Piute Log...A Perfect Storm 2003

22 Jun (Sun)     First full day of summer and I get to ride into Piute Meadows! Yee! Haw! Failed to mention yesterday that some sort of cold front is passing through. Yesterday it was 27° when I woke up and, this morning, I had 23° just before sunrise! I’d have to guess that Bodie probably registered the nation’s low temps for this day—might’ve been 19 or 20° there. Wow. [Bodie, for some reason, is fairly often the coldest place in the country during summer months.] ◦◦◦◦◦ Another improbable meeting yesterday. I popped into the office before heading to Twin Lakes, just to get a cup of bad-coffee-to-go, and walked through the front door to see a fella I knew when I’d first moved to Lone Pine in ’83 (and hadn’t seen in almost ten years). He was stopping by on his way through town to pick up a wilderness permit. ◦◦◦◦◦ This guy—Brian Cavalier—was soon to leave on a backpack with his teenage son. I already knew about this; Brian was a sort of little brother to my friend & patron, Robert Frickel. Brian was (and still is) a “bad boy,” prone to all manner of scheming and scamming and troubles attendant. He lives on a boat, down Mexico way. Without knowing any details I’m under the impression that Robert helped him forsake (forstall?) a life of crime and, most likely, kept him out of prison. I never much cared for Brian but he has the innate charm of any natural-born hustler so you can’t help but like him a little. He hasn’t changed at all except for going grey. Same beady eyes and irritating, high-pitched voice. Same big belly. Kid appears to be a typical sullen teenager, whose existence I knew nothing about until a couple months ago when Robert told me that Brian and his son were planning to hike the Yosemite to Tahoe Trail this summer; when we discussed Robert’s visiting me at Piute, he said the most likely scenario would be if he hiked that portion with Brian. (They’ve stayed in occasional contact through the years.) So—it was pretty improbable that I’d meet him at this exact moment (both of us passing through). It was so in-character that he was getting his permit illegally: the plan was to leave from Tuolumne Meadows but it’s a real hassle to get the permit there so he was signing a non-quota permit out of Leavitt Meadows. He proudly told Jo, the front desk lady that day, right to her face that he was scamming this. (She just shrugged.) And, no doubt, Brian will have a story ready when the Yosemite ranger asks why his permit says he left from a place 30 miles away…. ◦◦◦◦◦ Decided to take the cats in today, after all. At the pack station, walked up to the house to check in with Bart. I was met at the kitchen door by a tanned woman in her fifties, with bright orange hair, wearing some sort of anti-gravity bathing-suit top that lavishly displayed a profusion of bosom. She said, “Remember me?” (I did, but she had to help me with her first name.) “Cindy! Cindy Silva! Yeah, of course  I remember you.” She’d been a trail cook for Bart, 10 or 11 years ago. Assertive, iron-jawed, strong woman who likes…men. Many men. She was always “dating” Marines from the base; always brazenly displaying her breasts. (When we talked, always made sure to look her right in the eye.) It’s a terrible distraction—and I’m not even a “breast man.” I just don’t like it…a form of manipulation. What’s up with your tits, Cindy? I should just ask her flat out; see what she says. Anyway, she’s gonna be around…said she’d “come up and see me” before giving me a bag of cookies Shirley [Bart’s wife] had just made and a couple of still-warm cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven. Bribes? ◦◦◦◦◦ Did see Bart before I left. He walked over, looking good but obviously weak & tired. [he had prostate cancer.] ◦◦◦◦◦ Sacked the cats last thing. All sweaty already. Only 5 minutes past the back gate, Piute’s load rolled over. He suddenly just stopped and I turned to see him standing there with the panniers around his belly. I knew it was a few pounds off [in balance]—me in a hurry, as usual—but forgot how easily Piute’s loads turn over (‘cuz him so fat and round). Fortunately, he’s calm in these situations and in a mere 10 minutes we were underway again. Balance yer loads, cowboy! Red stood calmly all the while, cats-in-bags safely slung off his saddlehorn. ◦◦◦◦◦ Right near the old helicopter-wreck site I rode up on two lovely young women. One was bent over and touching (examining) a larkspur in bud. From a goodly distance I  could see her elegant posture; how tuned-in she was  to the plant. We all had a nice chat. They were from Santa Cruz County and I was sad to leave them. I put out a little prayer just after we parted; very seldom ask for favors but, right then, felt like my heart was shriveling so I asked the gods to send me a nice girl like that one this summer. Just one to talk to and look at a few things with for awhile before she has to press on…. ◦◦◦◦◦ Got to the cabin at a bit after 5:00. One of the easiest cat-transports ever; always a relief to get them here safely. All six of us delighted to be home. Mosquitoes in abundance.

