Piute Log...Beeline To My Skull 1993

The previous spring I’d lived for almost two months with my girlfriend in Rio de Janeiro (where she was attending school on a scholarship). Elizabeth and I were co-workers at Rock Creek Lodge over the course of five winters. The two of us had been close friends there but only became a couple shortly before she flew to Brazil. We were very much in love—the first time I’d experienced being in that…state…and was sure she was “the one.” So it came as a tremendous shock when I called to welcome her home after she returned to the states that July—and to make plans for our future together—but find that, not only had Elizabeth experienced a “change of heart,” she had a brand-new boyfriend as well. I fell into a severe depression that laid me low for months. Under the circumstances, it was a bad idea to be all alone with my brain, deep in the woods. But, there I was…seeking solace in the wilderness from my cats, horses, and Mother Nature.

13 Sep (Mon)     Woke up bad. These have been some of the worst days yet. Funny how it comes and goes…well, easy to see why, actually; I’ve gotten real down each time we’ve “communicated” by phone and each time I’ve written. Better when not brooding and endlessly rehashing. Perhaps I’m near the end of this, almost over the hump. Sure hope so. ◦◦◦◦◦ Re-read last night’s long letter to E. Bad idea. By 10:00, after choking down some food, I had a splitting headache and made four runs (literally) to the outhouse. Maybe ate something bad? Or just turmoil? Dunno…but I was out of it. Spent the day in bed reading Claudius the God. A bunch of folks with Nevada Backcountry Horsemen showed up in the yard (I’d talked to one of their party yesterday) and they yelled for me but I climbed up into the loft and hid there, lest they peek through the window and see me in bed. Just couldn’t face anybody…not human. Finally, they left. ◦◦◦◦◦ Headache finally eased off late in the afternoon so I had a bowl of soup and walked, pretty sore between the legs. Went out the front gate and started contouring to the north, to the next ridgetop and down into the Secret Vales. Went to that cliff where the baneberry grows (the only place I’ve found it growing in the entire region). The nice red berries already almost gone. Amazingly, the yellow lodgepole pine pollen that coated everything, starting back in July, still hasn’t washed away and it’s clumped on leaves and is a spotty varnish on the rocks. Never seen that before…seems like ages since it rained. ◦◦◦◦◦ Back to the cabin at 7:00, starved. I’d brought up a steak. Haven’t been eating much meat; mostly I can only handle lighter food but knew I had to eat the thing so decided to make a fire. Started it and was breaking little branches off the downed tree there in the yard (which is right by the firepit). Suddenly I heard a serious-sounding buzz and something came up off the ground, made a beeline for my skull, and hit me on the right temple. Red-hot needle to the face! Yah! It was a meat bee—I’d probably disturbed a nest under those dry branches. (They’ve been bad this summer.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Knew I was probably in a little trouble; I’ve had bad reactions from stings before and this one hit me hard, a half inch from my brain and an inch from right my eye. I ran to the cabin and ransacked my 1^st aid kit, dismayed to find it contained not so much as a topical antihistamine. I have pills for just this sort of thing but they’re IN MY TRUCK! And I couldn’t see—I’d instinctively swiped at the wasp and my glasses flew off but I didn’t even notice and kept looking on the shelves and table for where I’d set ‘em down. (Finally figured it out and went to get ‘em.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Oh, well! Nothing to do but let the poison work! So I went out, rebuilt the fire, and after some coals built up BBQed my steak. But within minutes I began to feel “funny”…began to itch. Stood up and paced around, feeling all anxious and weird. In half an hour I had huge patches of hives on my left shoulder & buttocks and smaller ones all over. My lips were numb and eyelids swelling…hands and ankles swelled and my peepee puffed up like a sausage with scrotum bright red plus hot & itchy. For that matter, my whole chest was also flushed. But no problems breathing so I wasn’t too worried. Ate my dinner (steak only) and went straight to bed. ◦◦◦◦◦ Woke up in the middle of the night to take a leak and could feel that my face was grotesquely swollen. Very dark, no moon, and I fumbled for my “piss bucket”—old Rock Creek tradition—which is a half-gallon corn oil jug (with the top cut off but handle still on) which was tucked under the edge of the bunk. I reached for it, standing in the dark mostly asleep in socks and T-shirt only, and while I was going, began to feel cold & clammy. ◦◦◦◦◦ The next thing I knew, I was on the floor…coming to. Hunh?? I thought I was still in bed at first but slowly began to sense that, wherever I was, it was cold…and hard…and wet. Propped myself up on an elbow, realizing I’d passed out. No idea how long…but probably only seconds. Stood up, grabbed my flashlight and was dismayed to see the pissbucket lying on its side with a large puddle spreading across the floor. (There’d been almost a quart in it before I started.) Still mostly asleep, I grabbed a huge wad of paper towels and sopped it all up  before collapsing in bed. Fell back asleep almost instantly.

