From
my journal, which I kept faithfully for the sixteen seasons stationed at that
little log cabin in Upper Piute Meadows. For 1992, I forsook the cheap,
spiral-bound steno notebooks the Forest Service provided in favor of writing
entries on my usual stationary: lined pads of 8½”x 11” paper. It’d been years
since anyone besides my father read my log so, for an experiment, I opted to
write more story-like entries and leave out the mundane reporting of weather conditions and what my meals
consisted of—things all backcountry rangers seem to feel compelled to write in
their journals—so that I could make xerox copies and send them to friends. [This
is how the phenomenon of the “Timstory” originated.] …… The following (mis)adventure took place during a yearly
ritual: the packing of my cats into the cabin, where they’d spend their summer
as boon companions, employed as volunteer RPOs (Rodent Patrol Officers). This “event”
was a real source of amusement for the entertainment-starved folks who worked
at the pack station. Bart Cranney memorably once said to me, laughing, “Tim—I’ve
packed bed frames and 80 gallon drums; I’ve packed dynamite. I’ve packed dead
people. But I’ve never packed cats.”…… Briefly, just to make it clear how it’s
accomplished, the cats are first inserted in burlap sacks which are then put
into canvas horse’s feedbags (the things that go over their noses with a strap
behind the head) and these get slung on either side of my saddlehorn. The four-hour-minimum
trip to “Piute” could be a minor epic of endless clawing and yowling; sometimes
not so bad. But, first, you have to get the cats in the sacks….
Hoping to
get an early start into Piute today so I did all my shopping yesterday and
camped out at Wheeler Guard Station. (If I go to the office first I never get
on the trail until after noon; today the cats go in so no messing around.)
Had to stop at the campground first
to chat with Stella & Bill—the camp hosts. Silver-haired and retired, they’re
volunteers who earn a “free” campsite for all their labors. Bill tends the
toilets with mop & bucket and extra rolls; cleans the firepits, makes sure
everybody pays their site fees. Stella issues wilderness permits to people
coming in by way of Sonora Pass and from the north so they don’t have to drive
an extra 25 miles to Bridgeport and get one at the ranger station. Very kind,
simple, ”regular folks”—Bill a big, goofy talk-talk-talker; Stella the
quintessential grandma-type who is no doubt an expert cookie-maker with lots of
grandkids. They’re both passionate about their duties; whenever I visit they
regale me with stories of dim-witted campers getting stuck trying to get their
24-foot RVs into 18 foot sites, slobs who leave garbage behind. They enjoy talking
to backpackers. I stop and visit when I have some extra time, to keep them
posted on things in the wilderness. (I’ve instructed Stella to tell all the
backpackers there’s a mean, short-tempered ranger back there patrolling so they’d
better be good….)
Got to Cranney’s about 9:00. Threw
the cats in the cab right away so I could off-load stuff out of my camper
without having to worry about them escaping. The truck was in full sun so I
rolled the driver-side window down a couple inches so my little darlings wouldn’t
be baked to death. They immediately curled on the floor in cat-heaps and looked
up at me inquisitively.
Minutes later I’m loading my pack
boxes and I look up (truck parked right by the loading dock) to see Rip’s protruding
head twisting and jerking in that narrow gap with his feet—toes all splayed—up
against the glass. Somehow he’d managed to get his head through the 2½” gap
which I’d calculated as being too narrow for an escape attempt. As I start to
run over the frantic black cat yanks his head back through, comically flops
backwards onto the steering wheel, and the horn goes off. BEEP!! I go to roll the window up just a bit more and, when I open the
door, Spring leaps out and disappears under the dock (which is a long, narrow platform;
about three feet high). I tried to quick grab her as soon as I’d slammed the
door but she’d already run under the low, narrow deck in front of “the office.”
(There’s always a dog or three running around Cranney’s and there was nowhere for
her to really hide under the dock.)
The office is a chintzy little
square shack with shed roof and sliding glass doors front and back. It’s where
waivers get signed, wilderness permits are issued, and money handed over; about
15 feet square, on cement piers about 18” high, with a skirt of chipboard siding
down to the ground except in back. I circled around, knelt in the dewy grass
and peered into a dark crawl-space. Spring had already assumed the languid cat-ball
position in one dim corner. “Springer: c’m’ere kitty! Your royal catness! C’mon…puh-lease,” I say, soothingly. Suuure…right! Sorry, Bozo, but…nice try. I
think…I think I’ll just…take a little nap. That’s what her aloof, drowsy
look clearly said in reply.
I instantly recognized that this was
serious. Without a doubt, both cats knew exactly what they were in for. (This would be
Rip’s fifth trip into Piute and Spring’s third.) Even though cats live strictly
in the present they never forget past traumas; both knew they’d soon be stuffed into smelly burlap sacks and, once
sacked, crammed into nosebags. For hours
they’d be jostled mercilessly under the burning sun while dangling from my sadldehorn,
hardly able to move. Worse yet, I knew this was just the time of day when they tend to hole up and sleep away the
hot hours after their nights out on the town. When I saw Spring’s sleepy-eyed look,
blinking at me disdainfully, I knew it was bad—the low opening was too narrow
for me to crawl under and grab her.
