Case of the Missing Laundry Sack 2022

 COMPARED TO YOUR AVERAGE AMERICAN, I don’t own a lot of “stuff.” You know: things. No house, no major appliances. Not a whole lot of clothes; only one vehicle. No boat, no bike. In fact, nothing in the way of adult toys, seeing as how I no longer participate in sport. I do have lots of books and CDs, however, and a considerable assortment of nature-trinkets—rocks, crystals, feathers, bones, seed pods—organic tchotchkes that find their way onto almost every flat surface, both indoors and out. I take care of my possessions and appreciate quality, things built to last. I like my tools to be good tools and keep my knives razor-sharp. Practical, every-day-useful belongings like hand-slung pottery and superior cookware are held in high esteem and I honor them in a way that I imagine practitioners of Shinto esteem their own personal effects.  

             This may or may not be unusual, but certain possessions of mine have been part of my daily life for decades. A prime example being my wallet: a first-generation version of one of those Cordura nylon-jobbies with Velcro closure. I bought it at The Great Pacific Ironworks in Ventura when I worked there back in 1977. (Believe it or not, I’ve only owned one other wallet in my entire life.) The Velcro wore out years ago but the thing still works just fine. The little aluminum teapot that lives in my camper, a simple, sturdy, Swiss-made Trango teapot originally intended for backpacking, was a gift from my folks, Christmas 1975. I have various items of outdoor clothing that I’ve worn off and on since the mid ‘80s, most of them frayed and stained but fully serviceable. Also in my camper, in the space under the chair along with my sock & underwear bag, spare gas cartridges for the stove, and sundry items, is a largish-longish stuff sack that has served as my on-the-road dirty-clothes bag for the last forty years. I “found” it in 1984, my rookie season at Rock Creek Winter Lodge, while cleaning Cabin #9 (it was under one of the beds, its previous owner having just departed) and I immediately pressed it into service as my laundry sack. It was, and is, perfectly suited for that purpose. It has a pleasant, earthy, color I find appealing—call it “dark pumpkin-orange”—and is made of a stain-resistant, sturdy-but-supple woven nylon fabric. Built to last.  

 

The Case of the Missing Laundry Sack took place in, oh, 1991 or 92…back when I was living at the foot of the High Sierra a few miles west of Lone Pine. I was driving north on Highway 395 that morning, headed toward Bishop, and had just left the town part of town. Just past the Carl’s Junior, on the left, is a public park with lots of trees and shade. At its north end is a small parking lot flanked by tennis courts on one side and a swing-set on the other. A big green dumpster in the back corner in which I sometimes dump my week’s-worth of household garbage. Driving past the lot, I glanced over and saw someone, some young guy who was clearly of the homeless persuasion. And this, this person had my pumpkin-colored dirty clothes bag in his hand! The sheer incongruity caused my brain to screech to a halt in a cloud of dust. It took about a moment-and-a-half to put the pieces together: I’d done my wash at the Laundromat several blocks uptown a few days prior. Homeless-guy must have come in and snagged the bag while my stuff was tumbling in the drier, after I’d walked over to the P.O. to check for mail. I’d returned, folded my clean clothes, and left without noticing that my former sleeping-bag stuff sack had gone walkabout. 

I turned off the highway, pulled into the lot, parked, and went over to confront an unknown human quantity. No idea what I’d say; it would depend. Homeless people are as rare as Estonians in Lone Pine and I’d definitely never seen this fella before. 

He was engrossed in gathering up beer and soda cans, a dozen or so being scattered at his feet there in front of the dumpster. It was clear that this kid had just climbed out of the dumpster (its lid was propped open) after having rooted through the contents and hucking his finds out onto the pavement. The scene before me unearthed vivid memories from Yosemite Valley, way back in 1979: my own brush with self-induced, artificial poverty. But the real-life experience of being very close to broke…of retrieving aluminum cans from dumpsters for extra cash…getting busted by a ranger. The memory of it all perhaps softening my moral indignation a bit. 

As I approached, he was in the process of crushing the cans so that more would fit in the sack—my sack!—which he was holding in his left hand, partially filled, freshly stained. He was young—twenty-something, dark haired, dark complected. Cultural heritage not obvious. Generalized state of dishevelment: skin grimy, dirt-rimmed fingernails, a chronic case of the bed-head…jeans frayed, sneakers shot. Overall air of hardship and misfortune, of having taken a fall and maybe not so long ago. If he smelled I didn’t notice. He seemed alert, present, and fully functional—definitely not some burned-out druggie. But living a hard life.

