Piute Log...Clandestine Vacation 1989

 During my early years stationed at Piute Meadows, groups of Forest Service people would come up to the cabin and stay for a night or two. These so-called “administrative trips” typically comprised a hierarchical blend of district staff and muckity-mucks from the Toiyabe Headquarters in Reno—not exactly outdoorsy types. Several times each season, up to fifteen people would show up and just take over. The thing was, these taxpayer-funded junkets almost always turned into minor debacles. There were the usual litany of mishaps: overturned loads on the ride in…mules escaping in the dark of night…injured or altitude-sick participants. It would rain or snow. Then there were the drunken whoop-it-ups. It was chaos, from start to finish. So, unless directed to help out with packing or cooking, I’d decamp prior to the group’s arrival and leave the bureaucrats to their flatlanders’ follies, return after they were gone, and clean up the messes. ◦◦◦◦◦ In August, 1989, I was warned that two such excursions had been scheduled back to back. My four days-off were coming up so, without telling a soul, I took a little “vacation”—a busman’s holiday into the far northern reaches of Yosemite National Park, which lay just the other side of the Sierra crest from Piute Meadows. Every so often I’d field questions from backpackers traveling into the park so, ostensibly, this little getaway would lend me a better sense of the lay-of-the-land on the other side o’ the hill. But, no denying it: this trip was going to be a literal joy-ride. ◦◦◦◦◦ Perhaps no single event in my twenty year rangering career better captures how times have changed than the fact that as late as the late ‘80s I could/would saddle up the horses and traipse off into a remote area completely outside my jurisdiction. Without taking a radio! No one knew where I was, or that I’d ever been gone. [Five years later, our radio system finally got upgraded and I was thereafter required to call in- and out-of-service daily.] Once back, I promptly confessed to my supervisor, Lorenzo. Card-carrying renegade that he was, Lorenzo had no beef with my having gone walkabout but told me bluntly what I already knew: had I injured myself or one of the horses I’d be looking for another job. ◦◦◦◦◦ This trip, much of it on the Pacific Crest Trail, crossed through some of the most remote backcountry in the Sierra. It “felt” different—felt untamed. The PCT through-hikers had long since passed by on their way to the Canadian border so I saw very few humans. But while I was in the park, each group of backpackers I ran into were asked to present their Wilderness permit and they all received standard ranger sermons. To my surprise, not one of these hearty pilgrims noticed that the guy on the horse was wearing a Forest Service—not a Park Service—uniform.

22 Aug (Tue)     Up early to prep for my unauthorized Yosemite field-trip. Major cabin spiffery for the dog & pony shows so wasn’t able to get away ‘til noon. ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed for Dorothy Lake Pass and on to Tilden Lake. Right after I left the cabin a cold wind started blowin’. Clouds piled up. Wore my raincoat the whole way, just for extra warmth. Half a dozen [visitor] contacts but none after entering the park. ◦◦◦◦◦ I’d forgotten what typical Yosemite backcountry trails are like, what with all the deep trenches full of loose rock and treacherous hoof-snagging exposed roots. Plus loads of slickrock [glaciated granite—dicey terrain for iron-shod animals]. Slow going. After leaving Jack Main Canyon the trail was even worse, switchbacking beside cascading Tilden Creek with Chittenden Peak’s south face above, lit up all golden. Didn’t reach camp ‘til after sundown. Just one party at this huge lake, up on a hillside. Tilden is spectacular—two miles long! Looks like a friggin’ fjord! (I read somewhere that Tilden is farther from a paved road than any named lake in the High Sierra.) And the backside of Tower Peak, just over yonder, summit towers in cloud. ◦◦◦◦◦ My Hoover Wilderness map showed a group of tarns just off the trail up past the east shore and I headed for them. Found a perfect camp under a stately lodgepole on a little rise above a long skinny pond. Good feed and a place to high-line the horses over bare soil. Call it home for a day. Turned the boys loose, got set up, and heated leftover beans. Very cold. Autumn prelude, looks like, but clouds starting to break up. Long day!     

 

23 Aug (Wed)     This camp has a small fire ring so I had me a little Indian fire last night and this morn, for warmth and cheer. Woke up to full overcast; peaks in cloud, icy breeze. Felt like it could start snowing at any moment. Got up straightaway, set up my tent, and covered all the gear with a tarp. Okay…ready for anything. ◦◦◦◦◦ Once I got camp snugged up, had a quick bowl of granola and headed on out. Walked back to Tilden’s outlet, crossed Tilden Creek, and climbed Chittenden Peak (9685) for a first look-see. This scrawny little “peak” is more like a dome; mostly solid rock with flat stairstep ledges, some of them backed by feldspar-knobbed faces that I bouldered up whilst buffeted by cruel blasts of frigid air. Breathtaking views from the summit of Jack Main Canyon and a lot of exceedingly rugged granite country. Great terrain for getting off trail and visiting the places-where-nobody-ever-goes. ◦◦◦◦◦ Scrambled down the north side of the peaklet into a tiny valley with its own pretty little pond. Poked around a bit, then headed back to camp. Storm seemed to be breaking up. Sun popped out from time to time but still windy. Hit Tilden’s shore half a mile from the outlet. The lake a mere hundred yards wide there—coulda cut off a mile getting back to camp by swimming across. Back to camp for lunch (lunch for horses, too) and a much-needed nap. ◦◦◦◦◦ At 3:30 I packed for a hike up Snow Peak. Strolled up the granite apron right behind camp and up to a break in the ridgeline. Sweeping expanses of granite and turfy gardens along the way but no flowing water. Over the ridgetop and down into an isolated spur-valley that drains into Stubblefield Canyon—a sizeable, open vale studded with minute ponds that caught my eye on the map. And it was fine: dreamy John Muir country dotted with dazzlingly white erratic boulders and glistening glacier-polished slabs. A very quiet place. No whiteman-sign whatsoever. Up to this magic valley’s head then steep talus slopes leading to the top of Snow (10950), a homely little peak with excellent views plus an impressive 2500’ drop into the classic U-shaped gorge of Stubblefield. Sat on top for half an hour or so, taking in the vistas ‘til the wind had my fingers going numb. Followed the west ridge down to Pt. 10380 for THE outstanding postcard view of Tilden—in shadow now but reflecting light from the surrounding ridges. Wow. ◦◦◦◦◦ Angled down the 1000’ slope to about the midpoint of the lakeshore and thence contoured back to camp. (A fittingly tranquil conclusion to my climb, ambling along the sedgey-grassy shoreline.) Got back to camp just after sundown and turned the horses loose. Made a big pot of rice and cut-up tomato laced with cheese and butter. Chowed down. ◦◦◦◦◦ It cleared off nicely. Ramon and Val seemed happy enough in their little meadow and I figured, what with all the surrounding granite, that they wouldn’t wander far. So I decided to just leave them loose, hobbled. Belled Ramon. 

