Piute Log...Just Plain Awkward 1994

This describes a unique “encounter,” one completely outside my usual ranger-type experiences, but it also gives a sense of the routine trailwork and campsite clean-up that was a big part of the job but often neglected in my logs. Still, it may be of some interest. But these two entries are mostly about a very uncomfortable situation involving a fellow employee who came up to the cabin for a visit. Sally—not her name—and I always got along fine. She transferred to the Toiyabe from another Forest and was assistant clerk for several years before her supervisor retired and Sally inherited her job—basically, the office manager. Lorenzo made it clear on the first day I worked for him in 1983 that it was in my best interest to be extra-nice to the person responsible for payroll and paperwork—solid, practical advice from my mentor. So I’d always happily made small-talk with Sally. She lived in her own place, a little pre-fab house out at what everyone called the ORS—the Old Ranger Station, off of Highway 395 a few miles north of Bridgeport. (It had been converted into a housing compound for employees after the new office was built in town.) Sally’s place was right next to the barn and she’d often come over to say hello after work while I was unloading horses and feeding after a day on the trail. For years she’d invited me over for dinner or to watch a video and I’d declined every single time, always having to make some sort of excuse. She never took the hint and never stopped asking. But I have no reason to be critical of her in any way; Sally was just a lonely woman in her thirties and then her forties who lived in a small town. She was not unattractive and was pleasant enough but I never knew her to have a boyfriend. ◦◦◦◦◦ Some years later Sally became, in my eyes, a sort of tragic figure: the Forest Service went through a poorly conceived bureaucratic reorganization and Sally was perfunctorily given a new job as “Forest GIS Coordinator” out of the regional headquarters up in Reno. (GIS—Geographic Information Systems—was a brand-new technology at the time.) It was work she had no background, expertise, or interest in whatsoever, with endless training sessions she had to travel to and from. She had enough years working for the agency behind her that she could retire after about five more so was in that terrible position of being forced to choose between a job she hated or losing her pension. Sally was unwilling to move to Reno—a town she despised—so was forced to commute, staying up there during the work week and spending weekends at home. For me—someone who considers being happy in one’s work to be one of the most  important things in life—I found her situation terribly sad and felt nothing but sympathy.

