Piute Log...Hanging Valley Revisit 1994

24 Jun (Fri)     OFF. …. Left Wheeler at 3 o’clock. Destination: Burt Canyon trailhead. I intentionally got a very late start to climb Walker Mountain and hoped to get back to the truck with just enough light to navigate by, all so’s I could enjoy the fine light cast on the delightful “hanging valley” just below the summit. Hadn’t been up there but once, nine years ago. ◦◦◦◦◦ Just as I pulled through the Wheeler gate and across the bridge, I was treated to the following little drama. ◦◦◦◦◦ It’s the big annual H.O.G. weekend [Harley Owners Group rally] in Bridgeport. Every year around solstice, hundreds of Harley Davidson motorcycles show up in town for a big jam-bo-ree. An impressive array of fancy bikes line Main Street and fill the center lane. It’s a big deal for the town, with lots of booths set up selling trinkets, leather goods, greasy snacks, fresh tattoos, you name it. ◦◦◦◦◦ Anyway, they’re pouring into town today and as I started up the last bit of our driveway, where it climbs up out of the creek, a half dozen Harleys pulled to the side of the road directly above me. One guy got off his rig and staggered purposefully down the steep embankment. He was obviously three, oh maybe three-and-a-half sheets to the wind. Dude was wasted. But he was able to neatly arrest himself the couple of times when he began to keel over. He was being followed by a likewise beer-bellied fella who (I assumed) was going to try to coax him off his bike—they were having a heated argument and all the other riders’ eyes and mine were on them. (I made visual contact through my windshield with a couple of the onlookers, who flashed me sheepish, apologetic grins.) As I pressed on, a van pulled over as well with a flatbed trailer carrying a couple of spare Harleys. Road crew to the rescue! Drunk guy was just starting to unbuckle his belt to relieve himself of a load o’ processed beer while all the traffic streamed by in full view, the other man gesticulating. ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed for the Little Walker and, basically, followed the route I took way back in ‘85, which led a couple miles up Burt Canyon and up a ridge to the top. Below it is a true hanging valley (this little vale right on top of the ridge being an unglaciated relic surface of an ancient upland). ◦◦◦◦◦ Got to the summit (11563’) right at six after a tedious trudge up loose-rock slopes to the summit, which was nothing more than a vaguely highest point on the big ol’ hump of a ridgeline. Spectacular views, nonetheless, of all the local peaks plus the bonus of a sliver of Mono Lake. The forboding cliff of Flatiron Butte just across the way. There was a new register, placed only a month after my previous visit, but the rumpled slip of paper with my name on it was still in the can. Neat to see: “26 June 1985—Tim Forsell—USFS Ranger on the prowl.” And there was ol’ Rod Davis, the goat man, signed in from 1991. (Not a lot of climbers bother with this obscure heap of a peak.) ◦◦◦◦◦ The register had been placed by Ned Boyles and party. I remember him well. He was 71 when he put that canister on top. We’d met later that same summer  and then again the following year. Both times, he was camped during deer season at the head of Piute Canyon, just below the pass. (Only a few miles from this summit, actually.) The times I met Ned he was up here hunting with sons and their friends, men several decades his junior. They invited me, both years, to their “formal dinner.” These guys actually packed up formal evening wear, black suits and ties; what they had for supper I don’t know but without doubt there was French champagne or the equivalent, probably served in delicate glassware. I had to decline both times on account of being far from the trailhead and unsuitably attired. What a cool, crazy tradition! Ned was a silver-haired, vital, and genteel man…a retired Air Force Captain who’d flown fighter planes in WWII, taking off from aircraft carriers during major historical offensives in the Pacific. Ned told me he’d escaped that war unscathed and again during the Korean affair—had, in fact, never been seriously injured in his entire life (wish I could say the same…) until, years after retirement, when he was out golfing. It was a fine day until someone yelled “FORE!!”and he looked up just in time for an errant golf ball to take out all his front teeth. His smile was radiant, in spite of (or maybe because of?) the dentures. I guess things always catch up to you, some way or another. ◦◦◦◦◦ I wrote a little blurb about Ned in the register, recounting what I wrote here but in fewer words. He’d be 80 now, bless him, and I hope he’s still golfing. Definitely one of those people who remain active into their 90s. ◦◦◦◦◦ Dropped down off the shattered ridge and meandered around the marvelous hanging valley in delicious evening light—a meadow in the sky with surreal hoodoo-type outcrops of white granite popping out around its margins. Residual snowfields feeding a tiny grassy-banked brook that flows through the frost-heaved, hummocky meadow with buttercups and shooting stars providing color. The tiny creek dives off a cliff and flows down another hidden valley lined by aspen thickets. All in all, a special place with a feel that’s difficult to describe. Hardly ever visited and that, of course, lends such places some of their magical ambiance. On my first visit I recall that the only human sign I found was a real old-style Seven-Up can well-perforated by bullet holes. This day I found another one, also shot full of holes, undoubtedly left by the same hunting party. ◦◦◦◦◦ Time to start down so I climbed up to another point and followed the crest of Hanging Valley Ridge northwards, dropping down finally onto the morainal benches rimming Burt Canyon. Wonderful gardens in the brush—all colors of the rainbow. Especially noteworthy were dry, open breaks in the sagebrush/bitterbrush/mahogany thickets that were carpeted with the lavender onion Allium campanulatum and purple Phacelia humilis with some paintbrush thrown in—a brilliant and pleasing combination of gay party colors. Cruised down the steep side of the moraine with a fist-ful of flowers, a bouquet just for me. ◦◦◦◦◦ It was after sunset by the time I hit the trail and a fittingly garish sunset was in full progress—wind-driven lenticular clouds turning just the colors of the party-hued gardens, casting a pink glow on the mountainsides. I felt very pleased in a general sense. ◦◦◦◦◦ Just before I got to the truck, walking down the road (it was properly dark except for lingering color in the west) I turned one last time to look back at where I’d been. And just as I looked at Walker Mountain a shooting star blazed right over that giant whale-back ridge—an exceedingly improbable occurrence and lovely omen. What do these chance happenings mean? Harbingers of what? Why me? I dunno…all I can say is “Thanks kindly for the gifts!” I’m blessed by shooting stars of two varieties and encounters with myriads of gaily colored flowers that sprout from dry, stoney soils. And not to mention the airy views. Must say, I paid my dues this long afternoon and eve—cranked hard and sweated loads to get where I was going and back home safe again.

