Saturday, December 15, 2012

Mojo Defined 2000


Were it not for an impregnable willow thicket and a huge mountain, the vista out my big back window would be spectacular. Instead, mostly what’s visible is a verdant thatch that hides all but the tip of a ten-thousand-foot ridge’s highpoint, which further blocks from view the much-higher Sierra crest just west of it. Directly in front of this window, at eye level from where I sit at my table only five feet away, is a crude birdfeeder—every bit as effective as any commercial model—constructed from a scrap of plywood rimmed with slats and mounted on a willow-branch post. This is what I gaze at from my comfy chair in lieu of alpine panorama. Once or twice a day I toss in a few handfuls of birdseed and watch the ensuing show. Wild animals with feathers eye me warily while scarfing up free booty; obviously they don’t think I’m harmless (which pains me…) but are well aware that I can’t catch them. While the hummingbird feeder by my front porch provides truly exciting entertainment, with those miniscule warriors constantly engaging in hilarious aerial combat, I’m more fond of observing the relatively sedate songbirds. It’s somewhat like the difference between watching a thriller or a drama. By getting to know the characters intimately, becoming emotionally involved, it helps me lose myself in their world. And I do know the actors:
In leading roles are two scrub jays, a mated pair, that have lived here since before my arrival five years ago. Unlike the sparrows and quail they cache food, so when I put out seed at sunrise there’s a mad flurry as the flashy jays greedily shovel it into their craws ‘til throats are visibly bulging. Then they hurry off to bury their haul under dead leaves in a hundred secret spots, half of which are later discovered by rufous-sided towhees—jumbo-sized sparrows—who stumble on these windfalls of millet and sorghum while rifling through the thick leaf litter searching for their daily bread.
There are no villains in this movie, but the California quail are something of a nuisance. Seen up close they’re gorgeous birds with intricate patterning and that silly, bobbing topknot. The neighborhood flock, which roosts in a cypress tree outside my kitchen, will usually wander past the feeder once or twice during daylight hours. If one bird flutters up to check for food a general stampede and feeding-frenzy results. I’ve counted a dozen quail on that tray, packed sardine-style, with one desperate bird treading on top of the melee until another falls off and it can muscle in. The seed will completely vanish unless an irate jay swoops down and disperses the riot instantaneously in an explosive WHOOSH of several dozen wings. (Though they’re larger than jays the quail never put up any resistance.)
Only a few species take advantage of the free food. Juncos visit daily. Black-headed grosbeaks show up during migration. An occasional pair of mourning doves. And one notable rarity: for several weeks last April a beautiful brown thrasher came every day. (It’s a sporadic visitor from the east that was a brand-new bird for me.) A nearby spring flowing through this property is a veritable oasis in the surrounding dry scrubland so lots of birds are about—the majority of them insect-eaters plying trees and shrubs to get their living. These I watch from my chair, too; they’re just a bit farther away. Warblers, wrens, woodpeckers, gnatcatchers…the expected locals.
White-crowned sparrows are another main player at my feeder. They’re among the most handsomely marked species in a family that’s typically very bland (the quintessential “l.b.b.s”—little brown birds). Their name is something of a misnomer since the crown isn’t exactly white. Rather, seven broad stripes alternating black and white, from bill to nape, create an arresting pattern. Their breast is the soft-gray color of a Stetson cowboy hat, their back done up in streaked browns. My bird guide aptly describes them as appearing “sleek and clean-cut.” These handsome, benign little creatures also have a distinctive and charming call—“several piped notes followed by husky whistles”—like some catchy ditty used to identify a radio station.

Mythic dramas are played out on that one-square-foot plywood stage, fables enacted. Those little birds are not all that different from ourselves in many ways and mirror that folly-ridden, possibly tragic, always predictable thing called “The Human Condition” in their own fashion: The Sparrow Condition. One day I witnessed a dramatic event that provided me with quite a bit of thought-fodder.  

