Things happen: on occasion a horse or mule will meet an untimely end deep in the backcountry. Over the years, packers and private stock-users shared stories about horrible wrecks they’d witnessed firsthand or heard about. (One, forever lodged in my brain, about an entire string of mules that went over a cliff when one slid off the trail and drug the rest with it.) I had a few close calls of my own but, fortunately, never killed a horse. Never had to put one down. I was lucky. ◦◦◦◦◦ This installment of Piute Log is about the time I had, not one, but two dead horses on my hands. The first was struck by lightning and, shortly thereafter, another suffered a freak accident—this one, just half a mile from the cabin. ◦◦◦◦◦ References to cattle: around this time, portions of the upper West Walker drainage were part of a long-time grazing allotment used by a local ranch family. When the cows came on, the fenced “administrative” pasture at Piute would routinely get broken into—calves would wriggle their way between the strands of my decrepit drift fences and their moms would crash through after them. Hikers would occasionally not close gates behind them. Either way, every so often I’d come home after a long day on the trail to find a dozen bovines munching down my horses’ autumn feed. (The grass on my side of the fence was greener, apparently.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Mike and Rene were a couple from Fallon, NV, who came up several times each season without fail. They almost always camped in Upper Piute Meadows—“good people” and model backcountry stock-users. We became friendly and would often share a meal when they were around. Mike Vidal was a real character: late forties around this time, a lineman by trade; former mule-packer, endurance rider, rodeo calf-roper, nonstop talker. Raised in Orange County, this former surfer somehow transformed himself into an authentic cowboy-type and spoke with a flawless Nevada western twang. Now, Mike was somewhat notorious for losing livestock in the backcountry. Misplacing four-legged animals in the mountains is shockingly easy—nothing to be ashamed of, but it’s always embarrassing if someone else finds the escapees before you do. (The lost horses mentioned in this piece were finally located a couple of weeks later, miles from where they’d gone missing.) ◦◦◦◦◦ One last note: “hobby-horsers” is a mildly derogatory term for a distinctive breed of private stock users—moderately wealthy people as a rule; inexperienced and/or clueless in the art of backcountry stock-use. Though well intended, hobby-horsers—hands down—do more damage and commit more livestock-related eco-crimes than any other category of wilderness visitors. Mostly out of sheer ignorance. Their equally inexperienced, high-strung animals typically live at boarding facilities and are often freaked-out at being in an unfamiliar situation. I’d spend a lot of time with these folks when we met on the trail, educating them. Like Mike and Rene, a few became regular visitors and over the years I got to see just how much my added efforts paid off. Small victories.
13 Aug (Mon) Back from Yosemite, heading into Piute. Greta packing the trailcrew into their camp at Fremont junction today. She asked for help. Well, of course! Both of us had things to take care of first so by the time we were out at the barn saddling and gathering tack it was almost noon. The crew was already at the pack station with their stuff so we hustled out there. Got everything of theirs loaded onto five animals and finally achieved escape velocity. ◦◦◦◦◦ Met some hobby-horsers just past Lane Lake—a couple, recently moved to the area (Carson City), who plan to visit on a regular basis. Gave them a good talking to and a copy of the Backcountry Stock Users booklet (always carry one in my saddlebags) and marked the best stock camps on their map. They were appreciative and seemed “okay.” We’ll see. With hobby-horsers you never know—even if they’re wearing ridiculous costumes and their gear is all shiny & new and they’re riding $20,000 Appaloosas, sometimes they actually know what they’re doing. A few of them—not many, but a few—have surprised me. ◦◦◦◦◦ To the crew camp, already past quittin’ time. Dropped the loads in minutes. Greta headed back out and I pressed on. Another long day for my boss. ◦◦◦◦◦ In Lower Piute, rode up on some guy erecting his tent right by the trail. Turned out to be a Scout leader who’d somehow gotten separated from his wards. Nice fella. Surprisingly calm and unperturbed, given the circumstances. With incisive questioning, figured out where his group was located (he couldn’t recall the lake’s name) leaving him much relieved. ◦◦◦◦◦ Home at last. Hey, what’s this? Two messages tacked to the cabin door. One from Dieter, the guy camped with his family up at the head of the meadow. Something about a dead horse…please advise. Oh, no. The other, a crumpled note from Mike Vidal, apparently delivered by a backpacker. He and Rene were at Tilden Lake [fifteen miles distant, in Yosemite NP]. Two of their horses had run off and—not exactly sure why—he wanted to let me know. Now, I hardly ever find notes left on my door…only a few times, total. Today, two of ‘em. And this: when I arrived there were at least twenty cows on the cabin side of the drift fence. Hate that! Ran ‘em out, Rawhide-style—that is, at full gallop, hyah-hyah!ing at the top of my lungs. Red thought I’d lost my mind. Fresh pies everywhere. Looked like they’d been in for a couple of days. Sigh. Cow flops in the yard. A big one right in front of the porch step. (At least, no cow dookie on the porch.)