     ©2017 by Tim Forsell                            8  Mar 2017

Piute Log...Grab-Bag of Characters 1995

2 Sep (Sat)     Back to Piute. Packed all my stuff and headed to Cranney’s. To my utter chagrin I found that my horses were not there! Another classic—and entirely avoidable—miscommunication! Lisa S. had come to the cabin (while I was gone) with Red, Val and Pokey. Surprised that Greta had told her to use my stock (Red & Val are used only by me except when there’s a major dog’n’pony show). Hadn’t even thought about it beforehand but this meant she could’ve left my two at the pack station when she came out, saving us both time and trouble. But she took ‘em back to town with her! Arggh! Of course, I ranted a bit but soon realized it was my own gol-durned fault (again…) and also that when I come out next Thursday someone else would have to come haul them so it was actually best (if inconvenient) that I do it myself. But it was a sore disappointment to have to turn around and drive back to town, get the stock truck, transfer my load, pick up the ponies…. I’d hoped to get an early start to greet the hordes on this Labor Day weekend but lost two hours. Plus, it was looking like certain rain since sunup. Oh, well! ◦◦◦◦◦ Got on the trail at my usual-ish 1:30. Met lots of “the fans” and had several pleasant encounters. One log-worthy meeting with the sole non-permit-carrying backpacker I met. ◦◦◦◦◦ At the Hidden Lake junction I rode down to the campsite by the crossing and found one young man set up for the night. His tent was pitched right in an aspen thicket ten feet or less from the river—lots of plants trampled around his tent. On a log there was a large pistol with bullet-laden belt and, beside it, a giant Bowie knife affair with brass knuckles built into the handle, daggered into the soft wood. A lethal-looking weapon. The kid seemed harmless; a skinny, shirtless, long-haired, heavy-metal type with necklaces who had no clue. Didn’t know he needed a permit…never been up here…his uncle had been here and told him he didn’t need a permit, blah bla blah. He was having a great time. I gave him the sermon in full. “You know there’s no using that gun back here for target practice…only for emergencies” and “Please don’t build a fire here—you’re too close to the river." (Explained “the rules” and their reasons.) He asked if he could bury his trash, “Like, if I dig a three-foot hole?” and looked taken aback when I started laughing. “You’re really gonna dig a ‘three foot hole’? With what, that, uh, knife-thingey? No! Pack it out, man. You brought it in here—take it home with you!” He looked disappointed but said, “I can do that.” So I let him off with a warning. Amazing, the diversity of human “types” you meet back here on holiday weekends. ◦◦◦◦◦ In stark contrast, less than a mile from the cabin, I ran up on a woman (her mate was coming up behind her) who was leaning against a tree smiling, watching my approach with obvious pleasure. They’d read my sign and she asked if I was the guy who wanted free fish. I instinctively recognized her as a real mountain-person by dint of an obvious comfort and familiarity with her surroundings. The woman told me they’d just left the cabin and she’d napped at the edge of the meadow with my cat sleeping on her chest. She asked his name and laughed when I told her, “Velcro,” instantly grokking why. I checked her proffered permit: Eve Laeger. The name stirred some dim recognition. Turning to her husband, I asked, “Is your name ‘Herb’?” Surprised, he admitted it was. These two are hardcore climbers and first-ascentionists, mostly of rock climbs in the southern Sierra. I’ve thumbed through the guidebook to that region and noted the prevalence of first-ascents done by this husband and wife team. We had a nice talk. Always nice to meet kindred spirits (and cat-lovers) back here. ◦◦◦◦◦ Cabin at six. Windy all day and it did rain a bit. Atypically, it started coming down within five minutes of my starting to ride, hard enough for me to don my slicker for the first time this season. (Usually it starts to rain just when you begin packing, with your stuff all strewn about.) Brewed up a cauldron of chili with a happy, pitiful, clinging, claw-wielding kitty following me around.

