Better Than the Movies. 1994

 A mile south of the Sonora Pass junction, standing all by itself below Highway 395 at the end of a short drive, is a humble brown building with wood-shingled roof. A sign by the roadway identifies it as a Forest Service facility:  WHEELER GUARD  STATION. Built in the 1930s, the place originally served as a sort of auxiliary fire station. Otherwise, I know little about its past history or function. By the time I showed up in Bridgeport in 1983 it had been turned into living quarters for Wilderness rangers and trail crew. I spent a lot of time at Wheeler over the years, especially early on. I’d stay there at the beginning of the season while snow still blanketed the highcountry. It was always a welcome refuge—a great place to relax after coming out of the woods at the end of a tour. During the summer months two or three beat-up vehicles might be seen parked in front of the house. Maybe a few horses and mules grazing in the narrow strip of pasture paralleling the highway; not a lot going on. And for the better part of the year the place was all boarded up. Countless travelers zooming by on 395 have wondered, What is that place?” Something about the simple wooden building down below the highway arouses people’s curiosity. No other structures in sight—no trees. The austere scene makes the little house look sort of forlorn. I always enjoyed being there.

 

US SEASONAL RANGERS GENERALLY get called up to start work right after Memorial Day. It’s always: show up in Bridgeport at eight a.m. sharp, sign all your papers, then spend the rest of the first day of work piddling around, burning time. Afterwards, drive out to Wheeler and start getting the place fit for human habitation. 

Not many days will pass before I take a stroll up behind the station and onto the flats above, starting out by following a faint trail that parallels Wheeler Creek (which is actually more brook than creek; you can hop across it at will). I go up there a time or two every year, mostly to greet the returning wildflowers but also to get a good dose of the capital-q Quiet that inhabits open sagebrush country. Wheeler Flat is one of those places where you can count on not seeing another living soul; an alluring prospect to confirmed solitaires such as myself. The diminutive watercourse flows east to west through a shallow draw bisecting a broad flat consisting of glacial till—debris carried by rivers of ice that once spilled out of two nearby canyons. The creek rises out of several springs at about eight thousand feet up on Mahogany Ridge (this, part of the cluster of nondescript hills filling a gap between the Sierra and the Sweetwaters). Around the first week of June a local rancher’s cows suddenly appear and in short order their presence has destroyed the vernal ambiance. Within days, the creek bottom is trampled to mud and mowed flat. Stinky, fly-covered cowflop everywhere. And that’s it for me. The relatively pristine quality the place had is gone gone gone and I won’t go back until the following spring. But come May, in that brief window of time before the cows arrive, Wheeler Creek harbors a series of sweet pocket meadows just starting to turn green. And up above the creek, watered by snowmelt upwelling through the till, “dry” meadows fill low spots in the sagebrush-covered flats. While unexceptional in any way, in May and June this is as pretty a piece of big-sky country as one could ask for. Still, there’s little to draw one to this place and aside from an occasional lonesome cowboy, maybe a few deer hunters in the Fall, nobody comes here—not any more. For thousands of years, though, bands of Paiute-Shoshone people gathered beside the little meadows up on Wheeler Flat during the course of their annual round. To them, it was home. 

            A few days ago I went up there to poke around their old encampments, keeping an eye out for arrowheads and anything else I might find. Also, to pay homage to the returning wildflowers—flowers that each spring I welcome back with unabashed sentimentality. (I’ll greet individual plants silently or sometimes out loud: “Ah, larkspur!   Columbine! So good to see you again!” Kind of silly, yes. But they feel like old friends.)

Over time I’ve learned that when you amble through random lonely places with nothing more than curiosity and a will-to-find, interesting things pop up. Pretty much always. There’s always something; something rough or smooth…maybe shiny. Something small. Or maybe not so small. Something astonishing, maybe even mind-blowing. Usually beautiful but now and again repulsive (as in a long-dead something filled with maggots). This day’s jaunt was no exception: I found two species of plants new to me. A last-year’s pile of lion scat—tight bundles of fur and bone shards, bleached gray; too big to have been left by anything else. I observed a large bumble bee with alternating bands of yellow, black, and orange fur on its abdomen, most handsome. Found an ornately patterned sage grouse wing-feather. And prowled around an old Paiute encampment littered with obsidian chips. Through binoculars I watched three does slowly making their way toward the aspen groves up on Brush Mountain; groves just starting to leaf out with only the faintest hint of green showing. To the south, a couple of minor peaks with lingering snowfields on their shadowy flanks…the Sierra proper, right over yonder. A couple of miles to the northeast, an isolated squall in the vicinity of Devil’s Gate cast a luminous half-rainbow while the sky directly overhead was cloudless blue. Another isolated chunk of storm to the northwest produced some thunder—distant, with the sharp edges rounded off; a most agreeable sound. To round things off, a profound silence punctuated from time to time by the mellifluous songs of meadowlark and sage sparrow along with the evocative calls of bluebirds and killdeer. This music, an ideal counterpoint to concentrated quiet, helped create an aura of sanctity. And all the good smells! Over the course of my two-mile meander these simple things gave me all I could ask for in the moment. I felt fully immersed in a sense of place. Still, it took some effort to slow down enough to take it all in and give things their due respect. 

