Monday, March 24, 2025

Yosemite, 1989: Insects Rule

 Back in the 1980s and 90s, I was spending a good part of each year in Yosemite; a month or more at a stretch. My first long stay was in the spring of 1979, shortly after I dropped out of college. This was a life-changing experience in so many ways—one of my life’s highpoints. But after six weeks in the Valley I was burned out on Camp 4’s crowded squalor and my peanut butter-based diet, not to mention traffic and tourists. Truth be told, while I loved being there, living in the Valley had many downsides and I probably would  have given up on the multi-week stays if not for stumbling on an ideal compromise. ◦◦◦◦◦ Right after that first trip I moved to Colorado. Three years later, I was back in California and settled in the Eastern Sierra. May, 1984 found me back in the Valley again. This time around, I ended up staying in Upper Pines with a bunch of climbers from Wyoming. Unbeknownst to me, an old climbing buddy was part of this gang. One day Lars showed up in camp, fresh off El Capitan, and straightaway invited me to join him and his partner for a celebratory dinner with friends. These friends were park employees, a couple who lived just outside the Valley at some place I’d never even heard of called Foresta. ◦◦◦◦◦ Foresta turned out to be little more than an enclave of private properties surrounded by park land. We drove there in Lars’s beater VW van. Heading toward Crane Flat on 120, he turned off onto an unsigned road almost invisible from the highway. Dropping steeply at first, the narrow road wound its way through thick forest before skirting an open meadow with a picturesque old barn. Unpaved spurs led to quaint cabins you could just make out through the trees. I remember being amazed: here was a serene idyll, less than thirty minutes by slow-moving van from the mad rush of Yosemite Village. ◦◦◦◦◦ On our way in we’d passed a small clearing. Lars pointed out a barely visible two-track at the far side of the clearing that led off into dense timber and offhandedly mentioned having camped back there a few times. ◦◦◦◦◦ So that’s the back-story on how I turned into a Valley commuter, bandit-camping along Foresta Road. I subsequently found two more places where I could park my Toyota pickup for the night, safely hidden from view. Later I began posting up farther down the road; past the last of the summer cabins, past where the patched pavement ended, right out in the open. (Getting to this, my favorite spot entailed driving past seven signs whose principal message was No Camping Allowed.) ◦◦◦◦◦ It so happened that my future Forest Service supervisor, “Lucky” Lorenzo Stowell, shared a cabin in Foresta with his girlfriend, Laurel—a YNP Wilderness ranger. I’d drop in on them from time to time. Lars’s friends, Mark and Noreen, became my friends, too. I gradually became acquainted with other residents, along with the patrol ranger who, upon learning that I worked for Lorenzo, hinted that he’d look the other way if he saw my truck parked along the road. I was in! From then on I didn’t even attempt to hide. Sometimes I’d be joined by friends. That favorite spot I just mentioned was a half mile below Foresta at the historic McCauley’s Ranch, where I’d park my truck beside a fenced meadow. It was an exceptionally tranquil spot…no one else around. How lucky can you get? I had a free place to stay in Yosemite, away from the Valley’s crowds and clamor. Sometimes—on holiday weekends when the Valley was crazy or when I needed to give my body a break—I’d spend entire days just hanging out naked by Crane Creek on polished granite slabs. And this went on for over a decade. That’s a whole lot of glory days. ◦◦◦◦◦ The following piece is one among the dozen or so rough sketches I cranked out during a month-long trip to Yosemite in the spring of 1989. This is the first of them, with more to follow. They’re not all centered on climbing but were written for an audience familiar with technical rock climbing and climber slang. This shouldn’t cause too much confusion. ◦◦◦◦◦ A few things deserve clarification. Readers unfamiliar with my background might wonder why this lunatic is climbing alone, without ropes and equipment. Well…it’s complicated. For many years I was a solo climber, like Alex Honnald. The insane things Honnald has done on film make it even harder to explain to a non-climber what motivates a person to risk their life doing something that could kill them—as a form of recreation. Honnald, top dog in an extreme sport, is in a league of his own. My own accomplishments pale in comparison but they share a common thread—if you fall, you die. Race-car drivers walk away from fiery crashes; solo climbers get no second chances. ◦◦◦◦◦ My own case is quite unusual, actually. I’d been at the sport for only a year and a half when I started climbing without ropes, which is almost unheard of. This was 1978. I was twenty. For me, it was all about the joy of movement; of being unencumbered by gear. And not being dependent on partners to do what I wanted to do, when I wanted. I was drawn to the purity of style and total commitment factor. (The ever-present possibility of death appealed very much to the exceedingly idealistic person I was back then.) For over thirty years I went about my business knowing that every climb could be my last. This sense of being on borrowed time colored everything I did and gave being alive a real edge. Anyone who’s gone through cancer treatment or survived a near-fatal accident knows the feeling. ◦◦◦◦◦ This may sound strange, but climbing without protection forced me to be very conservative. Because I wasn’t pushing myself the way climbers routinely do when they have a rope to catch falls, I never fully tapped my technical proficiency and tended to stick to routes with relatively large, secure holds. On the other hand, only a few years into it I started doing routes “on-sight”—the climbers’ term for “with no prior knowledge”—that were near my lead-limit (that is, nearly as difficult as anything I’d attempt to “lead” with rope protection). This, too, is highly unusual, even among soloists far more talented than myself. ◦◦◦◦◦ Needless to say, unroped climbing is a highly personal pursuit. For me, purity-of-intent was of utmost importance. This is a game where ego-gratification and a desire for recognition can literally be fatal so I went to some lengths to remain unknown. In fact, only a few close friends had the slightest idea what I was up to. By 1988 I was frequently on-sight soloing climbs near or at my lead limit (5.10) without so much as telling anyone where I was going. Some of these were long routes—in Yosemite, from valley floor to rim. By then I’d taken to carrying a pair of lightweight ropes for rappelling from the top of routes with no walk-off descent or for swift escapes. This opened up a whole new arena and upped the ante, risk-wise. While I scared myself plenty of times there were never any close calls. But as time went by it grew increasingly clear that I was pushing my luck and that, eventually, I was going to make that one mistake. Here’s what saved me: Toward the end of this month-long trip I twisted my ankle. This was a bad sprain and over the next year or so I reinjured the thing many times, never allowing it enough time to heal properly. As it turned out, this bum ankle more or less put an end to my serious solo climbing phase. And extended my life expectancy by decades.

