IT SNOWED HERE AT THE CABIN right at the end of May; maybe an inch. Nary a drop since then and I can’t even remember how long it had been before that. With four dry winters in a row behind us, 1990 was shaping up to be yet another drought year.
We finally got some much-needed rain when a high pressure ridge parked itself off the coast of Mexico in mid-July, triggering a spate of classic California-style monsoonal weather. A steady stream of juicy air from the tropics made for some downright muggy weather—unusual for the highcountry. Clouds would begin forming early in the day, a reliable indicator of rain at this time of year. Starting about nine, barely-there wisps appeared out of not-so-thin air, tumbling shreds of gauzy vapor that would melt away and then instantly rematerialize. Throughout the morning hours these little cloud-embryos multiplied and turned into puffy things that got bigger, grew some more, merged, and eventually metamorphosed into soaring black-bellied thunderheads. During the whole tropical episode, after breakfast clean-up I’d pack a lunch, get my things together and be off. Out on the trail, shadows would race by—the sun winking on and off as if someone were flipping a switch. From high places I could see the tops of far away Cumulonimbus sky-scrapers billowing up from behind intervening ridgelines. Later I might be doing some trailwork (bent over a shovel or sawing away, paying the heavens little heed) and suddenly notice that the sky’s remaining blue parts had all vanished. And be glad I’d packed that slicker.
Once it got underway the monsoon produced powerful thunderstorms, typically accompanied by hail or torrential rain—or both. In the highcountry, electric storms are often quite localized and seldom last long but when the first far-off rumbles sound and the sky grows even darker you know what’s coming. There’s a distinct tension in the air—the proverbial calm before the storm. Ions swirl. Then: dazzling ribbons of white light that are gone before you even begin to grasp what you just saw. Wonderment and primal fear, together. Without noticing, your jaw drops, eyes widen, heart valves flutter. Seconds later, the certified rippers unleash an array of claps and sharp cracks or peals that fade away in rumbling rolls. After a beefy ground-strike there’s a full-body expectancy, an actual physical sensation, as you count off the seconds…waiting, waiting for the tumult to commence. From a safe location, a first rate lightning show is one of outdoor life’s sweetest treats. (Or, if stuck on a mountaintop or rock face when the bolts start crashing down, an unparalleled opportunity to become acquainted with mortal terror.) Either way: you don’t just “watch” a thunderstorm—you participate.
In a normal year, occasional lightning events are be expected come July and August; thunderheads of an afternoon are standard fare. Tropical influence amplifies everything: earlier cloud build-up, darker skies, more intense storms. This summer, all the dramatic weather transformed otherwise normal days into would-be adventures. Each and every one came with a guarantee of sweet smells and lights and moody aftermaths to savor; maybe a rainbow. Added bonus: fiery, unending sunsets—the kind where half the sky is already black and starry when the last hints of color fade to grey.
At Piute, starting the second week of July there was a run of nine straight days with at least a little rain. And at some point on each of those days, lightning was going off somewhere in the vicinity. Once it became clear we were in a monsoon cycle I’d carry my first mug of coffee out to the porch to greet each new day and stand there with sun on my face, almost giddy at the prospect of what this one might have in store—a bring-it-on feeling above and beyond my typical morning good spirits…a subtly different disposition, like a double dose of the keen anticipation wilderness rangers generally feel as soon as they open their eyes upon waking. (One of this job’s many side-benefits.)
Stormy weather first arrived on the day I left Piute for a quick resupply trip to Bridgeport. There were four of us, actually: my ride, Ramon, and packhorse, Valiente—both, seasoned veterans—plus a rookie mule. Becky, a devious six-year-old we got through a trade last year, is still green and in need of more backcountry experience to help settle her down so I’d been using her off and on. She was coming along this time mostly because she couldn’t be left behind all by herself. (Mules simply can’t abide being alone and this one was a known escape artist.) The day we left the cabin started fine and fair but clouds appeared early on. Light showers for most of the ride but then, with bad luck, it started to pour just minutes before our arrival at the pack station. The ones wearing steel shoes didn’t seem to mind a bit, while the ranger had to unload and unsaddle and stash all the gear in the middle of an unmitigated downpour. Everything got soaked. And of course the rain let up right after I finished…like it always does.
