Piute Log...Coyotes Play, Too 1994

It had snowed recently—a big autumn storm that dumped an honest foot of snow in the highcountry while I’d been away on days off. Much of it had melted by the time I wrote this entry but it was still a wintry world at Piute Meadows.

10 Oct (Mon)     ◦◦◦◦◦ Around sundown I was sitting in my chair on the porch writing a story about my recent experiences with the big trees over in Sequoia during the Wilderness Managers meeting. As I wrote, there were two coyotes out in the meadow, probably a couple, both hunting voles. One was on this side of the drift fence and came very close—right to the edge of the meadow below the cabin. (The kitties both asleep on my bed so no worries there.) Within five minutes this sleek, fluffy fella caught two voles, both by the charming, classic high-arc pounce made famous by nature documentaries. Mr. Coyote—I’m pretty sure it was a he—was obviously relishing the hunt. And I learned something new: the second vole was caught only fifty yards from the cabin and, when he had it, the wild dog played with the vole just like a cat would a mouse! Hunger temporarily sated by the first one, the wild dog repeatedly tossed his hapless prey into the air, turning it into a toy. I could see the vole scurrying on the snow in confusion and, uh, terror. (I quickly assumed the role of cool, dispassionate observer.) It would be tossed again, try desperately to escape, nowhere to go, while the ‘yote was smiling with ears straight up—clearly having a splendid time. But then it grew bored with the game and with a single crunch (not audible) and a gulp (visible) the vole was gone, swallowed like a protein pill. “Welcome to the wild kingdom,” I thought to myself. It ain’t always pretty out there…but it’s always real.

       ©2018 by Tim Forsell                                                                                         19 May 2018                                                  

                                                                                                                    

Piute Log...Prodigal Kitty's Return 2003

13 Jul (Sun)     OFF. No Shitbird [my cat] did return in the night. The Wilsons [recent visitors] must’ve spurred him into a kitty-walkabout. He’s disappeared like this before so I’m not particularly worried but it’s just another stress layer on top of my generalized anxiety about the regime change. ◦◦◦◦◦ Took the day off, big-time. Felt deeply fatigued all day. (That trip to Carson City right after the long tour was not a restful day off!) So this is a day of internal collapse to re-fortify. Took a couple of long naps with dreams. Didn’t eat a bite til almost noon…no hunger. ◦◦◦◦◦ At 1:30, walked to Dinky Creek for flowers but almost nothing is blooming since the little creek is already dry. So, back down the hill and across the river to the several flowing springs where I found lotsa columbine plus first leopard lilies and swamp onion and arrowleaf butterweed. Got my rainbow bouquet and toted it home, swatting and swiping, to get it in some water. I truly feel more “at home” when there’s flowers in the cabin. It wasn’t always like this. I almost need them in some hard-to-pin-down way. The greenery…the colors. I look at them all the time and get to scrutinize flowers with a leisure I’d not be able to enjoy while being swarmed. Also, I get to observe various insects that came with (and are continuing to live their lives as best they can under altered conditions). ◦◦◦◦◦ Started a big pot of beans—another rangerly duty. (Gotta have beans handy. Somebody might show up hongry!) ◦◦◦◦◦ No Shitbird. But a giant full moon which I went out and grokked only once before bed. It was a glory on the meadow…what a world. A great horned owl hooting downcanyon aways…first one I’ve heard this season.

