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
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