This is an old favorite, original from 1999, revised and expanded. Not long ago, I looked over the initial rewrite (Timstories—by definition—are first drafts, written longhand, crossed-out words the sole edits, Xeroxed copies given to friends) and thought, “This could use some work.” I’m an incorrigible tinkerer, well aware of the pitfalls of over-tinkerage; too much editing can spoil a perfectly good tale. But I like how this turned out. It’s funnier, for one thing. (Rated PG. Some nudity. Violence. Adult language. Sub-adult behavior.)
I’M STILL PRETTY HAPPY that I quit school and ended up a ranger. But after sixty-odd summers have come and gone and I find myself single, poor, and broke down, maybe then I’ll wish I’d taken a more traditional career path. As it is, I’m hardly fit for any other way of life…can’t see myself ever living in town again. “Highly skilled in the use of shovel, axe, and fencing pliers” don’t look so hot on the ol’ résumé. Still, people who can chop fallen trees out of a trail with a razor-sharp doublebit, pack rolls of rusty bawb-wire off the mountain, and cook biscuits in a wood-burning stove’s oven while frying bacon at the same time are an increasingly rare breed. Make no mistake—I wouldn’t trade my back-woods education for anything Stanford or Yale could provide. Doc Grishaw—himself a graduate of Stanford Medical School—once told me that, had he not settled on marriage and raising a family, would have chosen a simpler life…something in the rangering line perhaps. He admitted to being a little jealous.
August 1983. On my very first day with the U.S. Forest Service I met my new co-worker and insta-friend, Jim Kohman. We’d just been hired together to do trail maintenance in and around the Hoover Wilderness. Our first work assignment would be based out of some sort of primitive ranger station eleven miles into the backcountry. A place called “Piute Meadows.” I’m not sure what my expectations were but after plodding up one final hill with our giant packs and blisters we left the forest and entered an earthly paradise—before us, a mile-long meadow surrounded by craggy granite peaks, a gentle river at our feet, and just across the river on a little hill, an old log cabin. When I heaved my pack off a few minutes later and turned to take in the view from the cabin’s covered porch I was hooked. My very first thought was This is it…it doesn’t get any better than this. Whatever it takes, I’m going to live here some day. One problem: J.D., the guy who was stationed at the cabin, was then in his third season and looking like a lifer.
The following summer, Jim (who actually had a degree in Recreation) got hired on as backcountry ranger for the Robinson Creek drainage, out of Twin Lakes. I took an unpaid volunteer position just to keep my foot in the door. Then, the luckiest break of my entire life: J.D. was overheard in the Forest Service office making a drug deal over his boss’ phone on a Saturday when he thought no one was working. Just like that, Jim Kohman was the new Piute Ranger and I took over Robinson Creek. Jim spent three summers living at the cabin before deciding it was time to move on. A door opened and I sprinted through. It was an indescribable thrill to get Piute—a job that came with two horses and a chainsaw in addition to an old-fashioned log cabin built by conscientious objectors during WWII. I’d never in my life desired anything more than this: to live and work in a place that matched my personal notion of heaven. A real heaven—one with tons of dust, annoying insects galore, and ill-timed weather events. It was well worth the wait. And I was no rookie: over the previous five years I’d worked trails, volunteered in the Hoover for part of one summer and spent three seasons as a foot-ranger up Robinson Creek…had already logged over two-and-a-half thousand miles. However! In terms of horsemanship and packing skills? A rank neophyte. But I was learning.
This part of my ongoing education began back in 1983, that first season doing trailwork. I was a twenty-five year old child of the suburbs and had never been around horses, not to mention being on one’s back. The first lesson came when Jim and I were gutting the abandoned snow survey cabin at Buckeye Forks. Our boss, Lorenzo, rode up to help us pack all the old junk down to a spot below the Wilderness boundary where a helicopter could fly in and sling it out. He showed us how to put the loads on the horse, how to tie them down with parachute cord and rope. Then he said, “Okay. Now you do it.” Lorenzo was old school, an advocate of sink-or-swim style education—a type of on-the-job training that government agencies no longer condone. (Federal safety regulations explicitly bar employees from being allowed to sink.) This was a test, we knew. But “now you do it” was also Lorenzo-ese for not wanting to do something himself. We were being set up—our very first load consisted of two manifestly hard-to-pack items: an 80-gallon steel drum on one side and a metal bedframe on the other. We tied everything down with parachute cord and for good measure wrapped fifty feet of rope around it all. Then got maybe a hundred yards down the trail before our first try ended up in a tangled mass hanging under the horse’s belly. Getting it off was another kind of puzzle. And thus two novices learned the #1 rule of equine packing: Balance your loads.
