As time passes, the Bridgeport years (1983–2003) increasingly seem like some sort of dream-fantasy. In so many ways it was all just…too good. One illuminating example: supervision—or lack thereof. Today’s backcountry ranger would find it hard to believe how little direct guidance we received. Or how little paperwork we had to deal with. All of us kept a work log in these chintzy, government-issue spiral-bound steno notebooks. (My first supervisor, Lorenzo, seldom bothered to read mine but I kept at it and by the time I’d moved to from Robinson Creek to Piute my log/diary had morphed from a record of trail conditions and work accomplishments into this overall account of ranger-life.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Looking back, I’m astonished by the dearth of paperwork—how little data we rangers were required to gather; how seldom we were asked to submit written reports. We did have to keep track of a few work-related matters, however, hence the bulleted items that follow most of these entries. Among other things, we recorded the number of two-legged mammals we’d run into—the “visitors”—and in how many independent groups. (Meeting an individual or group of individuals was an “encounter,” in ranger-ese.) We’d tote up these numbers and submit them in a brief end-of-season report. ◦◦◦◦◦ A note on group size: to help minimize Wilderness camping impacts, the limit for backpackers was set at fifteen. Bigger groups had to split up—obtain separate permits, depart from different trailheads, and travel separately. They could meet up during the day but were expected to camp a mile apart—instructions that were routinely ignored. With oversized groups (typically Sierra Clubbers, Boy Scouts, school or church outings) a standard ploy was to get two permits and blow off the rules. This entry recounts one such encounter. In July and August, I’d have at least one of these every week and this is how they’d go: Big groups tend to spread out on the trail, usually with a trip leader at either end. I’d start running into individual pods and greet them in turn. Even if I’d already spoken to one of their leaders I’d ask each sub-group who was carrying the permit, then innocently inquire, “So, how many of there are you? Oh, twenty-two?” Then, when I came up on the leader(s), I’d ask and as often as not they’d flat-out lie. Over the years, I had many long, heartfelt discussions with these folks after they’d finally fessed up. And I’d always let them off, once it became clear that they knew how to reduce their impacts and had assured me they planned to comply. Why let them off? Well, the oversize group issue was a tricky one. The people running these shows were often aware that equestrian groups could also travel in bands of up to fifteen…along with up to twenty-five animals (ten head for packing freight) and however many packers. Any way you looked at it, this wasn’t fair and they knew it. So did I. ◦◦◦◦◦ More back-story on this entry: I’d left Piute the previous day—a Friday—to greet early Labor Day weekend arrivals just starting up the trail. After spending the night in Bridgeport I was headed back in to, as Yeti, our legendary, dearly departed ranger put it, “greet the fans.” There was a big fire going at the time and the air had been smoky for days.
31 Aug (Sat) Didn’t stick around town long enough to be spotted and held up. Grabbed a sandwich in town, drove to the pack station, and was back on the trail by 9:30. Not bad! More folks out and about today but not all that many for a Labor-Day-weekend Saturday. Only nineteen cars in the trailhead lot this morn; less than half of what I’d expect to see. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode up on a couple engrossed in reading my ranger note. I’d passed them on the road an hour before, right before I got to Cranney’s—saw them walking from the trailhead parking lot back to the campground [where the footbridge across the West Walker is located]. Knowing that we’d likely meet on the trail, I automatically gave them a quick once-over. Just from their gear, clothing, and overall vibe it was obvious that the pair were seasoned backcountry travelers. Now they were standing in front of the sign board reading my letter to the visitors. Neither of them heard me ride up so I pulled Red back and waited for them to finish. I just love running into people at my ranger-greeting seeing as how it starts out, “Chances are fair to good we’ll meet on the trail.” So these encounters have enhanced impact right off the bat—ranger showing up in the flesh as if on cue. “Oh! You must be Tim!”… “At your service,” sez I, with tip of the hat. I’ve actually said and done that; quite a few times; a little cheezy, maybe, but effective. And so, instant rapport established and doors opened wide for quality interaction. ◦◦◦◦◦ These two were indeed experienced hands—serious peakbaggers…members of the California Mountain Club (a sort of Sierra Club spin-off but with emphasis on peak climbing). No surprise, they know John Innskeep—the funny old coot I’ve met twice now leading CMC trips to Tower Peak. In fact, the first time I met John in 1993 he was with an oversized group. I nailed him for the ruse of getting two permits and lectured him sternly in front of his eighteen wards. (Old ranger trick: shame the person(s) in charge in front of the whole group, then gently let ‘em off the hook. Really gets the message across.) Turns out John had written trip-reports following both these outings which were subsequently published in the CMC newsletter. The couple I met today were carrying a copy of the earlier report. They handed it to me along with their permit and I gave it a quick scan—a generic “my trip” account like the ones in the Desert Survivors newsletter (ho-hum…) but I was tickled to read this: “…talked with ranger Tim Forsel [sic]. He’s a conscientious ranger and interesting person. If you go up there, try to talk to him.” He recounted my coming down on him for having an oversized group—future outings beware! Excellent. This is just the sort of information dissemination we need for getting the word out to the Wilderness-using public. Free advertising, as it were. ◦◦◦◦◦ Group of eight Boy Scouts at the main Roosevelt Lake camp. Actually, just three scouts accompanied by five adults—chiefs outnumbering Indians by almost two to one. Their leader was this fella, Rod Hall. They’d gotten in late the night before and I was pleased to see they were in the process of looking for a more suitable