14 Jul (Mon)     Went to greet the two visitors I heard across the river last evening. As I approached, one yelled out, “Ranger Tim!” It was two I’d met in a bigger group a couple of years ago right at my sign [with a posted greeting from “the ranger”]. They were headed to Rainbow Meadows and Stubblefield Canyon following the route description in the accursed Shaeffer guide. One fella was in his 50s; the younger, a studly guy maybe late 30s. The pair were obviously slathered with DEET—exposed skin, with no swatting motions (like my own incessant waving of hands about the face). I might’ve dampened their spirits a bit—they’d planned to camp where Rainbow Creek joins the West Walker but I told them the place was a mosquito infested swamp and that Rainbow Meadows would be pretty awful as well. Then I mentioned the steep snow-filled gulley they’d have to climb to get across the crest. They both looked at me, uncomprehending. I explained that the “guidebook” made their trip sound casual. But it wasn’t—down in lower Stubblefield you have to constantly cross and re-cross the creek because of cliffs and impenetrable brush thickets. The guide, alas, fails to mention this being a problem during the high-water months. Again they looked at me quizzically (I’ve seen this blank look before—it says, “This information does not compute…it is in opposition to THE PLAN and does not allign with our EXPECTATIONS.”) I told them they’d actually embarked on a fairly adventurous journey but would figure everything out…to just take it one step at a time…that the route was obvious. This pair will learn a lot on this trip. ◦◦◦◦◦ No cat did return in the night. Still not worried but…it’s a drag. Feeling somewhat demoralized again today. ◦◦◦◦◦ Saddled Red and Tom and packed the full kit to go remove some big trees. Rode up Harriet Hill and took out the new downed lodgepole—a rotten S.O.B., two cuts of 16” and 17” with some classic levering action by Blue Max [my “peavy”—a tool, also called a “cant hook,” used for moving logs]. Voilà! Took somewhat over an hour, mercifully in shade the whole while. ◦◦◦◦◦ To the P.C.T. Met three guys lunching at the little creek near Cinko Junction. Kid hiking Mex–Can accompanied for a spell by his dad and uncle, a jolly crew. Nice little visit. ◦◦◦◦◦ Removed the other big tree, a splintered mess: 22” lodgepole fell over a rock (across the trail) and was all rotten inside. Cut it out into 15’-long “strips.” An unusual job, not altogether pleasant but different. ◦◦◦◦◦ After my sweat dried I took the shovel and walked back, rocking and cleaning w-breaks for about a half mile. Some treadwork [clearing and smoothing out rough trail]. ◦◦◦◦◦ Homeward. Picked up about 25 lbs. of limbwood from that earlier job on Harriet Hill. No cat (no surprise). If he’s not home sometime tomorrow night I reckon he’s a goner. But still not too worried. Took my first river bath of the season! It was great but no lolly-gagging while dressing, I’ll tell ya!

    →  13 waterbreaks     →  2 trees      →  450 lbs. rock      →  5 visitors      →  9 miles 

15 Jul (Tue)     Saw a gorgeous (if small) butterfly on the P.C.T. yesterday. This morning I actually identified it thanks to my new Peterson field guide to butterflies: Hoffmann’s Checkerspot  (Chlosyne hoffmanni). Habitat: openings in alpine forest zones. Check. Adults nectar at yellow composites and pussytoes. ◦◦◦◦◦ Just after midnight last night I woke instantly at the sound of plaintive meow out on the porch. Ahhh. Instant flood of relief. Or you might call it the instantaneous relaxation of a psychic muscle that’s been clenched up tight for three days. I was never truly worried. But there are few sensations in this life available to human experience as sweet as the prodigal’s return. Shitbird was still outside making those funny, sort-of tentative sounds and I was whistling the 3-note kitty-call. A merry meeting. He slept by/on my head all night, close as he could get, and woke me a number of times purring and kneading. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to tell when someone short and furry is damn glad to be back home. Where he went and what he’s been up to I’ll never know but he came home skinny as I’ve seen him in months. ◦◦◦◦◦ Took the day off, gladly. Yesterday was another stout effort. A few folks (one group) stopped by, wow-ed by the scene, and we visited on the porch. Bit later I constructed a temporary bridge just below the cabin using some P-cord and a few of the corral rails from the pile stashed near the front gate. Lashed them together and—Voilà again!—bridge over untroubled waters. ◦◦◦◦◦ Up in the hammock where I wrote a couple of letters. All caught up in this log (phew!). And the kitty came home. Thanks!

