20 Sep (Mon) 35° on the porch. A soggy, cold, but
frost-free meadow. Lovely scenes outside when the sun rose shining through the
vapors, casting a muted, hazy light—one that makes for bad photos but is sheer
delight to witness. Caught the horses easy with a bucketful of horsey-heroin. [e.g.,
grain.] Cats were both out there and Shitbird chased Lucy across the yard…got
her extremely irritated. Now that I think about it, this is right around the time
Shitbird was born last year. He was the last gift my father gave me so he’s kinda special in that regard. But, aside from
that, he’s certainly one of my best-ever kitties in terms of good nature,
intelligence, and fine looks. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode Woody to Bill’s Creek. Cleaned waterbreaks
and rocked trail along the West Fork as far as the metal bridge. Nary a soul
did I see. After reaching the bridge, went exploring. Crossed the creek and
climbed up on ledges on the other side. Took out an old firefit I’d never seen,
climbed up to a high-point and gradually descended past some neat old trees and
little sand flats back to the river, following its west side back to the
bridge. Some nice views of green pools and ivory slickrock. A quiet afternoon,
low waters murmuring. Walked back to my horse and home we went. Wet tread so no
dust. Looking stormish again. ◦◦◦◦◦ Back to Piute: at the ford, Lucy was there
on the cabin side of the river, hiding in the willows. I spotted her watching
us but acted as if I hadn’t seen her. (Didn’t know she came all the way over
here; figured she stayed closer to home during daylight hours.) Tom was there,
too—he’d heard us coming and dashed over. He fell in behind as we crossed and I
abruptly wheeled Woody around so that we were both looking right down on Lucy,
huddled there in the bushes all nervous. “Flushed” her by riding right into the
thicket. When she bolted for the cabin I spurred Woody up and we went in hot
pursuit of my fluffy cat who sprinted full speed across the meadow, all stretched
out with paws a-flyin’. Pretty hilarious from my point of view…and I don’t
think she was really, truly scared. I pulled Woody up short before heading up
to the hitchrail and ran him (against his will) to the back fence, just to mess
with his head. Tom came after, obviously glad to have his pal back, ready for a
romp, kicking his heels and tossing his neck in equine delight. Then let Woody
go home for real which he did most eagerly at subsonic speed, me hanging on for
dear life, hooo-wee! Tom met us at the rail, all of us breathing hard,
very much alive. Got Woody unsaddled, turned him loose, and just as I stepped onto the porch the sky cut
loose. Hailed, then rained for awhile as the sun shined on. ◦◦◦◦◦ After it quit
I climbed up into my (slightly damp) hammock to write. Fine views and lights.
Saw Shitbird in the meadow hunting for voles—out beyond the back fence! That’s
fine…until the coyote shows up. “Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.” I do hope he
survives. Strange to be up in my tree, see a tiny dark speck in the meadow
about 500 feet away, and realize that I know this meadow so well I could tell
that minute speck was my yearling Abyssinian mini-lion. Whistled a few times
and he started for home but got waylaid. ◦◦◦◦◦ Took a river bath after the rain
stopped. ◦◦◦◦◦ Oh, and I forgot this curious item: awhile back, Greta packed
some Fish&Game folk up here while I was gone. When she came out, mentioned
to me that she’d lost her radio antenna. (These things screw on and apparently
can come loose and unscrew themselves. Hasn’t happened to me—yet). Anyway:
right after that, riding back into Piute, I found her antenna beside the trail.
Next time out, dropped it off at Greta’s house and, later still, I visited her
there and saw the antenna—still on her table, right where I’d left it.
Commented on it and she answered back, “Oh…you put that there! Where’d it come
from? I’ve been wondering.”——“I found the thing by the trail right after you
told me you lost it.”——“Well, it’s not mine. We don’t have any antennas like
that.”——“Not yours? So where’d it come from? Did the Fish&Game people lose
one, maybe?”——“I don’t know!” Pretty weird; it’s not as if I find radio parts
by the trail every day, ‘specially not after just having one reported missing.
