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
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