 

24 Aug (Thu)     “Slept like a log,” as they say. (Why would anyone say that?) Woke to  a frosty, crystal-clear morning. Total silence. Coming to, it took me a minute to realize something was wrong. No bell! Leapt out of my bag, grabbed a halter and started walking. Followed fresh prints up onto the rocky hillside then back to the trail where the tracks vanished. Spent well over an hour combing that hillside. Crossed their track once but soon lost it again. Back to camp. Circled around, listening hard for Ramon’s bell. Down the trail aways then back again but still no sound and no clue what to do so back to the rocks I went. Starting to get nervous. Crossed over the hill and—lo and behold!—fresh tracks on the trail, a half mile from camp: Ramon and Val were headed home. Found the knavish pair a mile from camp in a little meadow below Tilden’s outlet (where they’d have had a quick last snack before trotting all the way back to Piute). Took me 2½ hours to find them—nearly in a panic toward the last. I believe I learned this lesson once and for all: Tie your horses up at night and you’ll get to eat breakfast in the mornin’! ◦◦◦◦◦ Fed the fugitives pellets and grain, hoping they didn’t take it as a reward. Packed up, raked under the high-line, and left camp at noon. (By the way, this was an old Indian site—obsidian shards all over the place.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode back down to Jack Main Canyon the way we’d come. More bad trail but beautiful silver slabs and aqua-vignettes all along Falls Creek. Finally saw one creekside scene so alluring, so perfect, I just had to park the horses and go jump in and then sprawl nekkid on warm polished granite for awhile. ◦◦◦◦◦ Passed Wilmer Lake. Rode up and over Bailey Ridge, forded Tilden Canyon Creek, then straight back uphill to cross through a shallow gap in Macomb Ridge—a whole lotta down down down, up up up, repeat. From the top of Macomb Ridge and down into Stubblefield was one helluva ride—much bare granite and long stretches of funky old riprap [Roman-roadway-style trail of closely fitted stones; precarious for equines, especially going downhill]. It took an hour and a half to go less than two miles but we tip-toed down and made it safely to the bottom. Phew!! Fortunately, nobody was killed or injured. For a trail, that was—hands-down—the hairiest thing I’ve ridden. Val would crash through thick trail-side brush to avoid the heinous polished riprap. But what views along the way! Stunning. Crossed Rancheria Creek a bit below where Stubblefield and Thompson Canyons merge. And then, guess what? Straight up the other side! Someone told me that this section of the PCT is its most challenging stretch, traversing several high ridges and deep glacial canyons in quick succession—going against the grain, as it were. ◦◦◦◦◦  The plan was to stay at a sizeable unnamed lake a quarter mile off-trail on the crest of the ridge between Thompson and Kerrick Canyons. But with all the cliffy granite it was a no-go (I scouted on foot). Camped instead at a tiny lake/pond surrounded by dense deadfall, just off the trail. There was good feed on one part of the shore and a flat place for my kitchen. I slept nearby on a slab-topped bluff overlooking Kerrick Canyon. High-lined the horses over a dried up seasonal pond. Not a particularly aesthetic camp but good, stock-wise. It was too late in the day to drop all the way down into Kerrick and besides, I really wanted to check out that lake. Surprising that such a large body of water has no name, despite being an honest half-mile long, with alluring timbered islets and sinuous rocky peninsulas—just off the honkin’ PCT. A real testimony to remoteness. More than likely it never got stocked with fish. ◦◦◦◦◦ Put the horses to bed and climbed up on my rock with binoculars to check out the stars. Finally spotted the Andromeda galaxy. (Just recently learned how to locate it.) Deer wandering about on stairstep ledges just below me. More than one. I could hear their little hoofies click-clacking on stone; a most lovely sound. One big doe wandered within feet of me several times. Strange to be looking up at a big animal, in the dark, from ground level. Once, I shined my flashlight right in her eyes. She just stared back—even after training it on my face. Why, hello there!              

 

25 Aug (Fri)     Up at dawn. Turned Val and Ramon loose and had a quick nosh of scrambled eggs mixed with leftover dinner and a mug of tea. High-lined the two again and gave ‘em each a good dose of pellets. Left camp afoot. Scrambled up to yet another forgotten lake basin but, first, up a big granite knob overlooking Thompson Canyon. Photos and binocular viewing and map orientation. Then down to the lake. Splendid place; just gorgeous. Pretty as Peeler Lake, with many rock-islands and two convoluted peninsulas plus vertical bluffs dropping straight into deep dark water. Went out to the tip of one peninsula and laid my body down. Took a quick bath. ◦◦◦◦◦ Up the long, gently sloping drainage (you’d never know you were on a ridgetop) to another attractive lake with its far shore right on the edge overlooking Thompson Canyon. Thence into a cirque to the east where coyotes howled under midday sun. To the top of Price Peak (10716) for more killer views. The original 1945 A.J. Reyman register is still there, with many sign-ins by past Park Service rangers and trail-crew. [Reyman did the first recorded ascents, post WWII, of a several obscure peaks in the region.] Traversed over the top and south along the broad ridgeline, passing through serene sandy valleys, past two ponds, and eventually back down to Nameless Lake. Traversed the southeast shore this time. Huge mistake! That side of the lake is one big nasty tangle—loads of deadfall and thick brush, endless ups & downs & arounds. Got back to camp at 3:30, famblished. (I’d neglected to take any food with me.) Revived myself with cheese, crackers, and sardines and got packed up. Rode on, dropping into Kerrick Canyon. The lower section was terribly rugged. It parallels the creek, staying well above it, with views of comely cliffs across the way. ◦◦◦◦◦ Hours later, made it to the old Park Service trail crew camp in Kerrick Meadows and got set up. Made a big pot of spaghetti while horses grazed merrily. Bed by 10:00, thoroughly whipped. On the move for 17 hours today with hardly a break. Way too much fun! Tonight, had a buck and two does right in camp, not ten feet away at times. Not in the least shy, these Yosemite deer. 

 

26 Aug (Sat)     Up before sunrise to turn out ravenous, grumpy equines. (Clearly, they are not enjoying their holiday.) Sat by a little fire, catching up in this log. At one point I looked up to see my two hobbled horses on the other side of the creek, on the trail, heading for home. Collected them forthwith. Can’t blame ‘em…Val and Ramon know exactly where they are and how to get back to their meadow. ◦◦◦◦◦ Left about 10:00 after scouting around, checking to see what condition the camp had been left in. [The Yosemite backcountry trail crew used this campsite during the summers of 1986 and ‘87. As Robinson Creek ranger I’d visited them several times since my own basecamp was only a mile away.] First-rate rehab job. Bilberry already coming up where the cook tent used to be. ◦◦◦◦◦ Packed up and rode back down the trail a couple miles. Parked the horses beneath Pt. 9895 and unloaded them. Took off afoot north up a long draw that leads to a saddle, beyond which is a sweet meadowy basin holding a little pond. This is where, a few years back, some group of researchers left behind all sorts of functional equipment and even camping gear—like they’d had to leave in a big hurry. I reported it and a year or so later heard that all the junk got hauled out. Did a sweep and picked up a fair bit of stray wind-blown trash-flotsam that had been missed. ◦◦◦◦◦ From there, climbed seldom-visited Acker Peak (11015), a humble bump with neither summit cairn nor register. (I suspect they were removed by somebody.) Had me one last bino-and-map recon of northern Yosemite. Great views down into Thompson and across to Peeler Lake. Calm and sunny, ahhh. ◦◦◦◦◦ Bopped down to the horses in just 40 minutes and got reloaded. Rode onward at 4:30, reaching the old snow survey cabin in Buckeye Canyon a couple hours later. Turned my ill-tempered friends loose. Made another batch of spaghetti and was wolfing it down when I noticed that the sound of Ramon’s bell had grown fainter. They’d circled around and got on the trail. Sneaky! I raced off into the night (flashlight took this opportunity to go on the fritz) and nabbed ‘em half a mile up the trail, hobble-hopping barnward at a steady clip. Ramon and Val were just gonna leave the ol’ ranger behind, ho ho! They do not like these traveling trips. Both had gotten pellets and grain twice daily plus a couple of hours grazing time but it wasn’t enough. They just wanna go home—I get it. I’m ready to go home, too.

