I was in the wilderness when the World Trade Center came down, when everything changed forever. My supervisor, Margaret (“Greta”) was staying at the cabin with me to do some work on her own. No one thought to call us over my Forest Service radio with the grim news. Lucky us: we were granted two more days of innocence. On the 12th, while most of the world was reeling in total shock, Margaret and I got to spend our day in paradise. The following morning we finally found out by way of two backpackers.
9 Sep (Sun) Back to Piute. Greta riding in with me to stay all week—she’ll be doing GPS work. ◦◦◦◦◦ A pleasant ride in; me leading the two packhorses, Greta reading her GPS unit. (Official: it’s 2.3 miles to Roosevelt Lake from the pack station.) We met a neat lady—Nancy ???—who’s a park naturalist in Yosemite half the year and in Death Valley the other half. She asked a bunch of nature questions so I got to strut my stuff in front of Greta. ◦◦◦◦◦ Got to Piute at 6:00; both of us tired. So, just good ol’ torts’n’beans’n’cheese for supper and to bed early. Shitbird [my Abyssinian cat] no came home tonight.
→ 5 visitors → 10½ miles ridden
10 Sep (Mon) Greta took off on a long ride as soon as the sun hit the cabin. I worked on my plant list and caught up with paperwork. Shitbird finally showed up, very happy to see me, at about 10:00. ◦◦◦◦◦ Yesterday, when we rode in, found a green aspen [fallen] across the trail just north of the Hidden Lake junction. It came down last week and I passed it going out but “forgot all about it.” So—had to ride down and remove it. Took it out with the cruise axe [short-handled axe designed for limbing logs but half the size of a regular double-bit and thus more portable; good for removing smaller trees]. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode up to Fremont Lake and visited with the group in Bart’s basecamp [one of the Leavitt Meadows Pack Station’s offerings—basically a fishing camp with big tents and a cook]. Then headed for Chain o’ Lakes and collected my stashed shovel. Cleaned waterbreaks and rocked. For some reason, my radio wasn’t working. ◦◦◦◦◦ Oh, yeah—here’s another funny synchronicity: Yesterday morning when I went to the office I took my spare FS badge in to exchange it for an older model. The newer ones have a slightly different clasp—the needle is longer and its tip actually protrudes a bit beyond the latch. Now: I stash watch & lip balm in that pocket so I’m constantly lifting the pocket-flap and the tip of that needle often stabs my finger. Ow! So I was ragging to Greta ‘bout the poor design. (She had no old-model replacement for me….) Well, in Bart’s camp, one of the guys, when we first started talking, pointed at my chest and says, “A friend of mine makes your badges. He has a contract with the Forest Service.”—“Oh, reallly!” I said, with a coy, ironic tone. “Well. Would you please tell your friend that Tim-the-ranger has a complaint…” and told him the deal. He said he’d pass it on. Voíla! Near-instant gratification! Not that anything will come of it but, again: what are the odds? ◦◦◦◦◦ Got to the cabin at 6:45. Greta was just back; she’d had a wreck an hour before. She was on Tom, riding the PCT [Pacific Crest Trail, a section of which passes through my turf from the Yosemite Park boundary to Sonora Pass] cutoff between the West Fork and Cascade Creek. She “wasn’t paying attention,” probably writing numbers in her notebook, when Tom came up on that horrible, angled slab. That thing’s so dangerous on horseback. He went down and Greta pitched off, hurting an elbow and bruising her triceps. She also broke the digital camera. Said she was okay but was moving pretty stiffly. ◦◦◦◦◦ BBQed salmon that Greta’d brought. The feasting goes on and on…. ◦◦◦◦◦ And, one more item, another “watch-thing” [I played a “game,” guessing the time on my digital watch]. On the way home I thought, It must be 5:30. (I’d last looked at about 4 o’clock.) Watch read 5:29:58.