 

Insects Rule

 

Lucky me: another high-spring sojourn in Yosemite Valley. Once more, I have the good fortune of finding myself in one of the most sublimely beautiful places on Earth. Not only that, I’m here at the perfect hour—winter fading into spring—with an entire month to witness the slow drama of life’s return. I know from my first long stay here ten years back that enduring some wet weather at the outset makes what comes after even better. And now, right now, it’s all happening at once: Bird song from dawn to dusk. And, pretty much wherever you happen to be, the sound of moving water. All the falls are raging. Animals big and small are back on the prowl; countless seeds have germinated. Stately oaks are leafing out. (Dogwoods!) Just like that, the grays and browns and tans have given way to thirty shades of green. In May, the air here is an elixir. It’s like food.

The one down-side: bugs. As of today, insects rule. One onslaught after another. At this time of year some new variety of six-legged annoyance makes its annual debut practically overnight. Each new arrival quickly makes its presence known, dominates the scene for a time, then begins to fade into the background as your focus turns to the latest batch of buzzing-biting whatevers. You accept the fact that every heaven-on-Earth comes with a price.

After I showed up (April 21st) it rained off and on for several days, during which time it snowed at least a little each day. Frost in the mornings. Then it warmed up a bit, with periods of scattered showers and intermittent sun. In other words, typical spring weather for these parts; not great for climbing to be sure but it knocked the mosquitoes and flies on their asses. The truth is, bugs weren’t really an issue until maybe ten days ago, when spring came on full bore. In short order each of the tribes regrouped, bent on making up for lost time. It’s been bad ever since. I can live with it.

A week after my arrival the sun came up in a cloudless sky for the first time. I’ve been staying at my usual spot down below Foresta. After breakfast I headed into the Valley and whiled away the hours doing four of the old classic routes on Sunnyside Bench—getting back in the groove. Drove to the village after and bought some food. 

By the time I got back to McCauley’s it was almost dark. A wave of warm, moist  air hit me as I climbed out of the cab. Crickets cricketing. I opened the camper hatch, dropped the tailgate, switched the overhead light on,  and went back to the cab to deal with the pile of gear and get stuff organized. A couple of minutes later, I was about to crawl into the camper and get supper started but stopped in my tracks. What’s this? What are those delicate flickering shadows on the tailgate? Ducking down, I peered in. 

Oh, dear. A couple of hundred tiny flies, give or take a few dozen, were circling the light in a mad swirl—little brown jobbies known in outdoorsy circles as “face flies.” The ones that travel in flocks, don’t seem to eat, never rest; that don’t bite or even so much as land on your person; whose specialty is hovering about the head, with sporadic nose-dives into ear canals or up nostrils. As harmless pests go, they’re annoying in the extreme. (Glasses wearers can count on one getting penned behind a lens and, while trying to escape, ricocheting off the old eyeball a few times.) Seeing as how they hadn’t shown up on previous evenings, this was probably their first hatch of the year. 