            Old Sol was sinking toward the horizon. Time to head for the barn. I started back and in short order stumbled on an unusual trash-item: one of those razorblade-tipped aluminum arrows with plastic fletching—a bow hunter’s dart that missed its mark, lost in the thick brush. With no other garbage laying around I couldn’t in good conscience leave the thing behind. In the end, it proved to be a handy tool for busting down spider silk—that is to say, the myriad, nigh-invisible gossamer threads strung between every last sagebrush bush, left behind by countless just-hatched spiderling Argonauts. (My legs were already completely swathed with their silken “ballooning” strands.) 

In time I cut my tracks and followed them back to the rim of the fifty-foot-deep draw, diving over its edge to get back down into the creek bottom. In glacial till country, the sides of these shallow, stream-cut gullies tend to be uniformly steep and comprised of loose sand and gravel mixed with rounded stream cobbles of all sizes. Plunge-stepping at an angle down the side of the draw, moving right along at a half-jog, I stepped over a sizeable animal burrow with a leveled-off pile of loose gravel at its entryway. Without conscious deliberation, I knew this to be the home of a badger. How so? Well, badgers are fairly common in the sagebrush lowlands in this region and I frequently come across their warrens, by and large long-abandoned. But this one appeared to have freshly excavated material at its mouth, indicating that it might be occupied. So I stopped and turned to see if there were any fresh tracks leading in or out. 

Turning, I met the eyes of the burrow’s inhabitant. I froze. My mind screamed !!Badger!! She was poised mid-stride, about halfway out of her hole. (I’m going to refer to this critter as a “she” in order to avoid calling it an “it.“ “It” just doesn’t sound right.) Having heard something coming, she’d shuffled out to investigate and was obviously startled to find a tall two-legged prowler at her door; just as shocked as I was to see her. My feet were somewhat below the tunnel’s entrance so our faces were almost on the level, mine somewhat higher. Our eyes were separated by a mere four feet. That’s close. 

Now: badgers are fifteen or twenty pounds of pure brawn. Powerfully built, formidable creatures known for their ferocity. Nobody of sound mind (or unsound mind, for that matter) would go mano a mano with a badger except at gunpoint. As it was, without my razor-tipped arrow I might not have held ground with such self-assurance. But seeing as how we were both armed, our encounter turned into a neutral face-off. For ten solid minutes the two of us locked eyes and wills and maybe blinked a few times but never looked away. Being safe in her burrow, I instinctively knew she wasn’t going to rush out and attack. Instead, with head tilted about thirty degrees, chin slightly elevated, mouth open and lips curled back, she let out this hard to describe sound. It was something between a snarl and a growl—a long, asthmatic-wheezy exhalation followed by lengthy snore on the in-breath, running as a loop. Also on exhibit was an imposing array of ivory—serrated teeth made for bone-crushing and flesh-ripping. She exuded raw menace. It was no surprise that this performance elicited a full-on adrenaline rush, which in turn triggered a powerful urge to RUN AWAY. At the same time, her histrionics were a bit, shall we say, over the top. So much so that I broke out laughing, ha ha ha! This did not go over well. In response she upped the volume, cranking out even more of that badass badger-mojo. Fresh jolt of adrenaline. 

I had time in abundance to take all this in. There were her splendid markings, for one: broad white stripe down the center of the forehead; brown cheeks; small, rounded, fuzzy ears; grey-brown agouti coloration on back and legs [agouti referring to individual hairs with alternating bands of pigment, lending a finely speckled look]; coarse hairs at the sides extra long (probably to make them look bigger). And then there were those scary-long curved claws of hers. Claws that will make any predator—including mountain lions—not even think about having badger for supper when they cross paths. 

