21 Oct
(Tue) Cold in the night; a frigid trip to town. Hard frost on my
windshield, only half-scraped then fogged by breath during a five minute drive
that was over before the defrost even kicked in. ◦◦◦◦◦ Going into the mountains!
What a treat in late October, with a friend and compatriot. What with my
foreshortened seasons, this is the first time in three years I’ve had an
opportunity to see aspens all lit up, casting their magic golden glow, and also
to see those leaves falling…smell that, mmm, smell. ◦◦◦◦◦ Brian met me in the
warehouse parking lot; we’re going up to Summit Lake to pack out one of his two
basecamps. Overnighter. (I’d only started packing my stuff.) Greta showed up
and we talked at my truck with the late-rising sun warming us nicely. Just
chit-chat but it was good to talk,
the three of us. ◦◦◦◦◦ Long pull up the Green Creek road. Never have I hauled a
stock trailer full of horseflesh up that nasty washboard…the 9 miles took about
45 minutes and, partway, the latch on the trailer door broke. In the sideview
mirror I noticed the heavy door swinging and stopped to find horses wide-eyed
with alarm. We cut a piece of old rope and tied the thing shut. ◦◦◦◦◦ Good to
get to spend some “quality time” with Brian. For him and me both. Like Paul,
he’s been a gift. He’s 13 years my junior—a relative greenhorn in the
mountains, from a completely different background and milieu—but he’s eager and
motivated and intelligent. Objectively, it’s been obvious that my sense of
self-worth and direction has been suffering since Diane left and just about the
best therapy available came, this summer, in the form of these two young guys
who look up to me as a sort of romantic figure; who wanted to hear all my
stories and ridiculous opinions and—best of all—benefitted from what I had to
share. So, off & on all summer, I’ve been able to yuck it up with these
willing audiences and share myself, pass on some natural-worldly wisdom. All
the way in, on this four-star ride on this four-star autumn day, we talked
& laughed and tried to answer the Big Questions. ◦◦◦◦◦ Started hitting snow
past Green Lake. Rocky trail and slow goin’. At East Lake, after dumping camp
stuff at our chosen bivouac site (old stock camp just below East Lake dam,
t’other side of the creek) we realized the day was getting on and had to hustle
to be done by dark. ◦◦◦◦◦ A funny incident, just beyond East Lake. We rode by a
4-foot high snag—long-dead stump of a tree that, years ago, had its top lopped
off to make passage easier. The snag had listed and was making it hard for horses
to squeeze past. Brian commented that
for two seasons he’s been meaning to cut the thing out but hadn’t gotten around
to it. ”Next year,” he said. I noticed that it looked pretty rotten at the
base. Without a word I pulled Red to a stop, jumped off, gave the stump a few
good karate kicks—hi-YA!—and the
thing toppled over. I heaved it off the trail, remounted without a word, and we
rode on with Brian laughing. Sometimes it just takes a fresh perspective. ◦◦◦◦◦
I hadn’t been past East Lake since, oh…probably 1990. Good to see it again!
Hoover Lakes! It’s pretty bleak past there—mostly rock, few trees—and we were riding
over icy snow patches in that talus with the wind picking up. Beyond Hoover
Lakes, our sun was gone and the trail was buried. It really felt like winter.
Got out my gloves and turned up the collar of my wool coat and rode on into an
alpine world with icy snowfields in the north-facing gullies, all covered with
new, at 10,000’. Got to his stashed camp (only a couple hundred yards
shy of Summit Lake, up on a bench above) and got it dug out and loaded on the
two horses in only minutes. ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed down, three miles to go, but it was
slow-going through the snowy switchbacks and rocks. We got to camp with just enough
light to set up high-lines for the horses, feed ‘em, and gather firewood. Soon,
had a “roaring” fire going (illegal…whoops!) to make light & warmth. I laid
out a tarp to lounge around on and Brian cooked up some rice with the gas stove
we’d retrieved whilst I did up two splendid, fat ribeyes over coals raked off to
the side. Cooked those steaks to perfection with flames licking at ‘em and
sizzling fat dripping down, causing our tiny fire to crackle & flare and
send forth heavenly aromas. Gastro-anticipation. (“Hunger is the best sauce.”)
Very fine with snow reflecting the firelight nicely, pure black beyond. Silent
world. I’d made comfy “chairs” for us both with piled saddle-pads and blankets.
Talking…not talking…crisp, cold night…dancing shadows—two rangers finishing
another season’s work; most glad to be where they were and hungry, too. We devoured those big steaks and all the
rice; didn’t talk much while eating, just sighed a lot. Took those pads and
blankets and made our beds up and slept under what seemed like about twice as
many stars. Tomorrow, another day, amen. Thanks so much! for another fine day in the mountains!