The following day it was right back to the cabin with clean clothes and fresh food in tow, plus a stack of lumber slated for various construction projects. The wood had been cached at the Forest Service warehouse in Bridgeport, just waiting for a time when an extra pack animal was available. On the ride out I realized that this was a perfect opportunity to bring in that lumber so spent all morning trimming boards and posts into seven-foot lengths (the standard eight-footers are too long to safely pack on horseback) and made up a pair of bundles, taped and wrapped in canvas tarps.
After spending half the day getting everything together I drove back out to Leavitt Meadows. My three were standing by the corral fence, staring at me. An easy catch—all of us eager to head back home. Becky got the groceries, three gallons of lantern fuel, and two sacks of oats while Valiente was entrusted with the bundles of lumber (eighty-plus pounds each) which got slung off his packsaddle, running fore and aft on each side. You need a dependable beast of burden for this sort of mission and I knew from past experience with tricky loads that steady old Valiente was the man for the job. Still, cargo extending past nose and tail spells trouble. For one thing, the animal can’t turn its head; if it tries, gets poked in the face and panics, there will likely be a wreck that ends in a tangled, mangled mess. I tarped the whole load and lashed it down tight with rope. It was well balanced but ungainly and would be prone to swaying. Valiente just stood there as if nothing were amiss. The plan was to go slow, keep a sharp eye on my packhorse, and try to make it home safe with the whole circus intact.
What with all the preparations, we didn’t get underway until mid-afternoon. Weather-wise, it was looking to be a repeat of the day before. The last of the blue sky, gone, and the menacing grey matter overhead was going to start dumping its load at any time so I donned my slicker before climbing up on Ramon and off we went. As a rule I wait until the rain actually starts before getting it out but—not this time.
From the pack station’s back gate a connecting trail angles toward a shallow ford near the head of Leavitt Meadows, half a mile away. Once across the river this connecter joins the main West Walker trail as it traverses the hillside above the meadow’s eastern edge. From that side of the valley, Tower Peak’s imposing bulk can be seen off in the far distance, fifteen miles away astride both the Sierra crest and Yosemite Park border. In the few minutes where Tower was still visible from the trail several bolts touched down in the vicinity of its castellated summit, so far away the thunder couldn’t reach our ears. The repeat strikes got my attention but the four-leggers didn’t even notice; it’s not lightning so much as its sonic follow-up that puts livestock on full alert. They get jumpy, above all when the thunder arrives abruptly or is extra loud. Their nervousness is infectious and spreads through the ranks, especially when one animal spooks readily. Calm, reliable Valiente was right behind me with the mule—not so calm—trailing. Becky was “necked” to the big packhorse (her lead running along Valiente’s side and tied in a dangly loop around his neck). I gave her a longer lead than usual so she could avoid getting hit in the face by the weird loads that jutted at least a foot beyond Valiente’s rump. Being a mule (which is to say, cunning and crafty by nature) Becky took full advantage of having some extra rope. Again and again she’d rush ahead, giving her sufficient time to mow down whatever grew within reach before getting caught short. Most of the ride I could hear her chomping away.
The storm was at hand. As we started up the climb out of the meadow a squally breeze appeared out of nowhere—harbinger of imminent showers. Within seconds the breeze turned into a strong wind, got even stronger, and fat droplets were banging on my hat brim. The wind died as quickly as it had risen. But just ahead, a semi-opaque curtain of rain was bearing down on us at a fast walking pace, accompanied by the din of raindrops without number meeting ground head on. Farther upcanyon, discrete regions inside the purple-grey cloud mass were lit up one after another by in-cloud lightning flares while muffled thunder echoed off the West Walker River Canyon’s lofty walls. Lucky me: I got to watch this drama from my saddle, breathing in a sumptuous fragrance that encapsulates the eastern Sierran, mid-elevation version of Earth-essence: a bouquet of damp soil, freshly wetted sage and bitterbrush and mahogany with undertones of pine, juniper, and sun-warmed granite. Breathe it in—you only get to enjoy this ephemeral perfume for a few minutes before the rain washes it back into the soil.