Two years passed before I got another shot at packing. This was my first ranger season. Lorenzo wanted me to ferry a new Hoover Wilderness boundary sign and its hefty, 8-foot-long 4x6 wooden post up the Barney Lake trail and install the thing. It was only two miles from the trailhead at Mono Village so I could walk and lead a horse. A side-note: in the packing business, steel drums, rusty bedframes, and 8-foot posts are classed among the more challenging items of freight to haul. Prudently, Lorenzo sent me out to the barn the day before to practice putting this weird load on the packhorse I’d be taking, an old nag called “Mister Fred.” Greenhorn packer, clueless but game.
I’d never so much as been introduced to this horse. But the following day I had Mister Fred tied to a hitch-post by the loading dock and, lashed to him with rope and twine, was a large redwood sign on one side, 4x6 post on the other—a too-long, too-heavy, slender object that extended beyond both nose and tail. It looked pretty sketchy. I was admiring my work when one of my cats came over to see what was up. She innocently leapt onto the platform right in front of the half-asleep horse who promptly went berserk. I dove for cover. Straining to break free, he slammed his head into the post, ripping skin off his face. Then started to buck. Crashed into the dock. Ow. Again. Oh my. When the dust cleared poor Fred was standing there all spread-eagled with nostrils flared, flaps of skin peeled off nose and above eye. His load? Askew, sagging, sign now in three pieces. I drove to town to tell Lorenzo. He listened calmly and when I was done, paused for a moment before asking, “Did the load stay on?” I told him yes, well, sort of, and he said, “That’s good!” He seemed completely unfazed. (Mister Fred’s wounds, by the way, were actually superficial and healed quite nicely on their own.)
Late that first season, in October, Lorenzo sent me back up Buckeye Canyon on an overnighter to haul out more junk from the snow survey cabin. By then I’d saddled a horse, oh, maybe five times. This was to be my first proper pack job—solo. It was a nine mile ride to the little cabin, golden aspens quaking away and new snow on the ground from an early autumn storm for added ambience. At this point I was still dependent on string; didn’t know how to tarp and lash down a load properly; didn’t know even a standard box hitch. But I made it out without incident and over the next two summers, with invaluable tips from Doc and Bart Cranney (co-owners and operators of Leavitt Meadows Pack Station) learned fundamental skills. But there’s this old western saying, the gist of which is: Anyone who hasn’t been kicked or stomped or bucked off hasn’t been around horses for very long. Five summers with the Forest Service and I remained unkicked, unstomped, and un-bucked-off—a virginal state that couldn’t last forever.
By the time I moved over to Piute we’d added several new members to our motley four-legged crew and traded in a few of the drones. That spring, before I came on, Lorenzo bought two young girl-mules. One was enormous—nearly as tall as Bruno. Both could be ridden as well as packed said the boss (as if that were some really good news). Well, I knew very little about mules then and nothing at all about the ride-able versions. Bart Cranney, who breeds and raises mules—a man who knows mules—informed me that they were “smarter” than horses—steadier…stayed calm during wrecks…were more sure-footed in the rocks. Also, that half-ass hybrids are all born crafty and deceitful and can make one’s life miserable in a thousand ways without breaking a sweat. Our newest ranger, Andy, had driven the truck over to the west slope with Lorenzo to pick them up. For reasons unknown, Andy took it upon himself to rename our new mules after a couple of ex-girlfriends: the sorrel was now “Becky” and the scary-big red roan, “Brenda.” Both were six years old—teenagers, more or less—ostensibly trained to go forwards, sideways, or in reverse at their rider’s command.