I remained calm. Not my first bug-rodeo, after all! Fortunately, this is one type of insect invasion that has a simple remedy. (I came up with it on my own but no doubt others have as well.) My butane-canister camp lantern was right there in the gear crate. I lit it, set it on the ground about ten feet away, and killed the overhead. While the decoy did its work I sat in the dark on my little folding chair, sipping a beer, and watched as a new bug-cloud formed around the lantern globe. I wondered—not for the first time—if insects drawn compulsively to bright lights head for the moon when it rises. 

Fifteen tranquil minutes went by. It was well past suppertime and hunger drove me back into the camper. After turning the lantern off I crawled in, pulled up the tailgate, and dropped the hatch. Switching the light back on, I was greeted by maybe a hundred stragglers, all of whom resumed doing figure-eights around the twenty-five watt incandescent bulb. Now, I typically prepare my dinner on a cutting board placed on the floor right in front of the tailgate, which is usually down. I sit cross-legged right behind the cutting board, my head almost touching the low ceiling and about a foot away from the light. This put my face within the intruders’ orbital path so they were bouncing off my glasses and forehead. Nope, unh-uh…this isn’t going to work. So, before getting out my dinner stuff, I wadded up a couple of paper towels and proceeded to kill flies—slapping the wadded-up towels against the ceiling, all around the light. Mangled carcasses drifted down and accumulated on the floor in a roughly circular patch. When all but a handful of plucky survivors were dead I swept the casualties into a small pile with my whisk broom. I was slightly shocked by how many there were. Staring at the little pile, I had a passing thought that, all in all, they looked pretty nourishing. Pure protein…. That snapped me right out of my calorie-deprived reverie and with one fell whisk I sent them all into that gap between the truck bed and the tailgate. It’s not as if I was seriously considering sprinkling dead face flies on my cheese-and-rice tacos. But still, random musings like that one show me just how feral I’ve become.

 

At a certain point I realized, after the fact, that several of my vertical adventures had distinct insect “themes.” By this I mean not just bugs in general but some specific variety of six-legged vermin that I had to contend with in the middle of a climb.

My first insect-themed event: Attacked by Ants

I’d just rapped from the top of the three-pitch Regular Route on Pharaoh’s Beard. (Got pretty haired on a first pitch but that’s another story.) Before heading down to the truck, on the off chance of finding something else to do, I took a stroll along the base of the cliff band. Lo and behold: on a clean, seventy degree slab, there’s this shallow dihedral split by a nice-looking hand-size crack. (My fav!) Not too steep. This route, if it was a route, didn’t appear to be getting much traffic—no chalk marks; no bolts or fixed pitons to be seen. The crack itself started thirty feet off the deck atop a sloping ledge, then pinched off at another ledge maybe a hundred and thirty feet up. I’m pretty good at judging a crack’s difficulty just through visual inspection and this one looked 5.8ish; maybe 5.9 at the last where the rock got a bit steeper. If there were no fixed anchors already in place at the top, I could easily rappel from a small tree. It looked doable. 

I geared up. The first moves were hard; solid 5.10. (Basically, a boulder problem.) Clearly, no one had passed this way in a long time: I had to scrape moss and lichen off some of the holds and the ledge itself was buried under soil hummocks covered with layers of pine needles and fallen debris. The crack took off from the left side of this dirt-pile, starting out as a trough that gradually morphed into a classic, straight-up dihedral. 

One problem: the soil-covered ledge was teeming with Yosemite’s ubiquitous “oak ants”—a species notorious for going absolutely berserk when disturbed. Oak ants will attack anything that moves and, to make matters worse, emit a foul-smelling odor when they’re pissed off. You typically don’t have to deal with these little buggers on established routes, for two reasons. One: even moderately popular climbs are stripped of all soil and vegetation so there’s not much in the way of ant-sustenance or potential nest sites. The other reason is that cracks and handholds on well-traveled routes are caked with the powdered gymnast’s chalk climbers use to keep sweaty hands and fingers dry. Oak ants’ bodies are laced with formic acid. Gymnastic chalk is powdered calcium carbonate—a very “basic” (that is, alkaline) substance. Anyone who’s taken high school chemistry knows that mixing acids and bases causes a violent reaction. Accordingly, ants absolutely loathe the stuff. For them, hiking across stretches of chalk-encrusted granite must feel like walking barefoot on red-hot coals. 

But here I was in unsullied wilderness: veritable ant heaven. The ledge’s residents, by now well aware of my presence, mobilized for action. They were already launching off my boot-tops so it was time to get a move on. 

