In the mid-70s, there was this wife/husband act called The Captain and Tennille, known for a few big hits that were all over AM radio. (Anyone recall the cringe-inducing “Muskrat Love”?) I’m not sure how the original connection was made but for many years Bart Cranney packed Toni Tennille into the backcrountry, along with a rotating cast of female friends that included several, need I say, very attractive wives of L.A. Dodgers. Toni was a real outdoorswoman (not so, her keyboard-playing husband) and, from the looks of it, so were the Dodgers-wives. They called these outings “W.I.T.S. trips,” for “Women In The Sierra.” Bart would put them up in one of his big-tent basecamps, feed them great meals, and the ladies would go off together on long dayhikes in full make-up. ◦◦◦◦◦ My first few seasons at Piute I’d get invited down for supper when Toni was in town. At that time, Bart’s camp was located just a half mile down the trail from Upper Piute. There was always music—live, mountain music—great food, libations, and laughter. Toni and her friends sang; wonderful three and four part harmony vocals they’d obviously practiced; pure magic around a cracklin’ campfire. Sadly, by 1988 or 89 the West Walker W.I.T.S. trips were over. Toni and friends had visited all the lakes and climbed all the peaks and decided it was time to move on to greener meadows. I ran into her again several years later (I forget where) backpacking with a different set of friends—all of them fully made up, everyone stoked to be in the mountains. By this time, I believe the Captain and Tennille were more or less relegated to the Nevada casino circuit. But T.T. was a class act—completely down to earth. Fun. BIG. And she filled a room—even outdoors.
4 Oct Leafing through Jim Kohman’s log from 1987, yesterday, I read that he “Had dinner in Bart’s camp with Sandy and Ann Koufax.” I knew Bart packed Toni Tennille and her Dodgers-wives friends up here (I had dinner with them several times, starting in ‘83) but didn’t know he packed actual Dodgers! I’ve read each of Jim’s logs a couple times now but somehow missed this nugget, or plum forgot. Sandy Koufax was one of the sports legends of my youth, back when the Los Angeles Dodgers were at the top of the heap and, to this day, Koufax is considered one of baseball’s all-time great pitchers. Got a real kick outa knowing that Sandy! friggin'! Koufax! hung out in Bart’s basecamp only a half mile from here. I’d imagine he strolled up to see the meadow at least once but Jim makes no mention of any visit to the cabin in his log. (He’s a big Giants fan so maybe wasn’t quite as thrilled as I would’ve been.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Packing out the trailcrew today. My clock’s alarm isn’t working so I woke up about once an hour all through the night to make sure I didn’t oversleep. Each time I’d roll over to press the button that lights up the clock face, Shitbird would rouse, jump off the bed, and go eat a few crunchies or have a drink. But every time I woke to check the clock there was this firm, warm, alive-but-dormant catball curled up right next to my head. ◦◦◦◦◦ Then it was 4:30 which was close enough for government work. Lit lanterns and my already-laid fire with the same match, got the teapot on, and started another big day in the dark. Fed the horses and mule, flashlight beam glinting off four or five pairs of eyes. A frightened snort from one so I shone the light up on my face, “Hey! It’s only me!” Started to pour some pellets into one of the feeders but found that it already contained a load…in recycled form. One of the ne’er do wells, probably Nickel, had done the equivalent of crapping on your own dinner plate. I turned the heavy feeder on its side and dumped out most of the leavings but didn’t get them all. When I righted the thing and tipped some pellets in, by golly, they went after ‘em. With gusto. Musta been pretty hungry to eat breakfast mixed with fresh horse doo-doo. ◦◦◦◦◦ 28°F on the porch. Heard the pygmy owl, first time this season. (Seems to show up every fall around this time, prob’ly the same lonely individual.) Started saddling at oh-seven-hundred. I’d prepped this day pretty heavily—guaranteed to be a long one. Manda’s whole crew was depending on me and the sooner they get to town the happier they’ll be. So I was out brushing and saddling eight head in the frosty dawn, leather straps all stiff, still-wet pads half frozen. Wolfed down the last of, what?, four-day-old chili while suiting up and called it breakfast. Got underway before sun hit the cabin but it rose on Piute Meadows just as we were crossing the river. Nice touch. ◦◦◦◦◦ Faithful readers of this log (all two of them…you know who you are) will recall the debacle back in June when Nickel wankered my arm for the season. “He wasn’t broke to lead,” sez our horseshoer, “He was broke to tow.” Well, fortunately I haven’t had to use Nickel much since then but my right arm is still numb so today I “loose herded” him—Western-ese for “turned him loose to follow on his own.” ◦◦◦◦◦ Equines are so herdbound, I knew he’d stick with his compatriots. And so he did; fell in right behind the string. We got through the gate and started up the first hill. Looked back: no Nickel. Waited. Waited some more, starting to get angry. The blankety-blank so-and-so finally ambled through the gate all la-la-la and that was the story all the way to Harriet Lake. (That is, stop’n’go’n’stop’go….) Had to halt numerous times, string of six bunching up behind me, and the gentle morning up-slope breeze would bathe us all in a slow moving cloud of pulverized trail while we waited and waited for Nickel. He’d finally amble up all casual-like, stopping aways back to nibble a bit of trailside grass. Coulda killed him, figuratively speaking. Definitely some violent thoughts. Mind you, I’m trying to be professional; to show up not just on time but unfashionably early. And this horse, who I already have this vendetta with, sabotaged my plans yet again. ◦◦◦◦◦ Turned out we got to the crew camp just three minutes behind schedule. (When we rolled in, Michelle paid me a high compliment: “We were getting pretty worried, mister! You’re three minutes late!” ◦◦◦◦◦ Good to see the bunch. That trail crew vitality. Of course, they were all rarin’ to hit the trail. Yesterday, Michelle and Jordan and Jessica climbed Tower Peak—nice going, team!!—and they told me I was being slandered in the summit register. Someone wrote next to my name (from last season) “the ranger is a dweeb.” Another, something about me being a “pork chop.” I know who it was. My friend Deb, who works as a guide for Sierra Treks. (Joked with her once about how when we first met—years back, in Ventura—she was kinda plump. I referred to her as a “little pork chop.” She hasn’t let me forget.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Got out with few problems, slow and steady. Had one of those weird, synchronistic reality-glitches, the kind where trouble comes in clumps (or bundles, or baskets…whatever trouble is served up in). First: right after crossing the river when we left the cabin, found that I’d nicked one of my right hand fingers while necking the string. (I lose blood every time I have to deal with livestock, almost without fail.) It was just a tiny nick but it struck a large enough vessel that the bloody thing bled for over half an hour. And I mean, bled—stained the lead rope and got my fingers all sticky. For a while there, I continuously sucked the blood off and spat red. It was really annoying—damn thing just wouldn’t quit leaking oil. But eventually it did. ◦◦◦◦◦ So: hours later, a mile from Lane Lake, I turned in the saddle to check on my string. Right then Woody, lead packhorse, set back for no apparent reason. Maybe I startled him when I turned. But his head whipped up and the lead rope zinged across the back of my right hand, which at that moment just happened to be resting on my thigh. The rope was dallied around the saddlehorn (not supposed to do that, Tim…) and slipped under significant tension. Hence the “zing.” Aye!! Looked down to see an actual furrow cut into the back of my hand: an almost three-inch shallow groove—pale, glistening, not-bleeding-yet, raw manflesh. No…wait…yep, oh yeah here it comes. Welling up out of the tiniest pores, then a nice, steady flow. Bleeding! Again! Oh, well. ◦◦◦◦◦
©2022 Tim Forsell 25 Mar 2022