14 Sep (Tue)     Woke up with my right eye completely shut. The entire right half of my face was obscenely swollen—thick, pasty pads of flesh over my temple & jaw, thick rolls of puckered flesh around the eye. Also, oddly, I had severe swelling on top of my left shoulder and in my left armpit and below it; very little swelling on the right side. Hives  gone and genitalia back to normal but achy all over like with the flu. Pretty severe. Needless to say, this was a day of “sick leave” and—again—spent much of it in bed. Napping off & on all day, body really fighting the poison. Tried to read my book but found it hard to read with only one eye. Thank goodness I didn’t itch like last evening! Awful! A few years ago, when I got stung that first time on the back of my hand, the itching (which lasted three whole days) nearly drove me mad. It was truly agonizing. ◦◦◦◦◦ In the afternoon, caught up in this log. My eye had opened just a bit by then. It’d been cool & real windy all day, very much an autumn preview. Wrote on the porch until it got too dark, moved inside and built an evening fire for the first time in a long while. I need a bath. I need something. Low tide in Tim’s life.

15 Sep (Wed)     Up at dawn, eye swollen shut again and all crusty but it soon opened a little. Swelling on my face worse than yesterday, my right cheek more of a jowl. Swelling down on shoulder and under arm and my body felt much better. Amazing how thoroughly poisoned I was by that tiny insect. ◦◦◦◦◦ At 11:00 I walked up the Kirkwood trail. Did a very thorough rocking (tossed hundreds of pounds of stone off the trail) and cleaned waterbreaks, wide & deep. Much shovelage. Worked to the giant white pine, just about exactly half way to the pass. Thankfully, no visitors. ◦◦◦◦◦ From the high point, took a cross country route home, first following the west bank of Kirkwood Creek through the thickets of lodgepole, then cut across Rainbow Creek and, finally, Tower Creek. While crossing the final section of glacial washout I spooked another wasp nest! Got hit twice on the left calf. Still had a mile to go and walking felt like I had two needles imbedded deeply in my calf with the shifting muscles grating against them. Of course, the leg swelled up, but not too bad. That does it: only long pants & long sleeve shirts until it snow or rains. Earlier, I’d passed a huge nest right by the trail. It was under a rotting log and I think a bear got into it and shredded the thing to get at the larvae. I could see the walls of the nest, dozens of the varmints going in & out. Made me shudder to watch ‘em and think, What if….

16 Sep (Thu)     Classic dream of Elizabeth shortly before waking: we were standing together in an utterly dark room, with light on us, before a full-length mirror. I was behind her, with some body contact, and I was trying to reach her somehow, wanted her to turn and face me—look me in the eye—but she wouldn’t and all I could see was her reflection, an image, and she was gazing off with a knowing, Mona Lisa-ish smile, as if she knew the answer to some secret. No words. And I took her hand but she wouldn’t meet me palm-to-palm. I held it like an object in my fingertips…heavy and lifeless and completely unresponsive. Truly classic dream symbolism. Added a postscript to my last letter to E, telling her this dream. I’ll mail it off and hopefully, now that communication is over, I can start focusing on getting myself back in one piece.