The first bit was easy and I made rapid progress. Unfortunately, it was obvious right away that this choice handcrack was the ant version of an eight-lane freeway. There was a steady stream of two-way traffic inside the crack with numerous off-ramps leading out onto the faces on either side. Each time I’d pull a hand out of the crack to reset it higher up there were several ant combatants attached—pincers sunk into thin skin on the back of the hand; others, trying to get purchase on my leathery digits. By this time it was too late to turn back. I haven’t a clue whether it’s by scent or through vibration or some other insect-sense, but every time I so much as touched the rock all the ants in the immediate vicinity dropped what they were doing and waged war. An oak ant army came after me in true kamikaze-fashion—giving no quarter, asking no quarter. Banzai!

So this is how it went: each time I pulled a hand out of the crack there’d be several glommed on. These got wiped off on the rock or on my pants. I’d try to brush off the new assailants crawling up my pants legs and even tried blowing them off of my upper arms but that didn’t work too well. A few got under my shirt and were biting tender parts. Their ammonia-like stench filled the air. (Fortunately, it doesn’t bother me all that much.) The entire pitch went like this, one move at a time. When the angle steepened near the end, the crack did indeed turn 5.9 so for the last few moves I had to focus and gave up on trying to defend myself. I pulled up onto the ledge with that familiar wave of relief mixed with mild exaltation. But this time around, kicking back and taking in the surroundings and letting that expansive sense of gratitude wash over me—standard summit fare—wasn’t an option. Before uncoiling the ropes I tried to rid myself of hangers-on but fresh troops were already advancing. Rappelling, my right hand shucked ants off the trailing ropes like corn off a cob. That was a fast exit.

Back on firm terra, there was more de-anting to be done. I’d stashed my stuff near the base and they were all over my pack and inside my shoes. Well—all in all, if not strictly fun, that was an interesting excursion; an old school adventure-climb with a Welcome to the Wild Kingdom twist.     

 

My next insect-themed episode—call it, Mauled by Mosquitoes—took place the following day on a route near the base of Cascade Falls. Mosquitoes haven’t been much of a problem up to now but on this day, in this place, they reigned supreme. 

            My plan was to try and get up Golden Needles—a two-pitch crack in a giant corner. The guidebook description made it sound like just my kinda thing but I’d never seen the route in person. This was one of the first really warm days and it was quite humid as well. On the approach, wearing nothing but shorts and an old T-shirt, I was dripping sweat. The bloodsuckers zeroed in. 

            This encounter wasn’t particularly dramatic. Nor was it cause for serious distress, seeing as how I spend my summers living next to a mile-long meadow and have learned by now to endure mosquitoes with a degree of stoicism. Evidently, a new crop had just emerged from those swampy bogs down by the river and hundreds of them, seeking the source of all that CO I was emitting, gathered ‘round me in a diffuse cloud—so many of them I could hear the high-pitched whine of a thousand wings. 

At the base I booted up. The climb started out as a double-crack on one wall of the near-vertical dihedral. I was at their mercy from the get-go; completely defenseless. So they had their fill, going for my arms, legs, back, neck, shoulders, face; anything exposed. My sweat-soaked T-shirt was no barrier—they bit right through it. At least there were no ants to deal with this time. 

Reaching the belay I took a brief rest, waving a hand about my face all the while. 

I started up the second pitch but up ahead it looked harder than expected so I downclimbed to the anchor and rappelled. After pulling the ropes, I noticed that my right thigh was smeared with blood. Searching for hitherto unfelt abrasions and finding none, it gradually dawned on me: the blood was from all those times I’d leaned into the right wall of the corner for added friction and in doing so crushing bloated mosquitoes mid-gorge. Well, I hope they enjoyed their last meal. There’s no telling how many times I got bitten. Lucky for me, for some reason I don’t get the itchy red welts—fresh bites tingle for a minute or two and then they’re gone. It’s possible that having been bitten about a million times has made me immune.

 

A third insect-themed climb—let’s call this one, They Fell from the Sky—came a week later. I’d been psyching myself up for some time to try a forgotten climb on Lower Brother: the left-side route on Absolutely Free Pinnacle. Up to this time I’d never tried to solo, much less on-sight solo, a multi-pitch route with this much hard climbing involved (two solid 5.9 pitches and two 5.8s). Not much off the vertical. On the devious 4th class approach I was more tense than usual. But the oracle had spoken; I was going for it. 

            Starting up the first pitch, right off I felt something raining down—some sort of particulate matter. Dirt or grains of sand getting blown off a ledge? I didn’t pay it much heed at first but as the pelting of what felt like grains of rice continued, something finally clicked. Oh, yeah—it’s those “kamikaze-bugs.” Bristletails, they’re called. I’d experienced this once or twice before but nothing like this—not as a continuous bug-shower.

