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
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