       ©2018 Tim Forsell                                        
             19 Apr 2018                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

                                       

Piute Log...Wing-ed Predators 1994

Over the years I saw so many little nature dramas unfold before my eyes at Piute Meadows. Some were more dramatic than others but they were always moving. To a large extent, this was why I chose to live in the backcountry: to not exactly be a part of the whole web of life but to be a constant witness, to fully comprehend the collective workings of the larger network: to be ever aware of the mycorrhizae under my feet, knowing how these ubiquitous fungal filaments make the meadow “work.” To feel the unseen eagles’ eyes on me, daily, as they made their rounds, keeping tabs on everything that moved in their domain. To unconsciously know when the pines were about to start pollinating and sense when the boletes were probably sprouting down by the river at that one spot. All of it, all at the same time.  ◦◦◦◦◦This entry recounts an incident of a type always welcomed gratefully—events I sometimes refer to as “Welcome to the Wild Kingdom moments,” in reference to the Original Nature Program on television in the 1960s, with its grandfatherly host, Marlon Perkins, intoning those words at the show’s opening. Wild Kingdom was perhaps the first popular media rendering of nature’s red-in-tooth-and-claw side as being an essential aspect of the whole deal (even though the camera would pull away at the moment the lion ripped the impala’s neck open, or when the male-whatever was mounting the female and things were about to get really interesting).◦◦◦◦◦ As a life-long birder, I had an extensive subset of knowledge about feathers. When I’d find one, I was generally able to tell what kind of  bird it had belonged to, what part of the bird it came from. If the sexes were different, what sex. Adult versus immature. Another explanatory note: the two types of hawk mentioned in this piece belong to a group of raptors known as “accipiters” (as opposed to falcons or “buteos,” stocky birds of the redtail hawk variety). Accipiters are slender hawks, agile fliers that dine primarily on other birds. There are three species in North America, all of which live in the High Sierra. These hawks have a notable feeding habit: they always pluck their prey before eating it, being unable to process feathers in their gut like other animals that eat birds feathers-and-all. I would often find piles of feathers out in the forest or in meadows and could usually tell from the type of feather which of the accipiters were responsible. Seeing a goshawk was always a thrill—being a decidedly charismatic and rare bird—and I only saw them on a few occasions around Piute Country.

6 Sep (Tue)     ◦◦◦◦◦ When I went out to saddle Redtop a goshawk took off from the ground at the edge of the meadow just below the yard, carrying something under it like a torpedo. I walked over to the spot and found loads of feathers from an immature sharp-shinned hawk! Imagine: a goshawk catching and eating its cousin, a bird that is basically a smaller version and makes its living the same way (hunting other birds) but happens to be, depending on sex, roughly a third the size. I’d imagine this is fairly uncommon, these instances of predators preying on other predators. ◦◦◦◦◦ And, just a few feet from the pile of sharp-shin feathers blowing in the stiff breeze I saw tail feathers from a male blue grouse. Is this spot a preferred dining area of this individual? Hope so! And when I rode away, flushed the thing again in mid-meal from where it had parked itself right by the front gate. It took off (again) with the torpedo slung under its belly and headed down toward the river gorge for another try at uninterrupted breakfast. An impressive nature drama, particularly since I’d just seen that young sharpshin two days ago hiking up the meadow with Fenix and when he saw it the cat growled and his tail instantly poofed—he knew a hawk when he saw one (though I think it was likely a red-tail that originally imparted his unnatural-for-a-domestic-cat fear of raptors…a fear he was lucky to have acquired in the first place. ◦◦◦◦◦ 

       ©2018 Tim Forsell                                                                                                                                              22 Aug 2018    

                                       

Piute Log...Burros Gone Walkabout 1993

This entry is about a Sierra Club group that lost their burros—on purpose. In general, losing your packstock in the backcountry is a real cause for concern, if not panic. In fact, most stock-users spend a fair amount of time and energy trying to NOT lose track of their animals. And when they do, they go after them. Pronto. That’s what made this story so strange—and unique in my ranger career. It got told quite a few times to my “western” (e.g., horse-riding, packer-type) friends, with lots of laughs and head-shaking.

