Piute Log...Dangerously Fun 2000

Working with livestock was, without doubt, one of the most rewarding aspects of rangering. Riding a horse, out on a patrol, was pure romance for a Southern Californian, raised in the suburbs. Best of all was to be on the back of a running horse—one of the sweetest activities available to humans. It was completely forbidden, of course, and by far the most dangerous thing I’d do on the job. Over the years, we had some fine animals. Several of them, in particular, couldn’t wait to get back to the cabin to be reunited with their friends if we’d gone out alone that day. These horses: I’d just “give them their head” when it was time to return home and they’d run all the flat, open parts. At speed. It was thrilling. ◦◦◦◦◦ Woody, a sorrel foxtrotter with a sweet disposition, was best of the lot. He wasn’t so herd-bound as others; he just loved to run. The Forest Service people at the office in town would’ve been horrified if they’d known about the things I did and places I went on horseback. Good thing they didn’t. And, luckily, I wasn’t killed….

17 Sep (Sun)     Shitbird-the-cat [a.k.a. “Checker”] arrived in the night. [He’d been gone for several days] Heard his plaintive little voice on the porch and was glad. He was ecstatic and wouldn’t leave me alone, kneading and drooling all over me. Funny thing was, he sounded “hoarse,” like he’d been out meowing for me for hours….

18 Sep (Mon)     Sun currently hits the cabin at 8:18. Worked on log, late breakfast; dishes, hauled water. Typical “domestic” morning. Checker came through the cat door while I was cleaning up and without even looking at me or saying, “mrrow,” he ate about six crunchies and climbed into the loft. Exactly like some sullen teenager coming in after a night out partying. ◦◦◦◦◦ Here’s another example of how I decide what to do with a day: It’s “waterbreak season,” time to get ‘em dug before it snows and I goes. Also, one primary project before I leave is to rip out ugly firepits at Fremont Lake. I’m having problems with sore hands and numb arms…don’t really feel like packing a horse today. Have a shovel stashed at Upper Long Lake. The solution: ride Woody to Long lakes, retrieve shovel, walk and ride to Fremont via Chain o’ Lakes, cleaning waterbreaks. Stash shovel at Fremont for future cleaning of pits and WBs there. Zoom home on Woody. The perfect plan for this particular day. ◦◦◦◦◦ Had a hard time finding my shovel again but finally did. (Plus, I cut out the last hanging/leaning trees that I’ve ignored in favor of bigger jobs.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Cleaned WBs and rocked the Chain o’ Lakes trail. A good part of the way I carried the shovel while riding and would get off to clean one of the infrequent drains. (This trail is largely flat or low-gradient—not many of ‘em.) Nobody at Fremont. ◦◦◦◦◦ On the way home Woody was rarin’ to go. And, as usual, I turned him loose, satisfying both of our immediate impulses/natural inclinations and risking both our lives. But…ohh! it’s just one of the finest things to tear through a forest, dodging trees, on the back of a strong and eager horse. Like hang-gliding or cliff-diving, it’s a next-best substitute for the flying we do in dreams. A little ecstasy to spice up my hum-drum life. Every time, I know I could get hurt but, when Woody cuts loose, the stakes go way up and a fall would result in death or something even worse. It’s a real buzz and, as noted previously, the best thing I’ve found since giving up climbing to recharge my appreciation of being alive. ◦◦◦◦◦ Today he went absolutely nuts—was in some kinda inspired state. From Lower Piute Meadows on we covered ground faster than ever before. Had a real hard time slowing him…tight spot coming up and I’d haul on the reins to no avail. ◦◦◦◦◦ One really tight “S” curve, he wanted to run through and I  couldn’t slow him in time. This curve caused by a fallen tree. (The trail curled around the tree’s rotten old root-wad.) Saw it coming and didn’t think he’d clear it cleanly so I was ready to move. At the last instant I yanked my left foot out of the stirrup, which caught, ripping a big chunk off the end of a protruding root. Hoo! Had I not done so, it would’ve broken my foot. This sobered me but I was caught up in his righteous frenzy and rode it out. (I was clinging to the saddlehorn the whole time.) At the hitch-rail his eyes were wide, sides heaving, with white foamy sweat all over him. Wow! What was that all about? ◦◦◦◦◦ Taking my bath at sunset, Checker appeared in the willows on the far side of the river! Waded over naked (not wet yet) and carried him back across after merry meeting. This terrified him, of course, and he thrashed around. In the struggle he swiped out a claw-tipped leg and raked my right nipple; blood, oaths, et cetera.