            Bristletails are a type of primitive wingless insect related to silverfish (inoffensive creatures typically found among piles of old books and magazines). Bristletails superficially resemble silverfish but are strictly outdoor dwellers. Unlike their cousins, bristletails can leap impressive distances. The kind that live around Yosemite are a mottled grayish-brown color—a motif that is all but invisible on both granite and forest floor. From up close, though, they have this exquisite, multihued iridescent sheen. Bristletail locomotion is very distinctive: a loose-jointed scuttle broken up by minuscule, nearly imperceptible pauses. This gives their slinky-slithery way of moving about a weird, stroboscopic sort of effect—mesmerizing to watch.

At the first good rest spot I had a chance to look around. And there they were, all around me. Hundreds. Virtually invisible, but with so many moving at any given time, the rock surface seemed to be moving. (Unless you’re tripping on mushrooms or LSD, solid rock generally holds still when you look at it.) Wow. After a minute I pressed on. 

And here’s how it went: when I’d reach for the next hold or jam, the approach of this foreign object—my hand—provoked all those nearby to flee; presumably towards safety. On this near-perpendicular rock face, “fleeing” meant launching themselves into space. Of course, once I got going there was little time to dwell on being pelted by bugs. Twice, I reached stances where it was possible to stop for a quick breather. Hanging off one arm, I’d shake out my pumped forearms in turn. Each time I switched out one of my hands, down they’d come; bouncing off my sweaty corpus. Not a real bother since they don’t land in your hair or crawl down your shirt—they just keep on going. So you don’t feel infested, which is nice.

Considering that my being there posed no mortal threat, this leaping-off-the-rock thing seemed a bit of an…overreaction. After all, scurrying to the nearest hiding place is the preferred plan for defenseless creepy crawlies everywhere. For a creature so impeccably camouflaged, freezing in place would work really well. But bristletails are endlessly on the move; holding still is not their forte. Nor is slinking away and hiding. Instead, the mere proximity of an outstretched arm triggers their jumping instinct. Which, as it happens, may not be such a bad thing seeing as how these critters can fall any distance without suffering injury. The slightest updraft might safely deposit one on a nice ledge. Or out in the forest. Wherever a bristletail lands, I imagine it would do fine. But for me, clinging tenaciously to an almost vertical rock face with big exposure: given my circumstances, the very thought of blindly leaping—leaping, not to certain death, but instead to safety and security…. 

And I did think about it, oh yes. Which resulted in an indescribable, almost cellular-level revulsion. Thinking about it also made me feel ponderous and heavy. Without a doubt, were I up on El Cap with two thousand feet of nothing but air beneath my feet, they’d scatter and fly just the same. The ride down would take a little longer, that’s all. 

 Contemplating that made me almost dizzy. You see, climbing unroped both narrows and expands one’s focus. It amplifies and intensifies. Any old thing can take on existential overtones when it’s just you and the rock and eternity.

 

One last incident that, technically, shouldn’t be lumped in with the others since it involved mites. (Mites aren’t insects—they’re arachnids.)

A few days later I went back to Absolutely Free Pinnacle to try the seldom-done but classic Center Route. On the rock, it was still raining bristletails. 

            I was at a rest stance. Breathing deep…calming the mind. Just above my stance I noticed a thin stream of moisture flowing down the rock; last vestige of runoff from the recent rains. An out-of-place color caught my eye. Something moving. Something red.

Red velvet mites are minute, vibrantly colored spider-relatives that feed on other tiny, crawling-creeping things and those creatures’ even tinier eggs and young. They generally live underground but come out en masse after the first heavy spring rains. Velvet mites would be invisible were they colored like bristletails. Instead of being camouflaged, they’re a shimmering crimson red; legs and antennae, too—a warning to would-be predators that velvet mites taste awful. (Apparently, velvet mites are so foul-tasting that they lack predators.) Their body is covered with a dense coat of silky hair, giving them that velvety shimmer. Under a magnifying glass they’re really quite beautiful but it’s hard to get a close-up look. Like bristletails, velvet mites never sit still.

            They were everywhere. But what first caught my eye was the hundreds of mites lined up along the length of that inch-wide seep—both sides. Apparently, mites get parched from all that running around and need a good long drink from time to time. They were coming in to water like a herd of thirsty cattle. Scores of them, going and coming, coming and going. Lapping it up. There were no empty slots; the latest arrivals had to muscle their way in. From my viewpoint, just inches away, it seemed as if I were observing the scene from a helicopter, a thousand feet off the ground…as if I were peering down on a herd of bright-red water buffalo gathered alongside a muddy watercourse on some African savannah. It was a little…disorienting. Again: normal sensibilities and perceptions get altered when your very life depends on fingertips and toes and having a cool head. This is one of the reasons I solo—it helps me see the world through new eyes. Everyday things sparkle and glow.