3 Sep (Sun)     Warm and windy all night. The cloud cover kept things warm and it only got down to 54°. Got an early start this time to hit all the lakes; headed downcanyon to visit Fremont first. Ran up on Herb & Eve and we talked and exchanged addresses. New friends. These two are amazing—Herb is 50 and looks 40, Eve is 44. He’s a retired laser physicist who saved up and invested his money, retiring at 44, and now they run a small mail-order business out of their home in Bodfish (down near Lake Isabella). Get this: they make and sell “decorative flags for mailboxes.” This allows these two young-at-hearts to cruise around in the mountains just about as much as they please. We share common climbing-ethics, all of us dislike guidebooks (and, by extension, guidebook authors) and just want to have fun in the hills and on the crags without waiting in line to do a climb. Well met! ◦◦◦◦◦ Starting up the Fremont trail I ran into three people: a couple and a guy they were chatting with as I rode up. The couple were very nice and normal; the guy was way out there. He was all mellow and slow-talkin’ in neo-hippie fashion and after about a minute I began to be certain he was on LSD or something like. Skinny enough already, he apparently had no food, was on his way out to “get his hamburger” (as if that’s just what one does when a backpack is over). Said he’d been eating “the herbs” during his walk. “Lotsa rosemary back here!” Told him, “Uh, no, I don’t think there’s any rosemary.” Right then he got it and said, “Oh, you’re Ranger Tim!” He’d met me. “Umm…no, I don’t think so.” And, by way of explanation he said, “I read your letter.” [a posted greeting-letter from the ranger, signed simply “Tim”] “Oh, I see.” And he sort of rambled on while the couple stood there looking like they wanted to escape but were morbidly fascinated. I finally disengaged and, when he was out of earshot—all three of us watching him go—I turned to the couple and said, “That guy is really out there.” They agreed with my diagnosis that he was trippin’ on LSD or mushrooms. A strange case. ◦◦◦◦◦ To Fremont and on to Chain o’Lakes, Long Lakes, and Cinko (first time this season, gasp!). Along the West Fork, ran into “Jack-the-wagon-man,” who was up with the Dick Davis party two years ago. This guy’s specialty is old wagons—knows all the types, dates used, how they were constructed and with what tools, how the horses/mules/oxen were “attached.” He came along with Dick that trip because he’s one of that gang (Oregon-California Historic Trails Association, I believe they’re called) plus Jack can identify all the rusty chunks of iron they find with metal detectors and then tell what part of wagon or ox cart they belonged to. At present he’s building an authentic stagecoach—in his garage, I suppose. Hey, whatever floats yer boat! Some guys build airplanes at home, after all. ◦◦◦◦◦ Jack fed me some new history: told me, just ahead, I should follow his and his lady friend’s tracks off the trail. They’d just ridden a section of the actual emigrant trail, which crossed the West Fork at a distinctive polished granite slab (all underwater) and followed the river for a quarter mile before gaining the east bank. This was a new one on me but I dutifully watched for two sets of tracks leaving the main trail, saw them, crossed on the slab going real slow and…found myself on an old trail that was like a road in places! The whole West Fork is in a shallow gorge through there—lined with slabs and bluffs, thick timber and pinched places. I’ve long marveled at the thought of wagons passing through there in 1853—“How could they have done it?”—but this one section is flat and fairly wide, bordered by rock walls, an easy stretch though no doubt they had to chop out some trees. And Jack said he could see where they’d moved boulders out of the way but I didn’t notice these. I was amazed and did a little time travel back to when Americans were a stronger and more resourceful people. A brief but fascinating journey, riding through history and seeing the struggles of these deluded travelers who used what is considered “the worst emigrant trail crossing the high Sierra,” in use for only two years before being abandoned to trappers, sheepherders and cowboys. ◦◦◦◦◦  On to Cinko Lake. Sad to report that this was my first visit but this has been a strange season. The mosquitoes were very bad. Chatted at length with two parties there, one a couple from the city (packed in by Bart). The man was a highway patrolman from Napa County and his wife was worried about bears. They were genuinely surprised to hear I didn’t carry a gun but perhaps more so to hear me say I had no need for one and had never felt any need for a gun, simply because there was nothing in these old hills to cause me any fear. How about bears? The lady visibly stiffened when I told them they were all over the place and I paused long enough to watch her squirm before continuing “…but they never bother backpackers hereabouts. You have more to worry about from rodents—by far.” They were both relieved to hear this news.