It wasn’t until some time later that I really understood that I’d been in a pretty severe clinical depression since July after I made that fateful call to “the tall blond.” For two solid months I’d been a complete wreck—couldn’t sleep or eat at times; developed a strange, chronic peeling of the skin from the palms of my hands that left them continually cracked and raw. There’d been a few days at the cabin where I couldn’t get out of bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling. A few friends who knew were worried about me—with good reason. Something about the crisis with the wasp sting brought the whole phase to a culmination and, following the vivid and powerful dream about my ex, I started to mend…. Went to the doctor a couple of days later and he said I’d had a genuine “anaphylactic shock” reaction, which surprised me since I thought that entailed having the throat swell up. With a grave expression and tone he said that what had happened to me was quite serious. Apparently, I looked skeptical because he followed with, “I can see on your face that you’re taking this lightly. But let me assure you: you could easily have died that night.” From that time on, I always carried an “epinephrine pen” with me, just in case. Never had to use it—subsequently, I’ve been stung several times but never had a severe reaction again.

    ©2015 Tim Forsell                                                                                                                                                1 Nov 2015                                                                                                                                                 

                                      

Piute Log...Wheels Fall Off 1999

10 Jul (Sat)     Another big day…the usual unprepared frenzy of packing. Well, not quite a frenzy but not exactly unhurried. Had to get the myriad details together, do timesheet at office. Greta [my supervisor and friend] was walking up to Piute today to have dinner in Doc’s camp, then walk out tomorrow over Piute Pass into Burt Canyon. I went to catch horses preparatory to our shuttling her truck out to the Little Walker. ◦◦◦◦◦ Greta and I left town after 11:00. The plan: we were dropping her rig at the Burt Canyon trailhead, then on to Leavitt together where she’d walk in and I’d ride. Had to stop at the Post Office, though, so she went on without me. ◦◦◦◦◦ Halfway out, feeling I’d forgotten something, I was wracking my brain. Oh NO! My CATS! I’d left them in the cab of my truck while loading all my stuff into the FS rig. Couldn’t reach Greta on the radio. No choice but to continue. I hoped she’d wait for me at the Little Walker turnoff but she wasn’t there. I’d just meet her at the trailhead and we’d have to take the stock truck back to town, OH, WELL! ◦◦◦◦◦ I got less than a mile up the washboard road when something bad happened. Truck went wild. I thought at first the horses were shifting around but it was much worse. A blow-out? I had very little control; wasn’t fish-tailing, but saw a cloud of dust billowing in the rearview. With horses in back you instinctively know not to slam on brakes so I just rode it out and slid to a halt. ◦◦◦◦◦ All pumped up, I got out and immediately noticed that, on my drivers’ side, in back, the two wheels were gone! One of them, and a shattered brake drum, were roadside aways back. The rear of the truck was resting on axle, listing considerably. I was literally stunned…a world gone hazy. A long groove in the road—I’d been plowing soil, hence the lack of fishtail. I quickly noted that, had this happened two minutes before when we were going 60 on the highway instead of 15 or 20, things would not be all rosy. I called Minden [radio dispatch center] and told them my wheel had fallen off and I was stuck in the very middle of the road. Moments later, my boss showed up—turns out she’d been behind me all the time after stopping in town to pick up a sandwich. Through her windshield I saw Greta’s mouth turn into a little pink “O” as she perceived what’d happened. Then Doug, the new AFMO [Assistant Fire Management Officer], showed up and a “rescue” (tow truck from Coleville) was coordinated with Minden. Pleased as punch that I weren’t dead nor the horses neither, I drove Greta’s truck to town to get the other truck and four-horse trailer. Meanwhile, a tow truck arrived. I dropped cats off at the warehouse (obviously not going back to Piute today…) and went back out to get boss and ponies. The e-vac was pretty flawless. Took the horses out to Bart’s for to ease tomorrow’s departure. When we told Bart what’d happened, he reacted in his inimitable calm, bemused, western fashion—in the way of one who’s seen countless unforeseen problems fall from the sky for fifty-odd years—and pointedly asked who did the maintenance on our trucks. It looked like the lug nuts had come loose on the outer wheel and when it fell off, the inner then sheared completely. (Bart told us this is a thing duel-wheeled trucks are prone to.