Three hours and nine miles later, we crested a long grade, rejoining the river near where it enters a series of narrow gorges. Over the next mile the trail passes through idyllic mountain scenery: glades rimmed by lodgepole pine forest and willow thickets…broad oxbows, river just a whisper…a marshy pond backed by a cliff and half covered with water lilies. It was still raining but thanks to my calf-length oilskin slicker, leather chaps, and waterproof hat cover I was warm and dry (that is, aside from cold hands, numb with gripping sodden reins and lead-rope). I half-listened to the soothing melody of twelve hooves slapping into muddy puddles, puddles that currently filled long stretches of the dead-flat trail. After continual ups and downs and rocky roads, this restful passage marks the point on my commute where a certain mental pressure begins to ease off; where home starts to feel close at hand even with two miles yet to go and one last long hill to climb. I’d long since exhausted my capacity to relish the storm, having slipped into that drowsy-dreamy state all weary riders know well. Random brain chatter sufficed for entertainment. Lower back pain had arrived right on schedule; my knees ached and I was ready to be done, hankering for that cozy log cabin…a fire going in the old wood stove, steaming mug of orange pekoe tea in hand, cat on my lap.
Another storm cell rolled in and the rain picked up. It was late; evening coming on and with the heavy cloud cover it was getting darker by the minute. Fresh lightning woke me out of my semi-stupor. Flashes illuminated the forest in terrific detail for split seconds at a time followed by low rumbles that swept through the trees like a wind coming from everywhere at once—waves I could hear approaching, waves that passed right through me before racing off in all directions. Whoa, that one was close! The horses and mule were scared now and this gave me pause. Hoo! We’re right in it! What about a near strike? What’ll these guys do? You ready? We’d been clomping along at a steady pace for hours without incident and I hadn’t been paying much attention to Valiente. Or the mule. So I just kept my head down, ignoring (as usual) (again) the wee voice that offers wise counsel for free. Not that it would’ve made much difference.
The instant before everything started happening all at once I both felt and heard a crackling sizzle dancing on the surface of my soggy raincoat—a sound something like what you hear standing under a power line on a foggy night. I knew what this was and what it meant but there was no time to think, no time.
A monumental flash.
An earsplitting CRACK!
A resounding ba-BOOM!
A penetrating smell—
—one thing, one great-big-thing that swamped all my senses. I didn’t witness the strike but knew in my bones what had just happened: an electric bomb detonated behind me and to my left; definitely within a hundred feet, perhaps even closer. I know this because the flash and deafening roar, along with the pungent tang of ozone, came in the same instant. (If you smell the distinctive, “clean” odor of ozone…it was close.)
What happened next is a little murky. Apparently I missed the next part—the part where Valiente rushed up on Ramon’s right and Becky, thanks to that extra-long lead rope, swung all the way around to his left. Back in my skin again, I was stunned to discover that the horses and mule had taken flight, taking me with them. The equine herd instinct in times of peril is to bunch up and run for their lives. Fair enough. But that made for a lot of meat stampeding up the trail, wild and witless. My legs were pinned between several hundred pounds of bouncing freight that was flying up and slamming back down—for any packer, an awful sound to hear. There was a confusion of ropes to contend with. Perhaps some shouting; if so, I missed that as well. Panic was replaced by instinctive impulse—inner commands advising me to just hang on and ride it out. There was some dim awareness that I could be dragged from the saddle in a tangle of ropes and killed. But by pure chance this all went down where there was nothing more substantial than pine saplings to crash into. (I vaguely recall that we plowed right over a few of them.) I hauled on Ramon’s reins, trying to pull his head up, and gradually managed to get things back under control. Valiente and Becky sorted themselves out with no help from me. Everything came to a standstill. Because of the rain, there was no rising cloud of dust for dramatic emphasis.
