The Demeaning of Life...Chapter 1 Revisited

Since this chapter was originally posted, it has undergone significant changes, with edits intended to emphasize the idea of what I now call “Natural Design.” At the outset of this project, I hadn’t yet fully articulated my overall point of view as a “thing,” a position in need of a specific identifying label. The changes I’ve made are extensive and important enough that I’m reposting this entire section: Chapter 1: The Meaning of Life.

Life is not an epiphenomenon, a minor incidental of the material universe, but a manifestation of the profoundest reality.... Accidental in detail, always within physical laws, the broad tendency toward the greater complexity and efficacity of life conforms to the way of the universe, which by its expansion enables the powers of self-organization to defy the dominion of entropy.

                                                                   

       Robert Wesson, Beyond Natural Selection

No one knows who first came up with the somewhat sarcastic adage There are no hungry philosophers. But the first truth-seekers in all likelihood appeared not long after people first learned how to control fire. Once those proto-humans found themselves safe inside their caves, staring into the flickering flames with full bellies, they probably began to experience vague, wordless stirrings in their primeval brains. Innately inquisitive, over time these brains developed the capability to translate mental images into concepts and words into language. As synaptic connections proliferated, swelling into byzantine networks, symbolic imagery evolved into thought and mind was born. Hearth-side musings became wonderings that little by little morphed into the so-called “eternal” questions. Nagging questions that to this day, by definition, remain unanswered. Among the most timeless: What is life? What is it for? What does it mean? Because of who we are and have always been, people still ask these very questions. Some believe that the answers have been revealed, the compelling riddles solved…or that Only God knows. Others are convinced that even thinking about such matters is a fruitless waste of time and always has been.

So. We are living in a time known as the twenty-first century A.D. and humans know things…many things. Those old questions are still unanswered, it seems. On the other hand, we have unraveled the workings of the entire universe. We now know how living things work, down to the finest details. But do we know what life is? At this point in time, most would say Of course we do! Most of those who answer in the affirmative, however, would be hard pressed to offer solid evidence backing their conviction. 

Among the small set of people who still ask the question “What is life?” I find myself in an even smaller subset who feel certain that we do not know what life is. But I have some ideas…some of them decidedly unorthodox or at least out of current fashion. What follows is a distilled summation, deliberately couched in unscientific language, that captures my way of thinking as regards nature’s subtle and ill-defined aspects: 

Life arose on Earth virtually as soon as conditions allowed. And thrived. It is    expressed, here and now, as four billion years worth of evolutionary experimentation. For life, the passage of time has no meaning—eons are measured in the ongoing transformation of its productions. Life imparts its essence to inert matter by virtue of an incomparable, “minded” creativeness limited only by physical law. It is a self-organizing agency, both willful and intelligent, brimming with both possibility and promise. Life, while keeping to circuitous pathways, follows some inexorable course unknown to us. It is supremely patient, methodical, and resilient…is undaunted by failure or setback. At the same time, life is a bold explorer, a dynamic and capricious—even whimsical—innovator. Among its courses of action, life conspicuously favors novelty and multiplicity…will sample virtually every feasible design motif—at least once. (Others, it reinvents repeatedly.) Rather than being a freak accident of time and chance, life is an integral feature of the cosmos, one that arises where and whenever conditions permit within our vast universe. Life itself is the alleged “intelligent designer” and somehow has devised countless astonishingly inventive ways of making all this happen—without ever resorting to miracles. And here we are: living proof.

Such notions, of course, are by no means new or even particularly unconventional. Still, they are more representative of past belief systems that are not merely passé but whose central precepts are today often ridiculed; as a rule, educated people deem those who cling to such archaic beliefs naïve or deluded. Nonetheless, my deliberately fanciful characterization of the phenomenon of life is a defensible position—our society has come full circle in the sense that we are once again seeing humanity as an inseparable part of the natural world. Still, for many individuals the whole of nature remains a virtual abstraction in their day to day lives, something that lives out of doors. Our current cultural milieu does not support or encourage a movement towards the more inclusive, nuanced attitudes toward nature that were ubiquitous not so very long ago.