10 Sep (Sat)    Still windy! Very! Walked to Upper Long Lake and started cleaning waterbreaks—just the ones needing real attention. Rocked trail the whole way. Many stones did I toss. ◦◦◦◦◦ At Upper Long, started working the shore, poking all around the east and north sides—places I’ve seldom visited over the years. Of course, there were lots of firepits, some quite old. On the north shore, the usual camping area, there was a whole slew of brand-new sites with one horrendous mess. A real abortion: new pit built against a giant boulder (now smoke-scarred) with trash scattered all around. Broken plastic plates and foil, critter gnawed, and the pit covered over with rocks—just a big, ugly pile of soot-stained stones. When I started dismantling it, found that the rockpile concealed an obscene load of garbage—empty glass jars, tin cans, wrappers various, melted beer cans, more foil, more plastic. When I find jars I assume stock brought them in. Maybe not. But have seen this many times: low-class campers that try, pathetically, to hide their trash under a pile of rocks. Pathetic because they know it’s wrong to leave this stuff behind. They know! They feel a twinge of guilt but not enough jab to it to do the right thing. And it means there were no kids because children wouldn’t let their parents get away with such behavior. It would be interesting to see what this whole area—that is, Piute Country—would look like if no one had been picking up the trash and tearing out firepits for the last fifteen years (starting with Doc Grishaw’s efforts). There’d be fire-rings in every flat spot around every lake! So much trash strewn around! And everybody would leave their junk because there’d be so much it just wouldn’t matter. It would be hideous. End of rant. ◦◦◦◦◦ Walked home cross-country and found a neat new route. Cut right over the hill east of Lower Long—just a bit of uphill—and down a draw to Bill’s Creek. Real pretty flats in there and nice trees. Then a straight-shot corridor through granite with heavy-use deer trail that popped me out onto the Long Lakes trail right at the lightning-blasted white pine. Nifty find…a quick’n’scenic shortcut to Lower Long Lake. ◦◦◦◦◦ Back at the cabin: Sally, the business manager at the office in Bridgeport, had arrived for a two day visit along with her dog, Cinder. (Groan) She’d invited herself up earlier this season but I figured it’d never happen. Actually, I didn’t mind her coming; it’s good for the office folks to see the country and Sally is a very lonely woman so what the hay. I’ve told her more than once to come visit “any time,” after all. And she finally did. Was not thrilled to see her smelly old dog (nor were the cats) but of course she couldn’t leave her partner behind. ◦◦◦◦◦ Things got just plain awkward right off the bat. Shortly after I got home, Sally complained about her sore feet and declared, “Oh, I love a foot-rub better than just about anything.” Then, awhile later, out of the blue, she “needed a hug” so I obliged. Uh-oh. I was being hit-upon and started getting nervous. This was a new one for me. While preparing dinner she asked all sorts of intimate, personal questions, probing into my mysterious life in the mountains. She’d never done this before. Naively, I answered her with my usual cheery candor and I guess this got Sally thinking we were pretty close friends. I chat with her in the office in this casual way whenever we run into one another—she clearly needs/wants someone to talk to in this fashion—but for years I’ve declined each and every one of her many invitations to come over to her place to visit...she’d cook me supper, we could watch a video. And tonight, when asking why I always act so standoffish, I tried to explain that I’ve intentionally kept my distance from fellow employees…for, uh, “professional reasons.” (I didn’t say use those words but isn’t that what you call it? Being “professional”?) ◦◦◦◦◦ Anyway, I was tired and ready for bed. When Sally had to go out to pee I took the opportunity to strip and jump into my bag. She came back in and said, “You’re going to bed already? What about my foot-rub?” I just laughed nervously and petted Fenix intently. She didn’t press it any further and proceeded to get ready to go up in the loft. Right before climbing up the ladder she stopped beside my bunk, looked down at me for a second, and then asked point blank, “Would you like to come up and snuggle with me?” I was truly shocked and completely unprepared for this. “Nooo…[long pause]…I can’t do that.” Incredibly, she aggressively demanded “Why not?” (Not the right way to put it maybe but her tone was blunt and way-too-direct under the circumstances.) Told her, “Well…I…I don’t feel that way toward you.” This got her teary-eyed—thank gawd she didn’t start to cry—and said she was “awfully lonely” and wished she “had someone to hold her.” All I could come up with was, “I know.” Pretty lame, but what am I supposed to say? She headed up the ladder into the loft and I wished she was far, far away. ◦◦◦◦◦ The whole scene was intensely unpleasant. And now—finally—I understand how women throughout the ages have always felt when they get propositioned. By men they don’t care for. By men they despise. By other women. Or maybe someone they like and respect but just don’t particularly want to have sex with. It’s a horrible feeling and it forces you to deal when all you want is to be left alone and now I finally get it. Poor Sally—I have a lot of empathy for her. She wants and needs a man in the worst way. Most people don’t like alone.

11 Sep (Sun)     Made us pancakes for breakfast. I’d so hoped we could just ignore last night’s scene but Sally wanted to talk some more and explain that she only wanted some affection, not sex. Okay, Sally, whatever…now please leave me alone. ◦◦◦◦◦ She was going for a hike today and asked if I’d come along but told her sorry, couldn’t; had an extremely pressing project that couldn’t wait another day (didn’t say any of this) and I’d likely be gone til dark. (Did say that.) So she walked to Tower Lake and I packed the horses and headed downcanyon. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode all the way to the bad creek crossing just south of the lava bluffs. I’ve put this job off for years but today was the day to clear that thing of all the loose stone. The little creek has overflowed its shallow bed and for a good fifty feet runs right down the trail before dumping off again. That fifty feet is full of big round cobbles—rough footing for stock. So I tossed rocks and raked and also dug out the creek bed as best I could to get the flow off the tread. Also, just below there, I finally built a waterbreak in a much-needed spot. Continued down the trail aways to toss rock and clear a few more waterbreaks. Explored a bit off trail in the dense jungle of the fir forest. (It’s dark in there.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Got back to the cabin at dusk. Still windy. Sally had been back for awhile. Yesterday I bathed a bit below the cabin on those slabs—good wind protection. But today it was too late and too cold so I skipped the bath. Made us dinner again. Sat around talking but got in bed fairly early—pretty tired and sore, in fact. Sally quietly went up into the loft, no talk of snuggling or foot-rubs tonight. Phew.