Sitting at my table by the big window wearing a vacant stare. It was well after noon; all of us active again after our midday siesta. A sparrow landed in the feeder and I glanced up. This one wasn’t “sleek and clean-cut,” but looked…scruffy…like he hadn’t bothered to bathe or preen for awhile, like he didn’t care about his appearance. A stray feather was sticking out here and there and I noticed how the bit of bare skin around his eye appeared wrinkled and weathered. Then it dawned on me: this was an aged bird, a grandfather-sparrow. I flashed on the ancient thrush in The Hobbit. Having observed white-crowns—what us birders call them—since childhood, it was something of a shock to suddenly realize I’d never even considered any notion of songbirds actually getting to be “old.” (From what little I know about sparrow life-history I’d guess a very lucky individual might reach five or six years in the wild.)
Several other white-crowns were foraging on the ground nearby. One flew up and landed on the feeder’s rim, then a couple more followed. These were sleek, clean-cut, all-American sparrows. The road-weary old duffer froze. Glaring at them with open bill (the sparrowish version of bared fangs?) he reared up with chest thrust forward and wings hunched back, a picture of menace. Fury or outrage were being expressed in an unmistakable manner. Those three young bucks—visibly cowed—shrank back, just as obviously overawed. Then this cranky old geezer puffed up and sang the six-note ditty which, to me, has always evoked pastoral serenity. But now I heard it as the victory cry of an alpha male, with the tone-color of a Tarzan yell.
This was one of the most spot on demonstrations I’ve ever seen of a useful third-world concept introduced to me years ago by my friend and mentor, Lorenzo. The word for it isn’t in my dictionary. Mojo is a subtle, ineffable exertion of will, often by a seemingly weaker individual and against odds.
There are three distinct corollaries: One in its home territory has mojo over interlopers. Age has mojo over youth. And a female always has mojo over the male.
  Mojo requires character, connotes underdog or improbable hero, and has nothing to do with bravado nor posing (coming, as it must, from deeper in the well). It’s what that scrappy mustang mare has going when, with ears pinned and a toss of her head, clears some space at the feeder by means of a mere gesture. Mojo is Clint Eastwood, pissed-off, turning toward the camera with that steely squint. Mojo is one jay routing a flock of quail, is what any mother turns out when something comes ‘twixt her and cub. Above all, beautifully, it resolves conflict with spare grace instead of violence.
So, after crowing like a rooster, the old sparrow casually went back to his chow. One more Tarzan yell quelled any further incursions from upstarts; the other three just watched and didn’t even try to sneak pecks. That rumpled old tweetybird, weighing much less than an ounce, had his full measure of a lion’s spirit.