21 Sep (Tue) Up at 6:00. 33° on the porch. Got into
this log and found that the “Piute Fire” [lightning-caused fire, given an
official name as per standard procedure] started on August 10th—that
day it rained all day. I believe I heard the blast that lit it. It’s still
smoldering, apparently. Let the thing burn, say I! (Anybody who works in
Wilderness has a bit of anarchist in them…a love of chaos.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Fed the stove
and read the Jüng bio, Lucy sleeping on a folded towel I put on the open stove
door right beside me—one happy kitty. A word about living with cats: ◦◦◦◦◦ These
two are both loaded with personality. Lucy sleeps probably 16 hours a day. She
has genuine feline charisma, loves attention (a real hedonist) and is a delight
to pet and rub because she enjoys it so much, and shows it. She looks me straight in
the eye sometimes, with a calm openness that’s utterly endearing. She responds
to my moods; when she’s “been bad” and I growl at her she cowers and appears
abashed—a common reaction to disapproval in dogs but rare with cats. We have a
wonderful, fellow wild-animal rapport. Then, Shitbird: a stunning beauty and I
often gaze at his leonine form, marveling at the subtle Abyssinian coloration.
He’s full of life and himself,
is active probably ten hours a day (quite a lot for a cat). He’s willful and
impatient, resents intrusion, purrs loudly when in his affectionate state. ◦◦◦◦◦
Both cats sleep with me in the loft and nap there all day after about 11:00. My
sleeping bag is filthy, inside and out, but I can’t see it very well in the
eternally dim light up there and don’t really care to think about it, thank you.
The point of this sidebar is that I have thoroughly enjoyed the company of cats
as long as I can remember. There have been times in my life where my best
friend was a cat. (That implies bad times….) They make solitude so much easier
to bear. Next to women, they’re the finest of sleeping partners. It’s a great
comfort for me to wake in the night and feel a warm Lucy curled by my shoulder.
A quick pet and a purr in the dark and I’m asleep again. When it’s cold I’ll
drag her under the covers. (When it’s really cold she crawls in on he
own.) All I know is that I dearly love to sleep with something soft and warm and
alive by my side—truly one of life’s finest offerings. My life would not be
nearly so rich without the kitties. They’ve educated me, shown me lots of things, and especially have tried to
teach me how to live gracefully. ◦◦◦◦◦ Had leftover dinner for breakfast.
Washed dishes, hauled water, swept the floor, wiped counters, filled lanterns,
split kindling. All the little chores that make my days unfold so slowly. The
morning rhythm here is very pleasant. ◦◦◦◦◦ Walked up the Kirkwood trail to
clean waterbreaks. The trail was scoured by the recent storms—lotsa loose rock to move—and, as always, sad
to see the trail tread being washed away. Truly, these brief summer
thunderstorms are far and away the greatest erosive agent. Fortunately, almost
all the breaks and dips had been working. Still, a lot of wet sand to dig and I
worked like a dog, sweating from the humidity. Nonetheless, a fine quiet
latest-summer day in the mountains. I really enjoyed being out working and I’m
so fit I can take this back-wrecking labor in stride. ◦◦◦◦◦ KING BOLETES all
over the place! Perfect weather for ‘em: relatively warm with the repeated
light soakings. Definitely “mushroom weather.” ◦◦◦◦◦ At one point a couple
miles up the trail I spotted a funny little rock “overhang” 50 feet above the
trail, something I’d never noticed before. It just caught my eye, a little
chunk of rock with a shady bit of ledge below it. I hesitated but thought, “Hey:
go check it out. Ya never know what you might find.” So I scrambled up there and, along the way, found an old blaze
on a lodgepole. I recognized the still-visible part as an over-grown, stylized
“R,” part of a common carving hereabouts that I’ve seen in a dozen locations,
some of them with dates from the early 1890s. (I never would have spotted this from the trail
but it’s barely visible there from, now that I know.) I continued on up the
slope and found a stunning little spring that slid over a graceful polished
slab. Lovely feature with a nice view through a window in the trees. The little
overhang turned out to be nothing but I sure was glad it pulled me off the
trail. ◦◦◦◦◦ Surprise! Hu-man by the trail! First of four, first people I’ve
seen in three days. Others strolled up and we had a nice visit. I sent them
over the hill into Rainbow, then Thompson Canyon to Peeler Lake as a more
adventurous route back to Twin Lakes. They were game and very appreciative of
the hot tip. As they’d come up the trail these guys were seeing my work all
fresh, clearly done after last evening’s storm and they were glad to meet the
worker. One fella, when he walked up said, “There’s the man with the shovel.” ◦◦◦◦◦
Walked back home on the old trail along the river. First time in a few years.