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Got back to town and finished the day doing my travel voucher on the computer with Greta’s instruction [This, one of the very first times I’d used a computer]. Very complex process which I won’t be doing often enough to retain. ◦◦◦◦◦ A couple folks came in to offer their…um…sentiments? Word had gotten around fast…this was good stuff, gossip-wise. As far as I’m concerned, this had been a great day. It could’ve been a horrible disaster. Graced by good luck again; thanks for sparing me! ◦◦◦◦◦ Later, at the warehouse after quittin’ time, I was kicking the hackysack by myself when Greta showed up with six or seven college students from Ireland. Here’s the story: these kids are all geology students doing fieldwork as a team for their final project. They’re here in Bridgeport at the behest of a professor/advisor who’s having them map the metamorphic contact zones that traverse the crest of Sawmill Ridge; also across from upper Burt Canyon around Flatiron Butte/Ink Rocks. They’d been told it was “easy walking.” ◦◦◦◦◦ So they flew across the Atlantic, somehow got to Bridgeport, went to the office, and asked for directions. They’d talked with Greta that day. She’d suggested, after they said they wanted to get up to Little Lost Lake (above Barney Lake) via the long-abandoned trail on their old map, that it was a tough trip but they could make the grade. They couldn’t even find the trail (no surprise there) and had come back to Bridgeport “with their tails between their legs,” thoroughly demoralized. What to do now? Greta said, “Let’s go talk to Tim.” (She told me all this, later.) ◦◦◦◦◦ All of us went over to sit on the picnic table over by the cache shed. They had maps, including the geological map of Yosemite, and showed me what their project was. I explained that the contact zones up on Sawmill (actually, Buckeye Ridge) and over by Ink Rocks was some of the most difficult terrain in the whole area…that they’d been sandbagged. Faces fell. I explained “sandbagged.” Greta and I suggested they start working over in Burt Canyon for the much easier access, get acclimated. Some of these folks were lily-white skinned. And I have no idea how prepared they are to backpack and live in these remote places. (They looked pretty green.) ◦◦◦◦◦ It so happens that I own a copy of the geological map of the Matterhorn Peak 15’ quadrangle and, after they showed me where they’d be working I fetched it from my truck and spread it on the table. This map is much more detailed. I was watching faces as I opened it up and sawseveral pairs of eyes widen. “Where did your get that? How can we…?” et cetera. When we were done talking I gave them the map. Of course, they wanted to pay me but I told them it was a gift—they needed it a lot more than me. When we were alone again, Greta commented that they obviously seemed much happier than when they’d come into the office. A very rewarding contact. They’ll be around; maybe come by here again. I love working with the foreigners. Maybe it’s just cheesy nationalistic pride but I like to help make sure such folks have a good time here in the land of puh-lenty.

Never saw any of these kids again. Eight years later, in 2007, I was hosting a symposium at Crooked Creek Station for geologists from all around the world, specialists in the emplacement of granitic plutons. By sheer chance, I was talking with a professor from the University of Dublin and, because he was Irish, asked if he knew anything about this group of kids who I’d met in Bridgeport years before. Amazingly, it happened that he knew all about the affair; apparently it was a semi-legendary fiasco. Their advisor had sent them over to do this project without any direct knowledge of the terrain…apparently he’d just spotted the interesting-looking formations on some map. So he sent these rank beginners, who were completely unprepared, all the way to America on a wild goose chase. They’d given up shortly after I saw them and headed home in defeat—the terrain in question was perched on the side of a huge mountain, was extremely steep and unstable…a nightmarish place to do fieldwork. From what the professor told me, it sounds like the affair created quite a stir and the advisor had gotten in some trouble over it. And…as for the wheel that fell off my  truck: our vehicles receive a monthly safety inspection and the guy on our crew who was responsible failed to actually test them for tightness with a wrench (what you’re supposed to do) even though it’s an item on the checklist. Having done many of these tedious inspections in my early days, I can attest to just how easy it is to go down the list…”Lug nuts tight? Hmm…they look okay. Check.” That’s exactly what I’d done myself, many times, so can easily understand. Glad it wasn’t me, though. In the end, it made for a good story….     