→ 17 visitors → 10½ miles
14 Aug (Wed) While I was over in Yosemite the meadow turned gold. In just those few days of being gone, Upper Piute went from green-tinged-with-gold to gold-tinged-with-green. Always happens around this time of year: I stand on the porch and gaze out at the meadow, hardly able to remember when it was that pure, malachite-green of Earlyjune. Definitely one of those poignant moments that occur every season, just the one time. There are others, others like it, all of them bittersweet. ◦◦◦◦◦ Turned into a weird day. After breakfast, saddled Red and went to visit the dead-horse people. They were getting breakfast ready (smell of frying bacon drifting through the trees so good). Dieter took me over and introduced me to the victim, clearly visible under a blue tarp not fifty yards from camp. Here’s the story: They got packed in last week and brought along one horse to ride—theirs, not the pack station’s. This ten-year-old mare was being broke to picket off a front leg. She didn’t like it at all and wigged out, lunging against the picket line until somehow getting flipped over, landing on her hip. They saw all this from camp and actually heard something snap. Oooh. The poor mare was in agony, grunting they said, and broke into a foamy sweat. She got stood up, quivering all over, leg dangling useless. When Dieter tried to lead her farther away from the river she almost fell so he put her down on the spot using the pistol he‘d brought along for just such an emergency. A “bad scene,” as we say in the business. I told him how things stood: your property—your responsibility…if necessary, we can take care of it, will bill you, et cet. Totally winging it…truth is, I had no idea how such things get handled or even what would happen to the corpse. (Bart told me how he had to buck up a dead mule with a chainsaw one time.) (The Park Service uses dynamite.) Dieter agreeable to the terms, such as they were. ◦◦◦◦◦ Then, to make this morning even more tremendous, one of their boys told me there was a dead deer in the river. “Right over there,” he pointed. When-it-rains-it-pours syndrome! Sure ‘nuf, just down-river from their camp: a spotted fawn, couple of feet under, tangled in the branches of a submerged snag. Must’ve got swept away following mom across the river. But it sure was dead, with a veil of green algae and skin starting to peel off the face. This being my drinking water supply I just sighed, rolled up sleeves, took off my boots, waded in, and drug the unholy thing out. Weighed maybe twenty pounds, wet. Holding the dripping remains by one front leg at arm’s length, I carried it up the hill to dump behind a log or boulder for the coyotes to find. Got maybe twenty yards before Dead Bambi slipped right out of my hand. That is, its leg slid through a tube of sloughing skin. The rotting carcass hit the dirt with a terrible soggy thud, leaving me—a moderately squeamish child of the suburbs—standing there breathing through my mouth with a fistful of slimy fawn skin. Which I flung away in a hurry, lemme tell ya. Just left the corpse where it fell. No way am I gonna pick that thing up again, unh-uh! Looking down and seeing my dominant hand covered with greenish-brown, slime and getting a fat whiff of that soul-piercing death-stench…. Well, first time ever, I felt that proverbial lump rise in my throat. An apt expression; I get it now. This was definitely the closest I’ve come to hurling out of sheer revulsion, like people do in movies. ◦◦◦◦◦ Back in camp, Sarah handed me the high-line I’d loaned them, neatly coiled. Dieter said he’d bring a rope next time; told me he’d read the Backcountry Horseman’s booklet I gave him last week and got a lot out of it. This one’s coming along well. As for the poor mare, I have no way of knowing if they blew it or if it was “just one of those things.” ◦◦◦◦◦ Stopped by the cabin for dry pants and to try and wash that gawd-awful stink off my hand. Ivory soap didn’t begin to cut it so I went out in the yard and scrubbed my hands vigorously with dirt, then tried again with dish detergent. Not quite gone but oh well. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode down-canyon and stopped by Doc’s camp to say hi. He was up for a couple of days doing trailwork and invited me for tea tonight. Down in Lower Piute, surprised to find the lost Scoutmaster still in his emergency bivouac, talking with several compatriots—one of multiple groups out searching for him. Ten a.m. and he hadn’t even taken his tent down! Kinda would’ve expected the guy to be off at dawn—to maybe not prolong his troop’s worry, at the very least. Go figger. But we had another nice chat. I gave them the standard tips for Scout troops (No new firerings! Don’t burn foil! Dig a latrine!) and explained the cow situation. ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed for Long Lakes where I cleaned up a brand-new camp built on a recently cleared, hardened site. The last occupants had done some major trenching around their tents, excavations that unearthed a bunch of broken glass and bits of rusty cans from days of yore. Filled in trenches and loaded my trash sack. Now, I’ve offered commentary on such matters many many times in this here log, just to vent steam. But answer me this: Why is it that NO ONE! EVER! fills in their tent trenches before they leave? I can’t recall a single instance of seeing where people back-filled their blankety-blank trenches—not once. Why is that? WHY?! (Phew. I feel better.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode the PCT to Walker Meadows. This was a death-themed day, it seems. A real Dio de los Muertos. Rode over to check on my other horse carcass and was stunned to find it…gone! Only thing left was a brown patch in the still-green meadow though the place still stunk pretty bad. Found the skull and a few gnawed bones under nearby trees, drug off by coyotes most likely. Amazing! Ma Nature sure takes care of business! Piles of bear poop scattered about. This unlucky horse was struck during that lightning storm on I think 19 July. First saw it seven days later, bloated but almost intact. Less than three weeks later, the whole thing’s already been recycled; nothing left but bones, some excrement, and localized stench. ◦◦◦◦◦ Down around the Cinko Lake junction, here comes a group on foot, leading llamas. Finally got to meet Jan and Stan Hunewill, owners of the Hunewill Ranch down in Bridgeport Valley. Been hearing about these folks since I first arrived in the area. Stan is, what? fourth generation? Pioneer family, name on maps forevermore—part of the landscape. I’ve wondered what it must feel like to have that long-time, deep-in-the-bone connection to place. It was obvious right off that these are two fine specimens of humanity…top shelf. I’ve only ever heard nice things said about them, which is rare. They were vacationing in their back yard with friends, everybody leading their own pack llama and looking pretty darn happy. So Redtop got his first introduction to the South Americans. He reacted quite well (all things considered) to a head-on meeting with hideous, long-necked space-aliens. He acted terrified but also seemed curious—which, I thought, was a lot better than only being terrified. Oh, they must look horrible through his eyes! ◦◦◦◦◦ Home at a reasonable hour. Had a quick dinner, then down to Doc’s camp with Rip [my black cat] for tea. Got there before sunset. Doc was just sitting down to a panful of typical Doc-stew—beans with chunks of Spam and onion, looked like. Mugsy enjoyed his share with kibble mixed in. We sat around a tiny Doc-fire gossiping while Rip the shadow-cat wove in and out of the firelight, slinking around the perimeter. Doc got a kick out of my day’s happenings. ◦◦◦◦◦ Walked home in substantial darkness, sky half-cloudy-half-starry. (I never take a flashlight.) Humid and abnormally warm with a tremendous display of lightning going on to the east and more intensely to the north, flash after flash. Too far away to hear thunder. Odd weather.