 

27 Aug (Sun)     Heading all the way out today—my 27^th straight day in the backcountry; a record for this ranger. It’ll feel strange to drive. ◦◦◦◦◦ Leftover spag scrambled with eggs for breakfast. (Baaad idea….) Kept horses close by and tied ‘em up at the first sign of wandering. Final big dose of grain. ◦◦◦◦◦ We were barely a hundred yards from the snow survey cabin when a goshawk flew across the trail, just 50 feet ahead, with a carcass in its talons. Surprised, it dropped the thing and flew off. It was a half-eaten blue grouse, neatly plucked as goshawks and their accipiter kin do. I was briefly tempted to take it with me and cook it up later. ◦◦◦◦◦ Not heading back to the cabin; no reason to—quicker to ride over the old Buckeye north fork trail to Beartrap Lake instead. Over the pass. Stopped to pick up a bunch of old trash—broken glass, rusty cans—at one of the sheep-herder camps. (Oh yeah—I picked up a sack at the snow cabin. Somebody—one of our rangers?—left a burlap sack of rusty cans so I filled it up with tarpaper shreds and other goodies found in the bushes and packed it out.) Down the endless Long Canyon switchbacks. Led Ramon and booted loose rocks off the trail. ◦◦◦◦◦ Made it to the pack station at 4:30, pretty much thrashed. No one there. And no one at the ranger station so I just picked up my mail and read it over a much-anticipated burger at the Cedar Inn. Thus endeth my Grand Tour. 

 

        For the trip:       →  81 miles (~26 afoot) over 6 days 

                                    →  5 passes traversed                      

            →  4 mountains climbed 

                                    →  29 lbs trash (7 lbs collected in YNP)                                

 

 

               ©2018 Tim Forsell                                               26 Aug 2018, 23 Jan 2026                        

Piute Log...Leap of Faith 1991

 Upper Piute Meadows, where I spent sixteen summers (1988–2003) is a choice bit of High Sierra landscape; definitely National Park caliber. Indeed, the craggy peaks visible from the cabin—Hawksbeak, Ehrnbeck, and Tower—lay astride the Yosemite park boundary. All three happen to be situated on a section of the Sierra crest that jogs to the west for several miles—something of an oddity in the generally northwest/southeast trending range. This east-to-west orientation results in the three peaks having directly north-facing walls that get more shade and thus hold snow longer. Winter storms from the Pacific dump large quantities of snow when they slam into the Sierra crest, a lot of which piles up on the crest’s lee side. Over time, thanks to that anomalous jog in the crest line, peaks at the head of the West Walker River watershed accumulate more than their fair share of snow. Through time, the net result has been a succession of glaciers that were deeper and flowed farther than almost all those east of the Sierra crest. ◦◦◦◦ My summer residence was located at the lower end of a mile-long meadow filling the bottom of a deeply incised valley, with slopes on either side rising over two thousand feet. These steep slopes, the flanks of towering ridgelines that rise above other glacially-hewn valleys, are topped with jagged peaklets. During cooler climatic intervals in the past these high points were the only land protruding from ice caps that almost buried the entire region. ◦◦◦◦ Piute cabin is located on a little rise near the meadow’s southern tip, just upstream from where the meandering upper West Walker River cuts through bedrock before plunging down a cliffy gorge. The slope across-river from the cabin is granitic while the east-facing slope opposite is mostly made up of a metamorphic rock known as hornfels. Both are timbered but with different shrubs and trees and notably different topography.◦◦◦◦ I dubbed the entire slope behind the cabin “Piute Wilderness”—a place where, aside from myself and a few friends, virtually no one ever ventured. The slatey hornfels (of sedimentary origin) retains strong bedding planes that, subjected to glaciation, can form broad, flat benches—a joy to stumble upon unexpectedly as they make for stretches of gentle strolling on otherwise steep and rugged terrain. The hidden benches on this mile-and-a-half-broad heavily timbered slope harbor several secret ponds, heavenly spots all. ◦◦◦◦ Exploring all the nooks and crannies of Piute Wilderness was a joy. I’d usually start these jaunts from the cabin. There are no trails aside from those made by deer. After scrambling up several hundred vertical feet you unexpectedly run into a vale cut by a rivulet that’s fed all summer by permanent snowfields. For much of its length it flows parallel to the overall slope of the mountainside, passing through a shaded forest of red fir, mountain hemlock, and lodgepole pine. The charming streamlet is lined with colorful flower gardens interspersed with smooth rock slabs and tumbling cascades. It had a feeling of utter solitude and an untrammeled, primeval quality that I cherish…food for the soul. (Praise be!, the Sierra Nevada holds untold numbers of these off-the-beaten-path pockets of Edenic wilderness.) ◦◦◦◦ The first of these entries is from an early exploration; the second tells of starting, for the first time, from where the little creek joined the West Walker a half-mile downriver from the cabin. It was this particular excursion that led me to name the brook “Dinky Creek,” having realized that I’d spend lots of time exploring this gem. And wanting to make it my own. 

 

7 Aug (Wed)     ◦◦◦◦◦ Needed to walk so headed down the gorge below the cabin, then cut up toward the snowmelt-fed watercourse that spills into Cranney’s meadow. Hit the little creeklet lower down than on previous outings. (Usually I climb straight up from behind the cabin and run into it somewhat higher.) Passed through an almost painfully gorgeous scene: a broad dike of layered volcanic rock runs through the mountainside thereabouts. The creek has cut into it, forming a narrow, twisting defile. It spills out of this thirty-yard-long mini-gorge through an impressive “gateway” flanked on either side by a veritable grove of monkshood (rare around these parts) in full bloom. I scrambled up to this doorway and walked right in. Holy, Holy! The walls on either side are encrusted with mosses and ferns and the creeklet hurries through on a smooth naked slab of tan-colored andesite. In places like this, catching glimpses of genuine perfection gives me a powerful urge to sit down and stay awhile. Like…for a few days. It somehow feels wrong to just walk on by. Disrespectful to the Creation, as it were. ◦◦◦◦◦ But much yet to see so I wandered on upstream where the creek alternates between disappearing into the mountain and reappearing where it flows over solid rock hidden beneath soil and rubble. The wildflower display: one of the finest I’ve seen all summer so far. Corn lily and red columbine under attack by aphids. Followed this minor creek as far as the mouth of a tiny cirque (its point of origin) and found a stunning viewpoint atop a point of rock with Piute Meadows and all down-canyon laid out. Contoured the slope and onto benches and discovered a string of four sweet little tarns. One, entirely rock-bound and right on the edge of a bluff. So fine. Followed the ponds’ drainage down steeply and hit the Tower trail just past the head of Piute Meadow. An inspiring journey into purest Sierra wilderness—to places where no one ever goes. 

 

25 Aug (Sun)    OFF. ◦◦◦◦◦ In the afternoon I took a stroll. Crossed the river and walked along the rim of the gorge, down to where the river bends north again, near Bart’s old basecamp. Crossed back over on a log and followed what I’m now calling “Dinky Creek,” from where it spills into the West Walker on up to its very source. (Went as far as the mouth of a little cirque a couple of weeks ago.) Haven’t done the bottom section before since I usually start by hiking straight up the hill behind the outhouse. The lower stretch is quite steep—a series of steps with lovely micro-meadows, flowers now almost done blooming. Got to where I’d intersected the creek on my last hike and followed it through that cool mini-gorge again (a short, narrow section only a few yards wide hemmed in by vertical walls). Barely a trickle over the slabs now. Scrambled up to the top this time for the view down into it. I was standing on a tiny ledge taking in the scene when I decided to head back home instead of doing the whole hike. Feelin’ pretty beat. But I was on the “wrong” side of the creek, meaning I’d have to clamber back down into it and climb up the other side. No big deal but then I spied a small ledge just opposite me on the other side and a bit lower than where I stood. A crazy thought: Hey! I could jump that! The gap was close to ten feet across with a sheer twenty-five foot drop to the slabs. Inched down to a really good take-off point and sampled the jump in my mind just to get the adrenaline pumping. Then that all-important “wild hair” thing took over and I heard these words in my head: Just do it! Just because you can! And I allowed myself to be tricked (again) and leapt without further deliberation. One of those deals where you feel complete certainty but know that you can’t stop and think it over—immediate action is required. ◦◦◦◦◦  The target was flat but quite small, with a thin plate of exfoliated rock laying on it that looked like it might possibly skate so I landed with right foot on the slatey piece and the other on soil right on the rim, a bit higher. It was a good, solid leap. Unfortunately, my right shin came into contact with the edge of a sharp flake protruding from above my landing pad. I came to a stop in a crouched position and as I straightened, started to sway backwards. Was mostly focused on a brand new pain in my lower leg but then became aware that I was slowly starting to sway backwards. Body was in balance, though, so I just swung back over my feet. Phew! But: I’d barked my shin pretty good and blood was running freely down my leg, soaking my sock dramatically. Voice in my head again: Only a flesh wound! [Monty Python reference…to be read with mock-British accent.] Headed home and walked it off. Final note: At some point, I wrote at the top of the page: “Days later, noticed a tiny sliver of bone sticking out of the thick scab. (It was a solid month before the thing finally fell off.)”  

