This, the last of a long season—the only one where I was kept on into November. That year, in order to minimize the time seasonals would be eligible for unemployment compensation, the Forest Service kept us rangers working part time for an extra month. (It was a complete waste of everybody’s time and they never tried it again.)◦◦◦◦◦About the several references to dead horses in this entry: this summer was notable for my having to deal with two of them, both owned by private stock-users, both died by accident. One was hit by lightning and the other fell and broke its hip. The latter was just up at the head of the uppermost Piute Meadow, less than a mile from the cabin, and over the course of only a few weeks I got to observe the fascinating process of its reduction to scattered bones. More on that later….
1 Nov (Fri) Heading straight back to Piute. Up before dawn. 15° outside, probably about 20° in the camper. One last shower at Wheeler in the rusty shower with paint flaking down the drain. Wolfed toast and eggs while finishing final clean-up of the guard station. Since I’ve been working in Bridgeport it’s not been left so neat’n’tidy at season’s end. Kinda pointless seeing as how next spring there’ll be a liberal scattering of mouse turds on every surface flat enough they won’t slide off. ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed for town. A clear and delightfully shiny autumn day of the super-crisp variety. Snow quickly melting up the south-facing mountain flanks but there to stay in the high, shady places. Bought food in town, said goodbyes to a few folks I won’t likely see again and drove my truck to the barn to pack. It was sunny and warm there with leaves sifting down from the cottonwoods and blowing around in circles in that little lee zone by the corral. Caught Becky easy and she loaded in the stock truck first try! She’s getting better! Maybe! ◦◦◦◦◦ At the pack station, Bart drove in as I was unloading the stock. I went over to say goodbye and thanks-for-everything just before riding. He was busy packing up leftover food and, like Doc gets, seemed preoccupied and looked a little grumpy so I didn’t try to chat. His only comment worth mentioning was, “You guys sure are gluttons for punishment” after I told him I’d be up at Piute for five days. Told Bart, “I’m not worried about staying warm at the cabin; I’m more concerned about staying warm after I leave.” And then it was “Have a good winter!”s—that all-purpose parting expression us seasonal workers give and receive. ◦◦◦◦◦ Lined em’ out, necked em’ up, and up the trail went we. Horses balky at weird-looking, frozen-over Leavitt Creek crossing but Leavitt Meadows proper was already almost entirely snow-free. A couple of aspen clones at the head of the meadow still totally green and quaking away while other patches were almost bare-nekkid. The snowy mountains gorgeous and foreboding. I’ve never seen them clothed thus. Pure romance. Had that old feeling from early mountaineering days of Nobody knows where I am or cares, feeling the uncertainty and actual danger (mostly on account of the stock, visualizing snowdrifts and hidden slickrock ahead). Rode right into it with eyes wide open. Bart didn’t have much advice to offer aside from two things: to not get off and walk ahead, leading them through the tough spots since, “When you’re walking rather than riding you’re more likely to get stomped if they flounder. That is, if you don’t fall off and get crushed. Other than that, just try to stay on the trail.” ◦◦◦◦◦ The snow started in earnest once we hit the first fir forest. No surprise, there—it’s so densely timbered. Even in midsummer, only the odd shaft of sunlight picks its way through to the ground. And so began a great lesson: I had no trouble staying on the trail because it was already well-tracked. No Vibram®sole prints though—only hoofies and toe-pads. ◦◦◦◦◦ All the four-footers are leaving the mountains, bailing out. Even the birds mostly gone, or so it seemed. Heard not a chickadee nor junco nor solitaire on the way in while I’d seen literally hundredsof robins—they were everywhere—around Leavitt campground yesterday. And the trail was obvious thanks to the prints of bear and deer and coyote all mixed together. None of their usual meanderings through the timber on the hillsides or at least well off the trail; it was time to leave and all the migrating animals had done just that. They jumped on the freeway. None of these tracks were fresh—everybody’d left yesterday or in the night. The mountains had emptied of life, just like that. I could feel the silence. Saw only the