 

 

                  ©2025 Tim Forsell                                           15 May 1989, 24 Mar 2025                       

Thursday, March 6, 2025

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

 For the 1991 season, our Wilderness crew (rangers and trailcrew) were kept working but on part-time into mid-November—a month later than usual. Why? To minimize the time seasonals would be eligible to collect unemployment—an ill-conceived, purely bureaucratic maneuver that proved to be a waste of time and money all around. ◦◦◦◦◦ It was snowing on the morning of 25 October as I prepared to leave the cabin, with six days off to kill. My plan was to head south into better weather and visit a few friends. After I left Piute, it snowed for a couple more days, cleared, got cold, and by the time I rode back in for one final tour it was more or less winter in the backcountry. I’d been at the cabin several times during and after snowstorms. This was different. ◦◦◦◦◦ About the deceased horses mentioned in these entries: that summer I’d had, not one, but two dead horses on my hands—a first for me. Luckily, both of them belonged to private stock-users and not the Forest Service. (The first  was hit by lightning; the other broke its hip and had to be put down.) The one that was euthanized met its sad end half a mile from the cabin. Due to the proximity I was able to observe, firsthand, how a large mammal can be reduced to scattered bones in just a few weeks time. [For the grisly details, check out “Piute Log…How to Recycle a Horse.”]