            I strode right up to him and, in accordance with unwritten rules pertaining to personal space in situations like this, stopped just shy of six feet away. He had his back to me so I had a chance to look him over before he turned and saw me. Seeing me squared up didn’t seem to startle him or cause any distress. He met my eye with a completely neutral, unreadable expression. Perhaps just a hint of frown. But no defensiveness, no questioning glare, like, “What the fork do you want?” In that moment, I was pretty much a blank slate. But it was time to say something. Glancing down at the nylon stuff-sack in his hand, I tipped my chin in its direction and said, right to his face, “That’s my laundry bag.” No tone of accusation in my voice, just stating a fact. Can’t say that I was feeling much in the way of empathy just then—that came later. I wasn’t feeling much of anything except that I definitely wanted my laundry sack back.

            Homeless-fella looked me straight in the eye—assessing, processing, deciding. He was self-possessed. There was dignity in there. His look was an open-faced appraisal—unflustered, emotionless, without recrimination. I had no clue as to what he was thinking or seeing in my face. These moments felt longer than normal moments. 

Without a word, he half turned away from me, dumped the cans already in the sack onto the asphalt with a clatter, and held the now somewhat skanky thing out to me at arms length. There seemed to be no message in the manner in which he emptied the sack. (He could’ve put a lot of English into the act.) I took it and said “Thanks!” with barely perceptible hint of cheerfulness in my voice. Then turned on my heels and walked straight to my truck without looking back. He’d spoken nary a word. It was a completely civil exchange, in retrospect—all five words of it. To be fair, and to his credit, I should note that this fellow-sojourner was at the time engaged in trying to make an honest living. Like the rest of us who suffer life’s seemingly endless stockpile of travails, he was simply trying to get by. 

If someone had been standing there and witnessed our encounter, I wonder what they would have thought? 

 

 

                ©2022 Tim Forsell                                                                       15 Feb 2021, 29 Oct 22

Piute Log...A Tangled Mess 2000

 Tree-removal was one of the most physically demanding but satisfying aspects of my job. I’d never cut a tree with an axe until starting to work for the Forest Service. In August, 1983, Jim Kohman and I walked into Piute that first time and two days later, Kelly, the ranger stationed at the cabin, led us two neophytes up the Kirkwood Pass trail to clear trees that came down during the previous winter. With double-bit axes (wicked-sharp, very “manly” lumberjack tools) we removed almost a dozen trees blocking the path. It was quite a thrill—feeling the heavy, steel blade sink into the wood…big chips flying…heaving the cut logs off the trail tread. Working as a team, in the mountains. It was very rewarding work, our blistered hands being a badge of honor. ◦◦◦◦◦ Not surprisingly, there’s a lot more than brute force involved. In certain regards, tree removal is an art form. There are many subtle techniques and tricks. Later, I learned to use a crosscut saw. People, seeing one, inevitably will make the “misery whip” crack but a well-sharpened crosscut wielded by two people who know what they’re doing can cut through a log faster than a dull chainsaw. Then there’s the “peavey” (also called a cant-hook), a five-foot-long wooden-handled tool with spike tip and hinged, curved steel “hook” used for levering. With it, you can move incredibly heavy logs. ◦◦◦◦◦ Half way through my career, we purchased a four-foot single-person crosscut—teeth like a crosscut but with a regular saw’s handle plus a second, round handle mounted on the spine of the saw. With this tool I was able to cut logs up to three feet thick. ◦◦◦◦◦ So here are a couple of entries about two particularly “interesting” jobs.

 