 

By the way—this wasn’t an isolated event; it was the sort of thing I’d do for amusement. See: climbers at times find themselves in situations where leaping across some yawning gap is either compulsory or much preferable to the arduous detour. For mountaineers, “technical jumps” are just another specialized skill (and something I happened to be good at). ◦◦◦◦ This next entry—sort of a follow-up to my leap-of-faith—took place almost five years later, in 1996. At the time I was in a committed relationship with a woman. She had two children: Sage, 15, and Johanna, 10. Both kids were staying with us at our place near Lone Pine that summer and made several multi-day visits to the cabin with their mom. ◦◦◦◦ After lunch one day, we all walked up the hill directly behind the cabin to a remnant patch of snow for some glissading. “Glissading” is skiing with just your boots on; it can be great fun when the snow is right. I’d been to this spot some days before and knew the kids would enjoy themselves. (Sage, already a full-on gonzo skier at fifteen, went on to be a major star and was featured in many films doing terrifyingly  wild stunts.)

 

8 Jul (Mon)     ….  After lunch we tromped out to the outhouse and on up the hill toward Ranger Notch to do some glissading. The place I’d been to a week ago was not as good this time (snow surface rougher plus rocks and willows now poking through the   runout zone). We had many fine runs, though. Sage went nuts of course; he and I shooting down the steepest pitches while Katie and Johanna took lesser slides. But we got them both on some steeper bits—better snow there—and I thoroughly enjoyed having Jo slide down into my arms, huge smile on her face, catching her and whirling her around. Sage was doing airborne 360° jumps off the lip and then he and I took turns standing like a statue while the other shot past as close as possible going probably twenty miles per. Had a great time! This is the sort of activity I’d never do alone…one of those things that’s better when you can share it. ◦◦◦◦◦ Jo was pooped. All of us were. We slogged back down the hill. And here’s a curious incident: Got to Dinky Creek, intersecting it right at the little gorge cut through the andesite. We’d been there last summer as well and I’d showed the kids the place where I leapt across the gorge on a whim, simply because I could. When I made that jump (maybe a bit shy of ten feet, downward,  onto a tiny ledge near the top of the bluff) it went as planned except that my right shin briefly made contact with a protruding sharp edge that scraped off a chunk of my hide, ouch. ◦◦◦◦◦  So…the “curious incident” in question took place as we crossed the creek just upstream from the gorge. Hopping from a round rock mid-stream to the rubbly far shore, I landed on a flat rock “platter.” (The andesite tends to slough off in platy flakes.) The thing looked solid—I’d sized it up before jumping—but no!, it flipped up, catching me on both shins. Little in the way of blood but it did hurt pretty good. A couple of minutes later, hobbling, I suddenly realized that the very last time I’d barked my shins—which, I should note, are both absolutely plastered with scars—was that time, about five years ago. And not fifty feet away.

 

                ©2017 Tim Forsell                                           12 Feb 2017, 21 Oct 2025

Last Trip to Piute, Perhaps 1994

NO ONE SEEMS TO KNOW exactly who made the boneheaded decision to keep our crew working this late into fall—a month longer than usual. Worse yet, at just part-time. Did the order come from Toiyabe Forest headquarters? Did some faceless bureaucrat at the regional office in Ogden make the call? The reason, so we’re told, is to reduce the amount of time us bottom-of-the-pay-scale seasonal rangers can collect unemployment. To that end, since the middle of September we’ve been on this absurd six-days-on, eight-off schedule. As a rule, I’m more than happy to stay at Piute for my four days off; maybe go out for a quick overnight resupply. But now it’s mid-autumn. The days are short, the nights long, and eight days is a long time to just hang out at the cabin, especially kittyless. (I packed both cats out at the end of my brother’s annual visit and Steve took them with him back to our folks’ place in Ventura, where they’re honored guests.) So when days-off rolled around again I decided to head for the hotsprings in Saline Valley, the place where I’ve been spending a good part of my winters in recent years. It’s BLM land so camping is free, with unlimited hot water. I know people who go there at this time of year. The springs are pretty much in the middle of nowhere—a four or five hour drive from Bridgeport, depending on just how bad the bad road is. 

I was out there for almost a week, strolling around in shorts and sandals, marinating myself in the healing waters thrice daily. Lots of time in the company of old friends. I took long solo exploratory walks up desert washes and along barren basalt-flow ridges. Classic Saline: fighter jets zooming by low overhead all the day long and several really quite impressive amateur fireworks displays on Halloween. Each day it got up into the eighties—typical fall temps in the northern Mojave. Rejuvenated, I left on November second and headed back to Bridgeport for my final tour.

 

Thirty hours after bidding Saline Valley hotsprings bye-bye, I pulled up in front of the cabin and tied my horses to the hitch-rail. Talk about contrasts: from low desert to high mountains in a day’s time; T-shirt weather at not much above sea level to all bundled up at eighty-five-hundred feet, with fresh snow on the ground and ice in my mustache. 

Upon arrival I immediately had to deal with a couple of pressing problems (to be recounted shortly). We pulled in at a little after six o’clock. By the time things had settled down it was seven. And full-on dark. Dark at seven?! How could…? From June all through August, seven p.m is daytime! (I’m often fresh off work at that hour—sprawled on the gravel bar across from the cabin after my obligatory après-work river-bath.) But here it was, black as midnight; outside, a frigid 6°F. The ranger, huddled in front of crackling woodstove; both lanterns going. Truth is, aside from closing the place down I really had no business being at the cabin in November. What with the pack station boarded up and backpackers all gone home, there were zero tourists for me to educate and inform…trail-work not a viable option under present conditions. No feline friends for companionship and moral support. Nobody h’yar but this one chicken. In fact, on this night I was quite possibly the sole human animal in all of the Sierra Nevada highcountry—a surmise beguiling to one who feeds on western-style romance.

            The ride in was breathtaking. In fact, the entire day had a certain edge to it; one of those intervals of time where you know to pay extra close attention to the details. And not just feel grateful but be grateful. For everything. In addition, there’d been quite a dramatic lead-up and all the lead-up stuff added even more juice. Without question, the day’s overall “feel” was colored by the bittersweet aura that hangs over any last-trip-of-the-season to Piute—further accentuated by this also being perhaps my last stint at the cabin, period, if next year’s budget situation turns out to be as dire as projected. 

As for the aforementioned theatrical lead-up:

My final day in Saline dawned with telltale signs of a winter storm on the way. When I left at around noon the Inyo crest was partly clouded over. A stiff breeze had kicked in. When I reached Big Pine, mid-afternoon, Owens Valley was filled with haze—dust being lofted by what was now a minor gale. No more blue sky. 

