improbable occurrences that lack a name and defy categorization. It’s doubtful that anyone will ever come up with anything like a rational explanation for these ab-paranormal phenomena. Yet they’re part of day-to-day life; they happen to everyone, are utterly compelling and—despite what many people firmly believe—are not simply random events with no meaning or significance. Speaking for myself, the thought of dying and being reduced to powdered form without ever having uncovered at least a hint of what all these things signify, I find downright tragic. I’d really like to know….something. Anything! A crumb! 

 Then there’s this slant: human consciousness, in some sense, makes the world real…gives it meaning. Recalling the old chestnut about whether a tree falling makes a sound if no one is there to hear, a forceful argument can be made as to whether or not anything actually exists outside the human mind. We know that an object’s solidity is mere illusion; physical matter consists almost entirely of empty space—what we perceive as solid under our touch amounts to the mutual repulsion of electron clouds meeting between fingertip and table top. Colors are, in effect, pigments of our imagination; what we “see,” what we perceive as colorful images through our two skull-portholes, is nothing more than a vivid representation constructed by the brain. Say what you will about humanity and our overblown sense of how we figure in the grand scheme: we—and we alone—give reality substance through our perceptions. As I say, there’s a powerful line of reasoning backing the idea that, without our being here as witnesses, the world doesn’t really exist—a concept known as the Participatory Universe.

Here I am, getting all cerebral (again). But this is a good place to point out that people like James may have the proper perspective on all this. Maybe we really are best off letting certain notions alone. Maybe, since humans clearly have conceptual limitations, toying with imponderables is little more than self-indulgence, a petty and prideful minor vice, utterly pointless and a waste of precious time. I don’t know and can’t tell…but can’t seem to stop. I’m going to go with my gut on this one and keep probing. 

            But back to synchronicity and those other things. I’ve experienced some real doozies in my day. And freely admit that I have no inkling, not a single one, as to how to explain them. Which has always bothered me. They happen. They do. And seem to happen to me more often than they do to others. I’ve read that people who are prone to expecting to see connections, who are paying close attention to the world at large, are those most apt to find them. This makes sense and offers perhaps the closest thing I’ve come to an “explanation,” as it were. If so, it might be that a life-long study of nature (which after all is one endless lesson about interconnectedness) makes me predisposed to see myself as part of the whole shebang and I’m subconsciously seeking affirmation. 

At any rate, the surprising frequency and implausibility of the sort of events I’m referring to leads me to believe that they must have some sort of meaning…are of consequence…bear significance. None of these words fit; the English language comes up short, again (through no fault of its own). The best pseudo-clarification I’ve come up with is a   whimsical metaphor. Here goes: These special events are like hand-delivered messages from the Cosmos: There’s a knock: Telegram for a Mr. Fersell! Go to the door…take it, rip it open. Oh! It’s a message from the Universe! How nice! As presented earlier, perhaps it’s not too far fetched to imagine that the Universe wants to be aware of itself. The Universe needs…needs us…to make it real, bring it to life. In a manner of speaking, it appreciates our being here. Perhaps those ridiculously improbable, random-seeming occurrences are just a wonderful, wonder-filled world’s way of letting us know it’s thinking about us. And cares enough to drop a line from time to time. Just a little kindly reminder.

            I received one such cosmic telegram nine years ago on a New Year’s Day, a day that also happened to be the one-month anniversary of my settling in Santa Cruz County…one calendar month into initiating major life-changes that were contingent on this move, namely: I found a Home. I began living with Dylan, who would become my cherished wife; who gave me a second chance, who was at that moment entirely focused on the project of saving me from certain ruin. I began the hard work of confronting my addictions and depression, putting an end to a dark downward spiral. Gave up marijuana and quit drinking alcohol. At last. All this on the same day—the first of December, 2011. 

I have a long tradition of spending at least part of New Year’s Day outdoors. This was to be Dylan’s and my first new-year celebration and we were especially conscious of—and grateful for—this new beginning. This new life, together. Fittingly, it was a splendid, calm, cloudless California-winter day. (One of those.) Like spring. So we drove north up the coast highway a few miles to Waddell Creek, parked, and walked back down the cliff-bound beach as far as Greyhound Rock. Greyhound “Rock” is actually more of an oblong hillock of naked grey mudstone, perhaps a hundred feet high, located just offshore. Normally the rock is inaccessible with waves swirling in from both sides to wash up onto the sand-spit that they’ve piled up midway. But when the tide is out you can wade across, scramble up a narrow trail, and stroll around on top.