Certain phenomena still lie just beyond the reach of science’s methods. Human consciousness—mind—is perhaps the most pressing of these unresolved issues and, despite significant advances in various fields, many glaring unknowns remain. With no general agreement on origins, functions, a definition, or even precisely what consciousness represents, it has been held back from its rightful place as part of a broad scientific conception of reality. And, since it has no established footing, mind is often entirely left out of discussions concerning matters with which it is inescapably entwined. (In formulating theories of mind, for instance.) This point is much-debated. But, as per my assertion that we have no firm understanding of what animates living things: if this is true, it follows that we cannot have a truly accurate picture of reality without including mind—the very thing that allows us to contemplate such matters. Thomas Nagel again: “In the meantime, we go on using perception and reason to construct scientific theories…even though we do not have a convincing external account of why those faculties exist that is consistent with our confidence in their reliability….”

Accordingly, I believe that science should maintain its central role in providing an objective view of our world but should not be the sole basis for explaining how nature operates. And here I realize that I am entering dangerous territory, that this statement puts my entire stance at risk of not being taken seriously. But, insofar as current scientific thought fails to address certain matters that may prove crucial in gaining a better understanding of what life is, something needs to give way. A more inclusive mental construct of what life consists of will require that a conceptual door be cracked open—one that lets in some fresh air in the form of speculations traditionally anathema to scientific thought. This is not to advocate openly embracing pseudoscientific notions and premises, but rather to skeptically consent to at least consider hypotheses that languish near the border of currently accepted theory. We see this approach already at play in modern cosmology with the concept of the multiverse and, in atomic physics, with string theory. To date, nothing similarly resistant to empirical study or rational conceptualization has arisen in the biosciences. In time, a tipping point may be reached when a critical number of influential experts arrive at consensus on this point: The solution to nature’s most stubborn riddles appear to actually be receding from our grasp. And this consensus will build until it triggers biology’s version of a scientific revolution.

While living things are in many regards such well suited subjects for experimental analysis, life will never reveal all its secrets to our limited intellects. We live in a universe that, in point of fact, makes perfect sense in every regard. This world’s most enigmatic features may be opaque to us simply because humans lack the perceptive “equipment” necessary for unraveling its innermost workings.

But then, another cosmic riddle: despite its flamboyant complexity, our world operates by principles that are striking for their quality of being so open to human inquiry. Many great minds have pondered this notion, searching for clues. One facet of the mystery, seldom broached, is the very real quality of life’s being fringed by the unknown and unknowable—in and of itself an extremely telling point that should speak to anyone  who questions why all this…stuff…is accessible to our scrutiny in the first place. While many would adamantly disagree with this notion of innate inscrutability, it may be that in certain fields—cosmology being perhaps foremost among them—we may already be approaching the limits of what science is capable of. Still, a number of classic unsolved problems may yet prove within reach of its time-tested methods.

It is often said that many of our most stubborn mysteries should properly be regarded as “unanswered questions.” Some of the answers to these obdurate questions may eventually be found by way of methods belonging to fields that are customarily considered fringe- or pseudo-science. Of course, most scientists[1]—by disposition—are ill inclined to accept claims based on what are perceived as relating to the mystical or so-called “spiritual” sides of  nature. This goes to the heart of why there is a lingering resistance to discussing tricky subjects like consciousness, or any matter that cannot be couched exclusively in material terms. Surely, there must be some middle ground here that might open doors leading to new insights. Author Carter Phipps, in Evolutionaries: Unlocking the Spiritual and Cultural Potential of Science’s Greatest Idea writes,

[T]here is a huge difference between genuinely transrational spiritual states, intuitions, and experiences, and areas of knowledge that may be subtle, complex, and relatively unexplored yet hardly unnatural or unknowable. We should never blindly conflate nonphysical with supernatural. I suspect that over time we will discover that the science of this internal universe, while subtle in terms of our present conceptions, is well within the framework of a sensible, comprehensible universe.

                                                                       

One prominent sticking point: nature displays unmistakable signs of design in all its creations, down to the smallest details. Scientific thought holds that “design” implies a design-er with some sort of objective. (The practice of science denies that nature can have a “plan,” or targeted goal.) And that the appearance of design is illusory; life’s productions have no purpose, being—as famously avowed by French biochemist Jacques Monod—solely the result of “chance and necessity.” Meanwhile, the devoutly religious remain steadfast in their conviction that some all-knowing deity intentionally contrived this vast, elaborate cosmos with some clear objective centered around humanity.