1 Nov (Fri)     Drove up from Tom’s Place last night, heading straight back into Piute. Up at dawn. Brrr! 15°F outside (said my thermometer left out on the bumper), which means it was maybe 20° in the camper. Water bottle partly frozen. ◦◦◦◦◦ A crystal-clear autumn day, super-crisp and all sparkly. Snow already melting on south-facing mountain flanks but there to stay in the high, shady places. Bought some food, said my goodbyes to a few folks I won’t likely see again, and drove out to the Old Ranger Station to pack. It was sunny and warm by the barn, cottonwood leaves sifting down and swirling around in circles in that little lee zone by the corral. ◦◦◦◦◦ At the pack station, Bart drove in as I was unloading my stuff. Went over to the house before taking off to say my goodbyes and thanks-for-everything-s. Bart was hustling around in the kitchen packing stuff up and seemed preoccupied. And maybe a little grumpy, the way Doc gets, so I skipped the chit-chat and got down to business. After mentioning that I’d be up at Piute for five days to shut the place down his sole comment was a kinda snide, “You guys sure are gluttons for punishment.” Told him, “Bart, cold isn’t a problem at the cabin. I’m a lot more concerned with how to stay warm after I leave.” And then it was time for the ritual exchange of that parting fare-thee-well seasonal workers give and receive: “Have a good winter!” ◦◦◦◦◦ Horses standing patiently at the hitch rail. Lined em’ out and up the trail went we. All three balky at the weird-looking, frozen-over Leavitt Creek crossing but Leavitt Meadows proper was already almost entirely free of snow. A couple of aspen clones at the head of the meadow still mostly green and quaking away while other patches were almost bare-nekkid. Snowy mountains lovely but somewhat menacing. I’ve never seen them clothed thus during my time here. Had this feeling sort of like my early mountaineering days when I’d go off without telling anyone where I was going, completely on my own—a sense of not a soul on Earth knows where I am. Feeling the uncertainty and actual dangers ahead (mostly on account of the stock), visualizing thick snowdrifts and hidden slickrock. Rode right into it with eyes wide open. When I asked, Bart didn’t have much advice to offer. He said it was better not to get off and lead them through the tough spots on foot. “When you’re walking rather than riding you’re more likely to get stomped if they flounder. Other than that, just try to stay on the trail.” ◦◦◦◦◦ Hit solid snow once we entered the first fir forest. No surprise, there—it’s so densely timbered that, even in midsummer, only a few shafts of sunlight pick their way through to the ground. ◦◦◦◦◦ And so began a great lesson: there was no difficulty staying on the trail because it was already well-tracked. No Vibram-soled boot-prints; hoofies and toe-pads only. All the four-footers are bailing out of the mountains—it was time to leave and all the migratory animals had done just that. Birds appear to be mostly gone, too; saw nary a chickadee nor junco nor solitaire on my way in. So staying on the trail was easy, thanks to the tracks of bear, deer, and coyote all mixed together. None of their usual meanderings through timbered hillsides or paralleling the trail—this was the equivalent of jumping on the freeway without even stopping for gas. None of these tracks were fresh—everybody’d split yesterday or last night. The mountains have been emptied of life—just like that. The silence, something felt. Off in the forest, tracks of chickarees bounding between trees, the only indication that anybody had stuck around. Altogether, this was a stunning realization—seeing how the mountains just shut down for business at the end of the season. I really had no idea it was like this but it makes perfect sense. And if the ranger were on the natural rhythm of things he’d be gone, too. It was especially striking to see the big prints showing Ursa marching resolutely down the trail; imagining those great big hairy slobbering goof-offs hiking out of the mountains, headed who-knows-where. ◦◦◦◦◦ Stayed warm enough aside from hands and the stock did fine. I watched the passing scenes like townfolk watch TV. One particularly memorable bit, on that section of trail below the Long Canyon turnoff that Kohman and I rerouted back in ’83 (prints showing that critters prefer using the old trail): Ranger in leather chaps, Filson wool coat, and green knitted cap riding big strawberry roan horse; leading his string up a snow-filled draw—no sign of a trail through unblemished snow that might conceal hidden hazards. My first time riding through virgin snow-covered land. Western-style romance, for sure. Felt like being in a novel. ◦◦◦◦◦ Sun set and the snowpack got noticeably thicker in the last couple of miles. Thicker yet by the time we reached Upper Piute. I guess the valley holding the upper meadows is a giant bowl that storms like this one just sit in and merrily dump their loads. ◦◦◦◦◦ I’d started having bear-in-cabin-(again) thoughts not long after first seeing those tracks down in the fir forest, wondering if one or two of those guys maybe stopped by the cabin on their way out. All that grain in the bin on the porch….didn’t close the metal door[heavy, grated, “bear-proof” outer door; generally left open while the cabin was occupied]. By the time we hit Fremont junction, I was thinking that there’d more than likely been a visit and started steeling myself. Then, riding the last bit to the cabin after crossing the river and seeing lines of prints crisscrossing the meadow, was certain of it. ◦◦◦◦◦ The dark end of dusk by this time. Tied horses to the hitchrail, an honest eight inches on the ground. (Most people would’ve called it a foot without thinking twice.) I went over to the porch with some trepidation. There was just enough light left to detect general pandemonium. The entire porch appeared to have been turned upside down and shaken vigorously: plastic trashcan full of feed sacks, emptied; said sacks strewn about, along with spare saddles, blankets, tools, and sundry porch-inhabiting items. Grain bin was severely mauled and now empty. Worst of all, in the almost-dark, I saw that the bottom panel of the door had been rudely chomped-upon and bashed in: Bear in the cabin! “Ohhh, well,” I sighed out loud. In my head, an older and wiser voice said something along the lines of Shoulda known better, fool. ◦◦◦◦◦ Left my cohorts steaming—yes, steaming—at the hitchrail and went in to assess damages. Pretty much dark inside but I was met immediately by the overturned, formerly full-of-grain 50 gallon drum on the floor, the remains of its contents spread wide and far. Felt for the matches (container knocked over, matches scattered). Hard to describe the strange mix of calm acceptance, sorrowful resignation, and pure dread I felt while struggling to light the lantern—brain a-whirl, inventorying probable damages and loss of property with lightning speed. ◦◦◦◦◦ When the Coleman flared to life I was met with a scene both dismaying and cause for much relief. Taking stock: Bed and bookshelves (where my eyes first went) unpawed. Phew! This indicated less-than-general mayhem. Next: grain everywhere. Top