    © 2015 Tim Forsell                                                                                                                7 Dec 2015

Piute Log...Mink In the Drink 2003

2 Jul (Wed)     Plan: Walk to Fremont Lake and greet the fans. Decided to take a “fun” route, via the Old River Trail, and go cross-country from there. ◦◦◦◦◦ Heard “dueling thrushes” down the trail a bit and realized that this is something I’ve likely heard many times and either forgotten or paid no attention to, perhaps focusing on listening to the notes of one bird’s song only (which can be completely mesmerizing). Anyway, like earlier this summer, I could hear three birds simultaneously (one, much farther off). Though this wasn’t such a synchronized event as last time, at one point, two of the thrushes were doing the echo-thing for a few bars. It really is an amazingly beautiful sound to hear in the forest. ◦◦◦◦◦ Also: watched a male Cassin’s finch making this crazy, acrobatic  flight. It was earnestly attempting to chase down a big Noctuid moth, which was doing loopy evasive maneuvers with the finch hot on its trail. Quite dramatic. (Moth got away….) The bird was likely catching food for always-famished chicks and this fat moth would shut up one of his kids for a few minutes. ◦◦◦◦◦ Paid a visit to the biggest Sierra juniper I’ve found in this drainage: trunk about 11 feet wide just a few  feet off the ground. It’s on an open slope NW of Bill’s Creek. Wanted to check it out now that I’ve seen the Bennett juniper [“champion” (record holder) for its species, which I’d recently visited, across the crest over in Alpine County—not many air-miles away]. No comparison, but this is a striking individual. (Previous to the Bennett tree, I’d only seen one—up in Carson-Iceberg Wilderness—that’s larger.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Continued cross-country to Fremont. Visited Debra [camp cook] who was alone in the pack station’s basecamp. That big group had left (which was one reason I chose to come here today) but there was a new batch of six guys, all out hiking. But, there was a party of 15 down at the lake’s far end so I went and did my full ranger-shtick to captive audience. ◦◦◦◦◦ On a whim, decided to visit “the Hellhole” [an isolated valley on the other side of a nearby ridge] and follow the West Fork south through one of its gorge-y sections. (Had only been there once, way back in 1990.) A fine jaunt through TRUE wilderness; no trash, no signs left by man—white or red. Mostly had to stay well above the little river. The best passage was a flat ledge of clean, solid granite cutting across a near-vertical cliff only eight feet or so above the froth in a place where the West Fork was only yards wide. The ledge was maybe 50’ long and was mostly like a narrow sidewalk but—for a few body lengths—was less than a foot wide. I took a short rest seated on the sidewalk portion with back resting against the wall, all comfy, with feet dangling over a minor torrent. On my left, a columbine grew from a damp crevice and one flower by my elbow had seven petals instead of five. ◦◦◦◦◦ Somewhat below where Kennedy Creek came in there was one of the finer little slots: a 40’ sheer drop into a long, deep pool with a noisy fall at its head. There was a small promontory directly overlooking the slot so I eased down to it and peeked over the edge. ◦◦◦◦◦ Resting my body against a boulder and gazing into the defile, my reverie was interrupted by a furry creature appearing at the edge of the cliff, only 5 feet away. It was a mink (although I didn’t fully grok this ‘til later) with dark, shiny eyes that met and held mine for maybe 3½ seconds. It had a dead vole in its jaws! Both of us in stunned shock. Then it was gone, poof! I dodged uphill to see where it’d gone and saw the sleek phantom disappear under a dense bush. Then, as I came closer, it darted to another bush (having abandoned its dinner). When I circled around to try and catch one last look, it dashed straight down the steep slope, down a smooth slab, and—I couldn’t believe it!—leapt right into the swift & foamy. The little river was really moving through this narrow fissure. The mink leapt through the air, hit that river running, and seemed to hydroplane across its surface. This all happened so fast I’m not sure if the critter was partially or fully submerged but its trajectory sent it straight across. Legs a blur…tail whipping, body wriggling: a brown bullet shooting through water. In a flash it had vanished into a rockpile on the far side. ◦◦◦◦◦ This show lasted maybe 15 seconds, at most, but I got great looks of its face (those eyes!), the way it ran, the way it swam, and a glimpse of that universal weasel-family intensity. Yet another display of amazing natural athleticism. After it was over I finally realized what I’d just seen: a mink! Mink in the drink! And, once again, my timing was perfect; had no idea I was coming this way ‘til I left that group at Fremont…and look what I got for a present! Christmas in July! ◦◦◦◦◦ Passed through a lovely park-like area (while being swarmed by ‘skeeters) just south of Kennedy Creek, flat & open under mature lodgepole pines. Tore out a little firepit there, an old one; sweet place to camp with a feeling of true solitude. ◦◦◦◦◦ Hit the trail and walked home. Too late to really get going on trailwork or pits…I’d been having too much fun exploring. Had myself a yummy slice of Piute pie today.