Admired the flood’s ravages in the meadows. ◦◦◦◦◦ To the hammock again. Sure
enough, a little storm has moved in as I write this and I see drops dimpling
the surface of the river but the tree’s canopy is protecting me for the time
being. Solitaires calling and the odd thunder-rumble; fine sunlight glowing up
the mountains. More rain: down I go. ◦◦◦◦◦ A bit later, almost dark. I’m in the
cabin. It’s raining vigorously outside but just lightly in, thanks to the leaky
skylights. I have my dishpans laid out in a familiar pattern. (They have to be moved
several times as the storm progresses and the drips shift.) A half hour ago I
was languidly reclined in my aerie until it started dripping on me. I was
writing…mostly trivial stuff because not much happened today. Truth is, as I
went up the trail with shovel this morning I was reflecting that I’ve bragged
to people that “every day it’s something new, something amazing happens every
day, bla bla blah.” Was noting that this was a truly outstanding late-summer
day, no bugs, perfect temp, charming clouds. But I was just cleaning w-breaks—that
most mundane rangerly activity. Not much chance of human interaction; barring
some unforeseen nature display or a meteorite plowing a furrow to my feet this
was panning out to be a pretty boring day. But I started packing up to climb
down the tree when all hell broke loose. ◦◦◦◦◦ First off: I’m putting my shoes back
on, getting ready to head down, happen to glance out across the meadow. And
there’s a coyote just beyond the back fence. I don’t know where Shitbird is and
I get a wave of paternal anxiety. (He’s been hunting right where the coyote is.) So I do my cat
whistle real loud and Shitbird bursts out of deep sedges on this side of the fence—only 30 yards from
the coyote—and Mr. Coyote simultaneously breaks into a run but he’s making a
beeline for the forest. I see two brown animals making for nearest cover,
heading in opposite directions. I get a full adrenaline rush—it looked like the
‘yote was stalking my cat and I spotted it at just the right moment and
broke up the action. I descend my tree post-haste. Cat comes into the yard and
I scold him like a parent. It’s the “golden light” and raining hard. Just then
the sound of a helicopter intrudes and here it comes—looks to be buzzing that
little Piute Fire but it swings around over the meadow and I see it’s one of
those bright-orange rescue helicopters. It veers back toward the smoke and
zooms out of sight—lightning strikes going off in the clouds above—and I’m
getting amped. “What the…!?!” Then it’s here, suddenly right overhead, and I’m out in the meadow getting pelted
by hail, gazing up as it wheels 250 feet overhead. I can clearly read NAVY and
RESCUE on its sides. As the beast turns I see a guy hanging in the open door,
see his helmet and goggles and flight suit and him looking straight at me and I
do an exaggerated shrug, the universal sign for “WHAT THE FORK!?!” They scream
off and I wave a goodbye. Then run for the radio, call Minden Dispatch to see
what’s going on. Not surprisingly, they know nothing. Meanwhile the ship is
buzzing around down-canyon, doesn’t come in close again but hovers in the
vicinity of the smoke. Minden comes back saying Pickel Meadows [the nearby
Marine Corps base] knows nothing about a flight. And it’s raining hard with lightning going off all around and
this incessant chopper noise coming loud then soft. Last sun on peak tips…a
dramatic evening storm which I normally would’ve enjoyed quietly from my porch.
Instead, I’m running around in the rain, anxious for my cat’s life, dashing for
the radio, multiple helicopter attacks. Life of a ranger, I guess. ◦◦◦◦◦ It got
dark. The helicopter disappeared like a hallucination. But it kept raining into
the black, lightning too. Very unusual to have storms hang around this late
into the evening. But just fine for a cozy night in the cabin by the stove.
Except it postponed my steak barbeque.
The next day I got a call from the radio
dispatch center letting me know that the helicopter was searching for a missing
airplane and, from a distance, spotted the smoke from my little wildfire and
came in for a look. They had no business being there (flying over designated
Wilderness—one of the prohibitions), especially without contacting someone
first. I never heard anything further about a missing aircraft.
©2017 by Tim Forsell 24 May 2016, 20 August 2017