          → 11 miles rode       → 10 visitors contacted       → 250 lbs freight

23 Jun (Mon)      Home…ahhh. Good to be. Clouds started building early. No grandiose plans for this day—I’m beat. Some serious cabination with books & naps. The horses had crossed the river and I could see tiny red specks in the top meadow hillside. And it got stormy. ◦◦◦◦◦ Had a solid two hour sleep. Roused in the afternoon and walked up the Tower Lake trail to assess damages. ◦◦◦◦◦ It started graupelling [“soft hail”] right off. A wonder form of precip: looks like snow, feels like tiny foam pellets when they hit and just bounce off. The ground can turn white and you’re still warm & dry! Perfect! And this was a fine storm. Graupel usually precedes a thunderstorm and rain but this was all we got today, in a series of dramatic squalls. Took out a couple small trees with my folding saw. Got as far as the first stream crossing where I could see big snowbanks ahead. No reason to proceed farther on this recon. Saw the fritillary [locally rare lily-like plant], soon to bloom and—first time ever—found one plant on the west side of the trail; 8 total. This is the only place I’ve ever found it in the entire region and I still have a sort of crush on it, after all these years. ◦◦◦◦◦ On the way back it stormed good and I ducked under trees a couple times. Sky just riven with snow-white pellets…a few clear minutes, then more squall. Clouds shrouding the peaks. John Muir weather. Spooked some mergansers off a pond and watched them streaking through mists and disappearing into layers of white veils, like a movie version of a Japanese painting. ◦◦◦◦◦ I burst out into Upper Piute Meadows as another squall cut loose. The sun—low in the west—came out from under clouds just then and illuminated the meadows and falling graupel (about 8.6 million pellets/second) with the peaks, beneath really dark clouds, behind. It was one of those sights where you can choose to a) Fall to your knees, hands clasped over your chest, b) Weep quietly, or you can c) Ecstatically extend arms and twirl around with a silly grin. I chose the latter this time, emitting awe-sounds. The sky was falling! Really! The sun was dramatically lighting up all these tiny white pellets—so many of them they, physically, took up a lot of space—and the scene was illuminated such that it created an almost dizzying sensation of sky falling down (on my head!). I’ve said it more than a few times in this log but…this…was one of the finest light shows I’ve been blessed with up here. ◦◦◦◦◦ Back home, tended the pot of chili I’d made in the morn and hung out with kitties. It began to thunder, finally, and some even heavier squalls blew through. All graupel; no hail or rain. Most unusual. Right at dusk, a pair of serious dumps that left the green meadow all frosted. Went to bed with white ground outside  to end this new-summer day.

     → 4 miles walked     → no visitors     → 2 trees removed     → 150 lbs rock tossed

Quotation printed inside the cover of this volume of my log:

“…for a long time he had learned how to live and do his work without ever being more lonely than he could bear…. [His life] had many of the inventions that lonely people used to save themselves and even achieve unloneliness with and he had made the rules and kept the customs and used them consciously and unconsciously.”            