    → 16 visitors       → 12½ miles     

    

Quote copied inside the cover of this volume of Piute Log:

I spent more hours than I can count a quiet witness to the highly mannered, manifold expressions of life that grace our planet. It is something so bright, loud and weird and delicate as to stupefy the senses.

—Yann Martel, Life of Pi

  

   ©2015 Tim Forsell                                                                                                                                                 3 Nov 2015                                                                                                                                                                                 

Piute Log...Adventures With Brian 1996

2 Oct (Wed)     Last tour. Brian and I riding to Piute from Sonora Pass!—first time for me. Brian coming in for a visit on his days off. My horses just got shod and, since Greta was going to help move ‘em back out to Leavitt she offered to take us up to the pass. (I was telling her last week I’d always wanted to do this ride; she was the one to come up with the idea.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Stopped by the pack station to pick up my tack. I was greeted by Doc—one of his uglier selves, this time. He walked up with a questioning gaze (me carrying tack to truck parked on road) and I told him Brian and I were riding in from Sonora Pass. His face contorted into that bitter full-facial-frown of his and he shook his head, said, “What’re ya gonna do that for? Why you wanna beat up those old horses?” Of course, I was stunned but just smiled and explained, “Doc…this is my job, to ride these trails. I haven’t been on the PCT south of Sonora for years. We need to know what’s going on up there.” He started in again, ”Whattya wanna do that for?” and I curtly cut him off and said, “Doc: go tell Margaret about it” and walked off. Don’t remember ever being quite so curt with him but right then I just wasn’t up for it; when he’s like this you know the man is brim-ful of angst and his routine is to randomly dump bile on anyone he meets. ◦◦◦◦◦ To the pass, bye to Greta; saddled and loaded in the trailhead parking area with drifts of swiftly melting snow all about. Rode at 11:30. A perfect day to do this stunningly scenic cruise. ◦◦◦◦◦ It’s 9 miles to the top of Kennedy Canyon (another 8 or 9 to Piute) and the trail contours the brown, barren slopes of volcanic mudflow up to the crest and as high as 10800’ and then winds back & forth from Toiyabe to Stanislaus—all above 10000 for miles. Every time you cross a ridge there’s a dramatic new vista. Chill winds blowin’ through the gaps (I had a vest but added my slicker and wisht for gloves) but often it was still and felt warm. Both of us happy as clams to be sittin’ horse-back up in the sky. And I was getting paid to be doing this! The new snow was soon gone but, once, we rode up on a huge drift (leftover from winter before last) which was hard snow in August but ice now in October. Had to scramble through the scree to get around it. Through “the keyhole” [a narrow notch in a ridge], traversed under the big north face of Leavitt Peak and above tiny-little Latopie Lake to finally hit the Snow Lake “road” above Leavitt Lake and cruised on down to the top of Kennedy Canyon. What a tour! But no PCTers at this time of year. (From mid June to early July it would be a non-stop stream of thru-hikers.