I stand in support of a third view: that there is something that could be labeled a designer, one whose creations are not crafted purely by chance and necessity (while those influences are two agents that it constantly employs). “It” is not some mystical entity beyond our sphere. Simply put, the Creator is nature itself, in the broadest sense of the concept—defined here as nothing more and nothing less than this world: the universe. Nature creates and designs itself. It has no purpose or meaning aside from itself, no plan…many means, but no ends—at least, not in any sense humans are able to comprehend. Life, bound by both contingency and necessity, is one manifestation of nature. (Or vice versa...) And as for life’s purposiveness: I would argue that we are not at liberty to make a judgment about something humans are incapable of grasping.

This, then, is the framework my conception of life is built around. It is a principle which, wanting a name, will hereafter be called Natural Design. It is not to be confused with pantheism—the belief that nature is equivalent to a divinity.[2] In fact, a crucial thrust of my position is the total exclusion of any supernatural elements. (In choosing the name “Natural Design,” it was my express intention to underscore its disparity with the anti-science religious program known as “Intelligent Design.”) While Natural Design promotes a novel way of viewing natural phenomena, its validity hinges on being in conformity with scientifically accepted fact. It does not reflect a particular ideology. Natural Design is predicated on the existence of a specific capacity, a tendency or predisposition, that is inherent to life.[3] This singular capability is what has historically been mistaken for a “life force.” The distinction is subtle and warrants further clarification:

Instead of being acted upon by some driving force, nature can be viewed as possessing a scientifically unrecognized attribute that is able to bring forth life. Nature has the innate ability to design its productions and to engineer solutions to the difficulties it faces in a manner that far exceeds the blind explorations of evolution as conceived by Charles Darwin. In a manner of speaking, Natural Design somehow lends life a cheritable hand, “a leg up,” a way to more easily achieve certain goal-less ends. It furthers beneficial change. Throughout this book I will be spotlighting instances of Natural Design at work. For now, it should be understood that this is a conceptual tool whose purpose is to bring clarity to matters that have been misinterpreted or misrepresented. It is not a theory, per se. Natural Design may not constitute a hypothesis that can be subjected to rigorous testing but it can be used to make predictions derived from the set of assumptions laid out at the beginning of this chapter. And I will show how predictions based on Natural Design, and the patterns it reveals, demonstrate its utility as a means to better describe life.  

 Natural Design is predicated on the idea that each and every branch of the biological sciences is hampered by significant conceptual shortcomings due to that one crucial piece of information: we do not know what life actually is. The almost universal belief among scientists that life can be explained solely in terms of chemistry and physics will, I predict, one day be seen as a quaint anachronism. For those who instinctively reject this assertion out of principle: reflect on the fact that after attempts spanning centuries there is still no consensus on a clear-cut, all-encompassing definition of what being alive entails.[4] Also consider the implications of the fact that a number of nature’s most crucial inventions, with all their complexities—photosynthesis being a prime example—were in operation during life’s early stages. Insofar as we can ever hope to fully grasp such intricacy, the key will be found in discovering the basis of how living things manipulate information. At the heart of the matter will be finding how this ability arose in the first place. Without such understanding, the big picture will remain fragmentary.

Before biology developed into a mature science, such a fundamental lack of understanding had yet to become an issue. During its formative era (roughly speaking, before the 1830s) the focal point of life-centered science was mostly comparative—directed toward learning about organisms and their multitudinous parts and habits through observing, collecting, dissecting and classifying. Ecology followed, illuminating new layers of complexity through a focus on biosystems and the tangled web of relationships between habitats and inhabitants. Once biology became a full-grown science, questions of origins and meaning were handed back to the philosophers.

Only after molecular biology and embryology assumed their rightful foundational standings in the mid-20^th century did the most basic aspects of all life sciences  finally seem to come within reach. In the 1940s, Erwin Schrödinger (first to propose the existence of some sort of genetic code) wrote an intentionally thought-provoking little book entitled What is life? It addressed head-on, from a physicist’s point of view, the age-old debate that was being tacitly ignored by modern biologists: How can physics and chemistry account for living organisms? This question remains problematic. Still unanswered, the whole vexing issue continues to be debated. But so far as modern science is concerned, the subject is generally considered too ambiguous and subjective, veering too close to philosophy for serious consideration. 

