For a few seasons I was
frequently hosting Forest Service groups. Many of these “dog and pony shows” were
political—the Toiyabe Forest Supervisor
taking Senator Harry Reid’s staff, generals and colonels from Pendleton, or his
own minions on horseback mini-vacations to Piute cabin. Some were show-me tours
for Bridgeport or other Toiyabe personnel. Occasionally, volunteer groups would
come up for a couple of days—nine bodies to do the work of three. As these junkets’
frequency increased my boss, Lorenzo, began referring to the cabin as “Club
Piute.” Part of me was glad and proud to see folks enjoying my idyllic
backcountry scene but I mostly dreaded these visits. (Also, the potential for
injury to people inexperienced with livestock was huge and a very real cause
for worry.) But when the Forest Super got busted—for genuine crimes of personal
enrichment—and was forced to “retire,” the trips ended.
Fortunately,
I’d never been required to outfit or cook but had been their packer and otherwise
helped things along. Usually I’d give up my bunk and move into a tent up on the
hill behind the outhouse where it was quiet and away from all the chaos. Every
time: too many people, too much stuff, hassles with horses… plus being rudely shaken
from my peaceful routines and solitude caused me to grow anxious. Particularly
when the Forest Supervisor came up with his cronies. Then, I’d just head for
the hills—a good excuse to camp out and work on some distant project—but
stressful nonetheless.
There was only
one time I was actually asked to
vacate the cabin. This was October, 1989; late in my second season at Piute.
Our “DR” (District Ranger), John McGee, was bringing up three local
entrepreneurs plus his Range and Recreation Officers, presumably as a gesture—at,
ahem, taxpayers’ expense—of “harmony
and cooperation” between feds and community. (Its purpose was never clearly
laid out but this sort of thing actually is
important in a small town like Bridgeport where the Forest Service is a
major presence.) It was our Rec Officer, Bill, who told me about their upcoming
trip and when he suggested that I “might not want to be around” he glanced at
me pointedly with his brows arched so that I’d catch his drift.
This was
somewhat dismaying; the indian-summer weather was exquisite and in only a
handful of days I had to close down my baileywick for the season. Not to
mention the inconvenience and extra work of having to pack up and go off for
just a night. But altered plans are a particular feature of ranger-life; something
we learn to accept—partly as a result of working for the government, partly
from living in the mountains (where Ma Nature calls all the shots and doesn’t care
about “plans.”)
A week passed and the day of their arrival was
nigh. I still had nothing in mind, still felt ambivalent about leaving, but a
good idea finally showed up just before my “guests” did: a close-to-home camp-out
up in my tree. That’s right…up in a tree.
Standing on the porch you can see a sheer,
forty-foot-tall cliff-band of the same slatey grey rock the cabin’s foundation
rests on. It juts out of a steep slope rising behind the river’s far shore, about
three-hundred yards away as the raven flies. My hammock was installed in a
stout pine that hugs this cliff’s perpendicular face before proceeding skyward.
Some days, after work, I scramble up the side of the bluff to a flat ledge just
below its top. This is key: from the ledge I can finally reach a virtual ladder
of thick limbs and climb with relative ease to my hammock—a little aerie slung in
the top-most branches, about seventy feet off the ground—with grand views of mile-long
Upper Piute Meadows and, beyond, the Sierra crest curving across a quarter of
the skyline.
Something I’d
wanted to do for awhile was to actually spend a night up in the pine. This
would be a perfect opportunity; I’ve done so before in other trees by slinging
my old climber’s hammock (designed for sleeping on multi-day climbs like El
Capitan) from limbs instead of pitons. Aptly called a “peapod”—made of nylon webbing
and green rip-stop fabric—it looks like one and you’re like the proverbial pea when
nestled deeply within its thin walls. It feels wonderfully secure in exposed
places and provides a great way to spend quality time in tree-world—incredibly
peaceful and relaxing.
I just stuck
around all day catching up on chores, knowing from experience how long it’d
take to get a show like theirs on the road, followed by an eleven-mile-ride. The
group wouldn’t arrive until early evening. By mid-afternoon I was ready to haul
gear across the river and up the tree. My pack was stuffed with sleeping bag, a
little stove, can of hearty soup, box of crackers and some water. Next morning
they’d leave pretty early and I could be back home for some late breakfast,
ready to put a day to good use.
I wanted to be
gone before my guests arrived so left early, with plenty of time for an evening
stroll. My black cat, Mr. Rip, eagerly followed me across the log bridge below
the cabin and the kitten, Velcro, followed Rip. They were clearly in the mood
for a hike and of course I welcomed their company. (Cats like to take walks,
too—you just have to start letting them know it’s OK when they’re young.) Rip
got diverted along the way by some critter but joined us a bit later as I was “setting
up camp.”On the ledge, right where the four-foot-wide trunk shot over our
heads, in this sweet little niche with needle-covered floor; a fine place to
have “dinner” so I laid out the stove and cooking gear. Then just after I’d started
up to the hammock with my sleeping bag Rip arrived. He paced around while looking
up at me and mrrowing, asking to come along.
He’d never been quite eager enough to join me in the hammock…at least, not on his
own. One time I’d stuffed my furry partner into an empty pack and hauled him up. Rip seemed plenty happy once we got there, purring
and kneading his claws—in truth, out of nervousness—but obviously relished the
peapod’s security. He was enjoying our superb vantage as much as me, gazing off
with paws and chin resting on the taut hammock’s rim. We’d both watched the horses
grazing and when I shouted down at them their heads snapped up quizzically. I
had a good laugh and think Mr. Rip did, too.