After stocking up on groceries in Bishop I headed north. The first fat raindrops came down partway up Sherwin Grade. When I reached Mammoth junction it was almost dark and rain turned to snow. Minutes later it began to dump; the kind of snow that comes down at the start of relatively warm storms—soggy clumps of interlocked flakes that slam into your windshield like big bugs but with soft splat!s The storm quickly intensified into a swirling blizzard my headlights were barely able to penetrate. With wipers on not-high-enough, I grew increasingly concerned, mainly on account of having four seriously bald tires. At Crestview, the glop was starting to stick so out of caution I slowed to forty and got in the slow lane. Reno-bound semi trucks blew by me on the left, launching roostertails of slush that fanned across my windshield. When they passed I kept my eyes pointed dead ahead the whole time, hands clutching the wheel at ten and two—this, the very definition of a white-knuckle drive.

All of a sudden, a small wind-drift appeared in my headlight beam; no time to switch lanes. I plowed through it and started to spin out—jolt of adrenaline!—but corrected in time. (Good thing a semi wasn’t passing me right then….) After that little brush with mortality I switched on my hazard lights, slowed to twenty, and kept it pegged there the rest of the way to Bridgeport. Had to endure an excruciatingly slow crawl up Conway grade through that treacherous, slick-as-snot grey slush, not at all sure I had enough traction to make the summit and what then? It went on and on. The semis, slowed by the steep incline, still whizzed by like I wasn’t even moving. 

It was a huge relief to have Conway Summit in my rearview. But then there was this: my Toyota pickup had been handling strangely for some time and, whatever it was, it was getting worse. Something off with the steering—it felt stiff…sluggish. No idea what was wrong. That is, not until reaching my destination, the Forest Service warehouse outside of Bridgeport (where I park for the night and sleep in my camper when stuck in town). It’d stopped snowing. I got out, still wearing shorts and sandals. Whaaaaat?! My poor little truck’s entire undercarriage was caked with a six-inch-thick deposit of frozen road sludge—at a guess, maybe four or five hundred pounds-worth. The wheel wells were jam-packed, too, with polished grooves where the tires rubbed. Which explained the sluggish steering. Mystery solved. Got into some warm clothes pronto, heated up a can of soup in lieu of supper, and crashed fully clothed. 

Morning dawned not-fair. Not fair at all. The storm looked to be mostly over but a cold-front had come in right behind it. Temperature in the mid-teens (as indicated by breath-clouds and half-frozen water bottle). Sierra crest, buried in misty cloud; strong wind out of the north. All of which meant that my plans for the upcoming tour, such as they were, had changed. As prearranged, my supervisor and I met in the ice-cold warehouse where we hunkered by the breakroom stove and tried to come up with a plan. No one else around. Greta, who is both friend and ally as well as an excellent boss, had hopeful words regarding our crew’s return next season even though the whole budget fiasco remains unsettled. She also informed me that another, bigger storm was due to arrive later in the week and we both thought it best that I head for Piute as planned and start shutting the place down. If that storm arrived while I was still in the backcountry…well, we’d deal with that if and when it happened. There was plenty of food.

            I stopped by the office briefly, gassed up the stock truck, and finished getting my stuff together. Before heading off, I finally had a first meal of the day at a café in town. Despite off-and-on snow flurries and that miserable north wind, I had a vague hunch that the weather might improve. It was just shy of noon.

First stop: Wheeler Guard Station—that lonely looking, generally unoccupied Forest Service outpost just south of Sonora Junction that people drive past and wonder, What’s that place for? Long ago it was sort of a fire station; nowadays, it serves as temporary quarters for rangers and trail crew, with fenced pastures where FS livestock can be kept. On my way out last week, I’d dropped off the horses there. (By agreement, Leavitt Meadows Pack Station boards my horses when I’m away but they’d just closed up shop for the winter.) Red and Valiente were in the narrow strip of pasture just below the highway—not who-knows-where way out in back—so it was an easy catch. Got them brushed, curried, and saddled while they munched on grain, then loaded them in the stock truck and pressed on. A mile farther up the road at the 395/108 Junction, Caltrans had already put up a big sign announcing “Sonora Pass Closed—8 Miles Ahead.” 

Something felt off as soon as I turned onto Highway 108. All summer, there’s a steady stream of vehicles going both ways but, today—nary a soul. The roadway was clear as far as the eye could see, completely deserted…a creepy, post-apocalypse kind of deserted. One lone set of tire tracks cut through the last few patches of unmelted snow on the pavement and these apparently turned off at the Marine Corps Training Center only a couple of miles in. Past Pickel Meadows, entering the canyon: more snow on the road, no tire tracks. Leavitt Meadows Campground, closed. Camp hosts’ trailer, gone. Trailhead parking lot, empty. And, sure enough, the iron gate just beyond the pack station had been swung shut and locked. It was one p.m. when I parked the stock truck in the pull-out opposite a freshly vacated pack station. Offloaded the horses and finished packing. Red and Val were calm but alert, with an air of expectancy about them. I knew that look and what it signified. They were saying, in all but words, C’mon! Let’s hit the road, Jack, and get this over with! Like me, they were ready to go home. To be back home. 

Off into the wintry wilds we went. 

            The trip in was exceptional in many ways. I’ve traversed this eleven miles of dusty backcountry byway on horseback probably a hundred times now. At least a hundred. A few of them with patchy snow on the ground, yes, but never before had I laid down first tracks on a blanket of virgin winter snow. Never before had I gone in this late in the season, never when it was this cold, and never for maybe the last time. 

Right after we set out the cloud cover started to break up. The Sun’s improbable return was first announced by dramatic god-rays shining down through gaps in the ceiling. Blue sky followed, then full sunshine most welcome. An austere winter day had transformed into post-Indian-summer fall at its finest before my very eyes. West-facing slopes and mountainsides, with their newly lit carpet of fresh snow, went from a uniform dull shade of bluish-grey to blindingly radiant snow-white. The resurrected Sun, seemingly too low in the sky for early afternoon and farther south than it should be, cast long shadows I’d never seen before. Day-old snow weighed down shrubs and hung in trees. Ice clung to the slow-moving river’s margins. Climbing out of Leavitt Meadows, we entered timbered country and that cruel north wind turned to cruel breeze. I was glad to be wearing my leather chaps and Forest Service-issue Filson wool coat. 

Though utterly familiar, my surroundings at times felt alien—almost as if I were somewhere I’d never been before; a strange sensation. But my disorientation wasn’t simply due to things looking different under a blanket of immaculate snow. The novel lighting also contributed. Having just come from the desert probably played a part as well. Then factor in the potent combination of pure silence/pure solitude augmented by dangerously low temperatures, plus knowing that I was entirely on my own if there was trouble. Taken together, all these dynamics produced a mild euphoria. I felt a distinct connection with my equine cohorts as we were sharing this adventure, as a team. There was anticipation; an eagerness to see whatever lay around the next bend and the next—again, almost as if I were surveying this country for the first time. Trailside junipers and pine saplings wore the guise of Christmas trees. (See: Wind had already blown most of the snow off branches and twigs leaving rounded mounds reminiscent of Yule-tree ornaments at leafy branch tips. Scores of long needle-bundles shed by Jeffrey pines dangled from naked twigs, a fair proxy for tinsel.) To top off this Yuletide atmosphere, any stray shafts of light that managed to squeeze through the thick foliage overhead were filled with glitter—sparks of light made by solar photons bouncing off all those snowflakes drifting down from the wind-blown treetops. 

From the back of a moving horse, all this chance decorativeness in the exotic slanting afternoon light of November made for an enthralling show. Time and again I felt the muscles of my half-numb face contracting in irrepressible grins…a lone witness to Creation going slack-jawed at the sight of minor miracles left and right. Everything that I saw along the way—each vignette, every vista—I’d already gazed upon a hundred times before and found beautiful. Each and every time. But regular beautiful; not this queer, ‘nother-worldly beautiful.

