To finish up the season,
two young women who worked the front desk at the ranger station in town came up
to help me shut down Piute cabin. Their (thankless) job entails, in part,
giving out information about the backcountry and this was an opportunity for
them to see some of it in person and have a good time; they certainly deserved
a little vacation. So, on the 21st of October I rode back to the
cabin with Erica and Chris. These entries are from the last two days.
22
Oct (Fri) An outstanding fall day,
weather-wise and otherwise. No complaints were heard from any quarter. As
promised (and expected) I made famous buttermilk pancakes but—without benefit
of whole wheat flour, flaxseed, and cornmeal—they were poor substitutes for the
real thing though good lookin’. ◦◦◦◦◦ After clean-up we walked my standard
backyard loop to the top of “the quarry.” For subtle psychological reasons my
visitors typically never leave the yard (sometimes never leave the cabin) and
this is my usual ploy to get them to look about. From the top of the quarry the
meadow is laid out clear and simple…a true high mountain meadow, rimmed with
real-live mountains, swathed in timber. Gets ‘em every time, this encompassing
view does, and nobody ever notices that I’ve slyly taken them out and dunked
them in unadulterated reality. ◦◦◦◦◦ Erica had to leave by noon. So after our
little walk we took down the back fence. Erica, hating to leave said, “I feel
like I just got here!” and I replied, “You did
just get here…I feel sorry for you.” Then we did some shit-kickin’. I
instructed the ladies on the need for and technique of proper manure-scattering
and they went at it with a will. Erica tapped right in to the therapeutic
value; she went through a nasty break-up this spring and commented on how good
this activity would’ve been for venting. ◦◦◦◦◦ Erica left. It was lunch-time
(and then nap-time). Chris entertains herself well, is not the chatterbox I
thought she’d be. In fact, she’s very thoughtful and insightful, a genuine
article in tiny androgynous form. ◦◦◦◦◦ After the nap I brewed coffee and we
went back to it. Chris and I went to opposite corners of the pasture and did
“the Piute two-step.” Shit flew! In one of the old oxbows I found a tiny plant,
“pearlwort” (Sagina saginoides) with
microscopic little perfect flowers, a late blooming individual—a plant of still-moist
silty riverbanks exposed by seasonal lowering. I’ve only seen it a couple times
and am amazed by its tiny-ness and near invisibility. ◦◦◦◦◦ Chris split firewood
rounds, had much fun doing so. I closed the skylights and did man-chores. BBQed
chicken and gabbed. Chris unfolded a few more layers. Skipped my river bath.
Last night’s was definitely the last
of the season and a late one at that. Thanks for a lovely day on the mountain!
23
Oct (Sat) Leave-taking, last day. How
nice to finish my season (17th) here at the cabin. Official
statistics (I counted last night, adding up past annual totals): today is the
1077th day I’ve been here. Today’s, my 169th “commute”
out—which is by no means the figure for all the times I’ve traversed the trail,
as in day-rides out and back…only for the trips out. [I kept track of these
things each season so it was easy to tally up the totals.] If I added those
long patrols I’ve probably traversed this narrow road almost 400 times, phew! ◦◦◦◦◦
But it wasn’t such a good day at the start, actually…my back was a bit tweaked
yesterday either from chopping rounds or, more likely, dragging that stretch of
fence across the river. I slept poor, really stiff. Got up and made a fire, got
back in bed for a bit. Sun finally hit the cabin at 8:33 revealing a lovely
day. ◦◦◦◦◦ Hustled. Amazing how dark and dingy the cabin is without the
skylights. Especially dismal since I was in some pain and leaving home. Plus
kinda overcast and stormy at first. I fried up leftovers (not even hungry…) and
finished shutting down. Pretty much on top of it, having done the bulk yesterday.
A trip across the creek to drop the front fence took twenty minutes. Chris is a
dear soul—a tiny, homely, boyish lesbian with obvious background problems,
therapists, et cet—but warm and kind, humble, open, bright, buoyant (she
floats!). She loved it here and it’s so encouraging to see how she’s trying to be
at peace in her world. She’s been easy to please and loved chopping firewood. ◦◦◦◦◦ We left at noon after 10,000
poignant impressions had pressed themselves into my clay. That final, final-day,
last ditch clinging to the vestiges of “the life” knowing, as I do, that it may
be the last of the sweet days (ya just never know) so, live it now, boy, as
hard as you can. We live on such a wonderful planet and I do enjoy being part
of the cast of characters. ◦◦◦◦◦ But I was in some pain with that sharp, tight
thing in my ribcage. Chris was often aways behind so little talk and much
looking about. Sun came back out and I was traveling in a perfect world, aspens
glittering under the blue bowl (which, over the last year, has been much
enhanced by my polarized sunglasses). Make no mistake: I am not ecstatic or
even joyful at such times. I’m just riding along taking things in, absorbing
while remaining very neutral. Little in the way of emotion. But always sensing
the perfection and with mild awe at the complexity and improbability of it all.
