Another entry from one of the more than two
dozen spiral-bound steno pads I used for journals during my sixteen seasons
stationed at Upper Piute Meadows, at the headwaters of the West Walker River.
I’d been brought on particularly early this year (due to a mild winter) but
there was still much snow left in the backcountry. Typically, in the early
season, our few wilderness rangers would spend several weeks working at the Forest
Service office or warehouse in Bridgeport. And we’d make forays from various
trailheads, doing maintenance until thick snow-patches began in earnest. My
trailhead was at Leavitt Meadows Campground, right at the foot of that steep
grade dropping down from Sonora Pass, where an old metal bridge provided a way
across the swift-flowing river. Just a half mile farther up the road was
Leavitt Meadows Pack Station. This is where my government-owned horses were
boarded all summer—a handy arrangement, so that it wasn’t necessary to truck
them back to town whenever I came out of the woods. ◦◦◦◦◦ On
this day, I stopped by the pack station before heading up the trail to greet my
old friend “Doc” Grishaw, a retired GP who was half-owner of the
outfitter/guide service; I’d not seen him since the previous fall. While
waiting for the snow to melt, he lived in a tiny shack at the edge of the
station yard; fed the livestock, helped with the packing when needed, and acted
as cook until the regular trail cook was hired. Later, he’d move to a basecamp
ten miles up-canyon, ostensibly to provide a sort of B & B for packers on
long “spot trips,” but mostly as an excuse to be in the backcountry all summer,
away from the fray. (He and I shared this need….) Doc was a “difficult” person
but one of my dearest friends in many regards; a true character and living
anachronism. ◦◦◦◦◦ Being a wilderness ranger was never boring—anything could
happen, and often did. Like this day’s unorthodox rescue operation, for
instance….
8 May
(Fri) To the office for just a few
minutes this morn; talked to Margot about trailhead info signs and the
erroneous map, etc. She seems capable and I hope we can work well together.
Stopped at the warehouse to snag a pulaski [firefighter’s tool also used for
trailwork] then headed for Leavitt. Stopped by the pack station first and visited
with Doc for a bit; saw no one around after I parked, then heard an incredibly
vicious & hateful barrage of foulest cursing—he was shoeing an unruly mule out
behind the tack shed—an activity guaranteed to make a saint resort to bluest of
blue language. (Try it if you don’t believe me….) ◦◦◦◦◦ Started up the trail,
to a rocky hill below my info sign where water has flowed down the tread [trail
surface] for many years, unchecked by drainage diversions. The trail there is a
trench two feet deep and its downhill side is strewn with stone washed free and
tossed aside by Doc and a couple decade’s worth of FS rangers. It was a muggy,
buggy day after yesterday’s hard rain and I sweated a quart of water before
drinking any of the one I’d brought. Installed two new waterbreaks, the second
built mostly with a giant 200 pound rock rolled down the hill from above. Also,
built a chintzy wall (pile of stones…) and back-filled it to widen a bit of
trail around a big, round boulder. Grubbed many stones. ◦◦◦◦◦ Instead of
walking back on the trail I headed cross-country for the river to regain
fluids. The West Walker is up from earlier this week, what with the long, sunny
days and afternoon rains. I wandered up into that gorge above the head of the
meadows and crossed on a fallen log before starting back. I walked straight
down the long meadow under grey skies, tremendous cumulus clouds building over
the high peaks. (It’d rained briefly, earlier—5th day in a row.) A
fine stroll through the hammered Leavitt Meadows. They’re chock full of unpalatable
invasive weeds now and have maybe, oh, only 20% or so of the forage value
compared to when the emigrant party came through in 1852. Such a shame; but
this is what us humans routinely do to the land once we come into a new place.
◦◦◦◦◦ My stroll was interrupted by the realization that I was on the “wrong”
side of the river and would have to wade the several branches of Leavitt Creek
to reach the pack station (where I had a date with Doc for tea). I hoped to
avoid taking off my boots repeatedly by staying high above Rachel’s property [a
privately-owned parcel, no one living on it, that adjoined the pack station
land] and finding logs to cross on (as opposed to following the usual path,
which means wading three times). ◦◦◦◦◦ This turned into the following fiasco: I
ended up crossing five streams—branches
of Leavitt Creek. [It bifurcates repeatedly once hitting the valley bottom
after cascading down the steep moraine.] Three of them were wide. One crossing
I walked most gingerly across an alder branch that dipped and swayed ever
closer to the drink. But I stayed dry on that one. ◦◦◦◦◦ The 4th
crossing forced me to wade. No logs at all on any of them—the beds were lined
by alders and cottonwoods; no fallen pines. I stopped to doff boots and socks.