            The tide was low, just starting on its way back up so it was easy to cross. We’d been carrying our shoes since fording Waddell Creek but left them near the crest of the spit well above the tide’s reach, then gingerly waded across the mussel- and barnacle-plated slab before padding up the shaley path, a pair of literal tenderfoots. Greyhound Rock’s offshore side is cliffy and we settled down on a ledge directly above the water, gazing off toward Japan. For a good half hour we talked, grokking the sea, relishing this dazzling day. And, part of the time, just sat quietly absorbed in our own thoughts. I got up to wander around a couple of times and looked over at the shoes, thinking how silly it would be to watch them wash away and float out to sea like tiny boats. The tide was visibly rising now and they looked to be safe for quite a while yet but…. I thought, Why didn’t you just put ‘em way up higher and not even have to think about it, ya big dummy?

            It’d been nice walking barefoot on the cool, wet sand but we did that mincing, ooh!ahh!ooh!ahh!-thing down the narrow trail and then back across the barnacled reef. The cold seawater felt very refreshing. As we walked up the top of the little sand-spit to retrieve our shoes and socks I joked to Dylan about how embarrassing it would be to come back and find our footwear gone, washed away, how very contrary the ocean is, hah hah! We both reached down simultaneously to pick up our shoes and in the 

exact instant we lifted them off the sand a roguish wave swept in from behind, up the incline, swirled around our ankles, and washed over the top. The beach was fairly flat right there but no wave had come within twenty feet of our shoes until that one, nor had a wave crested the sand-spit since the previous ebbing tide. We didn’t see it coming—were just chatting away when we grabbed our shoes. The timing was utterly exquisite and we had a fine, hearty heart-to-heart laugh together along with high-fives, savoring the moment and smiling into each others’ eyes, all the love reflecting back.

            Knock knock knock! Telegram for Dylan and Tim! 

             

 ©2021Tim Forsell                                                                            20 May 2013, 1 Jan 2021                                                                                          