My friend and cohort, Martin, rode Brenda up to Piute for an overnighter. This was Brenda’s maiden backcountry voyage and Martin reported that she was anxious and jumpy the whole way. No surprise there. Making things worse for her, my horses were elsewhere at the time. Mules are herd-bound animals—even more than horses, it turns out—and simply hate to be alone. Beside herself, Brenda escaped in the night. As it happened, Martin and I were both leaving that morning but now he’d be walking the eleven miles in his high-heeled packer’s boots—footwear not intended for hiking more than a few yards at a time. Along the way we met a guy who reported seeing a large, buck-naked mule jog past his tent early that morning. (I thanked him and said we’d be sure to alert the proper authorities.) Martin finally located our thoroughly wigged-out mule in some timber above the bridge, just across the river from the campground—big green truck parked in plain sight, the Great Big Thing that Brenda knew could take her back to where her friends were. Even so, we had a hard time coaxing her across the narrow footbridge. I was just beginning to see how mules work. Or don’t. Another side-note: one big difference between horses and mules is that you can get a horse to do almost anything. (Bart told me this….) But if a mule doesn’t want to do something you want it to, that mule very well might not comply—and will exhibit little regard for your thoughts on the matter and no interest whatsoever as per schedules and itineraries.
Shortly thereafter Martin and I were sent off on a five day Professional Packing School, a course put on by one of the Eastside pack outfits in the form of a travelling trip. This was definitely hands-on training: we learned how to throw a diamond hitch (lost me there); Martin tacked on a horseshoe; I injected a horse with saline solution, just to get a feel for stabbing someone in the thigh with a horrifyingly thick-gauge needle. We helped put on the loads every morning and helped take ‘em off when we got to camp, drank whiskey around a campfire. And then we were certified packers. With certificates. I purchased a pair of cheap spurs, lace-up high-heeled boots like Martin’s, and a Stetson hat. But I still hadn’t been dumped, bucked off, stomped, kicked, or bit.
The 4th of July is generally the most demanding holiday weekend of the season. On the first day, hordes of people show up. Stream in. Descend upon. It’s highly stressful. Because this is when those who go on a backpack maybe once every five years or so go backpacking. This is when people get lost. Somewhere in the Sierra someone drowns. Hobby-horsers’ horses wreak havoc. Multiple Boyscout troops, with their creepy assistant scoutmasters. Endless strings of packstock raise billowing clouds of dust that hang in the air like smog. I might talk to a hundred people that first day and have learned to gauge a group’s experience-level at a hundred yards, allowing me time to tailor a customized spiel. It’s a guaranteed twelve-to-fifteen hour day and towards the end I can hardly speak…don’t care any more. I’ll greet a group and start in with my appeal, only to have someone cut me off saying, “Uh…we talked to you this morning, Ranger.”
That first year at Piute, I was starting a new hitch and rode in on the 4th proper: The Big Day. It so happened that at the time, several members of our string were down with some infectious disease and in quarantine. My usual horses were among the quarantined so I was forced to take members of our “B” Team: Brenda and Zeke, a surly sway-backed bay who could only be packed, not ridden. That meant I’d have to ride the giant mule, a first for me. Martin had shared anecdotes and I already knew her as an escape artist. I’d recently injured my back and was still hurting. It was bad enough that Martin came out to help me saddle and load up. After wishing me luck he left.
We’d parked at our usual spot in the campground to offload, right in front of the metal footbridge across the West Walker. I climbed into my saddle just as Martin drove off and straightaway the mule balked—wouldn’t set hoof on the bridge. Only then did I recall how only a few weeks prior we’d found her just across the river, an emotional equine basket case…all the trouble we’d had just catching her. She hadn’t forgotten this terrifying structure, so high above the water. It took fifteen minutes but I finally managed to coax her across with endearments and some of the gentler forms of prodding. The gigantic mule was fretful and panicky from step one. Later, I understood that this was all about association. She remembered her first trip—the fear of being in a strange place, the almost cellular rebellion at being alllll alone! Now, Brenda visibly telegraphed her apprehension: eyes wide, ears forward, nostrils flared…mincing, hesitant steps. She’d stop abruptly and often and ignored commands.
Less than a mile from the trailhead I got my first clear indication that this was not going to be a good day. I’d already talked with several groups on their way in. We were just then traversing the steep, crumbly sidehill above Leavitt Meadows when the mule saw her first invisible demon. With no warning, Brenda dove off the side of the trail, dragging Zeke over the edge. She flailed around on the slippery slope before scrambling back up onto the trail, facing the wrong way. The look on Zeke’s face said, What the holy heck was THAT about?! (Apparently, he hadn’t seen the demon, either.)