     ©2019 Tim Forsell                                                                                                                                                 

          25 Mar 2019                                        

Piute Log...Peoples and Place 1994

This first snippet sets the table for the next entry. It mentions one Gene Armstrong, a man from Atascadero who visited Piute Country with friends a number of times during my tenure. These folks generally used a big camp at the head of Upper Piute Meadows so would ride right past the cabin in their daily comings and goings. I got to know Gene and some of his friends and acolytes who started coming up on their own. Gene was very charismatic—a farrier (horseshoer) renowned for his deep understanding of the equine foot and how a horse’s steel shoes can be tuned to meet individual needs. He apparently could effect miracle cures of horses with chronic hoof and leg problems with subtle adjustments to their footwear and traveled widely putting on seminars…was a professor at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo as well. I can say about Gene Armstrong that, out of his presence, his people spoke of him in a tone of voice that revealed their high regard for the man; I got the impression that there was an almost mystical quality to his methods. A few of my own “western” friends who knew about Gene were somewhat leery of his techniques and more than a little skeptical of his guru-like status—possibly because his clientele were, ahem, people of means. (He and his friends rode gorgeous animals…all their gear and clothing was top shelf.) I got invited to dinner a number of times over the years and shared some memorable evenings in their camp.

6 Sep (Tue)     ◦◦◦◦◦ Met a young couple from Atascadero on the final mile. Talkative Peggy and quiet Carl (both, late 20s). When we first started talking I said, just guessing, “You must know Gene” and that perked them right up. (Turns out he’d sent them up here—both had taken his courses at Cal Poly.) They were camped at Stony Camp, riding up to see the famously beautiful Upper Piute Meadows. We had a nice chat. I gave them some useful pointers and a couple of “hot-tips-from-the-ranger.” ◦◦◦◦◦

This entry begins with visiting my parents at “Sonora Bridge” (a Forest Service campground just a few miles from the pack station). Every couple of years, my folks would stay there on one of their summer traveling trips and we’d have at least one brief visit. On this day, I was headed back to Piute after a quick resupply and was able to stop by—always a real pleasure to see them in this setting.◦◦◦◦◦Now, about references to named campsites. The pack station had appelations for camps they used—a physical characteristic or the surname of some party who had established the site or maybe just used it forever. I adopted the pack station’s names for ease of communication. “Black’s Camp” and “Point Camp” were two nearby sites at the far end of Upper Piute, somewhat less than a mile from the cabin. “Stony Camp,” a couple of miles down canyon, was not particularly rocky but…that’s what it was called.“Trash Camp” was an unattractive trailside site that had been used by Doc Grishaw and his cohorts (years before my arrival) as a convenient transfer depot in the course of his long campaign to rid the upper West Walker backcountry of vast amounts of garbage left by campers of yore—that is, from back in the days before people saw any reason to pack out their cans and bottles. ◦◦◦◦◦This naming of places-of-no-great-distinction happens wherever people need to communicate about specific locations where they live and work—a long tradition most Americans have forgotten about, to the point of people not even knowing that their own city got its name in this fashion. (A settler’s admonition, back in 1822, of “don’t try to cross the river ‘til you pass the big oak tree” is why the town ended up being called Oakford.) There are plenty of such place-names mentioned in this log, all of which I learned from pack station folk or the local ranch family. There was “Watch-Tree Creek,” a little brook that crossed the trail where—for some unknown reason—a cheap old pocket watch was nailed to a tree. “Bamboo flat” was a spot where, formerly, some bamboo-like weed had grown. (It was long gone by my time and I long wondered what type of grass it was.) “Harriet hill” was the steep grade ascending the moraine below Harriet Lake. “Beartrap Meadow,” not on any map, was an obscure hillside meadow used by sheepherders where a rusty old steel Beartrap had once hung from a tree. (The nearby Beartrap Lake got its name from the Meadow.) “Arragoni Pond” was the Lily pond right before Lower Piute Meadows opened up, named after one of the old-time sheep-herders whose name could still be made out, carved into the bark of a few old lodgepoles and aspens. ◦◦◦◦◦ This piece gives a glimpse of my dear friend, Doc’s character—a real bundle of contradictions and one of the most amazing people I’ve known. He was so much more than the cranky old man portrayed here. Sadly, he took his own life in 1999. (I’ll write up entries from that time at some point…they pain me still.)