22 Oct
(Wed) Rough night, alas. Not so cold
(it barely froze, actually). I’d used Brian’s
cheap, thin, “emergency” bag from his camp—which I covered with a heavy,
doubled-over tarp—and slept on thick (but smelly and damp) saddlepads. Stayed
warm enough but I hadn’t slept on the ground all summer ‘til this night--gads!--and woke repeatedly with stiff, numbed arms and to yell at Chino (once, early
on) when he walked into camp to see if he could get into the grain. Then, all
night, when I’d wake up I’d hear him roving around the perimeter and on the
hillside, dragging his hooves and kicking rocks. I swear, he was doing it just to drive us nuts! He’s that kind of
horse—spiteful and contrary. ◦◦◦◦◦ Why was Chino walking around on midnight
prowl? Well, last night, tied up three horses but left Chino loose. I reasoned
thusly: If three are tied, one would
never leave. But, say, if I tied Pokey and Chino only, Red and Val would
split—they don’t need those losers’ company. Chino is the one most likely to paw and dig, do the most damage. If I
leave him loose, he’ll go down in the little meadow and nibble, get at least a
little to eat. In the morning I can turn out a couple others to get some
breakfast. But…wrong again! Chino
did not hang out in the meadow like a “good” horse but
clanged around [he was belled] on the hill instead and drove our sleep away…. ◦◦◦◦◦
Up at dawn, cranky and sore. Fed the horses. They were all hungry & thirsty
and obviously ticked-off at being kept captive in this hell-hole all night.
Hoping to assuage some of their horsey angst, I turned Val and Pokey loose with
Red and Chino tied. Red went nuts, pawing at the ground and whinnying. Finally,
had to catch Pokey and turn Red
loose. Instead of just going into the meadow and grazing on now-worthless dry
grass (the equivalent of plain ricecakes for breakfast…) Red led Val on a grand
tour of our camp, pausing only to nibble here & there. I could tell Val
just wanted to stand and eat but he followed. Then, they left right when Brian
and I were trying to fix breakfast. I’d had a fire going since getting up but
no chance of relaxing in its warmth to watch the daylight crawl down Monument
Ridge and Epidote Peak. Always fiddling with equines. So we had to go after Red
and Val and, disgusted, I tied ‘em all up
and ignored Red’s further complaints. ◦◦◦◦◦ There were no further attempts to
try and please the horses; they’d had no water since yesterday afternoon but
none had shown any inclination to drink from the nearby creek when I led them down last night, nor this morning. They only wanted
to go home and eat good alfalfa hay with their buddies and drink from the
community trough. So they stayed thirsty & hungry. ◦◦◦◦◦ Brian and I got
organized after brief repast and walked away from the equine melodrama. We
headed upslope, just north of the lake, on remnants of a well-graded and
switchbacked old trail you can see bits of from below. There’s a mine up there
I’ve wanted to visit since ‘83. “Old man Page” was a hardrock miner who worked his
claim, alone, on the north shoulder of Gabbro Peak for many years—a gold mine
from which he eked a meager living. Word has it that he was a kindly man,
Christian no less, but a recluse. He was up there into the 1940s and reputedly
spent entire winters (I have my doubts about that…) at 10000+ feet in a little
cabin he’d built near the mine’s shaft. He was crippled in the legs towards the
end; hobbled around on crutches or crawled on hands & knees, lowering
himself down the shaft in some sorta bucket. There’s a classic photo of him in Mono Diggings [local history book] with hard
hat and long white beard, crutches, filthy jeans—layers of patches over the
knees—taken there. I’d hiked up Page Peak at the very end of my first season,
looked right down on his mine, and have wanted to check it out ever since—more
so since learning the story. ◦◦◦◦◦ First, we climbed the pitiful slag-heap of
Gabbro Peak; one of the last in this whole region I’ve not climbed and
one of the ugliest & least-prominent. We lost Page’s trail in off & on
snow-patches, still crusty-frozen, and scrambled up hundreds of feet on loose
metamorphic talus and scree. Rested once on a flat-topped boulder with a fine
view right down on magnificent East Lake—half a mile long and deep, deep blue—with
Dunderberg Peak rising behind. This valley
and this lake, in particular, would be a wonderful place if the trailhead were
12 miles down and not five. ◦◦◦◦◦ To the top, which overlooked a goodly expanse of
terrain but no great views from any one point. (We had to walk from edge to
edge of its broad, flat summit to look down on the various lakes). The “summit
register” was a broken plastic container with illegible wad of paper inside. The
place looked seldom-visited but there was a tall and well-made cairn. It was
noon—time to roll—so we followed a shattered but nicely exposed ridge that led
southwest to a col [narrow gap in a ridge] and up to Page’s mine. Brian very
slow on the rotten rock and I got to the mine 15 minutes before him. (I was
amused again to think of his and Ken’s ambitious plans to traverse Sawtooth Ridge….)