tracks of overwintering chickarees bounding between trees to show that anybody had stuck around. It was a stunning realization (for me) to see how the mountains shut down for business at the end of the season—had no idea it was like this. And if I were on the natural rhythm of things I’d be gone, too. It was especially striking to see the big prints showing Ursa marching purposefully through the now-sunken snow on the trail, to imagine those great big hairy slobbering goof-offs hiking out of the mountains heading who-knows-where. ◦◦◦◦◦ Stayed warm and the stock did fine. Watched the trail like townfolks watch TV. One memorable scene: heading up the ’83 reroute before the Long Canyon junction, where all the wild critters had used the old trail. Ranger in leather chaps and green watch cap and Filson wool coat riding big white horse and leading his string up a snow-filled draw, no sign of a trail through unblemished snow concealing boulders and slickrock. My first time riding through virgin snow-covered land. Western-style romance, for sure. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode the last few miles after the sun was down. Sure getting dark early. Snow got noticeably thicker in the last mile and thicker yet by the time we reached Upper Piute. I guess the valley of the upper meadows is a big bowl that storms like this one just sit in and dump. (I’ve often wondered how much snow Piute gets in winter.) At the gate, had some trouble pulling the thing out of the drifted, crusty snow. (Laid it on the ground when I left and it was completely buried.) ◦◦◦◦◦ I’d started having bear-in-cabin thoughts the first time I saw those tracks down in the fir forest—thinking about how those guys were all leaving and wondered if one or two had stopped by the cabin first. All that grain….didn’t close the metal door. By the time we hit Fremont junction, seeing more tracks on the trail, was thinking I’d likely had a visit and started steeling myself. Then, riding the last bit to the cabin past the gate and seeing those big prints crisscrossing the meadow, was certain of it. ◦◦◦◦◦ Tied the horses to the hitch rail in eight solid inches (most people would call it a foot without thinking twice) and headed with trepidation to the porch in waning light. But enough light left to detect general pandemonium and disorder. The porch had been turned upside down and shaken—plastic trashcans full of empty feed sacks emptied, sacks strewn, along with horse tack and sundry porch-inhabiting items. The grain bin was severely chewed-upon and now empty. Worst of all, in the almost-dark, saw that the bottom panel of the wooden door had been chomped through and bashed in: Bear in the cabin. [There was an outer, grated-metal, “bear-proof” door that I usually left open while the cabin was occupied.] “Ohhh, well,” I sighed out loud. And, Shoulda knowed better, fool, said the older and wiser voice in my head. ◦◦◦◦◦ Left my cohorts steaming (yes, steaming) at the hitchrail and went in to further assess damages. It was pretty much dark inside. I was met immediately by the overturned, formerly full of grain fifty-gallon drum on the floor with contents spread wide and far. Felt for the matches (container knocked over and matches scattered), all the while sighing inside with that peculiar sorrowful resignation. Hard to describe the anticipation/dread I was feeling while lighting the lantern—brain a-whirl, inventorying possible losses with lightning speed. When the Coleman flared to life I was presented with a scene both dismaying and cause for much relief. ◦◦◦◦◦ Taking stock: Bed and bookshelves were untouched. Unpawed. Phew. That meant a less-than-generalized mayhem. Grain everywhere and a sack from the three-high stack on the floor torn open and eaten-on. Cool-pantry open and contents obviously destroyed. Ice chest open and on its side, emptied but inexplicably not perforated. Tall cabinet undisturbed! No doors ripped off anything à la 1987. Several large Ursa-turds on the floor, half-frozen, ewww. (They looked like big wads of granola mixed with molasses.) A mess of slimy gunk all over the other bunk’s mattress. ◦◦◦◦◦ Got the other lantern lit and within minutes knew I’d gotten off easy this time around. Nothing really important appeared to be broken or mangled aside from the door and the grain bin on the porch so I carried a lantern out and unsaddled the boys and girly-mule. Gave them a load of [alfalfa] pellets poured into snow-filled mangers. ◦◦◦◦◦ Wedged the splintered bottom panel of the door back in as best I could and started a fire. [This was a piece of half-inch plywood that replaced the original, bear-destroyed lower door panel.] Taped the giant hole in it shut with duct-tape. (Bear had initially “widened” the cat door before knocking the whole thing in.) Right off I scooped up the bear poop with the dust pan and tossed it over the porch railing, then lit a last stick of incense saved, I guess, for just such an occasion. Ladled grain back into the metal drum with the dust pan—a handy tool!