For the 1991 season, our Wilderness crew (rangers and trailcrew) were kept working but on part-time into mid-November—a month later than usual. Why? To minimize the time seasonals would be eligible to collect unemployment—an ill-conceived, purely bureaucratic maneuver that proved to be a waste of time and money all around. ◦◦◦◦◦ It was snowing on the morning of 25 October as I prepared to leave the cabin, with six days off to kill. My plan was to head south into better weather and visit a few friends. After I left Piute, it snowed for a couple more days, cleared, got cold, and by the time I rode back in for one final tour it was more or less winter in the backcountry. I’d been at the cabin several times during and after snowstorms. This was different. ◦◦◦◦◦ About the deceased horses mentioned in these entries: that summer I’d had, not one, but two dead horses on my hands—a first for me. Luckily, both of them belonged to private stock-users and not the Forest Service. (The first was hit by lightning; the other broke its hip and had to be put down.) The one that was euthanized met its sad end half a mile from the cabin. Due to the proximity I was able to observe, firsthand, how a large mammal can be reduced to scattered bones in just a few weeks time. [For the grisly details, check out “Piute Log…How to Recycle a Horse.”]
1 Nov (Fri) Drove up from Tom’s Place last night, heading straight back into Piute. Up at dawn. Brrr! 15°F outside (said my thermometer left out on the bumper), which means it was maybe 20° in the camper. Water bottle partly frozen. ◦◦◦◦◦ A crystal-clear autumn day, super-crisp and all sparkly. Snow already melting on south-facing mountain flanks but there to stay in the high, shady places. Bought some food, said my goodbyes to a few folks I won’t likely see again, and drove out to the Old Ranger Station to pack. It was sunny and warm by the barn, cottonwood leaves sifting down and swirling around in circles in that little lee zone by the corral. ◦◦◦◦◦ At the pack station, Bart drove in as I was unloading my stuff. Went over to the house before taking off to say my goodbyes and thanks-for-everything-s. Bart was hustling around in the kitchen packing stuff up and seemed preoccupied. And maybe a little grumpy, the way Doc gets, so I skipped the chit-chat and got down to business. After mentioning that I’d be up at Piute for five days to shut the place down his sole comment was a kinda snide, “You guys sure are gluttons for punishment.” Told him, “Bart, cold isn’t a problem at the cabin. I’m a lot more concerned with how to stay warm after I leave.” And then it was time for the ritual exchange of that parting fare-thee-well seasonal workers give and receive: “Have a good winter!” ◦◦◦◦◦ Horses standing patiently at the hitch rail. Lined em’ out and up the trail went we. All three balky at the weird-looking, frozen-over Leavitt Creek crossing but Leavitt Meadows proper was already almost entirely free of snow. A couple of aspen clones at the head of the meadow still mostly green and quaking away while other patches were almost bare-nekkid. Snowy mountains lovely but somewhat menacing. I’ve never seen them clothed thus during my time here. Had this feeling sort of like my early mountaineering days when I’d go off without telling anyone where I was going, completely on my own—a sense of not a soul on Earth knows where I am. Feeling the uncertainty and actual dangers ahead (mostly on account of the stock), visualizing thick snowdrifts and hidden slickrock. Rode right into it with eyes wide open. When I asked, Bart didn’t have much advice to offer. He said it was better not to get off and lead them through the tough spots on foot. “When you’re walking rather than riding you’re more likely to get stomped if they flounder. Other than that, just try to stay on the trail.” ◦◦◦◦◦ Hit solid snow once we entered the first fir forest. No surprise, there—it’s so densely timbered that, even in midsummer, only a few shafts of sunlight pick their way through to the ground. ◦◦◦◦◦ And so began a great lesson: there was no difficulty staying on the trail because it was already well-tracked. No Vibram-soled boot-prints; hoofies and toe-pads only. All the four-footers are bailing out of the mountains—it was time to leave and all the migratory animals had done just that. Birds appear to be mostly gone, too; saw nary a chickadee nor junco nor solitaire on my way in. So staying on the trail was easy, thanks to the tracks of bear, deer, and coyote all mixed together. None of their usual meanderings through timbered hillsides or paralleling the trail—this was the equivalent of jumping on the freeway without even stopping for gas. None of these tracks