→ 8 visitors → 350 lbs rock → 1 tree removed → 38 WBs → 15 miles ridden
11 Sep (Tue) Up at dawn. Strangely overcast and stormish. Greta left early again with her little yellow plastic machine that can tell her—if a number of satellites orbiting Earth are passing overhead at a given time with proper geometric alignment—exactly where she is on the planet. Within a few yards. She’s gathering data to lay out our trails on some map-of-the-future. All “necessary” but fairly abstract for those of the 19th century persuasion. ◦◦◦◦◦ I washed our dishes and set out afoot for Long Lakes. Took a cross-country route from just past the river crossing up a prominent (though hidden) gulley. This route spit me back onto the trail near the Bill’s Creek crossing. When I got to Upper Long Lake I left the trail again and hiked to Butts Lake via my secret route. It’d gotten all overcast and actually rained to the point I donned my Gore-Tex ranger-coat and got sprinkled-upon most pleasantly for a solid hour. Fine smells burst forth and I was glad to be drifting about unseen through the trees. Just enough precip for romance, not enough for discomfort. ◦◦◦◦◦ Retrieved my shovel stashed at the new sign. Worked the “new” walker meadows trail—dug many drainage dips and tossed a multitude of stones. In Walker Meadows I demarcated the trail where it crossed the West Fork; things got rearranged by the flood a few years ago and I relocated the sign to fit the present ford. (Shoulda done this a long time ago….) Cows had been in there; sad to see the pies. ◦◦◦◦◦ Home about 6:00. Greta didn’t arrive ‘til almost dark and I was actually getting worried; she hadn’t responded to my calls on the radio—ironically, hers was broken as well as mine (which hadn’t worked all day) [these were our “hand-held” field radios; I’d been calling her on the more powerful radio at the cabin]. But she got home just at dark. We had a leftover salmon dinner and went to bed shortly after.
→ no visitors → 63 WBs cleaned → 900 lbs rock → 1 lb trash → 8½ miles
12 Sep (Wed) OFF. Made pancakes. Greta was ready for a day off herself so we decided to visit Rainbow Canyon. She didn’t know about Chockstone Falls (gotta fix that!) so we took Tower Canyon trail to the stream crossing and contoured cross-country to one of the finest local natural wonders. In no hurry, we followed the creek, taking in the beauty. Never seen Rainbow Creek with so many bones poking out [that is, exposed rocks in the streambed due to low flow]. It also made for some charming low-water waterfalls. ◦◦◦◦◦ Once in the meadows we meandered. Visited “the crack” and the fine stretch beyond. ◦◦◦◦◦ Greta was keen when I suggested starting homeward by contouring west and visiting corridors. We ended up doing a thing I’ve missed all these years—following a permanent streamlet that drains a tiny basin below Peak 10,654. Turns out to be an exquisite passage: small, cascading brook that flows in a straight line between vertical walls in a major joint system. Not that it’s so very narrow, but some sections of vertical cliffs lining the mini-gorge are some of the tallest I’ve seen (up to 90–100’) with water flowing against their base. This led to a gorgeous little pocket meadow with stunningly white boulders growing out of turf, little meandering brook. Couple of sweet little waterfalls nearby. Altogether a most tastefully arranged chunk of heaven with fine views. Big peaks all ‘round. ◦◦◦◦◦ We strode home, visiting the lower stretch of the corridor we missed on our lower contour. Once back in Rainbow Meadows we took the route crossing over back into Tower Canyon. Told Greta how I’d met Jeff [a fellow FS employee] and his brother, Ray, at the tarn before the jump-off years ago—a ridiculously improbable place to cross paths. (It turned out they were “lost.”) ◦◦◦◦◦ Back at 6:30, weary. Two men had set up tiny tents in the meadow just below the cabin (about 20 yards from the porch). Greta asked, “You wanna go talk to them?”—“Nah. They’ll be moving on but we’ll see ‘em in the morning. Kinda weird place to camp, though.” [Camps in meadows tend to be cold and damp; seasoned backpackers generally learn to set up slightly above them.] We weren’t up for much more than food and bed but it was strange to hear the voices so close and see two strangers walking around on what amounts to my front lawn. → 8 miles
13 Sep (Thu) A great day ahead. We bypassed lengthy breakfast in favor of a long ride. This is something we get to do less than once a year: take a long day and ride out into the country. Show my boss/friend a thing or two. It was cold; 29° on the porch, probably the coldest morning this summer. Major frostage on the meadow. The two guys down below rose early then quickly went back to bed ‘til the sun came up. Had Greta not been here I probably would’ve taken pity and invited them up for coffee. ◦◦◦◦◦ We took off at 9:00. Rode right past the two men who were spreading their gear out to dry in the sun. Hadn’t even spoken yet but we greeted them (me walking over) and fell into easy converse. Late 40s guys, jolly and happy. Steve, old ski bum, is head plumber and electrician at Squaw Valley. Mark roasts gourmet coffee beans, sells them wholesale in Reno—a small business named “Laughing Cat.” (“Laughing Cat Coffee Co.” or “Bean Wholesalers” or what, I dunno.) We chatted for a few minutes and were all enjoying ourselves but it was time to go so I started the disengagement process. Mark asks, “Have you heard the news?” We look innocent, shrug, “What news?” ◦◦◦◦◦ “You don’t know!?” And Mark launches into this fantastic tale: “A jet airliner