         → 4 visitors          → 2 pits removed          → 5 trees          → 1 lb trash bits    

   → some brushing, lotsa rock      → 31 WBs cleaned       → 13½ miles

Quote copied inside the cover of this volume of the Piute Log:

“In my generation, I believe, many more humans have been bungled by too much throttling and repression of their instincts. I have made myself the advocate and friend of the repressed instinctual life—but never to the detriment of the lofty imperatives of philosophy and religion. And indeed, we do not propose to indulge our savage, lawless instincts at the expense of kindness, love, and humanity. Rather, we try to steer a course between the demands of nature and those of the spirit; not a rigid middle course, but a flexible one, varying with each individual, in which freedom and law alternate like inhalation and exhalation.

                                                                                    —Herman Hesse, Letters

©2014 Tim Forsell                                                                                                         9 Oct 2014

Light as a Feather

Before heading back to Bridgeport and another season working for the Forest Service, I took one final trip down south to visit my family in Ventura—a yearly ritual, since they wouldn’t see me again until October. This would also be the last chance I’d have to take a long hike with my brother.

We’d already made loose plans to camp out on Pine Mountain (an old favorite) and walk to the top but, after I arrived, Steve suggested something new: “Thorn Point,” a place I’d never even heard of; some minor summit in an obscure portion of the Sespe Wilderness—largest road-free area left in southern California—which would entail a much longer drive down into the Cuyama River watershed. But…Let’s go! (I’m always keen to visit new spots.)

These geologically young Transverse Range mountains in northern Ventura County are swiftly crumbling and being washed back into the nearby Pacific (from which they emerged a mere 10 million or so years ago). This process being hindered just slightly by the veneer of dense chaparral that’s virtually impenetrable to humans but a safe haven for everybody else. “Mountain lion country.” Black bears…condors. Thorn Point—not Peak—is just a prominence on an almost 7000 foot high ridgeline midway between Highway 33 and Interstate 5, east of Pine Mountain. Though a mere bump on a ridge, from looking at our tattered old Los Padres Forest map, we could see that it held a commanding view of the entire region. Plus, the map showed a fire lookout on top. And a trail leading there.

            Starting in the early 1900s, a network of these structures was built by the Forest Service. They were seasonally manned by “lookouts” (generally, young men) who diligently kept watch over timbered mountain ranges, all across the western states. Ventura County’s brushy backcountry is—almost literally—made to burn. Huge tracts of Sespe Wilderness periodically go up in smoke and without a strong initial attack by firefighters there’s no way to stop these conflagrations. To this end, starting in earnest during the Great Depression, scores of lookout towers were constructed—some made accessible by primitive road…others, like Thorn Point, only by stock trail—so that fires could be spotted, located precisely (sometimes by triangulation between towers) and reported before getting out of hand. Almost all the towers have been abandoned for various reasons; in part after aerial reconnaissance became commonplace. Ventura County’s decommissioned towers fell into ruin and several burned in subsequent fires, leaving only some charred wreckage and stark, metallic skeletons that look like squat oil derricks. Steve and I have visited a couple of these “ghost towers,” with steep metal stairs ascending to exposed platforms; naked steel joists or empty space in the middle where the lookout’s cabin once stood. Reminders of a bygone time.