4 Sep (Mon)     Woke up tired and unmotivated. I’d planned another early start, race down and chase down the fleeing tourists on their way to the nearest McDonalds…. Stop. Stop right there, Tim. What a cynical thing to say. Actually, I bailed on this plan because it would only leave me more tired tomorrow and I have lots of work to do yet this tour. ◦◦◦◦◦ So I took the morning at a slow pace, did paperwork and studied plant books and then walked up the Kirkwood trail with shovel and to get an idea of the “tree situation” [downed trees needing to be removed]. I passed about a dozen in the first two miles, several big jobs. Groan! Cleaned waterbreaks and rocked the rock-filled trail. ◦◦◦◦◦  On the way back, cut up onto the hillside and contoured down. Found myself on an old morainal bench hidden in the thick timber but it passed through several pocket meadow and I found some “new” old sheepherder carvings, familiar names on the trees but in new spots. They really used these hidden hillside meadows in the old days. ◦◦◦◦◦ Oh, on the way up: heard a strange sound that I took for an owl cry and went in that direction, all ears and eyes. Finally spotted a blue grouse twelve feet up a lodgepole, staring at me and making jungle sounds. I stood there for minutes watching it bob head up & down and make nervous comments in grouse-tongue. Amazing variety of weird sounds. You never hear this speech out in the woods—it’s reserved for up close chit-chats with fellow grouse and the soft sounds don’t carry far. Nice to share the time of day with this plump forest bird, “up close and personal.” Thanks! ◦◦◦◦◦  Back home, worked on this log up in the hammock. Velcro came up behind for the third time and curled at my feet while I wrote, purring and kneading. (He’s a “kneady” cat, nyuk nyuk…) A real joy to be up in the tree with a breeze and the big view and a kitty who came up of his own free will to be with me. One of those scenes where I wisht someone was around to witness it—they’d be blown away. Not too many cats will climb 40, 45 feet up a pine tree just to hang out in a hammock with their crunchy-provider….

Quotes written inside the cover of this volume of The Piute Log:

“Patience is the most difficult thing of all and the only thing that is worth learning. All nature, all growth, all peace, everything that flowers and is beautiful in the world depends on patience, requires time, silence, trust, and faith in long-term processes which far exceed any single lifetime, which are accessible to the insight of no one person, and which in their totality can be experienced only by peoples and epochs, not by individuals.”

                                                                                                            —Hermann Hesse

“Our inclinations always have an astounding knack of masquerading as philosophies of life.”

                                                                                                —Hesse again

   ©2017 by Tim Forsell         18 Mar 2017

Piute Log...Catch and Release 1996

16 Jul (Tue)    Long patrol afoot today: walked over the hill through Ranger’s Notch (third time this year so far!) and down to Harriet Lake. Visited all camps—only one, unoccupied, and I left those folks a “ranger note” about leaving trash in their firepit. Saw no humans today. Continued to Helen and walked ¾ of the shore. Took out a couple firepits and some trash. ◦◦◦◦◦ In a small inlet there: while stepping across it I saw fish thrash and hide under its overhanging banks. I was reminded of a friend who told of catching trout by hand, feeling under the overhangs. I’d been skeptical at the time. So I tried it here and by golly, it works! I felt under there and made contact with a little one that dashed off in a cloud of detritus. Felt some more and got my hand all the way around an 8” rainbow. For some reason, when you make contact, they go docile. (I believe my friend said they were sleeping.) I slowly herded this trout out into open water with my hand lightly cupped around it and the thing dog-paddled, letting me turn it on its side before finally thrashing away. Pretty thrilling to handle a live fish—something new and grand every livin’ day! And, I do believe I could catch my supper this way if the need was there….

©2017 by Tim Forsell         9 Jan 2017