Piute Log--My First Canine Evac 1994

For all rangers, the period around the 4^th of July weekend is the time when “bad things happen” and, for that reason, I was always glad to see it behind me. This year’s big weekend passed uneventfully. But, the morning after it was all over, there came that dreaded knock on the door….

5 Jul (Tue)     Back-story for today’s dramatic events: on the evening of the 3^rd, my last visitor contact of the day was with two couples camped together near the Dorothy Lake Pass junction. Chatted a bit. One of the couples had an old black Labrador retriever who was romping around having a fine time. Saw the party again yesterday up near the pass, on their way to camp at Dorothy Lake, even though it’s illegal to take dogs into the park backcountry. (I warned them….) The dog had fallen ill since we’d first talked; the lady said he was vomiting and listless. The dog was ten years old but quite fit and she thought it might just be the altitude. ◦◦◦◦◦ This morning: I was doing paperwork. It was a bit after 7:00 and Greta was just about to come down from the loft when there was a knock on the door. The dreaded knock that almost always announces bad news. It was the woman who owned the retriever—Bonnie—and she was clearly distraught. She’d run down from Dorothy. The dog was now very sick, had vomited blood the previous evening and also was bleeding from the rectum. Ooh, that’s not good. Greta came down and we had us a pow-wow. Me feeling calm and resigned to the fact that there would be no pleasant, leisurely breakfast with my boss/friend and that I would have to be a real ranger and do rangerly stuff. Bonnie wanted to “call the pack station” and have them pack out the dog but on a moment’s reflection we all agreed that the terrible pounding was not something an animal with internal bleeding could take. Bonnie sez, “What about a helicopter?” We told her she’d have to pay big bucks if such an option were available. “I don’t care…this dog is our surrogate child.” (Ooookay…I get that.) So I started packing while Greta went up the hill with the radio; looked like I was going to Dorothy Lake one way or another. Wolfed down a bowl of granola mid-hustle. Greta back in minutes: no luck getting a helicopter. Dispatch reported back that neither Mono, Inyo, nor Tuolumne Counties would commit a ship for a canine evac, just as Greta had suspected. So we were gonna have to try and carry out the dog ourselves. While I finished eating and packing I set Bonnie to ripping one of my eight-foot 2X4s in half—lengthwise, that is—to serve as handles for a makeshift stretcher. (Along with a blue plastic tarp and staple gun, figured I could rig up a passable stretcher.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Off at 8:30, carrying the 2X2s over my shoulder and a fifteen pound pack. Opted to march straight over the hill and down to Harriet Lake to save time (but not energy). Reckoned it would take two hours and I booked. Went really hard, sweat stinging my eyes while getting absolutely mobbed by mosquitoes. Got to Dorothy Lake Pass ten minutes ahead of schedule and called Minden from there to let ‘em know I was “in service.” Also to let Greta know what was up. ◦◦◦◦◦ Charged over the pass but only a couple of minutes later met my group heading up the trail. I recognized them but it took a second for me to focus and realize the implications. (No black Lab to be seen.) Tom, Bonnie’s husband, said, “Are you here for us?” I nodded. Shaking his head, on the verge of tears, he told me it was…too late. ◦◦◦◦◦ Wasn’t much I could say. Tom had Bonnie’s frame pack strapped on top of his own load and I offered to carry it. Asked where the dog was now and Tom said he’d carried him up into the rocks above their camp and laid him to rest. We were a somber party, walking slowly back toward the West Walker, each of us lost in our thoughts. Just over the pass, back in radio range, called Greta and told her we were too late and I was heading back. ◦◦◦◦◦ Halfway down Harriet Hill we met Bonnie on her way up. All of us stopped under the big trailside juniper (where people always pause before the steepest part of the climb) and I witnessed a teary reunion. Turns out the other couple were not particularly close friends and it was fairly obvious that the whole affair was quite awkward for them—their long-anticipated backpack vacation in the Sierra was over, too. The three of us sat in silence while Bonnie and her man held each other and cried. My heart ached for them—it was all so sad. “Ebenezer” was Tom’s hunting dog and her companion at home (kids all grown and gone). It had unfolded so quickly and they were still in complete shock. Bonnie gave me a long hug and heart-felt thanks. Of course, I pretty much knew what they were going through and it hurt me, too, even though I didn’t know them or their old dog and (truth be told) was