There was suddenly time in abundance to process information and imagine how this near-catastrophe could have turned out. I’m guessing the whole ordeal took place in a long five or six seconds; hard to say. Some of the mortal terror that would have figured if our mad dash had gone on much longer finally caught up with me. I felt queasy and jubilant. Could’ve died! Didn’t die! Lucked out…again! My fellow survivors stood in a knot with their heads swiveling back and forth, trying to spot the dread thunder-monster. Rank terror was written on their sensitive equine features—ears erect, eyes rolled up so the whites showed, nostrils flaring. Becky snorted, those ridiculous oversize mule ears of hers at rigid attention. To help dissipate my adrenaline-laced nausea, I let loose a couple of full-throated wolf howls, which did not help calm the mule. The lightning was more or less over but the rest of the way home Becky jitter-danced, dodging invisible demons. As for me, I was now fully awake and with a revised appreciation for simple things such as the wholesome pleasure that comes with inhaling cool mountain air, for one. And remembered something I knew but had let slip away: how numb hands and aching knees and broad-spectrum weariness have a way of enriching experience, reminding us that we inhabit a body of senses. As the four of us headed into the home stretch I could once again feel and hear the patter of rain and smell the delicate scent of dripping-wet forest…things that only moments before had barely registered.
Two days after our near miss it stormed again. When the rain began I was six miles downcanyon and right in the middle of a long overdue work project—rerouting a stretch of trail to avoid an eroded section that had turned into a hazardous obstacle for pack strings. I’d cached a set of tools on the ride out in anticipation of taking care of this job, which consisted of building a switchback to bypass exposed tree roots and required a lot of digging, grubbing, and shifting big rocks plus the removal of several small trees. Building trail is a quintessential ranger endeavor, one that I particularly enjoy. I had to finish this up so carried on for a couple more hours, sweating hard in my slicker while Ramon waited patiently. Done. I hid the tools and we headed home. The rain finally quit but no one was about, making for a peaceful ride home enhanced by the satisfaction that comes with having completed a worthy task. Or maybe I was just glad to be alive, still feeling the lingering influence of my recent brush with mortality.
The following day I wasn’t too keen to go out in the rain again so opted to stay home, having plenty of indoor chores to keep me occupied. This turned out to be the stormiest day thus far with showers starting around ten, building in intensity, and continuing well into the afternoon without cease. I was loving all this rainy weather; last season we had but one thunderstorm all summer long and I’d almost forgotten how invigorating they can be. After lunch I carried a chair out to the porch to write in my journal and enjoy the storm. I hadn’t seen Rip or Spring all morning but knew they were asleep in the loft and hoped they’d come keep me company. My stepping outside woke them up and it came as no surprise, knowing these two, that hearing me go out would pique their feline curiosity. Sure enough, a minute later they popped through the little cat door. Spring ignored me but Rip came over to say hello before they both jumped up on the saddle rack. (After a ride, I’ll drape the damp saddle pads and blankets over the saddle seats to air them out, making for an ideal soft kitty hangout spot.) Both cats spend hours curled there, snoozing or gazing out over the meadow and they were soon folded into compact little cat-balls, squinty-eyed and all set to nod off again. I’d pause from time to time between writing and thinking and look over at them. One a tabby, one jet black, side by side facing the meadow with their tails wrapped around…a picture of perfect feline contentment that remelted my heart each time I glanced over. Rain drummed on the porch roof and dripped off eaves and we were all terribly cozy.
As a named watercourse the West Walker originates just beyond the head of Piute Meadows where three boisterous creeks come together in the space of maybe five hundred feet. The new-found river begins its journey slowly, winding along through snaky oxbows that run the length of the meadow. On this day the rain came down hard; hard enough and for long enough that the meandering river gathered considerable speed. Opaque with sediment, it rose inch by inch through the day, climbing up its turf-rimmed banks and burying sandbars. (Those visible from the porch shrank and finally disappeared while I was working on my journal.) When the rain finally eased off in the early evening I walked down to the log bridge just below the cabin for a closer look. Rip, always keen for a cat-walk, followed at my heels. Swift flat water coming ‘round the bend was just a murmur on top of the muffled commotion of cascading rapids in the narrow gorge just down canyon. We found the bridge mostly under water with an assortment of sticks and pine cones temporarily corralled in a swirling eddy on its down-stream side. Wildflowers growing among the grasses and sedges making up the turfy banks were drowning in brown soup. A good part of all this run-off consisted of freshly melted snow washed down from the crest. Standing there on the bank at the spot where I dip my water buckets I could feel an icy chill radiating from the river’s surface. Rip, by my side, surveyed an alien scene with great interest—too engrossed to notice or care that his legs and belly were soaked. This was my black cat’s world, too, and the bridge he uses while I sleep was under water. Rip spotted something and I followed his gaze. Out past the back fence, a mallard hen was leading her brood back to the oxbow pond where they live, following a foray to the river. I counted six ducklings in a line, struggling to keep up. Robins were warbling their off-tune dusk songs. Tranquility. Home.