                                                                                                       28 April 2000, 19 Jan 2014   

                                                                                                            ©2014 Tim Forsell

Maybe Not a Good Day 1996


Seasonal U.S. Forest Service employees are required to have a physical exam every two years—at their own expense. This has caused lots of grousing amongst us temporaries because these exams aren’t exactly cheap. For years I had mine done at the clinic in Mammoth and watched the fee climb to seventy-five bucks which is a day’s wages lost off the top of the scant hundred  I’m allotted per season in my capacity as a wilderness ranger.
            I finally managed to circumvent this regulation last spring: showed up with the required forms at our clinic in Lone Pine where my girlfriend, Diane—a brand-new nurse—rapped my knees, peered into my ears, took my blood pressure, listened to my heart and filled in the boxes. I peed in a jar. The nurse-practitioner she works with signed me off and I showed up in Bridgeport with clearance to work and found that a new rule was in effect: from now on, seasonals would be reimbursed for their physicals. Oh, well.…
            After several weeks of labor ending with a ten-day stint up at Piute Meadows (where my backcountry station is) I rode out, drove to the office, and found a note from my supervisor, Margaret, saying I needed to have my pulse retaken—it had been too low—and it had to be done before I could go back to the woods. Three different people in the hallway told me as much; obviously this had been gossip-fodder in my absence. I was anxious to drive home to Lone Pine for days-off so I asked Roy, who works the front desk and has advanced first-aid training, to take my pulse though neither of us believed this would suffice. (It was sixty, a typical reading; when Diane had taken it she got forty-eight—the lowest I can recall.)
            After four days at home I was back in Bridgeport hoping to get an early start on the long ride back to my cabin. This was an el niño summer with daily thundershowers; clouds were already building over the mountains that morning with rain virtually guaranteed by noon. I don’t at all mind riding in a storm but packing while it‘s raining is a real mood-spoiler.
 Margaret got to the office at eight sharp and found me standing by her desk. After swapping  “good morning!”s she got right down to this dirty business: “Your pulse rate was too low on your physical; the minimum is fifty. Roy’s taking it ‘didn’t count.’ It has to be done by a doctor or an E.M.T. and it has to be taken three times with at least an hour’s wait in between. Rorick’s coming in from Topaz to do it. Looks like you won’t be going into Piute today.”
I was appalled and starting whining out of principle but wasn’t terribly surprised. After all these years I’ve grown accustomed to the way our government functions—or fails to—and  have seen worse cases of by-the-book-ness but this one was only a few notches down the scale from Total Absurdity. Some (likely overweight) clerk in their cubicle at the Supervisor’s Office in Reno had reviewed my physical and alarms went off when this person found my pulse rate to be two beats per minute below the allowable minimum. The clerk had never met me, probably never even heard my name, hadn’t paused to consider that a ranger’s job involves heavy physical exertion at altitude and that this one just happened to be aerobically fit. An urgent call to the Bridgeport Ranger Station had, in effect, grounded me. Margaret patiently listened to my sarcastic harangue but finally cut me off. “That’s very nice, Tim, but you haven’t passed your physical and you can’t work until you do.” Rorick Padgett, engine foreman from the guard station at Topaz (a little village up near the Nevada border) was an E.M.T. and he’d drive fifty miles just to take my pulse three times and fifty miles back wasting his entire day. The fire crews didn’t start work until nine a.m. and he had a long drive.…I said, “Can’t we just fudge this thing? Write some numbers in the little boxes? My day’ll be shot.”
“Normally we could but not after Mike.” She was referring to one of our wilderness rangers who I must admit is a perfect example of the need for seasonals to get a physical check-up. He’d had some problems over the winter and didn’t know what was wrong until he started work and the exam turned up blood in his urine. Further tests indicated kidney stones and poor Mike was stuck with “light duty” while getting treatment. Surgery was a possibility so, near-broke and uninsured, he was unhappily adjusting his life to get in pace with Medi-Cal.
There was nothing needed doing in the office so for well over an hour I wandered around catching up with seldom-seen coworkers until Rorick showed up at ten. A local boy of about twenty-eight years; tall and slender, very blond, pale-skinned. Not terribly bright and going redneck fast. I hardly knew him. His father is the local warden for the State Department of Fish & Game and there was trash talk about Rorick having boasted, “If I saw a Spotted Owl I’d shoot the damn thing.” So it sounds like he’s a game wardens’ version of “preacher’s kid.”
Said our “hello”s. He had his stethoscope and blood pressure unit and we stepped into the mailroom. I’d had two cups of coffee to insure success. Rorick pumped up the cuff and listened, watching his watch. He found a pen and some scratch paper, wrote “16” and, beneath it, a “4” with a line under the two figures. He squinted, gazed at the ceiling with brow furrowed and lips slightly pooched out, carried the two, and after way too long came up with “64.”
People were in and out of the room constantly, making copies and checking their mailboxes. While Rorick was explaining why we’d have to wait an hour before he could take it again Billy Bryant zipped in. He’s another native of Bridgeport Valley; his great-grandfather was an early settler. (Billy lives on Bryant Street….) He runs the fire division, having spent his entire Forest Service career in his hometown—just a kid hired in 1970 as a fireman on a pumper crew—and is one of the most respected men in the business. Everyone loves Billy; he’s fun but doesn’t mess around. He greeted me, “Heeeyyy, Tim! Howya doin’? Haven’t seen you since you started! How’s things up at Piute?”
“Hi, Billy. Just fine, thanks. Great to be back. The cabin’s in fine shape.” Then, seeing my chance, I hurried on, “Hey! Have you heard about this? I have to get my pulse re-checked because it was too low when I took my physical. They won’t let me work because I’m too healthy!” Billy had grabbed his mail but paused on his way back out. I pressed on, explaining the one hour waits and how both our days were being wasted. He said, “That’s ridiculous!” and, turning to Rorick, “Just take it twice more and fill in the boxes and let him go.”
Billy (bless his heart) strode off and I suggested to Rorick that he not bother taking it again but he insisted. Twice more. The first time he got “17,” working the problem again on paper. I restrained myself but the second go when he counted “15” and began writing down the figures I mumbled, “Uh…that’s one beat per second…I think that’s ‘60’.”
“Oh…yeah!” His face lit into a smile upon perceiving this beautiful symmetry.