I immediately gave up trying to coax
her out; like most felines, she’s never paid the slightest heed to verbal
commands. (Unlike Rip, who’ll often come to my whistle like a dog.) Stronger
attractants were needed. On the east side, in the sun, was a small, square-shaped
hole. I pulled up a long grass stem and dragged it around near the opening, a thing
this huntress couldn’t ignore. That got her over but she’d only make stabs at it
with a paw. With my most subtle and beguiling imitation of a meadow vole rustling
in thick grass, I lured her part way out and made my play, pinning her to the
ground—hard—and mashing her head rudely in the dirt. She went berserk,
squirming violently, slithered out of my firm grasp, and was back under the
little building. Oh, great! Now she’s
afraid of me.
I was steamed, of course. When you
live and travel with cats, they find the simplest and surest means of shredding
well-laid plans; it takes a major adjustment in attitude and sense of time to
deal with these inconveniences. A few times in the past I’ve had to spend an extra
day somewhere because a wayward kitty just wasn’t in the mood to leave. (I
refer to these situations as my “being on cat-time.”)
I happened to have a little can of
fancy catfood—tuna flavor—in my truck and, since the cats never get anything
but crunchies from me (except, on occasion, canned tuna juice or broken eggs),
this stuff is like candy to them. I popped the can and put it a foot outside
the hole then ran back to look under and monitor Spring’s reaction to the
enticing aroma. I watched long enough to see her nose begin to twitch with her
eyes on the hole and dashed back to the can. But one of Cranney’s dogs was just
then making off with it, headed for the willows—Hey, you!!—but…too late. I seethed.
Tried one last trick; not a very
good one as it turned out. I went and let Rip out of the truck. Spring’s very
attached to him and I thought maybe I could keep him with me and I’d make like
we were going for a hike and she’d come out to follow. Bad move—he immediately
darted under the loading dock and then sprinted for the office with that
low-slung, feline-esque slink. When I crouched once more and looked under he
was in the opposite corner from Spring (nice and cool in there) and was curled
into a neat cat-ball with that same squinty-eyed, sleepy look. Now the fury was
on me. If I couldn’t intervene, they’d sleep in those exact spots until
four-thirty or five—whenever the sun had disappeared over the ridge—then amble
out, stretching and yawning, completely innocent-looking. Oh, hey, boss! Where ya been? Me: totally outraged and murderous.
Doc Grishaw was there this morning,
hustling around at his double-fast clip, busy tending to stock and any number
of invented chores. Thus far we’d only greeted each other with cursory hellos.
I went and found him loading hay for the evening feed.
“Say, Doc…. My cat got loose and
she’s under the office and won’t come out and I can’t get under there to grab
her….”
Doc smiled his maddening, semi-benevolent,
tolerant smile and, knowing that he doesn’t care much for cats (classic dog-person…)
and has often been amused by my keeping cats for company, I could tell he only
saw the humor in my plight and really could care less. He did his slow-chuckle
thing. (At least he was in a good mood.)
“…so…I was wondering. Uh, are there
any long garden hoses around?”
He reflected. “Yeah, I think there’s
several pieces of hose up at the house. You’ll have to tie ‘em together but I
think they’ll prob’ly reach.”
The house was thirty yards away and
I stomped up there and found one length already on the faucet and another
tangled old derelict in a pile nearby. Snooping around, I found another leading
to one of the trailers where packers sleep, hooked to another faucet. It took
about fifteen minutes to unscrew and re-screw them all together and drag the
whole line into position.
I went and found Doc again, dropping
bales onto the flatbed from the big stack. “Doc, can you give me a hand?” He’d
already switched into his very-busy-can’t-be-bothered-now mode. That familiar,
impatient scowl let me know he was willing (though not eager). But he left his hay-hooks
stuck in a bale and strode up to the office, with me jogging behind him to keep
up. “Whaddya want me to do?” he asked, sourly.
“If you can just try and hose her
down from the back, here, I’ll try and nab her when she comes out that hole on
the other side.” So Doc crouched in the still-dewy grass and directed a spray
toward the opposite side of the shack. Squinting through the hole I saw he
wasn’t reaching her and Rip, near the hole, watched this with mild interest. I
yelled, “More to the left!” Then he got her and she scrambled over to the other
side but huddled a few feet from the corner on Doc’s side, near her friend.
“I can’t see her,” says Doc. Then,
softer, “Oh…there’s two of ‘em.”
I yell back, “Yeah, I know. Keep spraying!”
I go back to his side and look under. She’s six feet away, obviously scared, so—completely
fed up—I just go for her and wriggle under the 10” gap. My big belt buckle
hangs up but I make myself skinnier and writhe in farther, scooping dirt into
my trousers, and seize the cat with a death-grip. I reverse-wriggle back out
with Spring wrowling (knows she’s in trouble…) and stalk back to the truck—thoroughly disgusted, with dirt sifting
down my pants legs and into my shoes—to fling her in the cab before slamming the
door. Emphatically.
Doc had already gone back to his bales.
The water was still running so I went to turn it off. When I got back, Rip was
gone and I spent another twenty minutes trying to find him—finally did, under
the tack shed—and he was napping just out of reach and squinted at me,
half-asleep, while I pled. Finally, repeated my contorted squeeze-act: more
dirt in the pants and fully-grimed shirt; another cringing cat flung into the
cab.
By
the time I got the hoses back to their places I’d lost an hour and a half.
Finally out of the pack station yard well after noon…wishing I’d gone to the
office instead.