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Well down into Kennedy Canyon we crossed the stream and our ponies finally got a drink. Just standing in the creek, slurping it up, Red—for no discernable reason—suddenly just fell down. Fell to his knees! I yarded on the reins, pulled his head up and he got his legs back under him again. What was that all about, Redtop!?! See a water demon? Your reflection? Some 4” troutlet? ◦◦◦◦◦ Down to Walker Meadows. Had to show Brian “the waterfall” and we climbed to its top. From that vista we saw smoke rising through the trees…a lotta smoke. “What’s that?” asked Brian. “Oh, that’s a campsite…somebody there. Hmmm…that’s a big fire they got goin’ and it’s only afternoon.” Then we both noticed the flames on the ground. “That’s an escaped fire!” sez Brian, all pumped up. So we rode down there. Sure enough, someone had built a new fire-ring on deep duff and didn’t put it out when they left and it’d gotten into the roots of a big clump of lodgepoles. One tree had burned and fallen over and the stump and trunk were flaming vigorously. Smoke rose from a ring of burning duff. Brian somewhat excited: “Wow! This is my first ‘wilderness fire.’ What’re we gonna do?” “Nothing,” replies the ranger. Brian stopped cold; distinct anticlimactic response inducing disappointment. I explained: “This fire is going nowhere. See how all this is just gravelly washout from the mudflow? It’s all rock with a few grasses and flowers. This fire couldn’t go anywhere, not in October with the cold nights. If I called this in we’d have to try and put it out and come check on it and I only have a few days left. If it was July I’d call this in before some backpacker took the tale to town but no one is back here. So we’re not gonna do anything.” Brian seemed fascinated by my renegade-ranger line of reasoning. ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed for the barn. We walked down the last steep hill (to give horses a break…) in deepening dusk and I showed Brian the 1935 “naked lady with boots” sheepherder carving. “That was cut into this aspen six days after my mother was born.” Got to the cabin after 6:30, two tired pups. Brian held up really well today. ◦◦◦◦◦ To make this day even more spectacular, my guest made dinner. And not just chili from a can and crackers, no. Brian prepared a French peasant dish called “chicken Véronique,” which was simply sautéed garlic and scallions and chicken breast and tons of mushrooms with sherry and, at the last, he poured about a third cup of heavy cream over all. Served with rice. It was way yummy! Wow. Awesome, tasty genuine peasant fare after long day in the sky and wind and sun, looking down on the wide world from horses’ backs. Thanks so very much for these extra-good days!