            There is little doubt that among the universe’s billions—no, trillions—of  planets, surely others are home to living things. (For reasons taken up later, those harboring life forms more advanced than microbes are likely far rarer than science fiction aficionados and Carl Sagan devotees would have us believe.) Still, the vast majority of other worlds are lifeless, always were, and have no difficulty whatsoever maintaining that status.

But here on this remarkable and munificent little planet of ours, the living and non-living exist together, mingled inextricably with nothing in between.[5] Both are so omnipresent and entangled that, from day to day, we unavoidably fail to note the truly vast gulf between animate and inanimate; we lack any sort of meaningful perspective. But it’s obvious! One moves around and does things…the other doesn’t. A point so obvious, it seems beyond question. This crucial lack-of-perspective is a factor in virtually all my claims and of central importance to my thesis; try to bear this in mind.

Here is another unconventional idea: There are no compelling reasons to presume that the inception of life was an event intrinsically less remarkable or enigmatic than the origin of non-living matter, simply because its arrival here on Earth took place well after the Big Bang. For life to be realized, the universe itself had to evolve to meet requisite conditions. Following the nascent universe’s initial expansion, matter in its atomic state could not form until almost half a million years had passed[6] and another 1.6 billion years elapsed before a sufficient number of early generation stars had exploded, creating the debris needed for planets to form. Multiple generations of specific types of stars (those capable of forging the heavier elements necessary for life) had to explode in stellar supernovas, casting their planetary seeds into space.

In a cosmological sense, where time’s passage has different meaning, the chronologic difference between matter’s origin and life’s inception is of little consequence. My point being: there is simply no way to compare those two historic origin-events…no causal framework in which to place them that allows for any rational conclusions as to their relative significance. (My guess is that an omnipotent, omnipresent creator-deity would consider life their better piece of work.) 

Cultural detachment from the natural world only amplifies an inability to perceive life for what it might represent in totality. Its significance is too profound for comprehension…perhaps too overwhelming to face squarely without some coercion. But watching a single episode of David Attenborough’s Nature series should be more than enough to lastingly replenish the most jaded person’s sense of wonder. Or, an open-eyed stroll over any hill or through any dale. Instead, out of sheer familiarity, life’s ubiquity and beyond-belief variety have a strange, numbing effect—our brains resolutely clouding that unique human capacity to feel unbridled awe. We continually take life’s innumerable wonders for granted and, by doing so, demean it.

     ©2017 by Tim Forsell  (draft)                                                                                                                                                                                           

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[1] My preference would be to not speak of “scientists” as a group, which seems to imply that they all belong to some sort of unified group. My intention in doing so is to refer to those who perceive the world from a position that is predominantly shaped by “the scientific viewpoint.” When I find it necessary to refer to scientists collectively, it is simply to avoid excessive qualification and awkward verbiage. Also, when I use the term “science” in a general or unspecified sense, it will always be in the spirit of what Carl Sagan referred to when he said,  ”Science is much more than a body of knowledge. It is a way of thinking.” 

[2] It might be construed that I am more or less describing “God, with a fresh coat of paint.” I could as easily argue that people who experience some inner drive to worship a deity are, in truth, unwitting pantheists.

[3] This concept is the basis of several discredited 19^th century orthogenetic theories that shared in common the belief that organisms possess subtle internal factors that influence their evolution. A failure to identify specific mechanisms involved resulted in such theories never gaining credence.

[4] Note the emphasis on no consensus. Most of the literally hundreds of proposed definitions are more or less true though many suffer from being awkward and vague or are flawed by a surprising number of pesky exceptions-to-the-rule.

[5] It is generally considered that the one candidate for an exception would be viruses—crystal-like packets of lifeless genetic material that require living hosts to provide their needs. But note that the status of viruses is currently being reexamined—it may prove that viruses are “more alive” than has long been thought.

[6] At this point the universe had cooled sufficiently for electrons to bond permanently with free hydrogen and helium nuclei. Previous to that, it was a super-hot plasma of subatomic particles.

