There were a
handful of folks that I’d see every season. It was one of the greater pleasures
of rangering, forming genuine friendships with amazing people (who I referred
to as “my best customers”). Old Rod Davis was one of the most colorful. He
always traveled alone but in the presence of a small herd of…pack goats! They
actually had tiny little pack-saddles, quarter-scale versions of what goes on
the back of a horse or mule. They’d carry all his stuff and were boon
companions as well. (And when he’d come with the grandkids, a couple of the she-goats
provided the childrens’ milk as well.) Rod, who owned property near Nevada City,
lived there with his son’s family and a bunch of animals. He was a real
character—a depression era relict with stories of being a cowboy in the Dakotas
when he was a teen…a small, wiry man, hard of hearing, who usually wore a
bandana stuffed under a crumpled hat (to keep the sun off his ears), jeans, and
plaid shirt. He liked climbing mountains, was always off to attempt some peak
he hadn’t yet been up. But this was just Rod’s excuse to wander in the woods. I
always enjoyed seeing him, loved the goats—very intelligent animals who
followed like dogs. The packers, however, couldn’t stand him—goats terrify pack
strings and can cause all sorts of havoc. (Horses and mules see goats as some
kind of space aliens.) Then, later, I’d hear from the packers about some wreck
that happened while the old man just stood there watching, ignoring their pleas
to ”GET YOUR *&%#√$@ GOATS OFF THE TRAIL!” He seemed utterly clueless about
this and I’d admonish him: “Rod! Whenever you see horses coming, PLEASE get off
the trail, take ‘em into the woods ‘til after they pass.” It wasn’t just the
pack station folk who suffered; the same thing happened with me—more than once.
(I’d scream, too…and to no avail.)
30 Aug (Tue) An “unusual” day, even for this ranger;
when I was riding out yesterday I ran into Rod Davis (third time this season),
back with his lovely daughter-in-law, three grandkids, dog, and seven
pack-goats. This same bunch was up about six weeks ago. Then Rod returned with
just the dog and two goats to climb Forsyth
Peak [on the Yosemite Park/Toiyabe Forest boundary] but he didn’t make it and
was up to try again. They were—all 42 legs of ‘em—going up to Helen Lake and he
was going to try for the summit again. I casually commented that I might come
up to visit and, after thinking about it more, thought it’d be neat to go up
Forsyth with this motley bunch. My alarm got me up at five this morning and it
still sounded like a good idea. ◦◦◦◦◦ So I left at 8:30 and just 100 minutes
later parked Redtop right above Cora Lake. Slipped into the nearest phone booth
and changed from chaps–Stetson–green pants–lace-up packer boots–spurs into
nylon shorts–ball cap–Asolos [hiking boots]. Walked up to Helen but saw no one.
Backtracked and searched all around, listening hard, but heard neither
chattering children nor bleating goats. Oh well. I gave up on them, disappointed,
and headed back toward Helen Lake. Cruising along the west shore I came around
a rock bluff and saw a bunch of goats grazing. ◦◦◦◦◦ Minute or two later I was
talking with Rod & Evie; they weren’t going up Forsyth today after all!
Instead, they were all gonna walk to Dorothy Lake. But since I showed up, ready
to go, they changed plans again and we left almost immediately for the original
objective. (The two older grandkids elected to stay in camp.) Our party
consisted of Rod (71), Evie (38), Will (7), Sharee the dog, and five goats
(ages unknown). The goats were Johnny, Bobby, Highland, Silver, and Vulcan.
This was surely the most unusual party ever assembled to make an assault on seldom-climbed
Forsyth Peak. And undoubtedly the first ever ascent by goats. I was utterly
charmed by each & every one of my compatriots. ◦◦◦◦◦ We slowly proceeded to
the very headwaters of Cascade Creek, into a fine alpine vale with a lovely
tarn I’d never been to. Stopped there for a snack & chat, goats asking for
handouts. From there it was a talus-slog and I watched the nimble goats
scramble through boulders and scree, often causing small landslides. After Evie
gave Will a handful of M&Ms he turned into a tiny dynamo and surged ahead,
chiding us adults for our slowness. An hour later we all gathered on the meager,
flat summit for lunch and the goats raised clouds of dust while digging out shallow
depressions to lie in. (A goat thing….) Fine views of many peaks that both Rod
and I had climbed in years past. I introduced Will to the joys of trundling
[rolling boulders off cliffs]. An eagle flew by to investigate the noise (I’d
told them we’d see one) and I was very much impressed to see Will scrambling
around on the edge of a significant precipice and not once did his ma or
grandpa say things like, “Stay away from the edge, Will!” or “Be careful,
Will!” Thought it was very cool of the grownups to just let a seven-year-old
have a good time on a mountain-top; he was being as cautious as we were, after all. ◦◦◦◦◦ After an hour
or so we departed, reversing our route. Vulcan was the slow party on the way
down. Back to Helen at 5:30, Will chatting me up the whole way. ◦◦◦◦◦ Said my
goodbyes and cruised back to Red, my bad ankle hurting. He’d been tied to that
tree for over seven hours but hadn’t dug at all. Good boy, Red! Got back to the
cabin at 7:30 after a truly memorable day. Wrote in this log ‘til it was too
dark to see, took a bath in the shriveled river and built a fire. The milky way
was blazing. And, by the way: this morning in the dark I saw Sirius (first time
this year) just risen over the ridge and
there was the “winter triangle” of Betelgeuse, Sirius, and Procyon. A lovely
sight. Autumn cometh.
→ 9 visitors →
13½ miles
Quotes
copied on the inside cover of this volume of The Piute Log:
We must keep our amazement,
or own eagerness alive. And if we ever fail in our quest for insight, it is not
because it cannot be found, but because we do not know how to live, or how to
be aware of the minds narcissistic tendency, which cuts thought off at its
roots.
Abraham Joshua Heschel
Some folks sleep on a
problem but you can camp on one as well. Camping is for the mind what a
high-speed run on the highway is for a car. It tends to blow out all the sludge
that accumulates in the type of urban driving most of us are forced to do in
order to earn a living.
Tim Cahill, “Cosmic Camping”
©
2015 Tim Forsell 21
Dec 2015