9 Sep (Fri)     ◦◦◦◦◦ Stopped by Sonora Bridge to have breakfast with my folks. (Greta called me on the radio yesterday as I was riding out to let me know they were there—good timing!) Hell-aciously windy…a breeze with a real whiz-bang! At the “corner” heading around northwards to the Highway 108 junction, sand & grit & plant material raked my windshield. ◦◦◦◦◦ Right after turning onto the campground’s graveled road, saw an amazing thing: a fearsome cloud of dust and debris, whipping through the sagebrush and coming right at me. I had already slowed to a crawl so got to witness the whole thing. When that heap o’ wind crossed the road it coalesced—instantly—right in front of the truck, transforming into a minor hissing spitting tornado. It went from shapeless cloud to dense, opaque, clearly defined funnel just like [snap fingers for emphasis] that!! In that instant the thing was all-but-literally alive. And where the vortex touched the Earth there was a two-inch-wide circular focal point of pretty darned impressive force and energy, made out of nothing and short-lived. I could feel that point of contact’s power in my center. And then I drove right slam into the thing. The whole truck lurched, dust surrounding me on all sides, and for a second there I could barely see out my windows. (Fortunately, they were up at the time.) It all happened sofast. Oh, thanks so much for letting me see this! ◦◦◦◦◦ Had a very pleasant time with Ma & Pa. I’m afraid I just rattled on. Dad told me about something that really tickled him, an encounter with another camper a couple of days before. He was chatting with this fella and, in the course of their conversation, mentioned that his son was the ranger “back there.” The man, who’d backpacked up the West Walker and apparently had met me a time or two said (my father added a tone of awe here), “You’re the ranger’s father?!” Small-f fame! Wind whipping the trees outside, us all cozy in their nice trailer eating sausage and eggs and toast—thanks, Ma! But had to get on the trail so we said our goodbyes and hugged our hugs. ◦◦◦◦◦ At the pack station, chatted with Doc while packing. He was in the foulest of tempers, using his favorite and meanest epithets to lambast poor Peggy and Carl (those clients of Bart’s I’d talked with a few days ago). When I visited with them they were lamenting that Jim [one of the packers and Doc’s son] had dropped them off at Stony Camp instead of Upper Piute. They’d asked to be dropped off at Howard Black’s camp. I mentioned to Jim when I saw him that they seemed a bit unhappy; I was curious why they’d been dropped off in Lower Piute instead. Jim said that Doc had figured, with Black’s Camp being used so much this summer, that the feed would be all but gone around there. Jim suggested Stony Camp instead so their horses could find something to eat. Sounded reasonable to me. But I guess Jim had let Doc know, probably with some offhand comment, that the customers were displeased and in typical Doc-ian fashion he blew the whole deal way out of proportion. It took me awhile to get him calmed down. (He just needed something/somebody to vent on, I suppose—probably the wind had put him in this caustic temper.) Doc told me he’d cooked Peggy & Carl dinner the night before they went in ‘cuz they didn’t want to drive all the way to Bridgeport and back. So they were ingrates, spoiled brats who kiss the boots of the great horse guru Gene Armstrong. That’s the last time he does anything nice for these hobby-horsers…et cetera. (I’ve left out all the expletives, which considerably shortens a Doc-diatribe in written form.) Then, by way of comparison, he brought up Mike & Rene as examples of goodstock users. He likes them okay. “But that Mike,” Doc chuckled, in better humor now. “That Mike talks up a storm and he keeps repeating himself over and over again.” I was momentarily stunned to hear Doc say this. Mike is indeed a compulsive talker but I’ve not really noticed him being repetitive (at least, as far as repeating himself in the same conversation). Here is proof, again, of my theory that people are really irritated by qualities or foibles in others that they themselves possess. I’ve seen this over and over. And if there’s anyoneI know who’s guilty of repeating himself “over and over,” it’s Doc Grishaw. Sometimes he’ll give a lengthy discourse or instructions and immediately go through it again using almost the same phrasing. It drives me nuts. (It drives everyone at the pack station nuts, too, I’m sure.) But…he’s Doc. And, hey, since it bugs me so much, I must repeat myself without noticing. ◦◦◦◦◦ Got on the trail in a howling gale at 1:30, hanging onto my hat all through Leavitt Meadows. (Shouldn’t have washed my hair this morning.) [This is in reference to the fact that cowboy hats stay on better when one’s hair is a bit oily.] To the cabin five hours later. Saw two guys on horseback at the Fremont junction, with one leading a packhorse. No panniers, just junk tied all over a riding saddle—stuffsacks & pots & fishing poles dangling and clanking. In a flash I thought, ”Oh, no! These nimrods have never been here, don’t know the country, have no permit, need to find a camp right now, and will commit many crimes.” But it turns out they knew their business: freshly moved to Carson Valley from Gunnison, Colorado, the one old guy had sold his whole pack outfit thinking he wouldn’t be needing it any more. They had no plans to build a fire (so they said) because it’s so dry and windy. So I let ‘em stay there in the meadows and we parted amiably.

     ©2019 Tim Forsell              1 Mar 2019