site on the far shore to move to. Gave them a hot tip of neat place to day-hike to: the waterfall. Told them to keep a sharp eye out for a faint trail—which once upon a time was the trail—cutting across the little meadow with the reedy pond just past Lane Lake. During spring runoff it’s definitely the most spectacular natural feature up here. Still pretty impressive in August. And hardly anyone even knows about it. Not indicated on any map. It might have been years before I finally stumbled on the thing if Doc Grishaw hadn’t told me of its whereabouts. ◦◦◦◦◦ A hundred yards farther on I grabbed my stashed shovel and was grubbing rocks and tossing loose stones when another group showed up, led by a silver-haired gentleman from Santa Barbara—one Arve Sjovold; a “systems analyst” by profession (whatever that might be). We had a brisk dialogue in front of his two sons and friends and friends-of-friends; ten total. Arve is one of those people who are really opposed to livestock in Wilderness and earnestly desire their removal from the Sierra—or, at the least, have areas set aside for hiker use only. He was obviously very intelligent, with forceful personality that no doubt goes with one of his profession: the man wants answers…and concrete solutions to problems. (I could see him being a difficult father or husband or person to work with seeing as how he’d be prone to analyzing other people’s systems.) As it happened, we had a rousing debate and I had ready responses to all his pre-fab arguments and questions and it was obvious that he enjoyed sparring with a ready&willing adversary. I could also tell from the faces of the spectators, none of whom participated, that they were getting a kick out of seeing Arve go head to head with someone who wasn’t intimidated by the force of his personality. Personally, it was gratifying to see that I have the capacity to debate thorny issues with one whose profession is looking at hard problems—using not just logic and rhetoric but practical common sense, based on the understanding that humans don’t operate in a perfect world. Arve’s long-term goal is to at least initiate some sort of process to address stock user/backpacker conflicts. He was clearly delighted to see that I’ve considered his points of view already and am sympathetic to the cause, even though my horse was parked right over there and I’m wearing a Stetson hat, chaps, and spurs. Told him of my idea that ranger districts should at the very least prepare handouts showing drainages and lakes and trails that aren’t visited by stock trains and old trails that can be taken to avoid sand-traps and dust (like the entire West walker trail….). We exchanged addresses and plan to correspond in the future. [Sadly, this never happened.] ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode up to Fremont. None of the hardened sites on the south end occupied! Not a one! A stunning change from years past when I’d start running into people with fishing poles as soon as I got to the lake and there’d be multiple tents in most of the hardened sites. Far fewer folk than normal this time around but, beyond that, something is going up here. Or, rather, not going on. Is backpacking falling out of fashion? ◦◦◦◦◦ Visited the Amenti party (who I call “the Wild Bunch”) at Bart’s basecamp and had a fine chat with the man himself. I hardly ever see Bart in the backcountry when he’s not on horseback leading a string of mules. Not sure if it’s because no one else was available or just that Bart really enjoys hanging out with the Amentis but, once again, he’s taken on the role of camp cook. It’s a lot of work, I know, but he’s basically on vacation. This is one of those rare occasions that I get to see Bart when he’s unharried, unstressed, and cheerful. And get some of his undivided attention. A real treat. Bart Cranny really is one of my favorite people. ◦◦◦◦◦ We had a great talk. Bart passed on several interesting items: he’s found that a pack station has been operating out of Leavitt Meadows since the late ‘70s—not, as I’d previously understood, since the 1940s. That was a surprise. He used to have a list of the names of the old outfits and the people who ran them but lost it, darn. He got all this info from one Pearl Hendricks, an old lady from Yerington, who was somehow intimately connected with the old time packer trade. (He didn’t explain how.) Also, Bart told me that, a long time ago, he’d seen an old map—a map that had different names for some of the lakes. Upper Long Lake was formerly called Borda Lake (as in Borda Meadow, after long-time sheep-permittee) and Lower Long was known as Shamrock Lake. Far superior names, if you ask me. Also, the largest of the Chain-of-Lakes was marked as “Butts Lake.” I’ve known that for some time now but wasn’t sure of the spelling. (Up to now I’ve referred to it as “Butz Lake” in this log.) Still don’t know who Mr. Butts was but these are three new pieces inserted into the puzzle. Love it! ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode home via aforementioned Long Lakes. Saw only two visitors beyond Fremont, dayhiking from their camp there. After leaving Fremont I was shocked at how deserted all that country was—even the PCT bridge camp, unoccupied! Gotta be the smoke. It hasn’t been too bad around these parts but this is, what? Day eighteen? ◦◦◦◦◦ But, turns out I had neighbors at Piute: a group of five sprawled on the riverbank just opposite the cabin, far side of the river. They’d collapsed in exhaustion…could go no further, et cet. They were two nights out from Sonora Pass (this, the second night), heading over Kirkwood, out at Twin Lakes. They knew they were in a quote-unquote illegal spot but “couldn’t walk another step.” I let ‘em slide, of course, since they’d already set up and weren’t going to have a fire. Told them I wasn’t quite as concerned with their camping right by the river since this was a grazed pasture. And expressed hope that my horses wouldn’t drag down their tents in the night. Still, a bit disagreeable having humans so close. I’m used to my solitude and crave the quiet; totally spoiled. Instead, had to listen to their camp-chatter and laughter while working on this log on the porch—could hear everything they said from fifty yards away. But they were all in bed while I still had enough light to write by.
→ 35 visitors, 6 encounters → 14½ miles → 2 pits → 3 WBs cleaned
→ many rocks, grubbed and tossed → 2 lbs. trash → several quality contacts
©2026 Tim Forsell 25 Sep 2026