Piute Log...Typical (Sweet) Day...2003

There’s nothing particularly dramatic about this entry. It represents a typical, ordinary day of rangering in one of my more remote areas, frequented by few tourists. Some trail work—this day, just the clearing of waterbreaks so that water drains off the trail-tread, pruning of bushes, and removal of loose stones. Nature observations. (And, since I wasn’t visiting a popular lake on a weekend, no customary cynical rant.) And this entry includes one of my very favorite activities: the post-work cross-country exploratory hike back to the cabin. In this regard, I was a poor ranger—a proper ranger always stays on trails to meet as many visitors as possible. I, instead, often chose to avoid them in favor of learning the lay of the land. A true joy….

20 Jul (Sun)     Warm and cloudy again. Visited with three guys just coming down from Tower Peak and showed them where to cross the river. ◦◦◦◦◦ I’d already decided to head up that way myself. Not been to Tower Lake yet this season plus this is one of the trails I wasn’t able to work last fall and so wanted to make sure all the drains are at least unclogged after the rains (with more coming). Warm again—75° today!—and so humid! Not used to this at all; any little bit of work or uphill walk and I’m almost instantly dripping, shirts soaked, brow swabbing constant. Guzzle water, quarts a day. Today—bless-ed clouds mostly and I missed getting rained on (in both senses….) Rocked and cleaned W-Bs. Lots of pruning and clearing of saplings needs doin’. But the trail was in great shape ‘cept those sections just below the meadow which are too steep and out-of-control, big gullies fulla rock. Getting worse by the year. ◦◦◦◦◦ Checked the handful of obscure camps along the way. Some are lovely sites, very seldom used. Everybody hell-bent to get to the lake. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rested there on the turfy shore and tried to dry off in the eternal breeze there near the outlet. Saw no fish again. (Supposedly a few are left.) And, sigh, that horrid but inevitable camp in the whitebarks—a real abortion—that I’ve ignored for 15 summers now. Will it just go away by itself? No, not until the next glacier arrives but that may be awhile. Move it up to the short list, Fersell, and deal. ◦◦◦◦◦ Took scenic route home. Despite rumblings, no rain fell on me. Crossed at the outlet (by the way, no mergansers here, neither…where they be?) and followed Hobbit-ledge along the top of the striped face made famous (to me, at least) by Gary Snyder [in a poem he wrote during a visit to Tower Lake] and, first time ever, followed the crest of glacier-hewn ledges that rim Tower Creek. On the way up I noticed (again, 1^st time) that there was a semi-continuous series of these cliffs atop the otherwise crumbly gorge of Tower Creek. “Great views and slabs,” I thought. Well, it was a four-star classic rock-hop of a journey. I’d certainly been through there, many times. First stop was the ultra-classic “Pond-On-the-Edge,” one of the most scenic spots around, period: a cliff-bound kettle, its outer “shore” perched right on the brink of one of the broad ledges. But I followed that edge the whole way and visited all this new, glacier-smoothed granodiorite with views down into the gorge and across towards Hawksbeak Peak and down into Upper Piute. Most inspiring under grand lighting conditions with the grey sky, patches of blue, with light shafts spotlighting various hills and dales. Joined the trail again near where the old and new versions meet. More stones and W-Bs. Looked for the fritillary. None blooming; only about four plants, drying and almost invisible in the grass, none with pods (as usual). Couldn’t find the one plant I’d seen on the other side of the trail. What a mystery this little lily is—why it’s here, why it’s nowhere else, how it hangs on. For all I know, it’s grown here for thousands of years. Is it pure coincidence that it looks mysterious and exotic and is virtually invisible? Every season I try to get to Tower Lake sometime in July and anxiously scan for individual plants in that maybe 75 square yard place under the lodgepoles where that little brook crosses the trail—the only place I’ve ever seen this species.

  → 3 visitors     → 400 lbs. rock     → 36 W-Bs cleaned     → some trash bits     → 8 miles

Copied on the first page of this volume of Piute Log:

There is a little voice in all of us that is just a whisper. A tiny whisper. When you go into nature, into the wilds, especially alone, the whisper can come out and talk more. Inside each of us is the spirit that whispers. This little voice is our true self. If we can listen, it will start to get louder. Eventually, that whisper will be our normal voice. That’s when I really live and when dreams become reality. When I live from that deep intuitive place.