           

We were a mile up the little-used trail before vistas began to unfurl. Through our binoculars we could clearly see a short tower frame topped by a tiny, frayed-looking house that was once white but had weathered to gray. The Thorn Point lookout tower appeared to be relatively intact. We were surprised—never having seen one whole—and I hoped (but really doubted) that we’d be able to go inside. Its presence instantly added romance to an already dramatic prospect: directly beneath the “summit,” tan-colored sandstone bluffs were cleft by sheer, sand-filled gullies and all the cliff faces were painted with lichens, mostly in swathes of brilliant oranges and greens. Below them was an expanse of harsh badlands; sinuous ravines separated by knife-edged ridges. The country unfolding below us—a real no-man’s land—was an eroded, tectonic jumble. (We were only a handful of miles from the San Andreas fault.) Our trail, once it’d climbed out of a charming forest of black oak, Jeffery pine and incense cedar (an unusual assemblage in these parts) was lined thigh-deep with lovely flowers. Wading through them elicited a kind of simple, unadorned delight that’s to be found in mountains everywhere. And, for some strange reason, hard to fathom—no ticks! But it was hot and very humid and I was sweating at a steady drip, my T-shirt saturated.

            Climbing higher, into pure pine forest, it began to cool somewhat. We made it up top around noon and mounted those enticing metal stair-steps. Both of us proceeded to explore. It was fairly dilapidated but, amazingly, all the windows still had glass behind their thick wooden shutters. The door wasn’t locked but, sadly, was ajar—probably blown open by a gale—and the inside was a complete shambles. I went in.

There was still furniture, but the fire-finder (an elaborate sighting instrument on a brass turntable) had been removed. Some nice cabinets and a little stool with glass- insulator-tipped legs that lookouts would stand on during serious lightning storms. The floor was covered with junk and trash, which was strewn around the narrow walkway outside as well…woodrat scat and filth sullying what had once been a neat, orderly little castle-in-the-sky. I was just glad the edifice still lived to tell a tale, with a nifty old Forest Service map on one wall and glass still in its windows; lending at least the remote possibility of future restoration. But it was a little gloomy for someone like myself who’s had an enduring fantasy of being a lookout and living in just such a place.

Outside was that unremitting ridge-top breeze; views up and down the twisted mountain range, and waaay down below we could see three of the Channel Islands’ highlands rising above a fog-shrouded ocean. A small band of violet-green swallows—a handsome little bird that lives in mountainous areas—circled around, obviously curious about us interlopers. Steve and I, leaning on the guardrail, soon noticed that it was dull-colored, immature birds and not their white-bellied, green-backed parents who hovered in the wind, just a few feet away, to gawk at us. These young birds had probably never seen the likes of our kind before—not many people came here. The sun beat down on their spacious world; our sweat evaporated in the cooling wind as we were encircled by tiny denizens of the local firmament. They made me feel welcome.

            After a bit I went back inside. Suddenly, I heard Steve (pacing around the walkway, being observed by curious swallows) say, ”Oh!”—both astonishment and awe captured in a single syllable—and quickly stepped to the door just in time to see him draw from a pile of refuse, in a fashion not unlike Arthur’s drawing sword from  stone, a gigantic feather…larger than any I’d ever seen. Slack-jawed with amazement, he held up the great primary wing-feather of a California condor and said nothing. It was almost-black, was almost two feet long, the lower part of its shaft almost as thick as your little finger. It’d been shed during the annual molt while its owner was perched atop this superb vantage point, then held custody by the wire-mesh-enclosed walkway surrounding a far-flung outpost…eventually becoming lodged in a trash-heap.      

I reached out and Steve handed it to me. Neither of us had spoken—stunned to silence, maybe, by this unexpected gift. I held it out into the wind, horizontally, resisting an insistent lift; flapped it up and down, having to hold the shaft with a tight grip. Wow! Wonderfully strong yet flexible, it weighed just a few grams.