We had ourselves a standoff. Determined not to move, I provided many mosquitoes fat blood-meals. Feeling something crawling up my arm, though, forced me to drop my gaze and flick off a tick. The abrupt movement and cessation of eye contact caused my new acquaintance to hiss like a cobra whilst keeping her formidable glare directed right at my innermost being. At this I again laughed in her face, triggering another burst of that fearsome wheezing. Those gleaming eyes! Dark and narrow-set...a carnivorous look to them. Otherwise, utterly fathomless. I had no idea what was inside that fuzzy little head—not a clue. But I did so enjoy this unparalleled opportunity to scrutinize at my leisure a badger’s exquisite markings and terribly impressive dentition. 

It was hard to tear myself away. But after ten long minutes (which felt more like twenty), the Sun commenced to set over Lost Cannon Peak. Daylight dwindling…half a mile yet to go…time to say farewell. “Goodbye badger! It was so nice to meet you!” No doubt relieved to see the interloper depart, she snarled and hissed in return. 

As I turned to go, that familiar feeling of exaltation. Yet another close encounter with the furred kind: as always, a rare gift. To borrow an expression from a bygone era, this one had been better than the movies. And it was free. All I had to do was take a walk.

 

               From The Outermost House, by Henry Beston:

 

Man in civilization surveys the creature through the glass of his knowledge and sees thereby the whole image in distortion. And therein we err, and greatly err. For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not our brethren; they are not our underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendor and travail of the earth.    

            

 

                      ©2026 Tim Forsell                                                    13 May 94, 4 Apr 26

A 'Whatdunit'-Type Mystery. 2026

 Back in 1988 I was a seasonal Forest Service Wilderness ranger, living and working alone deep in the Sierra high country. On the day after Summer Solstice that year I witnessed an event that was both extraordinary and utterly baffling. This happened at a trail pass on the Toiyabe Forest/ Yosemite Park boundary—wind-swept alpine terrain at around ten thousand feet. When it occurred I was taking a short break from work, relaxing by the trail. I wrote a brief description of the incident in my ranger log and then, days later, a more in depth version in a letter to friends. (I recently unearthed a copy of that missive, hence the current narrative.) As for the veracity of what follows: I freely acknowledge that this late telling is suspect; recreating experiences from the distant past is fraught with pitfalls. Old memories are notoriously unreliable. Another hurdle: the whole episode is nigh-on impossible to describe in straightforward terms. Factor in this being in essence a third-hand rendering and, voilá—“fiction stranger than truth.” All the same, this is an earnest attempt at truthfully portraying something seen, heard, and felt. 

 

IT WAS AROUND THREE O’CLOCK in the afternoon when it happened. I was lounging on a glacier-polished granite slab right at Dorothy Lake Pass, gnawing on a stale bagel with a light breeze drying my sweaty back. Gazing out over the lake-dotted basin spread below me, my mind a blank slate. Puffy clouds were piling up and it looked like rain was in the offing—maybe a thunder-storm. I’d been clearing water-bars and tossing loose stones off the trail for several hours straight and was happy to take a little break before walking the almost five miles back to Piute cabin.  

            With no warning, a deep rumble broke the silence. My gaze shifted. It seemed to come from the general vicinity of a craggy peak southeast of where I was sitting and over a mile away. First thought: Thunder? The rumbling intensified, its volume increasing. Second thought: Definitely not thunder…not enough cloud build-up. My mind had been wandering but was now locked in and focused. The thunder-like sound went on for several long seconds longer. Subtly different than typical thunder, it had a dense, “heavy” quality. What the…? Rockfall? Natural rockfall is common in the alpine zone and I again scanned the area the sound seemed to emanate from. I knew that billowing clouds of dust accompany any substantial rockfall but there was no dust-cloud to be seen. And if there were a rockslide, opaque clouds of powdered stone would be visible well before any reverberations reached my ears. Not rockfall. So…what is it?! My mind raced ahead, trying to make some sense of what was going on. Just then I recalled having been told about a military jet that crashed inside the park a few years back (as it happens, just a few miles from where I sat). Perhaps this thunderous rumble was a series of muffled explosions—the sound made by tons of metal and jet fuel colliding with mountain. I searched the skyline, my eyes darting back and forth like a cat’s: nothing.

At this point, three or four, maybe five seconds had elapsed. 

And that’s when things got strange…very strange indeed. An eerie, unearthly sound took over as the rumbling faded, or passed on. It arrived as if carried by wind. But not so much carried—it was like wind; a wind made of sound, sweeping across the land. Something that I could almost, but not quite, feel against my face. And these new aural emanations weren’t merely travelling through air—they seemed to be coursing through the ground as well, though it’s be hard to say for sure. This was unlike anything I’d ever heard and almost impossible to describe in a way that makes much sense. 

Maybe the best way is to go at this thing obliquely, using a descriptive blend of several very different aural phenomena. It’s complicated so please bear with me. 