                        
                                               →  17½ miles      →  no tourists       →  1 lb. trash

3 Oct (Thu)     No rest day: Brian had plans to climb Tower Peak (then ride out over Kirkwood Pass and down Buckeye Canyon tomorrow…ah, youth!). Had to go with him; ashamed to say, I think it’s been 4 or 5 years since I last climbed Tower. ◦◦◦◦◦ Made fine pancakes. Saddled up and we rode to the meadow below the lake. At the first creek-crossing we smelled smoke. Oh, yeah! The escaped-campfire Diane found! I figured she maybe hadn’t gotten it out all the way; once those things get deep in the duff it’s hard to put enough water on. So Brian was re-amazed. I’d remained totally calm and seemingly unperturbed at both these idiot-caused scenes and, from the way I was taking it, he must’ve thought I get these things all the time. I hastened to assure him I’ve never had two escaped fires burning at once. In fact, I’ve had a rash of these in the last few years. A number over in the Hoover, too. Are backpackers getting stupider? Wouldn’t surprise me. More likely, it’s just a greater proportion of inexperienced people. ◦◦◦◦◦ Parked ponies and waked after snack. Past noon already. Skipped the lake and took the “mountaineer’s route” to save time and energy. More fun, too. Up to the crest and went over to the watchtower where I initiated our young ranger in the gentle art of trundling [Rolling rocks off cliffs]. Cut loose some big ones that got airtime before disintegrating to powder against the far wall of that deep chimney. Small stones clattered down the icefield and into talus 800’ below. ◦◦◦◦◦ Took a new route (for me) up to the top: followed the final knife-edged bit of the ridgeline proper rather than bailing into the final gulley (laced with new snow and shadow). It was fun—some very exposed moves. Met Brian just below the final steps up to the big view. Spent an hour on top grokking the universe at large and reading old register entries. Calm and warm it was, totally silent and somewhat vast. ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed down the Rainbow Canyon side, contouring around the east side of the Watchtower, down interminable grassy ledges that I’d have appreciated much more had I not been so tired. Showed Brian where Larry had been stuck and told the story of the big rescue operation. Took me right back…amazed yet again at the odds that my only true S&R [search and rescue] in 12 summers was for a guy who was on our trailcrew and was to be my dinner guest the very day he pulled his big-whoopsie stunt. [Poor decision-making led to becoming stuck on a cliff] ◦◦◦◦◦ Ponies had rested well—no digging! Chino, who I’d let follow along, was just standing there as well. I’d been a little concerned that Pokey and Red, having to stand and watch while Chino roamed and ate freely, would be ticked-off and dig frustration-pits in the alpine meadow. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode home, grateful for the free ride. Did some pruning from the saddle. ‘Nother excellent, long day. Brian had a great time as well.

                                    
                                      →  no visitors        → 10 miles          →  bit o’ lopping

4 Oct (Fri)     After this season’s final batch of buttermilk pancakes, Brian washed dishes, saddled his horse and rode away. He was a bit nervous about this long ride, alone, through new terrain. I reassured him: “Hey, no problem! The worst thing that could happen is your horse could fall down on slickrock and crush you to death. But that won’t happen if you pay attention and get off to walk through the bad spots.” Brian had himself a fine weekend up here. I like him and will be glad to see his return next year as Robinson Creek ranger. He’s pretty tough (Margaret says he worked lots, and hard) plus eager and curious. Fine qualities all. He climbed most of the peaks in his drainage his 1^st season—a good sign. Of course, Brian’s still very green and entirely too self-conscious. (Just like me when I was his age….) ◦◦◦◦◦ Glad to be alone again and hung around the cabin for awhile doing piddly chores. Before noon I walked down to and up the Long Lakes trail and finished cleaning waterbreaks. Dozens; full of sand they were. Did way more than I shoulda but that manic desire to finish the job came on me. Well—it’s a done deal. ◦◦◦◦◦ From Bill’s Creek I took a fine walk home on new ground. Went for the ridgetop rimming the canyon. I’ve eyed the steepish walls and big junipers up there for years. And—surprise!—I “found” this stupendous bluff bordered by broad, flat slabs. The bluff itself was over a hundred yards long, dead vertical and nicely featured, from 30 to 60 feet high. The finest little rock wall I’ve seen in this country in terms of aesthetic configuration. The broad expanses of slab bordering it were also really sweet to stroll upon. What a nifty “secret spot”! Completely invisible from most vantage points excepting Beartrap Ridge. ◦◦◦◦◦ Continued on, contouring and hugging more brushy cliffs and eventually ran into the Harriet Lake trail just at Cascade Falls. Crossed the still-flowing-pretty-good creek and checked out the gorge from that side. Contoured towards Piute, battled the jungle-y groves of fir saplings and hit Cranney’s Meadow at “75 camp.” [old camp so-named for an 1875 tree carving] Home at 5:30, back screaming. Wrote in this log up in the tree: hammock therapy.

   
                      →  no visitors           →  5 miles            →  71 WBs            →  1 firepit 

   © 2015 Tim Forsell                                                                                                  23 Oct 2015