◦◦◦◦◦ Checked out the mine. Not much to look at, really. Dropped rocks down the
shaft. Brian had done so, last year, and wanted to hear what I thought about
its depth. (He told me he’d guessed 600 feet.) I seriously doubted that when he
first told me and, after pitching a few rocks down it myself, he arrived and
asked what I thought. I tossed one down. “Could be off a bit but…I’d guess 75
feet. Maybe a hundred. No more.” He
was disappointed, frowned, but said nothing. ◦◦◦◦◦ We boogied down, slippin’ & slidin’,
boots wet from the now-loose snow. Horses disgusted and ready to leave. Loaded
‘em up, including half a sack of broken glass and rusted-out cans that we’d
gathered. Bunches of old trash dumps floating around all about this camp, which
I’d never used before. Somewhat amazed to find this trash still here after all
the years and all the rangers. (“These modern-day kid-rangers”, carps old-timer Tim to himself, “don’t
know nuthin’ ‘bout pickin’ up trash!
Why, when I was young, we hunted around and packed out sacks fulla trash!”) ◦◦◦◦◦ Fine ride out, all of us heading barn-ward.
Another gorgeous, perfect autumn day.
We’d just come down from on high…the two of us were pleased with ourselves that
we’d pulled off the job, then played hard, and were tired & hungry and
heading to town. The horses were “with us” again and flowed downhill like
water. Brian and I looked about us one last time; talking very little, savoring
the land. Got horses unloaded in a flash and, relatively speaking, “zoomed” to
town. At the barn, with that peculiar, eager haste we got our stock unsaddled,
fed ‘em, stashed tack, and dropped truck & trailer off at the warehouse.
Done by 6:00 and glad to be. ◦◦◦◦◦ Another big day in the mountains full of so
many things to see and think on.
23 Oct
(Thu) Last day. ◦◦◦◦◦ Brian and I
going out again, up Robinson Creek to pack out his other basecamp. Met him at
the barn where he’d caught our horses already and was starting to saddle when I
arrived. Good lad! He’s learning to do this stuff on his own and has new
confidence. Saved us lots of time…we wanna get home early today and finish last
paper-shufflings and get outa Dodge. ◦◦◦◦◦
Rode up the trail with two in tow. The wind came up and it got down-right cold—hands
a-pocket and almost put my slicker on. Gorgeous day, nonetheless, full of those
good smells & lights & fancy-taking breezes. Got to Barney Lake easy
and there were white-caps on it but strong sun. Again, we parked and ferried
loads in and strapped ‘em down and were off. ◦◦◦◦◦ On the way back, met two
people—Jack and Lily—old acquaintances of mine who came to Piute with Marilyn
Muse back about ’91. A great way to end my year’s visitor contacts. These two,
in their 50s, are retired and live in a cabin at Lower Twin Lakes. Great to see
them. They’re “cat people” and were smitten, when they visited that time, by
Rip & Spring—real mountain cats,
livin’ the good life, hauling in wild
game and cheatin’ death. They were sad to hear that neither were still alive. (I
didn’t mention that two generations of their successors have also passed to the
great beyond.) Lily has recently survived breast cancer though I don’t know
details. She’s a very fit and attractive woman who used to run marathons—maybe
still does—and never stops talking. But she’s real sweet. ◦◦◦◦◦ Back to town
and turned out the horses. In the corral I paid my last respects to old val. I
may never see him again. Sadly, he’s no longer “king of the string.” Too bad he
couldn’t go out still on top…. But he’s become noticeably feeble and docile.
Tom, new kid on the block, is almost as big and now vying for top-dog position.
Red’s stature is diminished, as well, since he’s nobody without Val’s protection. Anyway: I had a long, last goodbye
with my old friend who stood quietly
while I petted him, scratching his favorite spots and telling how much I loved
and admired him. But I wasn’t too sad
and, of course, he didn’t even register. ◦◦◦◦◦ To the office to finish
paperwork and turn in keys and radio. Greta did my timesheet after I got
hopelessly bogged down trying to do it myself on the computer. Greta has a
cold—poor girl, she’s all worn down—and we didn’t even get to hug goodbye. ◦◦◦◦◦
So…season #10 at Piute, done. Was this a good one? No, not at all. I was lonely
and sick inside, much of it, and my “stable” life of the last two years was
splintered early on with Diane’s departure (and the ugly way it went down). Had
many excellent days and put in lots of good hours working but, again, my focus
was lost and I spun the wheels. The loneliness factor weighed heavy. It wasn’t
easy nor pleasant being at the cabin by myself, like it’s always been in the
past, but the kitties sure helped. Still, this job is wonderful for the likes
of me and full of so many good
things, with daily surprises. If I stick with it I’ll just have to return to
The Solitaire’s Way…learn to find some measure of happiness in my austere way
of life. I’m still eager, in a diminished way, and the backcountry scene is just too good to give up voluntarily. Who
knows where this ride will lead me? ◦◦◦◦◦ Drove to Lone Pine, a free agent.
What now? We shall see….
©2014 Tim Forsell 9 Oct 2014