It was all over after that; she was now completely spooked. Brenda’s trepidation infected Zeke and his anxiety amplified hers in a positive feedback-loop of fear. Minutes later she balked at a pine sapling beside the trail and, horror-stricken, refused to pass. What's more, she started backing up. This reverse gear thing was outside my experience and I didn’t know how to shift her back into first. A routine repeated at least a dozen times: Brenda would back like a champ, ram into Zeke and then spin around, winding up with her giant head draped over his neck (the equivalent of an unwanted hug). Livid, I’d give her the spurs and whip her rump with Zeke’s lead-rope…he’d rare up and turn away, yanking the rope out of my hand. Vestiges of Buddhist compassion and Christian charity quit the field. Coarse language, liberally employed. After each mini-debacle I’d extricate myself, untangle the lead-rope, get Brenda back in front of Zeke and escort her on foot until she’d cooled-down enough that I could ride again. She’d go, yes, but the going was short-term. We’d advance in hundred yard increments before another ogre was spied lurking in the sagebrush. Following her wide-eyed terrified gaze, all I could see was a bush or pine cone. And my tribulations had only just begun.
We’d been on—and off—the trail for two hours, had gone less than two miles, and I was already starting to unravel when she pulled her worst stunt. (Thus far.) We were on the last bit of sidehill where the trail climbs out of Leavitt Meadows, a hill of sliding sand. With no forewarning Brenda wigged-out, leapt directly up the slope, then wheeled and spun into Zeke, hitting him hard. My left thigh got slammed into one of the packboxes. We were on this steepish hillside, whirling in tight circles with Zeke’s lead-rope wrapped around me, one arm twisted behind my back, leg pinned between two large animals. Rodeo-city! Here it was at last: a genuine situation—one where I could simultaneously be dumped and stomped and, assuming I survived, finally get my horsemanship merit badge. I ditched the lead-rope, wriggled my leg out, stood on Brenda’s saddle (not sure how I pulled this off) and jumped. Fortunately, no backpackers witnessed this or heard the string of expletives that followed. I was keyed-up for the Big Weekend and my back was hurting, which rendered my mood fragile to begin with. By the time we reached Roosevelt Lake, three miles up the trail, I was fuming and had to stifle my bitter impulses when asked why I was walking instead of riding.
The struggle continued. Zeke, having caught the fear-bug, was now thoroughly flustered as well. He started at something Brenda had missed; she took off and crashed right through a small fir tree, doing her best to scrape me off under its boughs. My hat flew off. I got pitch in my hair. Trying to stop her that time, I yanked so hard on the reins that the bit bloodied her mouth. By then there was zero chance left of this ever being a good day despite the flawless July weather. I hated Lorenzo for foisting a renegade mule on me, knowing my back was tweaked. As we went along I became totally absorbed in irate mock-dialogues with my boss in between sessions on the ground, tugging on the mule’s lead-rope, cursing and urging her forward. This was not my best showing. In fact, the evolving debacle was exposing me at very close to my very worst. And I was dimly conscious of this, which only served to fuel my exasperation.
I’m generally of a mild disposition but also used to getting my own way and doing as I please. This was the most important day of my entire season…a job to do, places to be. But I was stuck with this hell-mule—a four legged beast seven times my size who doesn’t even know her own name but somehow had all my foibles and weak spots dialed in. Who was in full control of the situation while simultaneously suffering the equine version of a psychotic break. Things had spun out of control. By the time we got to the lakes I was no longer riding—not worth the struggle. But this rodeo was not over! It reached the point where Brenda refused to even be led. She’d go fifty yards and screech to a halt. I’d cuss, lean on the rope, give up, cuss again, go swat her in the face, blaspheme some more, stomp around, resume yanking. I’d long since given up on pretending to behave like a rational adult human. Brenda and Zeke were now truly afraid.
We dropped down off the rocky rise separating the lakes. There’s one switchback there and a giant Jeffery pine. Just through the switchback, Brenda stopped cold for no apparent reason and refused to proceed. (At this rate, we wouldn’t make it home ‘til well after dark.) Last straw: I lost it completely and began jerking like mad on the rope, calling up a string of filthy oaths. “Dog-lammed nunnuva pitch! Sock-bucker! Chuck yer other, you chucking runt!” I spewed conventional rage-obscenities through clenched jaw and jerked away. To absolutely no avail; not even a little. Brenda just stood there taking it, eyes rolled back, lips curled in a grimace. (This demon was no figment of some mulish fever dream.) I slugged her in the jowl. “You harlot! Cork-sucking feather-mucker!!” Not budging. “Chucking shell! C’mon, you…BROTHER! MUCKING!.…” Et cetera. I strode up again and hit her with a short right jab, aiming for cheek, but she tossed her head with perfect timing and I connected with jawbone instead, injuring my hand.
