Piute Log...I Hate Fremont Lake 2001

4 Aug (Sat)     Rode to Fremont Lake on Red. Zack, I’ve discovered, hates to be alone. When I left him locked up in the corral on Wednesday he stood at its gate rails all day and dug a big hole. So today I let him out. ◦◦◦◦◦ Had a shovel cached at the junction. Worked up the hill cleaning WBs and throwing many stones. Heaving a big boulder off the edge of the tread I looked up and saw Ray Benson, brother of Jeff (who worked in our Rec[reation] Department for years, since moved on) and his wife, Nancy. I’d never met her before but have seen Ray a number of times. “You caught me working!” We had a nice visit. Windy all day again and the dust was horrible with all my frenzied shoveling. ◦◦◦◦◦ Only a few small parties at the lake. But—uh oh!—two older men with one horse tied between trees with two lead ropes so’s she could hardly move. She was already pawing. (Who wouldn’t be?) Sure sign of impending disaster. I gave them various hints and suggestions but it was late and I was too tired to deal with nimrods, et cet. ◦◦◦◦◦ Stashed the shovel and headed home. Found that Zack had spent most of the day parked at the front gate as evidenced by a big, dusty pit full of churned-up manure. Oh, well, another neurotic horse. Even more irritating: after hauling sand the other day I left the wheelbarrow “parked” near the south wall of the cabin. Zack had come over and took a big dump right in it and, in addition, had scraped and pawed all around, casting sand into it as well. A classic illustration of horsey-mentality. They have their ways of getting even, like Fat Freddy’s cat pissing in Fat Freddy’s boots. ◦◦◦◦◦ BBQed my last steak, somewhat far gone since all my ice melted two days ago but marinating revived it somewhat. (Wasn’t about to throw the thing out, no way.)

  → 17 visitors         → 1 firepit            → 5 lbs trash    

        → 450 lbs rock          → 35 WBs cleaned          → 11 miles

5 Aug (Sun)     Woke up at 5:30 and went outside to see Venus and Jupiter blazing away, within about 1–2° of each other (that’s really close). Quite a sight. 36° on the porch (Fahrenheit, that is.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Quite frankly, I despise Fremont Lake. I hate to go there…don’t fish and I don’t find it attractive, buried in its hole, and although it isn’t as crowded as years past, only bad things happen there. Yesterday I found a new pit full of garbage—foil, cans, burned clothing, and batteries—built on a slab with the remains of a busted-up, rotten log scattered around. The first “legal;” site, as you come around the lake, had a big stack of terrible firewood—fresh-cut green branches, chunks of rotten log, and a log “bench” whose end was charred from a late-night out-of-wood attempt to keep the fire going. A real abortion. The pit had been covered over with blackened rocks, rendering it ugly and useless. Coals strewn around the blackened earth. These things flat-out sicken my spirit. So I avoid the place. Like most rangers, I prefer the lengthy and scenic patrols into the high country. ◦◦◦◦◦ But…my conscience (such as it is) was on my case this morning. Those foul firepits…and, did those guys leave that poor horse tethered between the two trees all night? So, I went back. ◦◦◦◦◦ When I got there the two men were out on the lake in their tiny rafts. There was plastic and paper in their pit (I’d just explained to them about that—“Wind blows it into the bushes…please just put it in a sack,” et cet—and they’d completely ignored my advice. The poor, lonely mare was indeed still tethered and had dug a crater an honest foot deep—duff and dust scattered far—and she was clearly in distress. I felt a cellular outrage. To vent, I tore out two of the ugly, aforementioned pits and waited for the two men’s return, making speeches in my head. ◦◦◦◦◦ The owner of the horse was completely taken aback that I was upset. He’d brought feed—about 2 pounds of grain—and said, quote, “I wasted an hour this morning letting her graze.” (There’s NO grass around the lake to speak of.) I could go on but, in short, I spent about an hour and a half with these two city beaters. Read out of the copy of the Backcountry Horseman’s Guide (which I then gave them), took them on a tour of the local destruction, had them move camp and horse to Bart’s basecamp site and lent them my shovel to fill in the ditch. I was ready to write two citations but relented when it became obvious that they were “innocent”—e.g., clueless—and really did want to be good campers. I told them, “I don’t want to write you a ticket. What I want is to change your behavior.” They both swore that I’d gotten through. Sure hope so. ◦◦◦◦◦ Tore out that foul condo [gigantic firepit with added layers of ash, coals, and rocks] on the east shore; one of those sites where you can’t dig a hole without running into buried coals from past clean-ups. A big, ugly job in the hot sun. Found new, old dumps of broken glass nearby and filled up a couple of plastic grocery bags with glass, foil bits, rusty cans and food wrappers. I’ll tell ya: I paid my rangerly dues today to make up for those sweet, long rides and peak bagging sprees earlier this week. And there was no one else at the lake to see me sweating. Rode home slow and took a nap. I’d left Zack in the round corral today, hobbled. All in all, I felt better…none of my labors today will ever be noticed and the pits will literally grow from the ashes again and be filled with trash. But I know.   

                 → 3 pits         → 4 visitors         → 12 lbs trash         → 12 miles

©2017 by Tim Forsell               13 Nov 2017