Outside I saw dark, juicy clouds building over the crest and piling up even thicker  toward Sonora Pass—my destination. Already two hours behind schedule I was now racing the clock. Hastened townward to pick up some lunch then drove my truck twenty-five miles north to Bart Cranney’s pack station (where my stock are boarded) and pulled into the yard just after noon with weather imminent. Leapt out and began shifting crates, boxes and sacks from my camper onto the big loading platform. Doc Grishaw ambled over and, of course, wanted to chat (as if I had nothing else to do…). It started sprinkling when I went for my two horses—Redtop, cinnamon-red with white blaze, and Valiente, a grey roan—who were out in the corral mingling with Bart’s herd. Fortunately, instead of leading me on a chase they stood calmly as I slipped their halters on. At the hitch-rail, Doc placidly talked at me while, hustling at double-speed, I brushed and saddled my two horses then transferred a crate of canned goods into the panniers. It abruptly started raining in earnest so hastily I covered everything with a tarp and dove into my camper; spent almost an hour in there with rain drumming on the roof but the time wasn’t entirely wasted since I was able to further organize my remaining freight.
 When the pelting turned to drizzle again I got back to packing. Had lots of things yet to go; in my earlier haste, distracted by Doc, I’d halfway filled Val’s panniers with canned goods. In only a few days I was coming back down from the cabin and my plan had been to pick up lots of this stuff then. I shouldn’t have loaded those cans on this run; still had meat, milk, eggs, potatoes, and clothes to go. My old packhorse, born the same year as our rookie ranger, Brian, had only a few trips under his belt this season and wasn’t nearly in condition yet.
But more storm was coming so I didn’t try to repack the two panniers; filled them brimful with heavy items, heaved them up on Val’s back (to hang by their leather loops from the packsaddle’s crosstrees) then threw a sack of clothes, double-bit axe, tent and boots on top before tarping and lashing down the bulky load with rope. The horses, water-streaked and a little soggy, stood quietly but I knew they were anxious to be on the trail and get this over with. When we finally got through the gate a bit after two o’clock on this June day all those cares and hurries evaporated. It started to come down again right off but that was fine by me—had my slicker on, a Stetson with four-inch brim, and we were headed for Piute Meadows slow’n’easy.
Distant thunder rumbles, gentle rain…dust-free, clean mountain air perfumed by wet sagebrush—one of the finest aromas, some say. River and creeks were all very high from the spring runoff, plus daily rain, so no one would likely be abroad except Bart Cranney’s packers. We had the joint to ourselves and rolled up-canyon at a steady pace. I stopped only a few times to prune low-hanging limbs with my loppers while still in the saddle and Redtop stood resignedly as I dropped sodden pine boughs on his head (and mine). He’s used to it.…