                              
—Hemingway, from Islands in the Stream

©2014 Tim Forsell                                                                                                             5 Jun 2014

Piute Log...Avian Visitations 1997

14 Jun (Sat)     Rained most of the night; gentle but steady. Still raining in the morning and on into the gray day. A “new bird” for Piute Meadows: when I went out to pee, a great blue heron was beside the pond just below the cabin. It flew off with ponderous wing-strides but later was back, over on the riverbank opposite my bathing hole; it saw me on the porch and became very wary. Got the binoculars and watched for awhile. The big bird went into stalk mode, all furtive & intent, and then speared a tree frog. I saw this through 8X magnification and got to see that tiny amphibian, snatched from its peaceful world, struggling at the tip of a daggerlike bill before being abruptly and irrevocably swallowed, ulp! I beheld the sum total of one unique life—felt its desire to live…its ending up as a measly bite for the giant predator. ◦◦◦◦◦ So many times I’ve witnessed similar, utterly common scenes and they’re always a bit shocking since they reveal so clearly the cyclic nature of life and death. All of us—all living things!—are continually made, then eaten and recycled. ◦◦◦◦◦ Waited for rain to stop. I’d be in the cabin “futzing around” (Doc-ism) and be ready to leave, then hear renewed pounding on the roof, look out window to see the pond all roiled. Then it’d stop. I’d go outside to check…many cycles of this. ◦◦◦◦◦ Finally decided to just go. A half-mile below the cabin, two large lodgepoles had fallen across the trail. I’d already loaded my pack with 3’ saw, wedges, doublebit axe, 2# singlejack, WD-40, gloves…. ”The kit.” It was raining lightly as I meandered across the meadow, avoiding bog-holes but feet wet instantly. Tattered clouds sifting through pines on the mountainsides, very lovely. I stood in the middle of the meadow looking and then heard a peculiar rustling overhead. It was a smallish flock of white pelicans, heading north—a mere hundred feet overhead—in two broad “V”s. They’d have been virtually invisible except for those large, black wing-patches. Aside from the sound of their great wings beating the air they were silent except for weird, low-pitched grunts that had a questioning quality. To a bird, the flock looked at me with curiosity. ◦◦◦◦◦ This was a truly moving sight because of their proximity, the wet weather; the fact that I’ve never seen pelicans in the mountains (two new species in one hour!) and because the 70 or 80 giants were plainly lost. Where they came from and were headed, how they ended up in this maze of glacial valleys and alpine ridges, I’ll never know. ◦◦◦◦◦ The travelers were heading down-river. I was not at all ready for this show to be over and my silent prayer was answered when a lone pelican left the group, wheeled, and started back up-canyon. This one individual bent the group will and they all turned to follow, so I got to see them pass right overhead again. In the ponderous fashion of pelicans, they wheeled, circled; gradually climbed to regroup above the head of the meadow in a glittering cloud (the “glittering” a result of black wing-patches dis- and re-appearing as they turned…). I watched through my binoculars and figured they were gonna settle down on the meadow but they seemed indecisive; I could sense the group-mind thinking, We’re tired! Hungry! Looks like a good place to rest but there’s still hours of daylight. Where are we? But finally the flock was pulled down to Earth and I watched their protracted descent. At the last they all spiraled down in great circles and I could plainly see this captivating organism—sparkling white-black-white and diffuse—coiling down out of the sky like some giant vortex until the last member had settled out of sight. This ten minute drama was one of the most magnificent shows I’ve seen put on by bird-kind (which is saying something). Impossible to capture the mood and flavor and poignancy of it in words. ◦◦◦◦◦ Walked down to my job. Took the bigger tree out with two cuts but left the section in place ‘til I come back with the peavey—too big and slimy to try moving. Still raining when I headed home. ◦◦◦◦◦ Wanted to  check on the pelicans so only stopped by cabin for a bite before walking up to “the quarry.” There they were: by the river, up on the bank; the whole flock condensed into a brilliant white patch in the green green grass. They were shoulder-to-shoulder, bills tucked in, already asleep. Fifteen feet to the side, one loner crouched by itself. (Leader or loner or pelican outcast?) I’d thought they might be trying to feed but, no; likely exhausted. I watched for awhile but not one stirred. ◦◦◦◦◦ So, an odd day of rain & cold in June, with crazy bird visitations. And, speaking further of birds, flickers are nesting in the old ten-foot high snag below the cabin and the adults plainly don’t like my intrusion.