genuinely relieved—it would have been a truly epic ordeal hauling a sixty or seventy pound dog in a stretcher over fifteen rough and rocky miles. Still, it was terrible sad when I sat there in the shade and watched them all heading down the dusty trail, vacation cut short with a miserable drive ahead. ◦◦◦◦◦ I was pretty zonked from my forced march and the deep-down tired from the last couple days. Woulda liked to head home for a nap. But the day’s original plan was to go to Cinko Lake with Greta and take out that big tree that recently fell across the trail. When I called her with the sad news I’d added that if she were still keen she could load the saw and tools on Valiente and meet me up the trail. (I probably caused some merriment for those listening in on their radios when I asked Greta, as an aside, to “please bring me a pair of pants” (I was wearing shorts—not a good idea when wielding a cross-cut saw). So I hid the stretcher ingredients for later retrieval and sat in the shade for awhile, ate some lunch, and waited for Greta but then decided to just head on to the job. Rocked the trail on my way. ◦◦◦◦◦ At the funky bridge crossing over Bill’s Creek, had an interesting encounter: two guys, a bit younger than me, hiking the PCT. Eighty days from the Mexico border. One guy was a classic and picturesque PCT hiker with bushy red hair and equally shrubby beard, glacier goggles, shorts and tattered gaiters. The other guy was a regular Joe, slender with longish hair, exuberant. (He gave me a Tootsie Pop.) Like many such pairings, they’d met on the trail, were going at the same pace, and had formed a provisional alliance. The amazing thing is, the less scruffy guy had already done the entire PCT…last year! Doing it again! Because “last year it was all under snow” (his words) and he wanted to see it better this time around. I commented jokingly that the people I know who’ve done the whole thing suffered physical and mental damage. He laughed, saying he loved it. Followed them for a short stretch before wishing them luck and turning up the Cinko trail. I was barely able to match their pace carrying my little daypack; tired, yeah, but the fact is that these were two fit and contented semi-wild beasts without a care in the world and a very simple itinerary for each day: Wake up. Eat. Pack. Walk northwards. Pick another place to camp. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. ◦◦◦◦◦ Got to “the job”: a quite large lodgepole suspended across the trail head-high (too high to reach with the saw). I prepped the thing using a big rock to knock off dead branches and cleared stances. Greta showed up on foot with the saw and we got down to it. Made one cut way up the hillside to drop the trunk enough so we could get at it with the saw. Then, midway through the next cut the thing cracked unexpectedly and pinched the kerf shut tight on the saw. We tried several things to no avail…were “done for the day” and had to abandon the saw, leaving it stuck there like the sword in the stone. (Since Greta had come on foot, carrying the saw on her shoulder, she skipped bringing along wedges, hammer, or axe.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed home, me one tired pup. Took my riverbath (which revived me somewhat) and then walked down to Doc’s camp with Greta for supper, tea, and music. Doc and Co. had just arrived for a ten-day stay. In camp was his wife Liz, Chan (Doc’s best friend), Jim (Doc’s youngest son), Jim’s friend Jennifer, Jon Rialson (professional Mariachi trumpet player), John Clark (Jon’s bandmate on guitarrón), Bill and Jane Jobe. (Jane is an old old friend of Doc’s; they both worked in Tuolumne Meadows in the 40s.) For dinner we had Doc-stew—a bean-based concoction—and fresh-made tortillas. Piute tea after. Mariachi music before and after dinner, with Chan on vihuela, (the Mexican version of the ukulele, as near as I can tell). The forest acoustics were stunning; if you’ve never heard a trumpet played in the mountains, you’ve missed something rare. Also, Jennifer—who is the daughter of some other old friends of Doc’s, professional folk singers who tour the US and Europe, who’ve been up here before—sang beautiful English folk tunes á capella while accompanying herself on guitar. An absolutely magical evening full of good cheer, fine company, and harmonious tones bouncing off the trees. The two of us finally got home a bit before midnight after the mile-long walk back under a half moon. This was what’s called “a full day”—seventeen uninterrupted hours of interesting and arduous and charmed living. So, so lucky.

→  11 visitors              →  rocked trail            →  1 tree (job unfinished)  

     →  14½ miles            →  aborted canine rescue 

Copied inside the cover of this volume of Piute Log:

         The wilderness holds answers to questions man has not yet learned how to ask.