                                                                                            Jennifer Hahn

Thought doesn’t help; what you need is not casual explanations but will and a great deal of mental energy.

                                                                    Etty Hillesum, journal entry

Fact: Americans use about 800 million gallons of gas per year to mow 54 million lawns.

  

   ©2017 Tim Forsell                  22 Aug 2017

Piute Log...Every Day, Something 1999

20 Sep (Mon)     35° on the porch. A soggy, cold, but frost-free meadow. Lovely scenes outside when the sun rose shining through the vapors, casting a muted, hazy light—one that makes for bad photos but is sheer delight to witness. Caught the horses easy with a bucketful of horsey-heroin. [e.g., grain.] Cats were both out there and Shitbird chased Lucy across the yard…got her extremely irritated. Now that I think about it, this is right around the time Shitbird was born last year. He was the last gift my father gave me so he’s kinda special in that regard. But, aside from that, he’s certainly one of my best-ever kitties in terms of good nature, intelligence, and fine looks. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode Woody to Bill’s Creek. Cleaned waterbreaks and rocked trail along the West Fork as far as the metal bridge. Nary a soul did I see. After reaching the bridge, went exploring. Crossed the creek and climbed up on ledges on the other side. Took out an old firefit I’d never seen, climbed up to a high-point and gradually descended past some neat old trees and little sand flats back to the river, following its west side back to the bridge. Some nice views of green pools and ivory slickrock. A quiet afternoon, low waters murmuring. Walked back to my horse and home we went. Wet tread so no dust. Looking stormish again. ◦◦◦◦◦ Back to Piute: at the ford, Lucy was there on the cabin side of the river, hiding in the willows. I spotted her watching us but acted as if I hadn’t seen her. (Didn’t know she came all the way over here; figured she stayed closer to home during daylight hours.) Tom was there, too—he’d heard us coming and dashed over. He fell in behind as we crossed and I abruptly wheeled Woody around so that we were both looking right down on Lucy, huddled there in the bushes all nervous. “Flushed” her by riding right into the thicket. When she bolted for the cabin I spurred Woody up and we went in hot pursuit of my fluffy cat who sprinted full speed across the meadow, all stretched out with paws a-flyin’. Pretty hilarious from my point of view…and I don’t think she was really, truly scared. I pulled Woody up short before heading up to the hitchrail and ran him (against his will) to the back fence, just to mess with his head. Tom came after, obviously glad to have his pal back, ready for a romp, kicking his heels and tossing his neck in equine delight. Then let Woody go home for real which he did most eagerly at subsonic speed, me hanging on for dear life, hooo-wee! Tom met us at the rail, all of us breathing hard, very much alive. Got Woody unsaddled, turned him loose, and just as I stepped onto the porch the sky cut loose. Hailed, then rained for awhile as the sun shined on. ◦◦◦◦◦ After it quit I climbed up into my (slightly damp) hammock to write. Fine views and lights. Saw Shitbird in the meadow hunting for voles—out beyond the back fence! That’s fine…until the coyote shows up. “Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.” I do hope he survives. Strange to be up in my tree, see a tiny dark speck in the meadow about 500 feet away, and realize that I know this meadow so well I could tell that minute speck was my yearling Abyssinian mini-lion. Whistled a few times and he started for home but got waylaid. ◦◦◦◦◦ Took a river bath after the rain stopped. ◦◦◦◦◦ Oh, and I forgot this curious item: awhile back, Greta packed some Fish&Game folk up here while I was gone. When she came out, mentioned to me that she’d lost her radio antenna. (These things screw on and apparently can come loose and unscrew themselves. Hasn’t happened to me—yet). Anyway: right after that, riding back into Piute, I found her antenna beside the trail. Next time out, dropped it off at Greta’s house and, later still, I visited her there and saw the antenna—still on her table, right where I’d left it. Commented on it and she answered back, “Oh…you put that there! Where’d it come from? I’ve been wondering.”——“I found the thing by the trail right after you told me you lost it.”——“Well, it’s not mine. We don’t have any antennas like that.”——“Not yours? So where’d it come from? Did the Fish&Game people lose one, maybe?”——“I don’t know!” Pretty weird; it’s not as if I find radio parts by the trail every day, ‘specially not after just having one reported missing.  

