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
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