                                                                        Nancy Newhall

June 13. Another glorious Sierra day in which one seems to be dissolved and absorbed and sent pulsing onward we know not where. Life seems neither long nor short, and we take no more heed to save time or make haste than do the trees or stars. This is true freedom, a good practical sort of immortality.

                                                                                 John Muir, My First Summer in the Sierra

One who is born to be hanged is safe in water.

                                                Attributed to Mark Twain’s mother

          

     ©2019 Tim Forsell               3 Nov 2019                           

Piute Log...Floating Meadow 1994

Less than a mile down canyon from the cabin was an obscure meadow known only to sheepherders, the local family  who formerly ran cattle in the area, pack station folk, and a few rangers past and present. (Of course, for The People who lived here for millenia before Europeans arrived, this spot was simply part of their greater home.) Though only a few hundred yards off the main West Walker trail, “Sheepherder Meadow” was completely hidden by a low forested ridge. Few people would find themselves tempted to follow the bed of the little brook that crossed the trail (which flows only in spring) up through its narrow draw before opening into a lovely, one acre glade. The Summers family, who for decades ran their cattle up in the West Walker headwaters, had a semi-permanent basecamp under some aspens on its eastern margin. The Summers, whose ranch was some miles downriver, outside the little town of Coleville, eventually stopped using their grazing allotment in the Upper West Walker country and, not surprisingly, abandoned a lot of old equipment and fencing material at their former campsite.

7 Sep (Wed)     ◦◦◦◦◦ Went into Sheepherder Meadow, first time in two years. Right off, found an old dump of rusty cans, probably forty years old. Loaded them in a sack and dropped it off at the campsite—all that old junk there needs packing out, including a couple of rusted-out 30 gallon drums, dozens of fence-stakes and heaps of wire. Groan. ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed home. Figured it was such a dry year I could walk right across the normally boggy meadow through the marshy area on the south end. Wrong! Double wrong!! This meadow is spring-fed and always wet. In fact (and I’ve experienced this before) the whole meadow out in the marshy section is nothing more than a thick turf growing on top of a concealed pond. It’s the most incredible sensation, actually quite disorienting and a little scary. A good way to describe it is that it feels like walking on a waterbed. Kid you not. Take a step and your boot sinks in enough that water starts welling up around it and the whole meadow surface in the immediate vicinity undulates in waves. Feels like you’re gonna punch through and get sucked under, eeeck! So I got almost to the far edge of the meadow but up ahead could see open water. (I’d completely forgotten discovering this sad fact on my last foray.) Tried to skirt it but had to backtrack all the way around; got almost frantic retracing my steps through the tall sedges, quagmire sucking at my boots down where I couldn’t see. Got all wet and muddy but made it out alive. When my brother comes to visit I think I’ll bring him here to the “floating gardens” just to blow his mind. ◦◦◦◦◦

     ©2018 Tim Forsell               15 May 2018                         

Piute Log--Peter Had a Plan 1997

11 Aug (Mon)     A much-needed day OFF. Colin [fellow ranger] left after unhurried late breakfast and I thereafter retired to my bunk with book and kitty. Took three long snoozes between reading sessions. ◦◦◦◦◦ Got woken from the last nap by a knock on the door. Uh-oh. It was Ruth, a woman from Arcata who’s been camped nearby with her husband and nephew these last few days. She informed me that the nephew, Peter, had minutes before been fishing just downriver from the cabin and slipped on a slimy rock. Wearing sandals, his foot slid into a crack and it looked like he’d broken a big toe. Ruth had me follow her across the river to check him out. Tom, the husband, was there with him, the kid clearly in pain. Went and saddled Red and got him back to their camp. I’ll show up there early tomorrow and we’ll ride out together. Ruth and Tom will walk. (Lucky that I have the extra horse.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Two other things worth mentioning: A guy camped up at the head of the meadow stopped by later. One of his horses lost a shoe and he needed nails, a replacement shoe, and tools. Two days straight I’ve busted out shoeing equipment! In my ten seasons, visitors have borrowed my shoeing “kit” three times now—total. ◦◦◦◦◦ The other item is a classic example of ranger mentality. Couple days ago I made a batch of tapioca pudding. Had one bowl left which I was very much looking forward to eating this afternoon. When I went to get it out of the cooler, found two big fat flies in there as well. This has happened before—they can squeeze through a little gap, thanks to the plastic lid having somehow become warped. Anyway, one of ‘em was standing in the middle of my bowl of pudding, looking pretty hypothermic. Grabbed the bowl and blew the fly off but then noticed that the pudding’s surface was liberally and randomly strewn with shiny little rice-grain-shaped fly eggs. Aargh!! Eeew!! But I wanted that pudding real bad so just scraped off half the surface layer/skin with a spoon and then wolfed it down without further thought. Most folks would find this pretty disgusting, I suppose. Not so the ranger. No way I’m throwing this out. Pudding was yummy, mmm-mm!   