sack of the three-high stack on the floor at the head of the spare bunk, ripped open and extensively feasted-upon. Cool-pantry, door ajar; contents consumed. Ice chest, covered with dried slobber, open and on its side; mostly emptied but—inexplicably—unperforated. Tall cabinet [storage for canned and dry food], completely unscathed! In fact, no doors ripped off anything, à la 1987. Several large Ursa-turds on the floor, half-frozen. (In case you’re wondering, they looked like big wads of half-digested granola.) A mess of slimy gunk all over the spare bunk’s mattress. ◦◦◦◦◦ Got the other lantern lit and in just minutes knew I’d gotten off easy. This time. Nothing really important broken or mangled aside from the door and the grain bin so, much lightened, I carried a lantern out and unsaddled the boys. Took them a bucket-load of [alfalfa] pellets which I doled out into the snow-filled mangers. ◦◦◦◦◦ Back in the cabin, started a fire. Wedged the splintered bottom panel of the door back in as best I could. [This, an unpainted square of ½” plywood that replaced the original panel, destroyed four years previously.] Right off, scooped up bear poop with my dust pan and tossed several loads over the porch railing. Ladled loose grain back into the metal drum using the dust pan and raked up miscellaneous debris. The little antique tin box that holds my tea bags, that’s probably been here since the cabin was built, was a loss. My hand-thrown ceramic mug was laying beside the propane stove, flat on its broad mouth. It had fallen from the shelf above but, miraculously, was unbroken. (It has a very delicate, thin rim.) The most significant damage was centered in the NW corner where the ice chest, cool-pantry, and “free food and stuff” box had been mauled and contents devoured. Some of the ice chest stuff was uneaten and salvageable but leftover veggies were frozen solid. From the cool-pantry: my dried apricots and peanut butter were gone but, oddly, other things left alone. The bear even figured out the door latch instead of just ripping the thing off its hinges! Overall, I was extremely pleased—especially after finding my journals undamaged and that certain “important” papers, scattered on the floor, were mostly okay as well. ◦◦◦◦◦ Ravenous by this time. I’d had toast and eggs for breakfast, a candy bar for “lunch,” and that was it. After final sweep-up, started thinking about whipping up some chow but, first, took the horses a dose of grain. ◦◦◦◦◦ The flashlight beam revealed a scene that froze me in my tracks: just in front of the corral, Zeke was lying on his side in the snow—ribs heaving, steaming, soaked in sweat. Ohhh noooo…not this! Even with my extremely limited knowledge of equine medicine, I recognized symptoms of colic. Twisted gut. Agony…can cause death, a bad death. Why now? What to do?All these things in my brain in an instant, all together. The uncertainty, the remoteness, the snow, darkness. This was one of those moments when you really get it that you’re truly on your own in this world. Moments before, everything was better than okay. I was finally starting to think about getting some food in my belly and…and just so quickly, everything changed. ◦◦◦◦◦ Stumbled back to the cabin in a daze, an up-against-the-wall kinda daze. Went for my files and pulled out one of the handouts I’d saved from packing school, an article about equine colic written specifically for backcountry stock-users. I skimmed it and saw right off that my diagnosis was spot on. There were several scenarios and one fit this situation perfectly: Horse gets colicky after a day on the trail, situation remote, no possibility of evacuation. Medical facilities minimal. It said to administer a painkiller and advised, basically, to not waste time worrying because nature would take its course. ◦◦◦◦◦ Fortunately, I had a vial of Banamine on hand so I shot Zeke up with 12cc, the prescribed dose. He’d scrambled to his feet again and was standing—sweat-soaked, quivering, pawing at the ground nonstop…tossing his head towards his gut. In serious distress, poor fella. My heart went out to this horse I feel no fondness for whatsoever. I rammed that thick-gauge needle into his thigh, pushed in the plunger, and headed back to my now-warm cabin to make some supper and try not to think about him. Left Zeke untied as per the article’s advice. He wasn’t “thrashing” so I wasn’t thinking about having to put him down with an axe or Pulaski. I certainly entertained visions of having a dead horse to deal with in the morning—another one. And having to call it in on the radio. Good lord. ◦◦◦◦◦ All this made for a rather anxious supper (can of soup and some crackers). Felt much later than eight p.m. This had been one long day! It was very cold outside, low twenties probably. Bear in the cabin—again. No kitties. I listening intently for sounds of horse-anguish while eating and went out as soon as I was done. Glory be, Zeke was standing there munching on pellets. Still all sweaty, still steaming and quivering, but eating. As if nothing was the matter. Put my ear to his side and heard gut-rumblings—good sign. A certain weight lifted. He seemed even better when I checked before going to bed so I stopped worrying about having to deal with yet another dead horse. Ten thousand stars blazing away in a frigid-looking void; a beautiful night. All’s well in the world and I remain one lucky dog. 

  

→ zero visitors         → 10½ miles          → bear visitation         → sick horse

 

 

              ©2025 by Tim Forsell                                                        17 May 2019, 3 Mar 25                           

Piute Log...How to Recycle a Horse 1991

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

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

            → 17 visitors           → 10½ miles   

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

        ©2025 Tim Forsell                                                         24 Oct 2020, 27 Feb 25                       

Saturday, February 1, 2025

Piute Log...He Insisted On Following 1991

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

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

                                                                                                              6 visitors       2 miles

  

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

                                                                                                    5 visitors     → 12 ½ miles

 

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

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

 

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

 

              ©2025 Tim Forsell                                                                       31 Jan 2025     

Tuesday, December 31, 2024

Piute Log...Rod the Goat Man 2001

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

                                                                                   →  3 visitors       →  11½  miles       

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

                  ©2024 Tim Forsell                                                                   27 Dec 2024