And that’s when I saw something out of the corner of my eye and looked up. Backpackers. A mom and a dad plus two young kids, boy and girl. They’d heard livestock coming so, like good backpackers, pulled off to the side of the trail to wait and were standing very still in a patch of shade under the big Jeffrey pine, all huddled together in a familial knot. When I finally looked up and saw them, they were all gaping at me open-mouthed with the same cocktail of shock, horror, and disgust written on their faces. I have absolutely no recollection of what happened next. In all likelihood I just stood there wearing my most sheepish silly grin or maybe a hangdog scowl while they beat a hasty retreat. (Providentially, they were not going my way.) No one spoke, not a peep. As for me, there was nothing I could have said…nothing at all.
I gave up then and there. Utterly downcast, terminally mortified, and enveloped in a fog of pure shame I walked the last eight miles, blistering my feet badly thanks to those new high-heeled packer’s boots. It finally occurred to me that I could lead Zeke with the mule trailing behind him. It worked! But Brenda continued shying at nonexistent scarythings; she’d crash into Zeke, Zeke would charge ahead, I’d leap out of his way. It was awful. And every few minutes I’d remember those looks and cringe anew. Each time, there was a sensation of heat flooding my face—I was blushing.
Two days later I’d recovered my equanimity somewhat and decided to take Brenda out on a lengthy patrol, just the two of us. She was nervous but seemed reasonably willing. Things were going pretty well all told until, riding past a small pond up near Long Lakes, a mallard hen burst out of some reeds just a few feet away. What happened next seemed to defy one or two laws of physics as Brenda’s substantial mass instantaneously changed direction ninety degrees. I found myself laying flat on my back in the middle of the trail, uninjured thanks to there being no sharp rocks in the vicinity. Out of pure instinct, apparently, I held onto the reins. Good thing—otherwise Brenda would have gone home without me, whistling a happy tune.
Days went by and my shame had subsided enough that I was starting to find comedic elements in my 4th of July fiasco-slash-personal meltdown. I ran into Doc Grishaw out on the trail and recounted the whole saga, in grisly detail. He chuckled a few times—a real display of unbridled mirth from the man who put the “tacit” in taciturn. But I knew Doc was howling with laughter inside—he so enjoyed hearing about all my misadventures, especially the ones involving livestock. A week later I shared dinner with him in his basecamp. After clearing up we sat in front of the little campfire with a cup of Piute tea. Doc threw more wood on the fire, got out his guitar, and sang a song he’d composed expressly to memorialize my continuing education—one of his classic folk song parodies, to the tune of some old cowboy number no one’s ever heard of called The Little Brown Jenny. (“Jenny” being a female donkey.) It went like this:
THE LITTLE BROWN MULE
‘Tis spring, said Lorenzo, and I’ve bought a young mule
It’s clearly apparent she’s nobody’s fool.
But the trash must be packed—we all know the rule—
So I’m sending young Tim to that mule-packing school.
Little brown mule, o little brown mule,
Tell us, what did he learn at that mule-packing school?
Soon after Tim rode her on up through the rocks
At Lane Lake she started to whirl and to balk,
So he led her and swore and cursed as he walked—
The hikers drew back with expressions of shock.
Little brown mule, o little brown mule,
Did he learn all those words at that mule-packing school?
The Piute to Kennedy trail they did ride
‘Til she saw something scary and suddenly shied—
Tim lit on his back with expressions of pain,
But remembered enough to hang onto the rein.
Little brown mule, oh little brown mule,
Did he learn to hang on at that mule-packing school?
And yet on the trails in sunshine and snow
To pursue trash and tourists the two of them go—
Sometimes in the saddle, sometimes on the ground,
Young Tim still continues to go on his rounds.
Little brown mule, oh little brown mule,
Has he learned more from you than that mule-packing school?
©2020 Tim Forsell 11 Jun 1999, 15 Oct 2014, 18 Jul 2020
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