Piute Log...Mystery at Barney Lake 2000

 27 May (Sat)    Memorial Day weekend patrol up Robinson Creek. First ride of the season! Before heading out, checked with the front desk. “Where you sending people these days?” (With snow levels still so low, not many places open yet.) Quite a few permits for Horse Creek, which means spring-skiers bound for Matterhorn Glacier. Decided on the spot to go up there first then continue to Barney Lake…see how far we can get past there. ◦◦◦◦◦ Heading out to the barn to collect Red, witnessed a most picturesque scene: two cowboys herding maybe fifty horses toward the Sweetwater Ranch pens there at the north end of the meadows near the Old Ranger Station. Yellow-headed blackbirds on the fence in that marshy place…meadows so-green-it-hurts receding toward distant snowy-craggy peaks. I was zooming along, caught up to then passed the galloping herd just as Sawtooth Ridge came up behind the lot—a calendar photo in motion. Two cars were pulled over there, tourists capturing a certified Kodak-moment. A stirring vignette, for sure. Particularly because it was so real. In the year 2000, here in Bridgeport Valley there are still a few gen-u-wine workin’ cowboys with gainfully-employed workin’ dogs out herding horses across a meadow-filled valley. (The breathtaking backdrop—pure bonus.) All of them, horses included, just going about their day-to-day lives. It certainly does capture the imagination, harking back to a different era entire. Not to over-romanticize but it’s a fact: cowboys are a Western archetype. ◦◦◦◦◦ Now, this was one of those Ultra-Spring days, everything all shiny and new. (My polarized sunglasses made the varied assortment of high clouds even more staged-looking against a chromatically enhanced blue-blue.) Mmmm-hmm. Sweet to be in the saddle again, riding a foxtrotting Cadillac-of-a-horse. Not many flowers yet but shrubs leafing out nicely. Twin Lakes spreading out below as we climbed up the side of the moraine. Lotsa boats dotting the lakes. ◦◦◦◦◦ Started passing skiers hiking in plastic boots carrying their heavy randoneé gear up the hot, humid switchbacks, a long ways from snow. All of them out for just a night or two. Awful lot of work for a few short runs and a night on the ground; a lot of driving at either end of the fun bits. The way we modern Americans recreate in the mountains has turned into a kinda twisted form of what used to be thought of as “relaxation.” For a bunch of the folks I talked with, this will be one of the best weekends of their year but…. Whoa, wait, stop the sermonizing right now, boy. You’re not even preaching to the choir—nobody’s listening. ◦◦◦◦◦ Met one party of eight. Bay Area, bunch of friends. Jawed with one fella who seemed to be the group leader. Talking about the backcountry, how fine the Sierra, guy drops that he just got back from a week’s sojourn in Ionian Basin (Kings Canyon NP) and I could “check out” his “website” if I wanted to see pictures. “Ummm…is this one of those ‘virtual tour’ deals I’ve been hearing about?” Yep. “Oh dear,” I said, “you’re one of those.” [While this may seem hard to believe, another decade would pass before I first used computers. At the time, I had only a few friends who were online and knew almost nothing about this thing called “the Web.”] This was me coming on a bit strong, I’m afraid. (More like downright-rude.) But he ignored my snide, superior tone and we had a good, friendly debate. He actually acceded one point when I lamented, “I know there’s no way to stop this but what REALLY makes me sad is how there are no more ‘secret places’ left.” One thing the fella said that shocked me was that he actually enjoys “seeing more people coming back here.” For him and his friends, going into the wilderness is a social thing. Told him, “Not for me. But, then, I’m a ‘solitude guy.’” We both grinned and shrugged and called it a draw. ◦◦◦◦◦ Carried on into the hanging valley, as far as the end of the meadows. Hit snow shortly thereafter and wheeled around. ◦◦◦◦◦ Back down in the valley and on the main trail. Many many day-users heading for Barney Lake. Ran into one of the elderly-est people I’ve ever seen in the woods—a woman pushing ninety with (presumably) her daughter who was not exactly no spring chicken herself. The matron was well preserved and extremely well made-up. They’d been aiming for the lake but decided to turn back where the switchbacks began. The old gal was looking beat already. Pretty darn spry, though—one of those 88-year-olds at the Leisure Village who walk every day and join aerobic dance classes. She’ll break 100, no sweat. ◦◦◦◦◦ At Barney, went on early-season trash hunt. No beach to speak of yet with the high water. Lingering snowpatches in shaded spots, the main campsites all soggy-boggy. Found some last-year’s trash. ◦◦◦◦◦ On a whim, decided to leave Ranger Washburn a “present.” Here’s the deal: Just before you get to the lake, forty feet west of the trail and buried under leaf duff in the scrawny aspens, there’s this pile of galvanized metal sheeting. I first stumbled on it, trash-hunting, back around ‘85 or ’86—some kinda weird roofing tin, no idea what it was for. Didn’t give it much thought at the time. Today, kinda amazed that it only took me about two minutes to find it again. For years I’d planned on packing it all out. Time to carpé the diem y’all! (I’ll be bringing in Colin’s basecamp gear soon; maybe he can hack it all up with a Pulaski and crush the pieces and we’ll pack ‘em out.) ◦◦◦◦◦ So I drug the junk out from under a thick pile of duff, three ten-foot-long sections. Upon inspection it looks to have been some sort of watercraft. Hard to explain but two of the pieces were like square, galvanized chimney pipe material flattened out, with one end carefully cut and soldered into an upcurved nose like a sled. Some sorta pontoon-boat affair? The third section had a short wooden plank across the back end with hand-forged iron ring bolted to it, suggesting the stern of a narrow boat. Looks plenty old, whatever it was. I’d love to know the story behind this. Be interesting to hear what Colin thinks.

            

       → 12 miles           → 66 visitors           → 2 lbs trash

 

Not long after, this mystery was at least partially solved. On a whim, I asked Bart Cranney about it one day thinking he might know something. He did: Bart said that, years ago (1960s?), there’d been a little dock up at Barney with this funky home-made boat. Apparently, fishermen could “rent” it for the day and get a key at Mono Village that unlocked the chain. Well! And I don’t recall what happened to the remains. I don’t believe they ever got packed out and may still be up there hidden under the aspens, which is where I should’ve left them in the first place. Hope so. Historical artifacts, at this point.

 

        ©2020 Tim Forsell                                                                               15 Dec 2020