            Two miles in, at Lane Lake. No otters this time around, alas. But, for consolation, nine coots. Alarmed by our sudden arrival all nine half-paddled-half-flew in cootish fashion away from the near shore, shattering the exquisite silence and my deep reverie. (Every October, who knows why, coots show up at this lake.) 

Then came two small groves of white fir, separated by a quarter mile; the only pure stands of fir trees this trail passes through. Even in mid-summer, little light penetrates a white fir forest’s compact foliage so it felt cloistered and distinctly winterlike passing through. Suddenly it was January. Dropped the reins over Red’s saddlehorn so I could pocket both hands—no gloves, alas!—and, since Stetson hats don’t cover numb ears, I folded a spare handkerchief into a broad headband that did the job. 

Modest spring-fed streams bisect both groves. Both were entirely frozen over. I retrieved the reins knowing that Red, who’s easily spooked, might refuse to cross. But after a lengthy head-down-ears-up examination (and with some urging on my part) Red crashed his way through—on tiptoes with eyes rolled back in rank fear. Valiente, an old hand who’s seen it all, barely noticed. 

Later, something else caught my eye: off to the side of the trail, curious meandering “grooves” in the snow’s surface. I’d seen these things before, near the cabin, always following early winter storms in September or October; inch-wide, shallow grooves that wandered hither and thither. They were the work of voles—abundant but seldom-seen meadow-dwelling rodents, like fat mice with beady little eyes, tiny ears, and a short tail. Voles stay hidden by tunneling through thick grass rather than burrowing into the soil like moles and gophers. When snow comes they leave their grass-tunnels and travel abroad with impunity. These half-pipe channels, typically seen only after the first storm or two of the season, are the end result of voles tunneling through two- or three-inch-thick layers of settled snow. After a day or two in the sun these narrow channels’ roofs begin to sag, leaving networks of what appear to be little furrows. (I finally figured out what caused them after watching coyotes harvesting voles out in the meadow, right after early snowstorms—seemingly at their leisure. And connected the dots.) 

            The sun set over the high ridgetop before we got to Lower Piute Meadows (two miles yet to go) and it got even colder; in the low teens now, judging by a growing build-up of ice in my mustache. On steep uphills, clouds of moist breath billowed from the horses’ nostrils. My toes had been dead for a while; wriggling didn’t help so I finally got off and walked. The trail was trackless save for a single set of coyote prints that periodically veered off into the woods only to reappear later. 

            Got to Upper Piute Meadows with last light on the peaks and forded a slack river that was almost completely frozen over in places. The horses crunched through the thin ice and a couple of minutes later stood steaming at the hitch-rail. First I unloaded Valiente and lugged his pack-boxes over to the porch, then removed their saddles and blankets and carried them to the saddle rack. It was a tremendous relief to be home and start getting moved back in. After being gone a week, I knew it would be cold in the cabin when we arrived. But the thick log walls absorb heat during the day and hold it well so it came as a bit of a shock to find that the inside was even colder than I’d expected—somewhere between refrigerator and freezer. (The thermometer just outside read 10°F.) I lit one Coleman lantern and quick got a fire going in the wood stove but went right back out to feed hungry horses. Hauled a bucketful of alfalfa pellets over to the hitch- rail and unbuckled their halters, leaving them dangling from the rail. Red and Val followed me over to the round corral and walked right in. I dumped the pellets in one of the mangers and, smiling, stood there for a minute watching them eat.

Back at the cabin I hung the halters on their nails, swung the door open…and stopped dead in my tracks. The interior was filled with smoke. My initial reaction, mute, was the wordless equivalent of an all-caps, triple-exclamation point power-expletive. Right on its heels, addressed to my person with Zen-like calm: You. Forgot. To clean. The chimney cap. You were supposed to take care of that, remember?

Shortly before my departure the stove was acting up. Drafting poorly. Those last few days, right after lighting a fire this foul-smelling white smoke would begin to waft up through the joints around the stove-lids—sure sign of a clogged chimney cap. Once the fire got going it quit smoking and seemed okay. So I let it slide. Standing there in the doorway, I recalled having said to myself, more than once, I’ll deal with this…later. Well, it was now later and now it was too late. I needed warmth. And soon. Time to take care of business. I took a deep breath and went in, leaving the door wide open.

Smoke was spewing out from around all six stove-lids. Kill fire! Need water! The drinking-water bucket by the door had a thick layer of ice on top. After breaking it up with a hammer and pulling out the biggest chunks I doused the fire with a few scoopfuls of slushy water, sending up clouds of powdery gray ash that proceeded to settle on every horizontal surface. A couple more scoops of water killed the still-smoldering pile of kindling (or so I thought). I propped a couple of windows open.

Now for the hard part.

            With the little plastic flashlight I keep bedside clasped in my teeth I fetched an old aluminum ladder from behind the cabin, brushed the snow off it (in my hurry, bare-handed) and then propped it up against the south side of the gabled roof. Got out of my wet, slick-soled packer boots in exchange for an old pair of lug-soled Sorrel snow boots I’d retrieved from the loft. The air was still pretty opaque. Next: I grabbed a hefty hunk of firewood from the pile behind the stove and headed back out. Clove-hitched the wood to one end of a fifty-foot rope and tied the other end around the trunk of a big lodgepole pine, after which I went halfway up the ladder and flung the weighted rope-end over the roof’s crest. This would serve as my safety line for the last bit. Back in the cabin, I poured more water on the still-smoldering fire, sending up fresh clouds of ash-laden steam. Grabbed a few tools and headed out the door.

            Here’s the situation: The metal chimney, which emerges halfway up the steep roof’s north-facing side, isn’t accessible by ladder. At present the roof held four inches of heavy snow that, due to the cabin’s residual heat,  melted a bit as it was accumulating and then froze. This partial melting created a layer of ice at the snowpack’s base, making for a fiendishly slick surface. But, luckily, several two-by-four studs nailed horizontally to the roof’s south face would enable me to reach the crest and access the chimney cap. These makeshift cleats, held on by sixteen-penny nails nailed right through several layers of cedar shingles, were vestiges of a big re-shingle job I did back in ’88 at the outset of my first season at Piute. A bear had broken into the cabin early that spring by climbing up a deep snowdrift and clawing a bear-sized hole right through the inch-thick roof planking. (In the process, it raked off a lot of tarpaper and a large number of shingles.) Getting myself from the ladder onto the cleat beneath the southerly skylight in my floppy snow boots was a bit dicey but once there I could stand up straight, keeping all my weight over my feet. The improvised safety line wasn’t much use on this side but did help with balance. From atop the skylight (a slippery scramble) I scraped snow off the crest before straddling it. Tied a loop in the line and slid one arm through up to my elbow; if I lost footing, this would provide a marginally adequate belay. And I did in fact slip, lowering off the north-side skylight but—lucky me!—slid only a foot or so before coming to rest, crotch astride stovepipe with a death-grip on the rope. With tension from the safety line I was able to get in position: one foot up against the base of the chimney and the other on the skylight’s bottom rim. Not dropping my wrench made it a cinch to remove the stovepipe cap which was indeed completely clogged with soot and creosote. The screwdriver was an ideal tool for scraping it out. And I did all this, remember, with a plastic flashlight in my mouth.

To play it safe, before lowering back down I tied the rope off to one of the chimney struts. Good thing! When my foot made contact with the two-by-four it popped off and slid to the ground. I knew the cleat was compromised; it felt loose underfoot when I first stood on it but hadn’t failed simply because my weight was pressing downwards—a different angle of force. Unbeknownst to me, organic debris had been building up behind it and years of freeze-thaw gradally levered the thing off its moorings. Shaken, I got my feet under me, stood up, and swung over to the next cleat. Standing on that top ladder rung, I experienced yet another wave of relief (fourth or maybe fifth in just over a day’s time). Not to make light of what happened—this self-inflicted escapade’s finale rivaled in seriousness rappelling off a climb at night during a storm. My technical climbing skills didn’t just come in handy. I couldn’t have pulled it off without them. 