We sploshed up the trail eight miles and came to that final hill before “the lily pond,” only two-and-a-half miles (less than an hour) from the cabin. Red, in the manner of horses headed for the barn, had upped his pace awhile earlier and was now dragging overloaded Val up a last steep stretch before sandy flats began up above. This section of trail climbs a series of “slickrock” steps quarried during the last glaciation. The sparse soil and plant life that once covered this polished granite has been churned to dust by thousands of iron-shod hooves and washed away. In recent years it’s become the worst section of the route leading to Piute Meadows: for backpackers this hundred yards of unrelenting incline is only another wearisome hill to climb but livestock are faced with several dangerous steps in quick succession. And now, after snowmelt runoff and frequent rains, the three bad places presented slippery, naked granite for my ponies’ steel-shod hooves to negotiate. Horseshoes don’t stick to wet granite very well.
I slowed Red and turned to watch my packhorse as we made it through the tight, “S”-curved turns at the bottom but he balked—that is, Val came to a sudden halt—just in front of the nasty slot. Turning in my saddle again I noticed for the first time his heaving sides and drooped head: old Val was really tired. Should have realized it much sooner but…
…the truth is I’m not a particularly talented horseman and hadn’t been paying attention. Over the years I’ve had an excellent safety record using livestock but that’s largely been a result of having astonishingly good luck and well-broke, steady, gentle, predictable animals to work with—which describes Valiente-the-great-grey-horse perfectly (if not Redtop who’s tried to kill me several times). A more concientious packer would’ve been turning to check on Val every few minutes but I hadn’t because it was raining and my thoughts were of getting us all home, of being done with this day. Had I been watching closer I would’ve noticed that the overloaded old gelding was weary and would’ve made my saddlehorse slow down to match his pace.
So, seeing how tired Val was, I chided myself for being inattentive—Idiot!—and let him take a breather. He was soaked and disgruntled and raindrops splashed into little pools of water held by folds in his tarp. Just ahead were the worst five yards of the trail to Piute Meadows: a three-foot-wide slot in solid rock angled at twenty degrees with a two-foot-high wall on its right edge. I’ve ridden through it literally hundreds of times with mild dread at each passage. Shod horses get poor traction on inclined slabs, even poorer when they’re angled, too, but Red was plainly telegraphing his desire to go home so gave poor Val only about fifteen or twenty seconds of rest before tugging on his lead-rope and letting my saddlehorse go.
Red walked right up but Val came grudgingly, still breathing hard and taking tiny steps, tossing his head with each effort, and I finally comprehended how truly exhausted he was. Saw those mincing steps, saw him putting the tip of a front hoof on that wet slab and knew he wouldn’t be able to stand on it, could feel this in the pit of my stomach. We’d paused at the top and were watching, Red and I both, when that hoof skidded off and Val pitched forward onto his knees. He struggled back to his feet but with rubbery legs and heavy burden couldn’t get any purchase on the slickrock. Down he went again then, trying to turn back, began to panic. While struggling, skin was peeled from shins and knees and he keeled over onto his side with legs in the air, head pointed downhill. With these indescribable, nauseating sounds of steel and horseflesh against rock, Red tensed under me and whinnied in alarm. I probably did too, or something like—but don’t know because I was instantly outside myself, back on Real-Time, where everything is as it always is: intensely vivid and crystal-clear in a fleet-footed present.
Val was still but gasping for breath, all twisted, with mangled load pulling down on his giant ribcage. On full adrenal-uproar I found myself on the ground, acting without thought, and had the load off within two minutes. Undid all the saddle’s straps and buckles but it was pinned under him and wouldn’t come free. His breathing had eased but he was still gasping pitifully and I didn’t know how long he’d be able to hold out; a horse might suffocate under its own weight, like an elephant can, when on its back in such an awkward position. Yelling, I yanked on the lead-rope and when Val sensed his pack was off he thrashed, writhed (losing more hide) and came to rest right at the bottom of that slot with belly up and head downhill, his left legs pointed at the sodden sky, the other two folded and pinned against the little granite wall. With nowhere to go and all the fight he had left snuffed out his head slumped down in the mud, eyes screwed shut. You never, ever want to see a four-legger in such a pickle.…
But I remained calm even while sirens were going off in my brain indicating potential disaster. Sweating already, I dumped my leather chaps and slicker; the cool rain felt good. Grabbed the lead-rope with both hands and scampered over the rocks pulling Val’s head in every direction. I yanked and pleaded, shouted, cajoled, baby-talked…yanked and swore frightful oaths…tried polite but firm commands. The big roan lay still now, breathing in shallow snorts. Red had walked uphill a few yards (wishfully thinking of the green grass at Piute) but he’d stopped and was watching us over his shoulder, obviously distressed.
Tried this: I ran up, grabbed the sorrel’s rope, and led him through another little slabby slot to get around his partner. Saddled up and rode back down the trail—if Val thought we were leaving him behind he might rise to the occasion; the pair truly hate to be separated. He only looked up, knickered, and with a forlorn sigh his head fell back into the sandy mud. His eyes closed again and he went perfectly still. He’s gone, I thought. His heart just gave out. Near panic, I jumped off Red and led him back. No. He was still alive. Blood ran down his legs and from a cut below his eye he’d gotten by slamming that great head against stone.
Grabbed his lead-rope again, got back on Red, and took a few wraps around my saddlehorn. We tried to winch him down the trail but couldn’t drag that half-ton of horseflesh a single inch; it just stretched out his neck. I dismounted and pulled on the rope some more with sternest admonitions. Tried to unwedge the legs that were pinned against the wall with no luck then grabbed one that was sticking up in the air and tried using it as a lever to roll him onto his left side. Again, nary a budge. That was foolish: if he’d started flailing just then I would’ve been creamed. I was losing control of a bad situation. Pulled on the rope from above and behind with more swearing and desperate pleading. I was running out of options.
Finally gave up. Took stock of my situation: raining…panniers, ropes, sacks, and sundry gear scattered; giant gray horse—veritable beached whale—wedged belly-up in a slot. I was panting, nearly soaked by sweat and rain but my mouth and throat were dry…the adrenaline shakes… a horrid sense of impending disaster. What ya gonna do now, cowboy? Radio for the helicopter? Crush his skull with that axe and be done? Sit down and cry? Val’s face in the muddy trail smeared with sand and streaming blood, his eyes squeezed shut and lips twitching as if he were whispering Hail Marys. I was about ready for any sort of finality.
But there was one more thing, which came to me as a proverbial last resort. Hadn’t tried this before; never had the need. I grabbed the last five feet of his lead-rope and, screaming ferociously, whipped Val’s flanks and rump in imitation of a demon from equine-hell. At last my charge woke up and he twisted and crashed, head slammed into stone, legs got raked and fur flew but he got all four feet under his belly and, with a mighty heave, was up. We both just stood there in the rain looking at each other. Had a taste in my mouth like when I’d sucked on pennies as a little boy; knew it only from a couple instances of pure desperation, rockclimbing. When Red whinnied I became aware of a near-total silence and focused with remarkable clarity on the fresh blood that first dripped, then ran in a stream from a cut on Val’s ankle. I watched it grow into a small, vividly red pool in the wet sand and something about that little puddle of blood seemed to sum up everything about this day. It had not gone well.