15 Jun (Sun)     Cold but bright & sunny. Wanted to keep an eye on the pilgrims. (Turns out I could see the white patch between trees from the yard.) Went out a few times and their heads were still down. After the sun was on them I saw heads up and bobbing but still they were in a clump. ◦◦◦◦◦ Finally, when I checked they were gone—hadn’t been 20 minutes since the last look but they’d vanished. Sad was I; had so wanted to watch their departure from atop the quarry. As it was, I felt compelled to visit their bivouac just to learn what a bit of meadow looks like after being slept on by a flock of very heavy birds. ◦◦◦◦◦ Found it after a bit of ambling and resultant sodden feet. Grasses and forbs not noticeably trampled; no footprints in mud. (They’d barely moved once settled in.) Sure enough, there were plenty of white splotches—appropriately large—and scattered feathers. I gathered a handful. Why? Dunno…just felt like I needed some memento. Mmmm….

©2014 Tim Forsell                                                                                                          8 Jun 2014

Piute Log...Life in the Short Forest 2002

14 Jun (Fri)     Slept at the warehouse. Woke at dawn to the din of bleating sheep—a band had just been turned loose on the other side of the chain-link fence (which is a BLM allotment) and ewes’n’lambs were getting themselves reunited…quite the dusty cacophony; not unpleasant in small doses. Grasshopper was upset—big, scary kitty-eaters, maybe! Both cats on the alert; Abyssinian growling and staring. (He finally slunk off and hid in the weeds.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Spent my day working the lower West Walker trail—yearly early-season ritual. Walked to Secret Lake the back way. Another fine June classic with appropriate clouds and aroma of hot sagebrush. ◦◦◦◦◦ In the first half mile I visited several of those vernal pools which, in recent years, have been a source of “new” plants—minuscule, easily-overlooked annuals that live at the margins of drying ponds. (I do love the tiny green-guys.) In the middle of one of these small, glacially-carved depressions was a last bit of muddy clay covered by a veritable carpet of greenery. Delighted to see patches of Downingia montana, sole member hereabouts of the bluebell family (Campanulaceae) with delicate, asymmetric flowers—violet with cream-colored centers and two yellow spots at the throat. This micro-plot—a foot-square; roughly circular—was solidly paved with these gorgeous “belly-flowers.” Got down on my knees. From inches away, this patch filled my field of view like a jungle, seen from the air. A colorful jungle. I knelt there and observed an amazing world, heretofore unknown to me. ◦◦◦◦◦ The densely thatched Downingia forest was home to a horde of arthropods—hundreds of them. The “understory,” almost obscured by flowers, harbored a population equivalent to that of a sizable town. When I slowed down to watch, the movement on and under was riveting. Tiny bees, flies, and beetles; (true) bugs, wasps, and patrolling wolf-spiders (many of them bearing white egg-cases). Each flower sheltered a minute, pollen-eating beetle. Another type of beetle seemed to exclusively make the rounds of a diminutive Juncus [a grasslike plant] that grew amongst the Downingia. I watched one individual repeatedly march up & down a few tangled, slender stems. It had a “territory” and  would stride from end to end, up one stem and down another, turning left or right where two crossed. Then it would go only so far, turn abruptly, go back to the last intersection, turn left or right…. Like a robot it went forth & back & forth again, over the same stems (sometimes clinging to their underside). Never pausing or slowing; never a nibble. No clues as to the purpose. When I “enlarged” my view I saw scores of the same 4mm-long beetles doing the exact same thing. All this plus dozens & dozens of other denizens scurrying madly in all directions. I don’t recall ever seeing, outside NYC, a more frenzied and densely packed interaction of so many kinds, each going about their business. It left me reeling, yet again, from another reminder of the hyper-complexity of our world. But, reluctantly, I had to leave and get back to work myself.

©2014 Tim Forsell                                                                                                               2 June 2014