I went out to catch Ramon in the morning and saw that the river was already back down and no longer the color of mud. The sun hadn’t yet topped the canyon’s rim but the sky was clear and it looked like a fine day was in store. But by the time we left the cabin, clouds were already gathering forces; it would rain again. We crossed the meadow, forded the river, and headed upcanyon toward Kirkwood Pass. Valiente and Becky, bellies full and maybe a little bored, decided to tag along. They fell in behind and followed us for over a mile, as far as the highest meadow, but when the trail began to climb they lost interest and watched us go. Ramon was despondent. When I urged him on he turned his head and fixed them with a wounded look. Again: herd animals have a basic impulse to stick together but these two had each other, after all, and were knee-deep in lush green grass. As we went along, Ramon kept turning his head to stare intently in the precise direction of where he’d last seen his fair-weather friends.
The view from the cabin is picture postcard-esque: a mile-long meadow fills the foreground, drawing the eye past forested slopes slanting toward the north faces of two craggy, snowfield-laden eleven-thousand-foot peaks on the Sierra crest—Hawksbeak Peak and Ehrnbeck Mountain—both flanked by hanging valleys. Just beyond the head of the meadow, unseen in the midground, are several inconspicuous granite bluffs that rise out of an otherwise featureless timbered slope. The most prominent of these modest outcroppings (as seen from the cabin) goes unnoticed, being completely overshadowed by tall cliffs, snowfields, and jagged ridgelines that grab one’s eye and don’t let go. The bluff in question is a place nobody would ever think to visit. A deer hunter might stumble on it every decade or so… perhaps. But this humble little bump happens to be ideally situated as far as providing a fantastic view looking down the entire length of the West Walker River canyon. For several years I’ve thought, I really should go there.
It turned out to be the perfect day, in more ways than one. I was in no hurry and everything about this moment in time was fresh and engaging. Two miles from the cabin we were about to pass beneath the highest bluff. On a whim and without plan I jumped off Ramon, tied him to a sapling by the trail, and started up a not-too-steep rocky slope—an old avalanche path half covered with snowberry bush and sagebrush.
As I headed up the slope, dodging bushes, a peculiar phrase suddenly appeared in my mind. Goin’ where the deer bed down. I scarcely noticed until the curious words started repeating. It was my own voice speaking to no one in particular—the familiar voice we all hear inside our heads. The quirky refrain, aside from being neutral in tone with no words inflected, had the lilt of a pesky advertising jingle. Odd. And so completely random—very much like a snatch of some old tune that gets lodged in your brain and refuses to go away, an aural glitch of some kind that kept repeating itself over and over. (…goin’ where the deer bed down…goin’ where the deer bed down….)
Heading upslope, I ran into blocky talus and hop-stepped from boulder to boulder (…goin’ where the deer bed down…) to avoid the cliffy side of the granite crag (…goin’ where the deer bed down…) just up ahead. A vaguely familiar clattering sound came from above and my head snapped up. Directly above me was the left edge of the outcrop’s steep west face. From below I could see that there was a ledge halfway up it. From partway along this cleft surface a doe abruptly leapt up and dashed for cover, disappearing beyond the ledge’s far end. I caught only a fleeting glimpse (enough to know it was a she) but heard with great clarity the exquisite sound of slender deer hooves striking bedrock. And felt in my very core the raw vitality conveyed through those slender legs, all bone and sinew, surging in unison…the clatter of hooves fading and gone. A loose pebble she’d dislodged bounced down the face and landed some yards away, shattering a suddenly conspicuous silence. Wheeling toward the sounds, vibrant impressions had already formed: I felt the powerful thrust behind those four lunging legs as if they were my own two, a sensation carried over from exceptionally vivid recurring dreams I have from time to time—dreams in which I half hop, half fly.
Some explanation will help make sense of this.