 Incredibly, Valiente was okay. No limbs broken. His abrasions and contusions, though numerous, were minor violations. That cut on his ankle soon clotted. He wouldn’t have anything to do with going back up the slot and it took ten minutes to coax him through an alternate route which was even worse. Got him to a flat opening just beyond the hilltop and surveyed damage before ferrying all the gear and tack from the battlefield—quite an effort—then resaddled and repacked the mud-smeared, blood-smeared but calm, seemingly imperturbable old horse. I lightened his burden by caching all the top-loaded stuff under the soaked, muddy tarp to pick up next day. Finally ready to go again; it was getting late. The whole debacle had taken maybe thirty minutes…maybe an hour. Hard to tell in such dull light and, without a watch, I really had no idea. Clock-minutes have little meaning when you’re on Pacific Real Time.
And with perfect timing here came the first backpackers of the day. They appeared just when I was about to mount Red. As the pair walked up I pulled the sorrel in front of Val so they maybe wouldn’t see all his scrapes and cuts and blood—just wasn’t in the mood to explain. They greeted me, commented on our weather, and one guy asked, “What are you up to?”
“Oh…just getting organized,” replied the ranger with utterly false cheeriness, trying to look very busy. I didn’t ask to see their Wilderness Permit. Wondered, as they pressed on, what they’d think when they saw the battle zone down below with all the blood and fur and churned-up sand. Didn’t wait to find out.…

Made it to the cabin an hour later; went real slow and easy with no further mishaps, me watching Val like a hawk the rest of the way for signs of a limp but he seemed okay. (I’d managed to strain a muscle in my back during the fray and chunks of my own hide were missing.)  Got all unloaded, saddles off, and grained the horses at their hitch-rail. I looked my old friend over carefully and felt for telltale swelling. Petted and baby-talked him while he munched his oats. He may have appreciated my fond ministrations but…I doubt it.
This day didn’t deserve a happy ending—the wreck was entirely my own fault through inattention to details, so critical when working with livestock—but it stopped raining and right when I turned the two out to pasture clouds parted for a setting sun and the mountains were lit up all pink and fine. Felt the grace. Lucked out again.…                                   

It’s better to be lucky than rich or good lookin’.”—Lorenzo Stowell
                                                                                                                         3 Nov 96, 3 Dec 12


© 2012 Tim Forsell

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