I climbed back
down and the three of us took a hike, contouring the hillside to a craggy point
with fine views down-canyon, across the way, and up toward Dorothy Lake Pass
with northernmost Yosemite Park beyond. The cats were all open-eyed and
up-eared. Me, as well. Taking a stroll with kitties is not at all like going on
a walk with the dogs; I feel more like I’m one of them, seeing the world through cat-eyes.
We got back to
our camp at dusk. Earlier, I’d heard the bunch coming and looked down to the
trail: counted six riders and two packstock…watched them splash across the river
and pull up to my hitch-rail, chattering loudly. Their banter carried with
remarkable clarity through the evening quiet as they unloaded. Then the horses
raced out into the meadow—At last, we’re free!— fell to grazing, and
silence returned except for river-whispers and muted sounds from inside the
cabin while my un-hosted guests got a fire going in the stove. A little pink
light was left on the peaks and I ate my meager supper while talking to the
cats and listening to those muffled voices from the cabin.
This caused me
to grow curious: Wonder what they’re
talking about…? Felt a little devilish thrill: I’ll go spy on those guys!
The impulse to “spy” was right in line with an impish part of my nature;
something I’ve relished when opportunity arises since early childhood and through
these later stages. I’ve gotta take the
cats home, anyway….
Ten minutes
later I was peering through the back window. There was still a bit of light
left but it was dark enough that six men around a lantern-lit table would never
see me. Three guys in Forest Service uniform were on one bench and across from
them sat the proprietor of the relatively-swank Bridgeport Inn, the owner of
our little mom&pop grocery store, and a man I didn’t know who ran one of
the three motels. I could hear the conversation clearly and listened for awhile
(hoping their gossip might turn to ME…) but it was just trivial talk in that har-har-har,
good-ol’-boy fashion you’d expect.
Dinner was
winding down when the DR stood up and headed for the door. John was likely
stepping out for some air or to check on their stock but maybe “going to see a
man about a horse,” in which case he’d be headed my way, so I tiptoed off to
hide.
A short trail from the cabin climbs over a
glacially-carved outcrop and leads to my outhouse. I padded over to a tiny level
spot near that hump of rock where I could see if he was going one way or the other.
Sure enough, the DR was headed for the pot but suddenly veered off the trail
onto my little bench and headed straight toward
me. Caught off guard, I went for the only available cover: a two-foot-tall “erratic”—a
granite boulder which had come to rest here on this little flat place when the last
glacier melted, ten-thousand years ago. Diving behind it, I curled into a ball with
elbows and knees in the dirt, appalled by my folly. The DR stopped a mere
fifteen feet off…complete silence. If he didn’t see my rear end poking up, a
snapped twig would give me away.
John was an
okay guy. My boss’ boss’ boss; a quintessential bureaucrat. I was not in the
least intimidated by him; I was no concern of his and certainly never caused
him any problems. Basically, I was just another face in the office hallway so when
I made one of my rare appearances we’d greet each other cheerfully and maybe exchange
some lite chit-chat . He might have had a slightly romanticized notion of me as
a real ranger, with my cushy backcountry
gig…the cabin, the horses…but, all things considered, this could prove a verrrry
awkward meeting. Why did he come over HERE!?!
What…?
The answer
came forthwith in a great upheaval. The District Ranger spilled his dinner on
the ground. I heard all-too-clearly an unmistakable sound: violent and belly-deep,
restrained regurgitation—followed by retching, spitting and a vicious oath. While
he was distracted I contorted myself into a smaller-yet package, with knees and
elbows grinding into coarse gravel. Long, long moments of silence were followed
by another eruption, this one liquid and bountiful. The cats had been
lurking-about since we “came home”and Rip took this opportunity to jump up on
me, twirling and purring happily. It felt like my rump was sticking way up in the air—and a jet-black cat
was advertising its presence. Then John moved even closer, within ten feet. It was inevitable that he’d spot me now; quaking
inside, I tried to come up with some (lame) excuse. Nothing came.
I knew why
John was puking in my backyard: Lorenzo had told me that the DR was a Viet Nam
veteran; had been gut-shot or blown-up and part of his intestinal tract surgically
removed. So he had a “delicate system.” There was also a story about the time
John was a guest in Doc Grishaw’s camp and had lost a bellyful of Doc’s
notorious stew. Not too hard to imagine since that bean-based concoction—served
every night—might contain spam, raisins, beef jerky, peanut-butter, pineapple,
or all of the above.
The DR had one more round—dry-heaves followed by more hawking
and furious curses. (He’d missed another dinner….) Blessedly, the cat got
scared off and John was facing away. Finally
he left to rejoin his party. It took me awhile to get unkinked; my joints were screaming.
I crept back across the river and up the hill with tail between my legs. Climbed
into my aerie where I huddled in near-terminal shame, playing out potential
scenarios until finally rescued by sleep. A close call that could have gone
very bad. One thing was certain. My spying days were over.
14 May 1999, 5 Jan 2013
© 2013 Tim
Forsell
All
rights reserved.
you crack me up!
ReplyDelete- The Equestrian Vagabond