were fresh—everybody’d split yesterday or last night. The mountains have been emptied of life—just like that. The silence, something felt. Off in the forest, tracks of chickarees bounding between trees, the only indication that anybody had stuck around. Altogether, this was a stunning realization—seeing how the mountains just shut down for business at the end of the season. I really had no idea it was like this but it makes perfect sense. And if the ranger were on the natural rhythm of things he’d be gone, too. It was especially striking to see the big prints showing Ursa marching resolutely down the trail; imagining those great big hairy slobbering goof-offs hiking out of the mountains, headed who-knows-where. ◦◦◦◦◦ Stayed warm enough aside from hands and the stock did fine. I watched the passing scenes like townfolk watch TV. One particularly memorable bit, on that section of trail below the Long Canyon turnoff that Kohman and I rerouted back in ’83 (prints showing that critters prefer using the old trail): Ranger in leather chaps, Filson wool coat, and green knitted cap riding big strawberry roan horse; leading his string up a snow-filled draw—no sign of a trail through unblemished snow that might conceal hidden hazards. My first time riding through virgin snow-covered land. Western-style romance, for sure. Felt like being in a novel. ◦◦◦◦◦ Sun set and the snowpack got noticeably thicker in the last couple of miles. Thicker yet by the time we reached Upper Piute. I guess the valley holding the upper meadows is a giant bowl that storms like this one just sit in and merrily dump their loads. ◦◦◦◦◦ I’d started having bear-in-cabin-(again) thoughts not long after first seeing those tracks down in the fir forest, wondering if one or two of those guys maybe stopped by the cabin on their way out. All that grain in the bin on the porch….didn’t close the metal door[heavy, grated, “bear-proof” outer door; generally left open while the cabin was occupied]. By the time we hit Fremont junction, I was thinking that there’d more than likely been a visit and started steeling myself. Then, riding the last bit to the cabin after crossing the river and seeing lines of prints crisscrossing the meadow, was certain of it. ◦◦◦◦◦ The dark end of dusk by this time. Tied horses to the hitchrail, an honest eight inches on the ground. (Most people would’ve called it a foot without thinking twice.) I went over to the porch with some trepidation. There was just enough light left to detect general pandemonium. The entire porch appeared to have been turned upside down and shaken vigorously: plastic trashcan full of feed sacks, emptied; said sacks strewn about, along with spare saddles, blankets, tools, and sundry porch-inhabiting items. Grain bin was severely mauled and now empty. Worst of all, in the almost-dark, I saw that the bottom panel of the door had been rudely chomped-upon and bashed in: Bear in the cabin! “Ohhh, well,” I sighed out loud. In my head, an older and wiser voice said something along the lines of Shoulda known better, fool. ◦◦◦◦◦ Left my cohorts steaming—yes, steaming—at the hitchrail and went in to assess damages. Pretty much dark inside but I was met immediately by the overturned, formerly full-of-grain 50 gallon drum on the floor, the remains of its contents spread wide and far. Felt for the matches (container knocked over, matches scattered). Hard to describe the strange mix of calm acceptance, sorrowful resignation, and pure dread I felt while struggling to light the lantern—brain a-whirl, inventorying probable damages and loss of property with lightning speed. ◦◦◦◦◦ When the Coleman flared to life I was met with a scene both dismaying and cause for much relief. Taking stock: Bed and bookshelves (where my eyes first went) unpawed. Phew! This indicated less-than-general mayhem. Next: grain everywhere. Top sack of the three-high stack on the floor at the head of the spare bunk, ripped open and extensively feasted-upon. Cool-pantry, door ajar; contents consumed. Ice chest, covered with dried slobber, open and on its side; mostly emptied but—inexplicably—unperforated. Tall cabinet [storage for canned and dry food], completely unscathed! In fact, no doors ripped off anything, à la 1987. Several large Ursa-turds on the floor, half-frozen. (In case you’re wondering, they looked like big wads of half-digested granola.) A mess of slimy gunk all over the spare bunk’s mattress. ◦◦◦◦◦ Got the other lantern lit and in just minutes knew I’d gotten off easy. This time. Nothing really important broken or mangled aside from the door and the grain bin so, much lightened, I carried a lantern out and unsaddled the boys. Took them a bucket-load of [alfalfa] pellets