(As I say, we have a pretty darn nice planet to live on.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Last contacts
with the visitors today and had two that made for striking contrast. Down Lower
Piute way, at the Lily Pond: solo male with gigantic pack. When he saw us (and
horses) he got off the trail to go around…clearly sullen and surly and not
wishing to speak to anyone, which I understand and respect. Probably without a
permit, too, which I also have no problem with (in October…) but had to at
least hail him and ask where he was heading. At that point he noticed I was
dressed in green and said, “You with the Forest Service? Hey, when are you guys
gonna end this ‘sweet-heart deal’ with those pack station people?” (This, his
way of greeting strangers.) Chris, who’d been a bit behind, rode up in time to
hear all this. I unconsciously put those quote marks around “sweet-heart deal,”
otherwise just a phrase in a sentence. But, hearing this and similar loaded
slogans I immediately sense some sort of polarized political affiliation. And
the sneering sort of tone he used. Sure ‘nuf, turns out he’s with the High Sierra
Hikers Association—the anti-stock-use group that’s suing the FS. So despite my
rush and being in some pain (actually, a good diversion from both) I got off my
horse, removed sunglasses, and spent twenty minutes taking all this guy’s questions
head-on. I didn’t expect to sway his views, nor did I attempt to. His beef is
that horses (mostly via pack outfits) do most
of the resource damage in the
mountains—a horse at least ten times more than a human. I immediately agreed (and
told him that Bart would also agree)
but the figure was more like twenty times the damage. “But there’s nothing you can do about that if you accept stock use.
They weigh a thousand pounds, have four feet and wear steel hiking boots. Do
you know what a jungle looks like when the herd of elephants has passed
through? I reminded him of the historical “opening” of the backcountry and
initial establishment of trails by people on horses. He understand that and
acquiesced on those points. I told him that so long as there were people
wanting to do this sort of thing,
there’d be pack stations and mule strings ripping the trails to dust. As time
goes by there’ll be a natural political and economic flow that will determine future
use patterns. And that he should be far more
concerned by the growing political clout of the ORV [off-road vehicle] users,
whose toys have generated entire industries. This news seemed to catch him off
guard but then he suggested that Bart at least should be required to add $10
per head toward trail maintenance. To this I informed him that, despite what he
thinks, businesses like Bart’s are typically break-even affairs subdized by
outside income, winter jobs. The realities of running a small business with so
much overhead is often not compatible with “how things ought to be,” on many levels. We talked long and hard. As I say,
I’d never change his attitude, not to mention his mind—just wanted to address
the issues fair and square. After we rode on, Chris and I agreed that this guy was not a “happy camper”. ◦◦◦◦◦ My second encounter (and season’s last)
was above Lane Lake. A couple, 50s-ish, from Twain Harte and, like the other
fella, had never been up here before. But quite a contrast: man says, by way of
greeting, “You must be the ‘author’!” [Referring to my trailhead-sign ranger’s
greeting letter.] I admitted that I was indeed. He said, “We really liked what you wrote….” Et cetera. Glowing
praise to go along with the big happy smiles. They were thoroughly enjoying their
day. “Where you headed?” I ask. “We don’t know!” I congratulate them on having
no plan, adding that I always applaud people who don’t have the usual rigid
itinerary, the line drawn on the map. Such a nice final meeting with visitors.
All of us awed by the perfect autumn day. “Well, have a good trip,” I said in
fare-well. “That’s absolutely assured,” man replies. ◦◦◦◦◦ So we rolled on out.
Pack station all closed up—a thing I’ve never seen before. Doc always stayed
until the highway was closed, ostensibly to “keep out intruders,” no doubt, but
more of an excuse to avoid the short days in the foggy flatlands. The Tiltin’
Hilton was all boarded up, so sad. I sighed. We unloaded and unsaddled by the
deserted highway, aspens mostly bare but with a few orange and yellow patches
here and there. ◦◦◦◦◦ To town in a daze, back screaming. Dropped off tack and
horses, said ‘bye to Chris, and took a shower at Greta’s (ahhhh!). Stayed the
night out at the barn, reunited with kitties…completely spent and “done.”
24
Oct (Sun) Up in the dark, a mere 14°,
and drove to Travertine [hotsprings] for a fine soak. Not a soul around! On
Sunday morning! Blessed be! ◦◦◦◦◦ To Greta’s for last visit and cuppa joe, warm
hug goodbye; almost like lovers—this last one—for the last several years now,
with pats and rubs and soul-meeting. She’s a fine sister. Good bye! ◦◦◦◦◦ To
the warehouse for final packing. Of course, Shitbird was off hiding somewhere.
(Lucy safe and sound, soundly asleep in the warehouse.) Merri and Michelle
stopped by—just back from climbing Mt. Whitney, two nights at my place [near Lone
Pine] which, of course, they loved. They were tired, sore, victorious, and
sunburned. “We did it! We’re never doing it again!” sez Mer, in Mer-like
fashion. More fare-thee-wells and hugs. ◦◦◦◦◦ So I drove away…again. Bye bye
Bridgeport. Aspens still splendid at Conway Summit. ◦◦◦◦◦ It was a good year. I
was pretty happy, plenty glad to be back to the cabin. Lots of great experiences and moods and lights…long days, fine
meals, river baths, mosquitoes…aches’n’pains aplenty as well. What a deal. I’ll
take it!
©2016
by Tim Forsell 29
May 2016