—and raked up the junk. Jim D’s cute tin that held my tea bags was a loss but my good ceramic mug I found laying on the table on its broad mouth, fallen from the shelf above but—miraculously—unbroken. (It has a really delicate, thin rim for a hand-made mug.) The most significant damage was in the back corner where the contents of ice chest, cool-pantry, and “free food and stuff” box had been mauled and/or eaten. (I liked the fact that the “free food and stuff” box took the worst hit.) Some of the ice chest stuff was uneaten and salvageable but the veggies were frozen; from the cool-pantry my dried apricots and peanut butter were obviously missing but other things undefiled. The bear even figured out the door latch instead of just ripping the thing off its hinges! Over all, I was extremely pleased, especially after I’d found my logs undamaged and papers scattered on the floor but okay. A very thoughtful and considerate bear…. ◦◦◦◦◦ I’d had toast and eggs for breakfast and a candy bar and chips for lunch. Starved. It was well-dark and I was just wrapping my head around the idea of dinner after final sweep-up. But before chow prep, took a dose of grain out to the horses and mule. When I got to the round corral my flashlight beam revealed a scene that froze me into my already frozen tracks: right in front of the corral, Zeke was lying on his side, ribs heaving, steaming, and soaked in sweat. Please, oh noooo…not this!◦◦◦◦◦ Even with my extremely limited knowledge of equine medicine, I recognized symptoms of colic. Twisted gut. Agony…can cause death, a bad death.Why now? What to do?All these things in my brain in an instant, all together. The uncertainty, the remoteness, the snow, dark dark night. This was one of those moments when you really get that you’re truly on your own in this world. I had just been starting to think about dinner and it was cold & dark and just so quickly my agenda changed. ◦◦◦◦◦ Walked back to the cabin in a daze, an up-against-the-wall kinda daze. Went for my files and pulled out a piece I’d saved from packing school, an article about equine colic written specifically for backcountry stock-users. I skimmed it and saw right off that my diagnosis was correct. There were several scenarios and one fit this situation perfectly: Horse gets colicky after a day on the trail, situation remote, no possibility of evacuation. Medical facilities minimal.It said to administer painkillers and, basically, to not waste time worrying because nature would take its course. ◦◦◦◦◦ Well, fortunately, I had a small vial of Banamine [equine painkiller] on hand so I shot Zeke up with 12cc, the prescribed dose for a horse his size. He’d scrambled to his feet by the time I went back out there and was standing, sweat-soaked and steaming and quivering all over, pawing at a rock incessantly and tossing his head towards his gut—in obvious distress, poor fella. My heart went out to this horse I feel no fondness for whatsoever. I rammed that thick-gauge needle into his thigh, pushed in the plunger, and went back to make supper and try not to think about him. Left him untied as per the article’s advice. He wasn’t “thrashing” so I wasn’t thinking about having to kill him with a Pulaski. (Not yet, ulp.) I certainly did have visions of a dead horse to deal with in the morning. Another one. And having to call in on the radio. ◦◦◦◦◦ All this made for a rather anxious dinner at eight (felt like a July ten o’clock) of canned soup and crackers. Didn’t have the attention or energy left to make a meal. Plus it was cold and the porch was covered with snow and a bear had been in the cabin and I had no kitties and it was a loooong day. Kept listening for sounds of horse-anguish. Went out later and Zeke was up and eating pellets, still sweating and steaming and quivering but eating.I could hear gut-rumblings—a good sign. I relaxed. He seemed even better, later, and I stopped thinking about having to deal with yet another dead horse. The stars were blazing in a frigid-looking void, a beautiful night. All’s well in the world and I’m still a lucky dog I guess.
→ no visitors → 10½ miles → bear visitation → sick horse
©2019 Tim Forsell
17 May 2019