Clearing that stovepipe cap broke probably half a dozen rules in the Forest Service Safety Manual. Maybe more. Well, I made it down; half-froze but fully unscathed. Mission accomplished. The cabin had mostly cleared out by this time so I built a new fire, leaving the door and windows wide open. Heated water for tea on the propane stove. And then I took that mug of orange pekoe, plopped myself down in the rusty old metal chair with folded-up towel for a seat-pad, and pulled up close the woodstove. I huddled there for some time, thawing out my hands and reliving the highpoints of a spectacular day—basking in the glow that comes with having just cheated death.  

Those few minutes hunkered-down by the antique woodstove sipping strong black tea were about as close to undiluted contentment as this cowboy gets. 

 

©2025Tim Forsell                                             4 November 1994, 8 Sep 2025 

                                                                                                

Piute Log...New Houseguest 1999

 More on the sort of minor inconveniences that come with living in the wilderness….

26 Sep (Sun)     The last few nights a woodrat has been lurking around, making lots of racket. Lucky for me, I’ve been sleeping really hard of late so only wake up a little then fall right back to sleep. But I clearly recall being here back when JD and then Jim Kohman was the ranger—that is, pre-cats-at-Piute era—and waking up in the night to what sounded like a team of mice up in the loft engaged in soccer practice. I’d lay awake for an hour or so with the pillow folded over my head before finally drifting off again. Tedious. (Something about on-again-off-again, rustling-type sounds made by living things makes them hard to sleep through.) Woodrats, though, are somethin’ else entire. The first night or two I heard it scurrying across the roof and up’n’down the rear wall. Back and forth it went. But last night the gosh-darn thing managed to get in the cabin. (Heard it rearranging the woodpile.) When I woke up, Shitbird, lead Piute RPO [Rodent Patrol Officer; spoof on Forest Service use of acronyms for job positions], was down there sniffing around and gazing intently into the space behind the tall cabinet. I shone the flashlight in there but saw no fresh, jumbo-sized rodent turds. Funny thing is, despite all the ruckus, I can’t really tell where the sound is coming from. And don’t even know how this rat’s getting in. Those gaps under the eaves? Nah…I doubt there’s any one place big enough that a critter larger than a deermouse could squeeze through. (If it’s a particularly audacious woodrat, the thing might be coming through the cat door.) Note: Shitbird has caught—and eaten—young wood rats, in the past. Lucy, who’s been sleeping by my head since it turned cold, seems to be ignoring the thing entirely. So this might be one of them ferocious, bull-woodrats. (They can get to be surprisingly large; Peterson field guide says up to twenty ounces!) Alls I can say is, I wish it’d GO AWAY. ◦◦◦◦◦

Left the cabin for my four days off, taking the cats.(Various end-of-season duties would keep me away too long to leave them at the cabin on their own so they got to spend the next few weeks living at the FS warehouse in town.) Upon my return, more rodent shenanigans:

1 Oct (Fri)     ◦◦◦◦◦ That blankety-blank-blank woodrat really went to town tonight. It apparently moved in whilst I was gone and straightaway got into the catfood tin—pried the lid off no problemo and hauled off a pound or so of kitty kibble, caching it somewhere. One mystery solved: she/he comes in through the cat-door. I’d duct-taped it shut before leaving the cabin when I left last Sunday and upon returning found that the varmint had chewed a hole through the Visqueen® that I’d taped over the glassless window pane above the shelf by the stove. Anyway, this time it kept me awake for what seemed like hours. These critters are loud! ◦◦◦◦◦

Two days later:

3 Oct (Sun)     Woodrat kept me awake again, clawing at the (re)plastic-covered window. I’d hear it, wake up, shine the flashlight…it’d skitter off. Minutes later, rat’s back and I’d wake up again. Finally got smart: got up, went outside and, with a full gallon can of white gas set on the window sill, covered up the glassless pane such that “Super Raton” (Lorenzoism) can’t even get to the plastic. Didn’t exactly work as planned, though: the rest of the night it clawed and scratched and scrabbled around the gas can, making claw-on-metal sounds that were even more aggravating. Incredibly persistent creatures they are! This morning, went up into the loft to see if there was any obvious damage and found that, while I was gone, my intruder had gotten into the cardboard box full of toilet paper rolls and had shredded a half dozen of ‘em. (Never just one. Rodents always have to sample the whole lot….) So, in some dark corner of the loft there’s likely a well-appointed rat nest of made of shredded TP and stocked with a winter’s worth of kitty krunchies. Guess I have me a new housemate.

Left the cabin again a couple of days later, after properly blocking off the entry points. Apparently, this did the trick—there was no sign that my new housemate had been in the cabin when I returned three weeks later to shut the place down for the winter. Thank god. It was a real relief to not have to worry about what sort of disaster I’d find waiting for me upon returning in the spring. 

 

 

                ©2025 Tim Forsell                                                                           12 Jul 2025                                 

Let Us Now Pray

             

PEOPLE SUFFERING FROM CLINICAL DEPRESSION tend to be a bit incredulous when the doctor informs them that their symptoms might stem from a chemical imbalance in parts of the brain linked to emotion and reward. Speaking for myself, it took a while to come around to the idea that my own decade-long struggle with depression could be the result of a measly chemical imbalance. Antidepressant meds got me back on track and I began doing some research on my own which, together, opened the door to a fresh outlook on life in general and a brand new perspective. I slowly began to grasp the implications behind the fact that how we perceive and respond to the world around us is based on the proper distribution of key signaling molecules—that is, neurotransmitters like serotonin and dopamine; organic compounds synthesized in our gut (of all places). But wait! This meant that my sense of reality is based entirely on chemistry! Which seemed outlandish, at least at first; so removed from my experience of the everyday world. But now, after years spent getting a good solid handle on microbiology, I know that our very being is contingenton routine cellular activities—on untold numbers of staggeringly complex, frenzied proceedings that take place without cease in each of our sixty-trillion-odd cells. Up to and including that final breath. 

A basic grasp of brain chemistry got me thinking about some curious attributes of human consciousness—one of them being our unsung, under-appreciated power to at least partially bury memories of terrible events. While it can often lead to problems farther down the road, memory suppression allows us to leave past trauma and torment behind; to move through and beyond the crippling grief of losing a loved one. Otherwise, how could we go on? Our sadness would consume us. 

As incredible as this may seem, our ability to repress painful memories is, like other forms of emotional response, a direct function of neurotransmitter activity in the prefrontal cortex. Think of it.

The same goes for one another unique feature of our humanity: the capacity to experience an inscrutable emotion we call awe. The sheer ablility to stand before something and feel unbridled, slack-jawed amazement is one of those things we tend to take as a given, without ever pausing to consider what it might stem from. In any case, being able to feel awed is another one of those distinctly human attributes that has to be buffered through some form of chemical intervention—out of simple bio-necessity. And why would that be? Well, if not somehow kept in check, we’d see everything as through the eyes of a newborn babe. The world would continually be new to us. Clearly, this wouldn’t do; walking out the door to go pick up a few groceries would often result in not making it as far as the sidewalk. Sunlight illuminating the veins in a tree’s delicate leaves, say, or some leggy insect resting on an open flower would be more than enough to induce a state of rapt wonder, complete with sappy grin, some giggling…maybe even a tear or two. Everyone would continually be late for work. We’d miss appointments, walk into oncoming traffic, forget to feed the dog. 