            →  1 mile        →  injured backpacker 

12 Aug (Tue)     This jumbo-sized day began with my alarm going off at 4:15. Did all the things I do every morning (including leisurely tea-sipping and lap-cat-petting) and got to Ruth and Tom’s camp “on time” right at 8:00. They were just striking their tents and I was momentarily a bit peeved that they weren’t ready to roll but it was a frosty morn and the sun wasn’t yet up. Started loading their gear on Valienté as we chatted, no time wasted. (Packing out their gear so’s we could all basically make it to the trailhead around the same time.) Peter was hobbling around, pretty cheerful all things considered. He didn’t appear to be in agony but was certain the toe was broken and wanted out ASAP. ◦◦◦◦◦ I should describe this kid because he was so unusual (even though I’m, ahem, actually writing this almost two weeks after the fact and feel the urge to skip details and “catch up” to the present). So here goes: Ruth, again, is Peter’s aunt. Earth-motherish. Tom is very pleasant and urbane. (They met in Africa where both were doing research of some kind.) Two days ago Ruth turned 40. In fact, this trip’s “purpose” was to climb Tower Peak in celebration of that milestone day. Unfortunately, they didn’t quite make the summit due to a late start and some unspecified difficulty with altitude. ◦◦◦◦◦ Peter is uncommonly adult for someone of fifteen tender years. (Note “adult,” as opposed to “mature.”) He lives near Seattle and is far and away the most ambitious and driven young person I’ve ever met. Very self-assured, articulate, and direct. From his speech and manner, he could easily pass for 18 or 19. Now, this kid has got his whole life charted out. And on a tight schedule, no less. While not so very far beyond puberty, he’s somehow signed on with the Navy’s “Reserve program.” (Don’t really get any of this.) Peter’s plan is to finish his high school-ing at one of their academies, train to become a Navy jet fighter pilot, start college while still enlisted, and give them the required six years of service. After getting out, the Navy will pay for the rest of his college education and he’ll finally finish up with a masters in marine biology and, I suppose, remain in the Navy reserves…forever. Fair ‘nuf. ◦◦◦◦◦ We talked lots on the way out (plus some, yesterday eve). He clearly relishes talking about himself, his plans and many accomplishments. I wasn’t offended by any of this—he’s young and “special” and full of himself. But will admit that, with the visitors, I’m pretty much accustomed to being the “star,“ being relentlessly questioned and pumped for information about myself and my fabulous life. (Read that last with an ironic edge on “fabulous life.”) Peter, on the other hand, was focused on showing me what an awesome human being he was and freely offered up many examples. At one point, he did ask if I liked my job or something to that effect, purely as a requisite social gesture, but I gave a curt reply and he pressed for no more personal information. ◦◦◦◦◦  So I got a number of factual tidbits, dropped not-so-casually, that let me piece some of his story together: Currently, Peter is working towards an EMT certification. Has just returned from Louisiana, where he got his pilots’ license (this, no doubt, a big jump on his peers when it comes to getting into Navy flight school). He plans to parachute out of an airplane on his 16^th  birthday. Has done some rock climbing and mountaineering…wants