Straight away, the circling swallows grew visibly agitated and gathered ‘round, twittering their thin, high-pitched notes. What…what’s this?! Recognition? They know where this came from…they know. (Of course! They have these, too.) But this belonged to their country’s monarch. What might a condor be to a swallow? (These: words to approximate what I felt in an instant.) So I held the condor feather up like Liberty’s torch to see what they’d do. Steve watched intently as the diminutive birds circled, closing—a vortex of swallows—and then one slowly drifted down against the stiff breeze, wings drawn in, and gently lit on the tip. So light, its weight barely registered. I could see those minute claws clinging to the feather’s edge. It perched there, utterly calm, while we had a long look at one another. Quite a look…more like an exchange—eye to eye, with a direct line to that place where the things that matter most go and stay. I was floating; it was one of those proud moments when distinctions blur and time fades unnoticed into a hazy background. I stayed still as the statue whose pose I’d inadvertently mimicked but, inside, was hooting with glee and dancing a little jig.

©2014 Tim Forsell                                                                                     2 Jun 2003, 1 Nov 2014

Piute Log...Cold Last Trips 1997

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

Tricky Wayward-Kitty Retrieval 1992

From my journal, which I kept faithfully for the sixteen seasons stationed at that little log cabin in Upper Piute Meadows. For 1992, I forsook the cheap, spiral-bound steno notebooks the Forest Service provided in favor of writing entries on my usual stationary: lined pads of 8½”x 11” paper. It’d been years since anyone besides my father read my log so, for an experiment, I opted to write more story-like entries and leave out the mundane reporting of  weather conditions and what my meals consisted of—things all backcountry rangers seem to feel compelled to write in their journals—so that I could make xerox copies and send them to friends. [This is how the phenomenon of the “Timstory” originated.] …… The following  (mis)adventure took place during a yearly ritual: the packing of my cats into the cabin, where they’d spend their summer as boon companions, employed as volunteer RPOs (Rodent Patrol Officers). This “event” was a real source of amusement for the entertainment-starved folks who worked at the pack station. Bart Cranney memorably once said to me, laughing, “Tim—I’ve packed bed frames and 80 gallon drums; I’ve packed dynamite. I’ve packed dead people. But I’ve never packed cats.”…… Briefly, just to make it clear how it’s accomplished, the cats are first inserted in burlap sacks which are then put into canvas horse’s feedbags (the things that go over their noses with a strap behind the head) and these get slung on either side of my saddlehorn. The four-hour-minimum trip to “Piute” could be a minor epic of endless clawing and yowling; sometimes not so bad. But, first, you have to get the cats in the sacks….

Hoping to get an early start into Piute today so I did all my shopping yesterday and camped out at Wheeler Guard Station. (If I go to the office first I never get on the trail until after noon; today the cats go in so no messing around.)

            Had to stop at the campground first to chat with Stella & Bill—the camp hosts. Silver-haired and retired, they’re volunteers who earn a “free” campsite for all their labors. Bill tends the toilets with mop & bucket and extra rolls; cleans the firepits, makes sure everybody pays their site fees. Stella issues wilderness permits to people coming in by way of Sonora Pass and from the north so they don’t have to drive an extra 25 miles to Bridgeport and get one at the ranger station. Very kind, simple, ”regular folks”—Bill a big, goofy talk-talk-talker; Stella the quintessential grandma-type who is no doubt an expert cookie-maker with lots of grandkids. They’re both passionate about their duties; whenever I visit they regale me with stories of dim-witted campers getting stuck trying to get their 24-foot RVs into 18 foot sites, slobs who leave garbage behind. They enjoy talking to backpackers. I stop and visit when I have some extra time, to keep them posted on things in the wilderness. (I’ve instructed Stella to tell all the backpackers there’s a mean, short-tempered ranger back there patrolling so they’d better be good….)

            Got to Cranney’s about 9:00. Threw the cats in the cab right away so I could off-load stuff out of my camper without having to worry about them escaping. The truck was in full sun so I rolled the driver-side window down a couple inches so my little darlings wouldn’t be baked to death. They immediately curled on the floor in cat-heaps and looked up at me inquisitively.