9 Jun (Fri)     ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode down to the roughs on the Eastside Trail to cut out that largish fallen tree. Packed the tools on Woody. For reasons unknown, Red was impossible today, flipping out at chipmunks, juncos, breeze-blown bushes, falling leaves, and combinations thereof. Really tedious. ◦◦◦◦◦ Fairly big job, that tree—about 22” [wide] but required just two cuts, not much limbing. Went on a quick exploration after finishing up, downriver a bit as far as that bedrock “island” in the gorge-y stretch. Climbed over to it on the now un-submerged log jam. Bouldered on fine granite over deep pools. Found a new plant, cute a little white-flowered Arabis (mustard family) growing in moss-filled cracks. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode down to the crossing and headed up the Westside trail. Knocked out a fifty-foot reroute around the giant lodgepole that fell recently. No sense trying to cut it since the root-wad was right on the edge of the trail, impeding stock traffic. Removed two small trees and brushed out the new path. Done. ◦◦◦◦◦ Then, time for the big nasty. Namely, up on the hill, just past Fremont junction, a still-green lodgepole came down across a switchback. The trunk blocked the trail at chest height on the lower section then, above, the rest of the tree was more or less lying in the trail. Ick. ◦◦◦◦◦ Had to cut the blasted thing six times but will say this: the whole deal was a text-book ranger-style logging job. (Wish somebody had come along to witness the thrilling climax.) Six cuts with my 4-foot saw—all of them before limbing, for a change. First, cut the butt-end somewhat above the root-wad. This resulted in the rest of the tree lifting up and away from the trail, as intended. (Being off the ground made limbing much easier, which is why I left it.) Then the six-foot cut-out, which I wrestled off to the side, clearing this lower section. Midway along the trunk was this bulky “witch’s broom.” You see these things up in lodgepoles—localized cancer-like growths induced by a type of fungus, forming a single massive ball of densely packed needles. (Runaway growth, cancer-style.) This was a big one, several feet in diameter. Began by sawing off the 6”-wide limb it had taken over but the blade started to bind so left it for the time being. Two straightforward cuts, then limbed and rolled the heavy, wet rounds off the trail. The main trunk now lay across another fallen tree and it had rotated slightly when I made those two cuts, causing the bound kerf on that 6” limb to open a bit. So I finished cutting off the witch’s broom. And—Voilá! Hey presto!—the middle section of the trunk, twenty feet long and now limbless, rose gently up in the air. It was balanced—perfectly balanced—on an old limbless horizontal log this tree had fallen across and way laying on. I could now pivot it easily, literally with one finger. I’d sized the situation up at the start and specifically located my third cut at what looked like the balance point. And hit it dead…on…the money. Yes! So when I finished cutting off that witch’s broom limb the rest of the tree  slowly swayed up to level and I was able to roll this maybe 900–1000 pound log across the firm ramp it’d fallen across. (!!!) This was a thing of great beauty, in its way. The physical feeling of moving—of rolling—this giant heavy object with my two gloved hands was…mostgratifying. ◦◦◦◦◦ Packed up tools and headed barnward. Woody, on his own, running to keep up. Red was now fine (as per usual once he’s homeward bound). Took my bath on the slabs below the cabin, frigid in the cold breeze with sizable snowbank just feet away. Enjoyed making acquaintance with this year’s crop of yearling deerlings loitering in the yard. So fine not to have bugs! They’ll be here soon enough! Like my ol’ gran’pappy used to say, “Nothing’s certain but death, taxes, and mosquitoes in July.” (Just made this up, haha.)

 

A month and a half later:

 

27 Jul (Thu)     ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode up the Long Lakes trail and took out that horrible tangle of trees—a “domino effect” sichyashun. Big lodgepole snag toppled taking several young trees with it. Fell right smack down the trail, dang it. Why couldn’t you have just fallen into the lake? ◦◦◦◦◦ Worked diligent-hard for several hours in the hot sun and bugswarms. Got my daily exercise and more, that’s fer shur. Dozens of limbs cut and dragged off or heaved. Many cuts, from eight to twenty inches. Had to move bigger cut-outs using Blue Max. [My trusty peavey—christened by former supervisor Lorenzo, who always named things, for its blue-painted steel head.] Also, axed out many lodgepole saplings so’s I could roll logs far enough off the tread. More limbing. Stiff breeze blowing sawdust right into my face as I sawed. A hazardous job, this one, with much crawling under logs—logs bearing jagged pointy broken-limb staubs. And of course, as usual, nary a soul passed by while I slaved away. It’s uncanny how seldom people catch me when I’m working hard—almost never. Lost blood from five holes/gouges/slices in my tender flesh despite paying careful attention all the while. (Trees being whacked into pieces always find ways to get even—it’s The Law. No way to avoid it.) Gotta say, this was one of the nastiest dendro-tangles I’ve ever had to deal with all on my own. A real abortion. Did it all in one day using every trick and technique and tool to pull it off. ◦◦◦◦◦ Pretty spent after finishing up but took mandatory exploratory jaunt: first-ever visit to a nearby granite highpoint. Lots of bear sign thereabouts. Met with three fine trees arranged in a triangle, all three roughly 6’ DBH [Diameter-at-Breast-Height]. One, a stunning, barkless white pine snag (visible from the trail it turns out). Right next to it a stately, straight-trunked Sierra juniper. Just down-slope, another grand old white pine. ◦◦◦◦◦ Home, unloaded, and unsaddled by 7:00. Had picked up a load of seasoned limb-wood at the job—free firewood! A long, hard day of honest labor on the mountain. Took my bath with the sun full on me, right before it set, and at this moment I’m up in the hammock relaxing with last orange light just fading from the tip of Hawksbeak, horses and deerses grazing below. Amen.   

 

     → no visitors       → 6 trees (9 cuts total)       → 2 w-bars cleaned      → 7½ miles

 

Copied on page one of this volume of Piute Log:

Like a farmer or rancher, like anyone who works with plants or flesh, I invested more than time and sweat in the territory that was mine to oversee. In the days ahead, I staked my claim in my own blood and in my love for the earth it watered…. Motivation, responsibility, enthusiasm, dedication—were instilled in me by one Chief Warden with a few simple words: “Well, this is your district, and here’s your outfit. As long as you look after it, it’s yours to run.

                                                                        Sid Marty, Men for the Mountains

 

            ©2022 Tim Forsell             21 Oct 2022