These little sub-creeks were high but not in flood—probably three times their
summer volume though; roiled, frothy and opaque from sediments…a cold-looking grayish-green
and, collectively, making quite a din. I picked a wide, shallower spot and
carefully tossed shovel and pack and trash sack across. I stood on a mossy
hummock at the edge and carefully removed my boots and socks. It was only 10
feet across and the opposite bank was not steep. The first boot toss went as
planned: the thing landed square on my trash sack. ◦◦◦◦◦ Incredibly, the second
boot (with sock stuffed inside) tipped and rolled backwards end-over-end four
feet and went into the creek. For slightly over a second I was stunned then
snapped into action, seeing the thing bob to the surface and race off
downstream. I felt my adrenal system
kick in; the world receded. After years of studied practice in switching to
survival mode while solo [rock]climbing I reacted instantly and did-what-must-be-done:
one half of my one & only pair of boots was headed for some Nevada
hayfield, it had to be rescued. As if
my life, my very life depended on it, I plunged across the creek barefoot
without thought of footing. I noticed no cold and somehow strode across on invisible
round boulder-tops. My boot floated and bobbed away and I began the chase.
◦◦◦◦◦ It amazes me even now: with my bum ankle, I started running through the rocks and duff and deadfall. The boot bobbed ahead
at an alarming rate of speed. Just like Tarzan, I dashed through tangled
jungle. All this took place heedlessly without thought or plan; only one
imperative: that I recover my boot. Twice, I plunged into the creek up to my
crotch and missed it. Panting (out of shape…) I rushed ahead, hopping logs and treading
on branches and brush, only dimly aware of my soft feet. Finally came abreast
of the thing, even got ahead of it, and had a brief moment to calculate. ◦◦◦◦◦
Brief, because just up ahead I saw a barb-wire fence crossing the creek—Rachel’s
property line. With the exact same feeling I’ve had while soloing, when
confronted by a crux move with certain-death groundfall, I “plucked my cubic centimeter
of chance” and lunged into the creek, 20 feet shy of the wire, and snagged that
boot as it disappeared into a foamy cauldron. (I believe it was actually out of
sight when I latched onto it.) There was no feeling in my body, only the implicit
need to catch the boot—seemingly at any cost. I have no idea why I reacted so
powerfully; it was just an old boot,
fer goo’ness sake (albeit my only pair). My feet somehow found firm footing on
slick boulders and in the spaces between them; no twisted ankles, no falls. It
seemed like I was plunging ahead without looking where my feet were going but,
knowing that I was in a heightened state, in retrospect, I must’ve been seeing
out of the corner of my eyes exactly where
the feet went. Otherwise, it seems unlikely that I could’ve stayed upright and
not gotten hurt; there were plenty of opportunities. ◦◦◦◦◦ I’ve noticed time
and again how, when in dire need, actions can achieve a sort of perfection
that’s never attained by conscious effort, even if it’s extremely focused. Shaking,
lungs heaving and still outside myself, I squatted on the bank, wrung out my
sock, poured water out of my sodden boot, and began to hobble back up the
creek. ◦◦◦◦◦ Hobble, yes…because
suddenly—with the pressure off—every step onto my one bare foot was Ooh! Ahh! Oww! I’m a true tenderfoot who
never goes shoeless any more and every twig and pebble caused genuine pain. Sharp,
unpleasant pain. And yet moments before, I’d run blindly, as fast as I
could—just like Tarzan! Wow!—over this same terrain. I was soaked to the hips,
quivering from adrenaline, and amazed. Without the need, I couldn’t have
repeated that race for any money; certainly not just for the price of new
boots. ◦◦◦◦◦ I have no difficulty, now, comprehending how a single person can
lift a car off someone trapped beneath. (You hear those sort of stories from
time to time.) We are truly amazing creatures with barely-tapped potential. ◦◦◦◦◦
I went and shared a pot of tea with Doc and we watched the house wren in the window
singing his heart out. We talked about Shakespeare and horseshoeing and
mountain-climbing while his daily loaf of sourdough bread sent exquisite odors
wafting our way from the old enamel oven. I didn’t share my story with Doc,
sensing he wouldn’t be all that impressed. And, in Doc-like fashion, he didn’t
even ask why I was half-soaked.
©2014 Tim Forsell 8 May
1992, 13 May 2014
I remember you telling me this story!
ReplyDelete- The Equestrian Vagabond