to climb Mt. Rainier soon. Very handy with computers (his father is a coder). Rides horses regularly, so nothing particularly novel about being in the saddle. When he asked me if I hunted and I answered in the negative he said, offhandedly, “I used to bow hunt.” I thought to myself, Used to bow hunt? What, when you were eleven? At one point I commented, “Your peers must be pretty impressed by all your accomplishments.” He replied with what I’d already found to be a stock phrase: “OH-yeah,” like one word, heavy inflection on the “oh,” spoken with a tone of smug self confidence. When he was telling his plans for schooling and future career I commented, “Sounds like you’ve got your life pretty well mapped out already.” He replied, “OH-yeah,” and totally missed the irony. I shouldn’t be so critical but being irritatingly superior is obviously a big part of who this kid is. Can’t help but admire such incredible focus and the sheer determination to be extraordinary. But I can easily imagine the pain and misery in store for him down the line…the inevitable humbling that awaits those who have such unchained egos. The life-long quest for more experiences. For further validation. I forsee repeated failures with women, multiple divorces, emotionally damaged children…the alienation of friends and co-workers as he rockets up the ladder, two rungs at a time. The problems and remorse that go hand-in-hand with doing whatever it takes to succeed. Whoever he is, Peter will no doubt have an amazing life. But it’s not too likely that he’ll ever really know himself or learn to go slow and relax; his life will always be full-speed-ahead and he’ll probably die without ever knowing his own soul. End of sermon. ◦◦◦◦◦ We cruised along, chatting most of the way. Met many visitors but didn’t give them much attention. One cool thing: met a couple who’d been at Roosevelt Lake. They were fishing from an inflatable raft when they saw a garter snake with a fish in its jaws. The snake swam across the lake and they followed it to the shore, then watched snake ingest its prey à la “Welcome to the Wild Kingdom.” They were stoked, recounting the story. ◦◦◦◦◦ Ran into Doc, out pruning trees, and remembered to ask him about the little card I’d found the other day attached to several balloons that had sailed here all the way from Marysville [A town north of Sacramento, 125 air-miles away.] (The little card was a sort of pledge that read, “DRUG FREE—THAT’S THE WAY FOR ME!—If you find this card, please send it back to me!” and was signed by an eight-year-old named Carrie before being cast off.) I’d written the name of the grade school in my notebook to show to the Doc, who lives in Yuba City, the town next door, when I saw him next. Told him the school’s name and asked if he was familiar it. Well, he definitely was. Get this: Doc said that his wife, Liz, used to substitute-teach at this school when they first moved to Yuba City! Doc didn’t seem terribly impressed. I found it slightly remarkable. ◦◦◦◦◦ To the pack station and left my charge with best wishes before heading back in. Got home after 7:00. Oh—one last thing: Peter’s plans had changed. After this trip, he was signed up for some kind of  Leadership Training (part of his Navy Reserve gig). But now, with his busted toe, he wouldn’t be able to attend and bemoaned the fact that, without this particular training session under his belt, couldn’t “advance in rank” (???) on schedule and would “lose an entire year.” (???) 