21 Sep (Tue)     Up at 6:00. 33° on the porch. Got into this log and found that the “Piute Fire” [lightning-caused fire, given an official name as per standard procedure] started on August 10^th—that day it rained all day. I believe I heard the blast that lit it. It’s still smoldering, apparently. Let the thing burn, say I! (Anybody who works in Wilderness has a bit of anarchist in them…a love of chaos.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Fed the stove and read the Jüng bio, Lucy sleeping on a folded towel I put on the open stove door right beside me—one happy kitty. A word about living with cats: ◦◦◦◦◦ These two are both loaded with personality. Lucy sleeps probably 16 hours a day. She has genuine feline charisma, loves attention (a real hedonist) and is a delight to pet and rub because she enjoys it so much, and shows it. She looks me straight in the eye sometimes, with a calm openness that’s utterly endearing. She responds to my moods; when she’s “been bad” and I growl at her she cowers and appears abashed—a common reaction to disapproval in dogs but rare with cats. We have a wonderful, fellow wild-animal rapport. Then, Shitbird: a stunning beauty and I often gaze at his leonine form, marveling at the subtle Abyssinian coloration. He’s full of life and himself, is active probably ten hours a day (quite a lot for a cat). He’s willful and impatient, resents intrusion, purrs loudly when in his affectionate state. ◦◦◦◦◦ Both cats sleep with me in the loft and nap there all day after about 11:00. My sleeping bag is filthy, inside and out, but I can’t see it very well in the eternally dim light up there and don’t really care to think about it, thank you. The point of this sidebar is that I have thoroughly enjoyed the company of cats as long as I can remember. There have been times in my life where my best friend was a cat. (That implies bad times….) They make solitude so much easier to bear. Next to women, they’re the finest of sleeping partners. It’s a great comfort for me to wake in the night and feel a warm Lucy curled by my shoulder. A quick pet and a purr in the dark and I’m asleep again. When it’s cold I’ll drag her under the covers. (When it’s really cold she crawls in on he own.) All I know is that I dearly love to sleep with something soft and warm and alive by my side—truly one of life’s finest offerings. My life would not be nearly so rich without the kitties. They’ve educated me, shown me lots of things, and especially have tried to teach me how to live gracefully. ◦◦◦◦◦ Had leftover dinner for breakfast. Washed dishes, hauled water, swept the floor, wiped counters, filled lanterns, split kindling. All the little chores that make my days unfold so slowly. The morning rhythm here is very pleasant. ◦◦◦◦◦ Walked up the Kirkwood trail to clean waterbreaks. The trail was scoured by the recent storms—lotsa loose rock to move—and, as always, sad to see the trail tread being washed away. Truly, these brief summer thunderstorms are far and away the greatest erosive agent. Fortunately, almost all the breaks and dips had been working. Still, a lot of wet sand to dig and I worked like a dog, sweating from the humidity. Nonetheless, a fine quiet latest-summer day in the mountains. I really enjoyed being out working and I’m so fit I can take this back-wrecking labor in stride. ◦◦◦◦◦ KING BOLETES all over the place! Perfect weather for ‘em: relatively warm with the repeated light soakings. Definitely “mushroom weather.” ◦◦◦◦◦ At one point a couple miles up the trail I spotted a funny little rock “overhang” 50 feet above the trail, something I’d never noticed before. It just caught my eye, a little chunk of rock with a shady bit of ledge below it. I hesitated but thought, “Hey: go check it out. Ya never know what you might find.” So I scrambled up there and, along the way, found an old blaze on a lodgepole. I recognized the still-visible part as an over-grown, stylized “R,” part of a common carving hereabouts that I’ve seen in a dozen locations, some of them with dates from the early 1890s. (I never would have spotted this from the trail but it’s barely visible there from, now that I know.) I continued on up the slope and found a stunning little spring that slid over a graceful polished slab. Lovely feature with a nice view through a window in the trees. The little overhang turned out to be nothing but I sure was glad it pulled me off the trail. ◦◦◦◦◦ Surprise! Hu-man by the trail! First of four, first people I’ve seen in three days. Others strolled up and we had a nice visit. I sent them over the hill into Rainbow, then Thompson Canyon to Peeler Lake as a more adventurous route back to Twin Lakes. They were game and very appreciative of the hot tip. As