crashed into the World Trade Center! A few minutes later another jet crashes into the other tower! In an hour both buildings collapsed!” ◦◦◦◦◦ I was staring, jaw slack. “And then, another jet crashed into the Pentagon!!” I finally got it: we…been…had. Broke into a big grin. He got us good! Turned to Greta and she had this look of pure horror on her face the likes I have never seen. This guy was good, and he’d nailed us. I was pretty slow myself, but couldn’t believe Greta’d gone so long, too. I laughed, “C’mon! This guy’s pulling our legs!” Mark immediately jumped in with, “No! I’m serious!” His face said it was all true and I felt a sort of cold numbness come down like a curtain. Greta burst into tears and walked off. ◦◦◦◦◦ And that’s how we got to hear the story. Almost two days to the hour after it’d taken place. So we’d been able to be happy and free from anxiety for two whole days longer than almost every other American. People who’ve lived through great events always remember exactly where they were and how they heard. And I’ll never forget this time or how the news was brought, improbably, on a sunny Sierra morning by a man with the moniker, “Laughing Cat.” ◦◦◦◦◦ We talked more and my brain was spinning with all the implications. Those guys had left on their trip right after it all went down, thinking they might as well get out of town rather than wallow with the rest of the nation. ◦◦◦◦◦ Finally, day completely shattered, we continued our ride in dead silence. Got just a ways past the front gate before I stopped and said, “You wanna keep going?” (Why bother?) Greta started crying again and said she didn’t know what she wanted except to be near a phone. (Her family lives in New Jersey and I suppose she has friends in the city.) So we went back and she packed hastily and was gone. ◦◦◦◦◦ Of course, I was flat-out stunned. Stunned in a very literal sense. My saddled horses were standing at the rail, ready to go, and I knew that if I stayed home all I’d do is stare off into space. ◦◦◦◦◦ So: rode up Cascade Creek, retrieved shovel, and cleaned waterbreaks and rocked to Harriet Lake. Walking back to the horses and rode home. Went out back to cut some limbwood for the stove. (Running low.) Was clearly in some sort of existential rage because I took it out on myself in short order, scraping my hide in the arm and the leg, bleeding in several places. Took a bath. A day of woe. Went to bed with popcorn in lieu of supper and my mind sped off, filled with mental images. I made movies: saw through the eyes of some random guy in a suit looking up from his desk, out the window, to see a huge jet headed straight for him. Just watching it come.
→ 2 visitors → 3 firepits → 3 lbs trash → 14 waterbreaks → 2 trees
→ 1200 lbs rock → 9 miles ridden → world gone madder
I often write about the improbable, serendipitous meetings and curious synchronicities in my life. This is one of my favorite topics, but make no claims as to their significance and have no explanation for why I’m so frequently visited by these enigmatic events. Here’s one more account of a classic synchronicity, to finish off this story. ◦◦◦◦◦ The following season (2002, my 15that Piute Meadows) I decided to spend September 11th out doing trailwork to help keep my mind off the grim anniversary, happy to not be down in the flatlands watching endless replays of those horrific scenes and wallowing in the media blitz like millions of other Americans. So I packed my tools, saddled the horses, and rode a few miles to “Harriet Hill,” the steep grade beside Cascade Creek leading up to Harriet Lake. A gigantic red fir had recently fallen…not across, but straight down the trail and it had to go. A terrible job. But, after sizing it up, I realized that the only reasonable alternative was to reroute the trail. So, instead of having to saw the thing into many sections with my 4-foot crosscut saw (remember, chainsaws aren’t allowed in Wilderness Areas) I just cut off all its limbs, removed a few saplings, and grubbed out a new path off to the side. It took hours of hard labor and, as was so typical, nobody came by to catch me at the archetypical rangerly activities of chopping and sawing.◦◦◦◦◦ I heard backpackers approaching from above and stopped working to greet them. The forest was dense and I couldn’t see them until a man stepped out from behind a big tree somewhat above me. I couldn’t see his companions yet but this guy, seeing me, turned and said to those behind him, “I think there’s a friend of yours here!” Just then, Mark and Steve stepped into view. “OH MY GOD!”—“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!” Here were the two from last year who’d brought the ghastly news…back on the first anniversary of the big event. (Not mine…the anniversary of the real one.) ◦◦◦◦◦ They’d gone backpacking—again—to escape the media frenzy and brought along a like-minded friend. It turned out that they had been headed for Yosemite Park but, completely out of the blue, Mark’s leg started hurting badly—he had no idea why—and it was painful enough that they decided it was best to head back home. So if it weren’t for this freaky thing with Mark’s leg, we’d not have run into each other. They’d been telling their friend all about what happened with me and Margaret last year. Of course, we were all astonished. It happened that these three were the sole party I saw that day. And only later did I remember that the day of our first meeting, I’d been working on this exact same stretch of trail.
©2014 Tim Forsell 13 Apr 2014, 11 Nov 2019
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