which I doled out into the snow-filled mangers. ◦◦◦◦◦ Back in the cabin, started a fire. Wedged the splintered bottom panel of the door back in as best I could. [This, an unpainted square of ½” plywood that replaced the original panel, destroyed four years previously.] Right off, scooped up bear poop with my dust pan and tossed several loads over the porch railing. Ladled loose grain back into the metal drum using the dust pan and raked up miscellaneous debris. The little antique tin box that holds my tea bags, that’s probably been here since the cabin was built, was a loss. My hand-thrown ceramic mug was laying beside the propane stove, flat on its broad mouth. It had fallen from the shelf above but, miraculously, was unbroken. (It has a very delicate, thin rim.) The most significant damage was centered in the NW corner where the ice chest, cool-pantry, and “free food and stuff” box had been mauled and contents devoured. Some of the ice chest stuff was uneaten and salvageable but leftover veggies were frozen solid. From the cool-pantry: my dried apricots and peanut butter were gone but, oddly, other things left alone. The bear even figured out the door latch instead of just ripping the thing off its hinges! Overall, I was extremely pleased—especially after finding my journals undamaged and that certain “important” papers, scattered on the floor, were mostly okay as well. ◦◦◦◦◦ Ravenous by this time. I’d had toast and eggs for breakfast, a candy bar for “lunch,” and that was it. After final sweep-up, started thinking about whipping up some chow but, first, took the horses a dose of grain. ◦◦◦◦◦ The flashlight beam revealed a scene that froze me in my tracks: just in front of the corral, Zeke was lying on his side in the snow—ribs heaving, steaming, soaked in sweat. Ohhh noooo…not this! Even with my extremely limited knowledge of equine medicine, I recognized symptoms of colic. Twisted gut. Agony…can cause death, a bad death. Why now? What to do?All these things in my brain in an instant, all together. The uncertainty, the remoteness, the snow, darkness. This was one of those moments when you really get it that you’re truly on your own in this world. Moments before, everything was better than okay. I was finally starting to think about getting some food in my belly and…and just so quickly, everything changed. ◦◦◦◦◦ Stumbled back to the cabin in a daze, an up-against-the-wall kinda daze. Went for my files and pulled out one of the handouts I’d saved from packing school, an article about equine colic written specifically for backcountry stock-users. I skimmed it and saw right off that my diagnosis was spot on. There were several scenarios and one fit this situation perfectly: Horse gets colicky after a day on the trail, situation remote, no possibility of evacuation. Medical facilities minimal. It said to administer a painkiller and advised, basically, to not waste time worrying because nature would take its course. ◦◦◦◦◦ Fortunately, I had a vial of Banamine on hand so I shot Zeke up with 12cc, the prescribed dose. He’d scrambled to his feet again and was standing—sweat-soaked, quivering, pawing at the ground nonstop…tossing his head towards his gut. In serious distress, poor fella. My heart went out to this horse I feel no fondness for whatsoever. I rammed that thick-gauge needle into his thigh, pushed in the plunger, and headed back to my now-warm cabin to make some supper and try not to think about him. Left Zeke untied as per the article’s advice. He wasn’t “thrashing” so I wasn’t thinking about having to put him down with an axe or Pulaski. I certainly entertained visions of having a dead horse to deal with in the morning—another one. And having to call it in on the radio. Good lord. ◦◦◦◦◦ All this made for a rather anxious supper (can of soup and some crackers). Felt much later than eight p.m. This had been one long day! It was very cold outside, low twenties probably. Bear in the cabin—again. No kitties. I listening intently for sounds of horse-anguish while eating and went out as soon as I was done. Glory be, Zeke was standing there munching on pellets. Still all sweaty, still steaming and quivering, but eating. As if nothing was the matter. Put my ear to his side and heard gut-rumblings—good sign. A certain weight lifted. He seemed even better when I checked before going to bed so I stopped worrying about having to deal with yet another dead horse. Ten thousand stars blazing away in a frigid-looking void; a beautiful night. All’s well in the world and I remain one lucky dog.
→ zero visitors → 10½ miles → bear visitation → sick horse
©2025 by Tim Forsell 17 May 2019, 3 Mar 25
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