→ 31 visitors → 16½ miles → 1 firepit → 5 lbs trash
Six days later: 20 Aug (Tue) ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode back to Piute tired and happy and relieved to be going home. [I’d been in the trailcrew camp working with them for a few days while the cabin was occupied by Forest Service people.] Met two backpackers who’d passed by shortly after the FS folks left. They saw a bear in the yard—bear with a white chest. I miss all the good stuff! Sounded like the bear I chased off two years ago. Prob’ly the one that ransacked the cabin in ’87. Guessing it’s been feasting on horseflesh. ◦◦◦◦◦ Got unpacked. Happy horses home at last, grazing merrily in the hollows where the grass and sedges are still green. Cow bells ringing out back, all the world at peace. Took my river bath. Flies horrible all of a sudden—can’t help but think they’re connected to the not-so-fresh carcass half a mile from here. So after my dip, Rip and I went to check on the decay process. ◦◦◦◦◦ Started smelling that smell a hundred yards off. Rip, sniffing the air, wary. Ursa had already gotten into it—hole in the neck, belly skin ripped off exposing guts. One hind leg torn off entirely. Rustling sound of a hundred-thousand maggots prominent in the otherwise silence. Didn’t stink too awful bad. Claw marks on the hide and that dreadful, leering, toothy death-grin. I then did something strange but, frankly, very Tim-like. Sort of a science experiment, actually; an investigation into feline behavioral psychology. What I did was toss my cat onto the horse’s back. To see how he’d react and also to gauge, by the sound produced, the carcass’ internal condition. Result of experiment: Rip bounced off as if I’d tossed him on a hot stovetop. The carcass sounded as if it were mostly hollow, covered with brittle parchment. The decomposition process is well advanced and in a couple of weeks this horse should be mostly back in the system. Walked back by moonlight.
Four days later: 24 Aug (Sat) ◦◦◦◦◦ Still light after dinner so I strolled up to “Deadhorse Meadow.” Amazed to find the carcass down to mostly bones already, a seething pool of maggots filling the body cavity, rustling feverishly in the last light. An unforgettable, haunting sound. It didn’t even smell that much. Well, that is, until you get up close. ◦◦◦◦◦
Two days later: 26 Aug (Mon) ◦◦◦◦◦ Dropped down a gulley back into Piute Meadows. Visited the horse remnants, now a stringy pile of bones dragged off under some trees. Not much left but head and legs and maybe a few thousand fly larvae. One hoof lying nearby, cleanly separated from the ankle bones. (It looked like a big hunk of yellowish plastic.) It’s been two weeks, today, since this horse breathed its last. Thanks to lots of maggots and one bear, with a little help from coyotes and beetles, the job was completed in near-record time and well under budget. Didn’t need a chainsaw nor dynamite neither! It’s been very interesting and informative to watch the whole process. Let’s not forget this great truth—decomposition makes the world go ‘round. ◦◦◦◦◦
Two-and-a-half weeks later: 12 Sep (Thu) ◦◦◦◦◦ Checked out the former carcass, now reduced to a pile of bones and dried skin. Rip warily approached on his own, only mildly interested now after his several visits. But he took a few long, furrowed-brow, wrinkled-nose sniffs. Clearly not offended by the smell. I watched his face and body-language and wondered what he was experiencing. No idea. Not a clue. ◦◦◦◦◦
©2025 Tim Forsell 24 Oct 2020, 27 Feb 25
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