Back in the 1980s, I spent my winters living and working at a cross-country ski lodge high in a canyon on the Sierra Eastside. It had been an abnormally dry autumn and the ground was still mostly snow-free. One sunny afternoon in mid-December I took a long hike upcanyon, passing by a string of small lakes already covered with thick layers of shimmering, silvery-blue ice. The sun was almost down when I turned back. Along the way I got to hear, for the first time, the otherworldly sounds produced by ice-covered lakes. For those who haven’t been around frozen lakes and ponds: Ice expands slightly as it gets colder. Around dusk, when temperatures are dropping fast, stress builds up within a lake’s frozen surface. Over the course of some minutes, hairline cracks form in the ice as a response to tremendous pressures. One after another these cracks shoot off in multiple directions and at great speed. The instantaneous release of tension generates an extraordinary array of weird sounds that travel through the air stereophonically—whip-cracks…pops…muffled booms. Perhaps strangest of all are the modulated whines and low moans that may simultaneously crackle like electricity on a wire. Once, attempting to describe these freakish, high-pitched warping sounds, I came up with this: “It’s like hearing a recording of whale songs, played backwards.”

            There’s another aural occurrence bearing some resemblance to what I heard at the pass that day: the violent sounds made by extreme winds. While climbing mountains, on occasion I’ve been forced to negotiate knife-edged ridgelines during wind-storms. Now, as implausible as this sounds: On the lee side of a knife-edged ridge, just beneath its crest, a full-on gale can be ripping by just overhead while you’re lounging on a ledge in a pocket of calm air. Air so calm one could hold up a lit match, with the roaring maelstrom a few feet away. I’ve experienced tempests with eighty-mile-an-hour gusts from this unparalleled vantage. You hear them coming. And when one hits it makes a gut-wrenching, ripping sound like a cotton sheet being torn to shreds. 

            Finally, think of the haunting, Theremin-like, warble of a musical saw.

Now, back to the pass. What I heard/felt could be described as an amalgam of three disparate elements: hurricane wind raking rock, cracking lake-ice, and musical saw-warble. This weird sound potpourri followed in the rumbling’s wake. (I can’t recall if there was a gap between them.) But the two were separate things; one did not blend seamlessly into the other. This new soundscape was not especially loud but felt…big. Like the rumbling, it seemed to be on the move. It had substance. An almost lifelike quality. There was a hissing, rasping component reminiscent of extreme wind-gusts. But most prominent was something like what I heard in the frozen lake music: the high-pitched, whale-song-played-backwards moanings, which possess a tonal quality produced by musical saws and the Theremin—that distinctive warble.  It was one thing that approached. Then I was in it. Mesmerized, I listened and watched for some kind of physical sign. It seemed to meander around, then passed on, and was gone. Over. Done. Silence was restored, except for the sound of the everpresent breeze. I reentered a newly revised World-as-it-is. Back inside my skin, I heard three very matter-of-fact words inside my head: “That was strange.” Nothing for it but to finish off that way-past-its-prime bagel and try to process what had just happened. I failed to come up with anything sensible. Maybe there was slippage along a fault, very near the surface…. But as soon as the thought crossed my mind I realized, Oh yeah, that would be an earthquake. One whose epicenter I’d been sitting right on top of. Surely there would have been somevibration, even if it were a minor quake. Or would there? I’d felt no Earth-shaking. 

            To be clear, I don’t believe in paranormal phenomena or anything in the supernatural department. Rather, I subscribe to the view that nothing exists “above nature.”  This includes each and all physical and mental phenomenon; even those that bleed into spiritual-mystical grey zones. All are natural in the sense of ultimately being subject to some sort of natural law. At the same time, the world is filled with weird and wonderful things that defy rational explanation. Mysteries abound. (And let’s not forget the Unknown and the Unknowable—always there but usually given short shrift.) 

Bottom line: I still don’t even know how to characterize it, but I’m convinced that what happened way back in 1988 had to have been a curious effect with some unknown-to-me cause. There’s a nice, clean scientific explanation for this going on forty-year-old whatdunit—I simply have no idea what it might be. It took stumbling on an old letter to remind me that this thing even happened; otherwise, I might never have thought about it again. Now it’s time to run the story by a few of my card-carrying, go-to scientist friends. Of course, if I weren’t a proud, Neo-Luddite digital dinosaur I’d do a hearty online search. And this may sound ridiculous, but it doesn’t seem right to entrust something that feels sacred to the cold scrutiny of AI. Or subject it to one of my amateurish, halfhearted googlings. Better to honor the mystery.

 

                   ©2026 Tim Forsell                                27 Feb 2026 (Based on a Jun 1988 letter)               

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