One thing I’ve learned during thirty-plus years of studies focused, very specifically, on Life-as-phenomenon: human consciousness remains an utter enigma—a nut that some top-flight scientists believe will never be cracked. To be sure, neuroscience has seen spectacular advances in recent decades (think cognitive psychology, brain imaging, and the mapping of neural circuits to name just a few). But consider this: there’s a widespread belief among lay people that most if not all scientific disciplines are more advanced than they actually are. The current state of neuroscience being a perfect example. In truth, and in spite of all the buoyant claims made by science writers and podcasters, much of what we know about the brain and how it works is incomplete or provisional. There will doubtless be surprising developments in coming years, a number of them completely unforeseen. Some of these findings will eclipse or overturn current views. I mention all this because it’s important to understand that, when it comes to the human brain, we’re in the-more-we-learn-the-less-we-know territory.

If I’m right in my surmises about the connection between brain chemistry and perception, I expect that neuroscientists working in the field of childhood development will, in the not-too-distant future discover something along these lines: Starting around the age of fourteen months, a genetically predetermined influence involving the allocation of neurotransmitters begins to censor inputs into a toddler’s burgeoning sensory systems. The upshot being that, right around the time a child is taking its first steps, the measured introduction of a neurochemical cocktail begins to have a dampening effect on its five rapidly developing senses, thus quelling further unconstrained responses to the miracle of Creation. The object? To forestall constantly being diverted by sensorial “shiny objects.” From an evolutionary-fitness standpoint this is a good thing, allowing the human animal to focus on, shall we say, more important matters. (Such as: Keep busy! Get those jobs done!) (Or, once upon a time, Watch out for big cat!) Similar to constructive forgetfulness, this sophisticated neurological adjustment in early childhood cuts out superfluous distractions, increasing each individual’s chances of reaching reproductive age. And thereby helping insure the survival of our species as a whole. 

All of us come into this world with physical, mental, and social shortcomings along with a few other nonstandard features. My own list includes myopia, gum disease, and an iffy back along with this rather unfortunate flaw: one of those multipurpose sensory filters never developed in full and, as a result, I can scarcely tolerate any number of trivial annoyances—things that other people either tune out or don’t even notice. Then there’s the indiscriminate crankiness that comes with finding myself unable (or unwilling) to stomach many aspects of modern life. Like everyone else, I was born with a more or less fixed temperament and my own zesty array of baked-in quirks. I inherited from my mother’s side of the family a propensity to ponder and brood. For a natural-born pragmatic realist, chronic pessimism comes with the territory and is my cross to bear. Another central feature of my mental make-up: a pervasive undercurrent of sorrow, reflecting my longstanding generalized disappointment in the human race. 

On the lighter side, I was very fortunate to have been born with several priceless gifts: Insatiable curiosity. A natural a love of nature and deep appreciation for all things beautiful. I enjoy being alone, am very easily entertained, and have never known boredom. In spite of my unremitting sunny pessimism, these more life-affirming qualities have barely faded over the years. I take great comfort in knowing that we’re surrounded, always, by commonplace marvels; simple things that come alive and enrich us whenever we choose to open ourselves to them. I remain eternally grateful for being stirred by the ordinary and mundane stuff-of-life: the sound of silence; the lush sheen of an apple’s skin; the scent of moist earth; well-used, well-maintained wooden-handled tools.  

Many aspects of our fast-paced world have shown themselves to be incompatible with a healthy society. Our daily lives are overtaxed by too much stimulation. Thanks to an never-ending string of technological innovations, many of Nature’s most stubborn trade secrets have been revealed. The Web came along and changed everything, forever—the universe is, almost literally, at our fingertips. And thanks to internet algorithms people get to live in reality-bubbles of their own making. Another side effect of instantly accessible information is a sort of ennui. This nameless malaise, just one of many unanticipated offshoots of the Tech Age, has symptoms that include diminished passion and curiosity; a shrunken attention span; feelings of isolation and generic sadness. Often, a look of terminal boredom that isn’t just written in the face. There’s a marked indifference towards those run-of-the-mill miracles I speak of. Someone carrying a phone probably won’t even notice the roses, much less stop to inhale their luxuriant fragrance. (As like as not, they’re staring intently at the palm of their hand.) Some of us find this compulsion to “interface” with the world by way of a hand-held, battery-powered go-between rather than interacting with it directly very strange indeed. 

 

Some years back, an old friend and I were talking about the information revolution. About how contemporary culture has morphed into something we barely recognize; how bewildering it all is. It hardly bares mentioning that our harmless tirade was that of two dinosaurs, relics of a bygone era—a faraway time that digital natives find quaint at best. I recall one (I thought) original and rather clever take on our current predicament, when my friend Rodman began to riff on the idea that everyone should be kneeling before their phones or laptops at least once a day. To ceremoniously offer up heartfelt prayers of gratitude to that all-powerful all-knowing god, S I L I C O.  

   

 

                        ©2025Tim Forsell                                                       6 Feb 2015, 23 Jun 2025

Piute Log...Happy's Big Day 1989

 This entry concerns a calico barn cat who, out of sheer desperation, chose to have her kittens in the back of my truck. “Happy” resided in the loft of the old barn at the Forest Service staff housing facility/former ranger station, five miles north of Bridgeport. Happy didn’t belong to anyone so far as I could tell but wasn’t feral. (A nice kitty,  she was no longer around when I returned the following spring; hopefully, someone adopted her.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Two days before, I’d been stung on the back of my hand by a yellowjacket. I didn’t have anything like an anaphylactic reaction but my entire right hand swelled up and itched like the devil; enough to put me out of commission for three or four days. ◦◦◦◦◦ I recorded this incident with a cool detachment, as mere curiosity—probably because it had little to do with ranger-world. I’m a bit surprised, reading it all these years later, that I didn’t even try to describe my actual reaction: wonderment. I recall a fleeting exaltation; as if I’d just actively participated in, and not just briefly witnessed, a minor miracle. (Next morning, I hustled up a cardboard box and a bunch of rags and put this improvised cat-nest up in the barn loft. After transferring the kittens, Happy seemed fine with their new accomodations.) 

7 Sep (Thu)     A day wasted futzing around town. Would’ve taken sick leave but the horses needed to be moved to Wheeler—something I could do one-handed. Martin and Brian and I blew most of the day making two leisurely trips with the stock truck and two-horse trailer. In the afternoon we did the safety checks on the trucks and washed them just to kill time. Martin seems to be going through some sort of existential crisis, I think related to lack-o’-woman. After work, he came over to the barn (where I’ve been staying while stuck in town) and we had us a long palaver sitting on my tailgate. A very pregnant Happy-Cat came over while we were talking and jumped up on the tailgate with us, acting all friendly, and explored my camper. Not like her at all. She’s usually pretty aloof but, when it suits her, can be quite friendly. (She’ll allow herself to be petted but never picked up.) It was full dark by the time Martin took off. I was famished at this point so drove to the Cedar Inn for solo pizza. By the time I got back to the barn it was beddy-by time. I crawled into the camper and proceeded to spread out my sleeping bag, which is generally left crammed into a big wad up against the back wall. Well, I grabbed the foot of the bag and pulled it toward me and there was Happy-Cat. She’d stowed away when I was talking with Martin and somehow burrowed into the thing and popped out kittens while I was eating pizza. It was pretty dim in there but I could see by the lights of the DR’s [District Ranger] house across the way. My bag was covered with blood and slime and kitty-afterbirth. A bunch of little wet rats, brand new. Two of them were dead; these, I unceremoniously tossed into the willows by the coral before folding the bag back over the family. Happy was totally absorbed in licking her newborns dry when I left them. Deal with it in the morning. Crashed in Lorenzo’s trailer.

 

            →  8 hours wasted       →  3 trucks washed (pointless)      →  4 new kittens

 

          ©2025 Tim Forsell                                                                          27 May 2025