In these dreams I’m evading something (not a malevolent force; more like some form of stifling authority) by making repeated colossal leaps—two-legged bunny-hops, actually—that demand all my strength and will. In the dreams I feel bent knees, rock-hard thighs, clenched fists and jaw, and then I’m flying through the air. I take crazy arcing flights through shadowy landscapes, glide back down—exhilarated, light as a feather—then clench up tight before bounding and sailing off again. These enactments are always tied up with the potent sensation of asserting agency through sheer willpower in order to attain freedom. When I find myself slipping back to consciousness, still part of what had felt soreal: for that brief moment where the two worlds intersect I’m inundated by conflicting emotions—bliss on the one side of slumber mixed up with anguish from the other, wishing I could sleep again and steal back to that ethereal other-world to once more bound through the air like a deer. To relive that euphoria.
The doe shot around the ledge’s far end and was gone. It was then that I recalled the tuneless ditty playing inside my head, now also gone. I scooted up the last of the jumbled slope (why the haste?) and up onto the ledge. This was no typical rough-hewn ledge covered with rubble—it was an exposed joint in the granite, level as a sidewalk, a shelf of mostly bare rock once polished smooth by ice under untold pressure, parts of it strewn with decomposed granite sand. It made for a most enticing passageway. Towards its far end, I found where the doe had been hidden, watching me all along.
And here was a kind of perfection: rising up against the cliffy backdrop towards the end of this natural walkway was a squat, twisted bonsai juniper, its lower branches arrayed gracefully over a hollowed out depression. Beneath the stout little tree was mounded soil made up of a century or two’s worth of shed foliage—fragments of juniper needles, brown and crumbled, with a spicy aroma of decaying cedar. It was a soft, inviting resting place with no prickly needles or twigs. She’d been curled there in cool shade, legs neatly folded, beside a cinnamon-colored twisty trunk bearing a spreading green umbrella. Resting placidly with an expansive view, a vertical rock face at her back offering security, and two ideal escape routes. She’d observed my approach with head high and ears forward, sniffing the air, relaxed and ready. In all likelihood this doe has known me since her mother first took her to the salt block in the cabin yard; she’s probably seen me there watching her own fawns watch me. This all came in a rush as if I were seeing through the doe’s eyes—a sweeping mental picture…a revelation. Without thinking I reached down and placed my open hand in the nest and felt her body’s residual warmth. Then bent down, inhaled, and got a mild whiff of wholesome deer-smell. All this filled me with a rare delight completely out of proportion with having discovered a slumbering mule deer’s secret hidey-hole. In fact, for a moment I considered curling in her nest with my own limbs folded under. This was a surprisingly strong impulse but…I was too large, alas. Instead, I followed the ledge to its end and searched until I found the deep impressions of her hooves in the sandy soil. Scanning the brush-covered slope, I saw no movement but knew she was up there, watching and sniffing the air.
A minute or so later, from the outcrop’s summit, something in me had shifted. (Whatever it was, it was that doe’s doing.) My senses seemed to be more acute; I was seeing things with greater clarity, taking in unseen details. Surveying my Greater Home in this grace-tinged state: Piute Meadows filled the valley floor—an emerald-colored lake; a river made of sensuous sepentine curves laid out like a metallic ribbon on its surface; the miles-long glacial canyon rolling off into the distance, not so very long ago overflowing with ice and ground-up stone; a glory-blue sky festooned with burgeoning clouds that threw their shadows far and wide. Closer at hand: rainwater was pooled in shallow potholes in the granite, a light breeze ruffling their surfaces; several large glacial erratics on tasteful display nearby—testaments to the noble landscape’s origins, currently at rest. A magnificent silence encompassed all.
I knew just where my little log cabin was hidden behind that screen of tall lodge-pole pines on the emerald lake’s far shore—the place where I bed down. Everything had an inner glow (or maybe it was just the day). This much can be said: on top of that obscure granite knob with its fabulous view, with a depth of feeling I can seldom muster, I was seeing my chosen place—Piute Country—not just from a different point of view, but with brand new perspective. Rebirth and renewal had come through an encounter with a fellow forest denizen. One of my neighbors. I never even met her eye. But here’s the meaty mystery: our chance meeting had somehow been telegraphed to my subconscious in advance by a most peculiar communiqué, one that came from who-knows-where. File this particular enigma under “Gifts From the Universe.”
©2020 by Tim Forsell 1 Nov 1990, 2 Jun 2020