they’d come up the trail these guys were seeing my work all fresh, clearly done after last evening’s storm and they were glad to meet the worker. One fella, when he walked up said, “There’s the man with the shovel.” ◦◦◦◦◦ Walked back home on the old trail along the river. First time in a few years. Admired the flood’s ravages in the meadows. ◦◦◦◦◦ To the hammock again. Sure enough, a little storm has moved in as I write this and I see drops dimpling the surface of the river but the tree’s canopy is protecting me for the time being. Solitaires calling and the odd thunder-rumble; fine sunlight glowing up the mountains. More rain: down I go. ◦◦◦◦◦ A bit later, almost dark. I’m in the cabin. It’s raining vigorously outside but just lightly in, thanks to the leaky skylights. I have my dishpans laid out in a familiar pattern. (They have to be moved several times as the storm progresses and the drips shift.) A half hour ago I was languidly reclined in my aerie until it started dripping on me. I was writing…mostly trivial stuff because not much happened today. Truth is, as I went up the trail with shovel this morning I was reflecting that I’ve bragged to people that “every day it’s something new, something amazing happens every day, bla bla blah.” Was noting that this was a truly outstanding late-summer day, no bugs, perfect temp, charming clouds. But I was just cleaning w-breaks—that most mundane rangerly activity. Not much chance of human interaction; barring some unforeseen nature display or a meteorite plowing a furrow to my feet this was panning out to be a pretty boring day. But I started packing up to climb down the tree when all hell broke loose. ◦◦◦◦◦ First off: I’m putting my shoes back on, getting ready to head down, happen to glance out across the meadow. And there’s a coyote just beyond the back fence. I don’t know where Shitbird is and I get a wave of paternal anxiety. (He’s been hunting right where the coyote is.) So I do my cat whistle real loud and Shitbird bursts out of deep sedges on this side of the fence—only 30 yards from the coyote—and Mr. Coyote simultaneously breaks into a run but he’s making a beeline for the forest. I see two brown animals making for nearest cover, heading in opposite directions. I get a full adrenaline rush—it looked like the ‘yote was stalking my cat and I spotted it at just the right moment and broke up the action. I descend my tree post-haste. Cat comes into the yard and I scold him like a parent. It’s the “golden light” and raining hard. Just then the sound of a helicopter intrudes and here it comes—looks to be buzzing that little Piute Fire but it swings around over the meadow and I see it’s one of those bright-orange rescue helicopters. It veers back toward the smoke and zooms out of sight—lightning strikes going off in the clouds above—and I’m getting amped. “What the…!?!” Then it’s here, suddenly right overhead, and I’m out in the meadow getting pelted by hail, gazing up as it wheels 250 feet overhead. I can clearly read NAVY and RESCUE on its sides. As the beast turns I see a guy hanging in the open door, see his helmet and goggles and flight suit and him looking straight at me and I do an exaggerated shrug, the universal sign for “WHAT THE FORK!?!” They scream off and I wave a goodbye. Then run for the radio, call Minden Dispatch to see what’s going on. Not surprisingly, they know nothing. Meanwhile the ship is buzzing around down-canyon, doesn’t come in close again but hovers in the vicinity of the smoke. Minden comes back saying Pickel Meadows [the nearby Marine Corps base] knows nothing about a flight. And it’s raining hard with lightning going off all around and this incessant chopper noise coming loud then soft. Last sun on peak tips…a dramatic evening storm which I normally would’ve enjoyed quietly from my porch. Instead, I’m running around in the rain, anxious for my cat’s life, dashing for the radio, multiple helicopter attacks. Life of a ranger, I guess. ◦◦◦◦◦ It got dark. The helicopter disappeared like a hallucination. But it kept raining into the black, lightning too. Very unusual to have storms hang around this late into the evening. But just fine for a cozy night in the cabin by the stove. Except it postponed my steak barbeque.

The next day I got a call from the radio dispatch center letting me know that the helicopter was searching for a missing airplane and, from a distance, spotted the smoke from my little wildfire and came in for a look. They had no business being there (flying over designated Wilderness—one of the prohibitions), especially without contacting someone first. I never heard anything further about a missing aircraft.

©2017 by Tim Forsell               24 May 2016, 20 August 2017