17 Aug (Tue)     Woke at six to the sound of bells across the river. What the heck!? Into my clothes in a hurry and ran over to find nine belled and haltered burros of all colors and sizes milling about on the hillside, slowly drifting over the top of the fence (← a strange comment if taken literally and not western-ly) so I just opened the gate and let ‘em in. More “unplanned visitors.” ◦◦◦◦◦ Bit later, happened to look out my window and there’s a doe trying to get at the salt block on the stump but Spooner [my Abyssinian cat, barely out of kitten-hood], who weighs not quite three pounds, is taking swipes at her when she comes in—standing on his hinds, both paws. Doe very curious, not too intimidated, but when she’d nose in he’d go for her with obvious glee and gusto. I’ll tell you, it’s an amazing sight to see a tiny domestic (if wild-looking) cat-let trying to play with a most-definitely wild deer. I hope he survives to adulthood. Finally Spooner got bored—boring old doe wouldn’t play—so he ambled back over to the cabin and she finally got in her licks. ◦◦◦◦◦ Burros still grazing happily when I left the cabin, heading for Long Lakes afoot. Someone must have lost them for real and the trail’s getting colder…hope I don’t have to haul ‘em outa here. Radio-ed Bridgeport to let them know in case somebody calls who’s looking for nine missing burros. ◦◦◦◦◦

18 Aug (Wed)     At about nine this morning a guy knocked on my door, come to pick up his burros. He’d found the note I left on the signpost at the Long Lakes junction yesterday. (It amused him—on the outside of the folded paper it said only “Missing some burros?”) Now here’s yet another strange-but-true ranger story: This guy is co-leader of a Sierra Club outing camped down around the Long Canyon junction. If I’d ridden downcanyon yesterday as originally planned I would’ve been able to tell them in person where their missing stock were. But they weren’t concerned…yesterday. He matter-of-factly told me that they didn’t come after the nine deserters “because we didn’t need them.” He seemed completely unconcerned by my concern and told me the group actually enjoyed searching for lost pack animals. This was a “thing” they’d done before, it seems. The guy explained that they take pleasure in tracking them—on foot (no horses)—and it was part of the overall fun. He smiled tolerantly (I could see him struggling not to roll his eyes) when I suggested it was maybe just a bit irresponsible to let his rented livestock wander around in the mountains unattended. Reckless even. There are ways, actually, that burros can get in trouble. Many ways. I asked, “What if my gates had been open? They would’ve just cruised on over Kirkwood Pass and then who knows where.” It did seem to get his attention when he heard I was planning to take them with me when I left in two days. And if I’d left the cabin today, and they weren’t camped by the trail, I would’ve taken their burros to the trailhead with me. (They would’ve naturally followed the horses.) Also told this nimrod I didn’t appreciate the extra burden on my small pasture. Still more absurdity: the group carries radio collars they use to track the four-leggers with since they did lose them big-time one year. But he’d forgotten to bring the antennas (!!!) so it was back to the old system of trailing footprints and fresh piles and listening for bells. And, final irony: this string is owned jointly by Rock Creek and Agnew Meadows Pack Stations. I knew about these animals! The pack stations rent them out on occasion to Sierra Club groups. This is the string Jan [a friend who was a trail cook for Rock Creek] told me about, years ago. One of these Sierra Club outings (this same outfit perhaps?) killed a burro some years back. Apparently the poor critter had a superficial leg injury—lotsa blood maybe, but not life-threatening—and the group decided to kill the burro. Put it down, that is. Don’t recall how they did it. But it was a real debacle, Jan said. (Can’t wait to tell her about this encounter, next time I see her.) ◦◦◦◦◦

Copied inside the front cover of this volume of the 1993 Piute Log:

     There is nothing in external nature but is an emblem, a hierogyphic of something in us.

                                                                                         Emerson, journals

                       True affluence is not needing anything.

                                                       Gary Snyder

          “I don’t want to be happy. I want to be alive and active.”

                                    Secondborn, in “Buoyant Billions” by George Bernard Shaw

    
   
   ©2018Tim Forsell                                                                                                         
         23 May 2018