          → 48 visitors           →  successful evac          →  1 lb trash           →  23 miles

        ©2019 Tim Forsell         5 Nov 2019

          

Piute Log...Charismatic Mini-Fauna 1991

A local beauty-spot, known to few: the minor gorge of Cascade Creek, which starts its brief journey at Dorothy Lake Pass on the Yosemite border, flows through several lakes in short order and then down a steep slope (a lateral moraine, actually) before dumping into the West Walker. The High Sierra holds literally thousands of these little creeks, named and nameless, fed by springs and snowmelt. Each and every one sports picturesque waterfalls and frothy torrents, hidden glades…countless scenes worthy of long, appreciative gazes. Cascade Creek’s half-mile-long gorge, cut through ancient metamorphic rock, is paralleled by a well-used trail. To most hikers, this dusty stretch of stock trail is an annoyingly long hill to surmount on one’s way to the lake destinations above or a compulsory grind along the route into The Park. For those inclined to explore, though, it’s easy to get pulled off the too-beaten path in those few spots where tumbling water can be heard nearby. The reward is a pleasant stroll along the gorge’s edge (or, in times of low water, to actually get down in it and scramble/climb up the numerous cascades and short waterfalls). During the course of a season, I’d usually amble up or down it once or twice…just for the joy.

22 Oct (Tue)     A tremendous wind blew up in the night—that’s what last evening’s orange glow in the west was all about. Perhaps the last good weather for awhile. Actually, it was pretty cold and windy yesterday—I already forgot!—but nothing like this. ◦◦◦◦◦ So I hunkered right by the stove in my little folding chair and read, Rip insisting on being in my lap. It wasn’t so very cold—only got down to 43° last night—but the wind was streaming through all the cabin’s cracks, chinks, and gaps and I had to duct-tape the cat-door shut. The howling wind made the cabin an inviting sanctuary but, finally, hit the trail with hands a-pocket at around noon. ◦◦◦◦◦ From the main trail, crossed Cranney’s meadow and followed the east side of the river down to Cascade Creek. It’s a tangled jungle in there compared to most of the forested areas hereabouts. ◦◦◦◦◦ Up Cascade Creek again. Not so windy in the creek bottom. All the little trout-holding pools that were glassy-calm the other day are now covered with twigs and willow leaves and fir needles. Makes them even more lovely in a way; reminds me of back east…very autumn-ey. ◦◦◦◦◦ A sweet treat at Lower Cascade Falls. Was just getting ready to climb through the marble slot when I spotted a tiny rufous-colored critter out of the corner of my eye: a winter wren! First one I’ve seen in the drainage, though they must be summer residents. I froze and it obligingly flew into the folded marble at the base of the falls. While it was out of sight I rushed up and crouched behind a little wall of rock. It eventually came out of a crevice and started inching its way up the wall. Winter wrens are the tiniest of birds, little round fluffy feather-balls, mouse-like, a darker brown than most wrens, the color of shadowed forest floor. They bob and twitch and, like other members of their family, are exceptionally tame. The tail is ridiculously short and stubby, maybe 3/4” long, and it sticking straight up at almost a right angle to its back. For some reason this is smile-inducing…reminds me of a happy kitten’s tail held aloft. ◦◦◦◦◦ The little critter climbed right up the vertical wall picking minute somethings from the seeps and mossy clumps, clinging to rock or moss with its tiny-tiny claws. It “walked” up the rock, occasionally fluttering higher. Watched the him/her/it for ten minutes ‘til I started getting stiff (needed to press on, anyway) so I stood up to go. But the mousebird, instead of flying or scurrying off, just went about its business. I tip-toed within six feet while it calmly took a quick bath in a little pool at the lip of the fall. When it disappeared from view I rushed up and climbed the marble wall. Peeking over the lip, there’s the sassy little character only four feet away. It glanced at me over its shoulder a few times, checking me out, but showed little concern for my presence. Tiniest glittering black eyes, a delicate little bill, with subtle patterns on flanks and wing feathers you can only see up close. It hopped into holes and tunnels in the marble, constantly picking up tidbits, things invisible to my eye. Another outstanding nature show, the sort of thing you see in holy places like this one. Thank you! ◦◦◦◦◦ I was back up on the trail shortly and retrieved my cached shovel. Cleaned waterbreaks to past the Cascade Creek crossing (including ten new drainage dips—I’m still learning to see the trail run-off patterns) and rebuilt a defunct number using one giant slab. Moved much loose stone off this always rock-filled rocky trail with wind howling all the while. Grit in the eyes, alas. ◦◦◦◦◦ Stashed shovel and headed home. Took the old trail from the Cascade Creek bridge down as far as the Cinko Lake junction. Noted western blueberry growing in those marshy flats with red heather and Labrador tea. Also found a “new” really old camp, used since we hairless apes started coming here, one I’ve cleaned out several times without noticing the profusion of oldcarvings on lodgepoles: 1888…95…1902. A “JFG  188?” (This is the guy who carved the one from 1879 that’s on the downed log near Point Camp, the only other carving I’ve seen of his.) I’ll definitely explore in there some more, hopefully find others. A cool find as I’ve not noticed any other arborglyphs along the Cascade trail. ◦◦◦◦◦ Reversed my route aside from getting back on the main trail sooner. Home a bit after six, wind still howling. No bath toooo-night, nope! It is October, after all. Fired up the stove and got warm. Later, it started to rain and continued off and on ‘til sleeptime. ◦◦◦◦◦ Before hitting the sack, walked to the firewood log [a nearby fallen log I was cutting up for firewood] in rainy dark to retrieve the crosscut. (Glad I remembered—would hate to let Fang get rusty.) Rip came along and didn’t seem to mind the rain at all—he raced and romped in the dark! Some cat he are!

                        →  4 ½ miles     →  1 lb trash     → 17 WBs cleaned     → 1 WB built

     ©2019 Tim Forsell          14 Oct 2019