            Minutes later I’m loading my pack boxes and I look up (truck parked right by the loading dock) to see Rip’s protruding head twisting and jerking in that narrow gap with his feet—toes all splayed—up against the glass. Somehow he’d managed to get his head through the 2½” gap which I’d calculated as being too narrow for an escape attempt. As I start to run over the frantic black cat yanks his head back through, comically flops backwards onto the steering wheel, and the horn goes off. BEEP!! I go to roll the window up just a bit more and, when I open the door, Spring leaps out and disappears under the dock (which is a long, narrow platform; about three feet high). I tried to quick grab her as soon as I’d slammed the door but she’d already run under the low, narrow deck in front of “the office.” (There’s always a dog or three running around Cranney’s and there was nowhere for her to really hide under the dock.)

            The office is a chintzy little square shack with shed roof and sliding glass doors front and back. It’s where waivers get signed, wilderness permits are issued, and money handed over; about 15 feet square, on cement piers about 18” high, with a skirt of chipboard siding down to the ground except in back. I circled around, knelt in the dewy grass and peered into a dark crawl-space. Spring had already assumed the languid cat-ball position in one dim corner. “Springer: c’m’ere kitty! Your royal catness!  C’mon…puh-lease,” I say, soothingly. Suuure…right! Sorry, Bozo, but…nice try. I think…I think I’ll just…take a little nap. That’s what her aloof, drowsy look clearly said in reply.

            I instantly recognized that this was serious. Without a doubt, both cats knew  exactly what they were in for. (This would be Rip’s fifth trip into Piute and Spring’s third.) Even though cats live strictly in the present they never forget past traumas; both knew they’d soon be stuffed into smelly burlap sacks and, once sacked, crammed into nosebags. For hours they’d be jostled mercilessly under the burning sun while dangling from my sadldehorn, hardly able to move. Worse yet, I knew this was just the time of day when they tend to hole up and sleep away the hot hours after their nights out on the town. When I saw Spring’s sleepy-eyed look, blinking at me disdainfully, I knew it was bad—the low opening was too narrow for me to crawl under and grab her.

            I immediately gave up trying to coax her out; like most felines, she’s never paid the slightest heed to verbal commands. (Unlike Rip, who’ll often come to my whistle like a dog.) Stronger attractants were needed. On the east side, in the sun, was a small, square-shaped hole. I pulled up a long grass stem and dragged it around near the opening, a thing this huntress couldn’t ignore. That got her over but she’d only make stabs at it with a paw. With my most subtle and beguiling imitation of a meadow vole rustling in thick grass, I lured her part way out and made my play, pinning her to the ground—hard—and mashing her head rudely in the dirt. She went berserk, squirming violently, slithered out of my firm grasp, and was back under the little building. Oh, great! Now she’s afraid of me.

            I was steamed, of course. When you live and travel with cats, they find the simplest and surest means of shredding well-laid plans; it takes a major adjustment in attitude and sense of time to deal with these inconveniences. A few times in the past I’ve had to spend an extra day somewhere because a wayward kitty just wasn’t in the mood to leave. (I refer to these situations as my “being on cat-time.”)

            I happened to have a little can of fancy catfood—tuna flavor—in my truck and, since the cats never get anything but crunchies from me (except, on occasion, canned tuna juice or broken eggs), this stuff is like candy to them. I popped the can and put it a foot outside the hole then ran back to look under and monitor Spring’s reaction to the enticing aroma. I watched long enough to see her nose begin to twitch with her eyes on the hole and dashed back to the can. But one of Cranney’s dogs was just then making off with it, headed for the willows—Hey, you!!—but…too late. I seethed.

            Tried one last trick; not a very good one as it turned out. I went and let Rip out of the truck. Spring’s very attached to him and I thought maybe I could keep him with me and I’d make like we were going for a hike and she’d come out to follow. Bad move—he immediately darted under the loading dock and then sprinted for the office with that low-slung, feline-esque slink. When I crouched once more and looked under he was in the opposite corner from Spring (nice and cool in there) and was curled into a neat cat-ball with that same squinty-eyed, sleepy look. Now the fury was on me. If I couldn’t intervene, they’d sleep in those exact spots until four-thirty or five—whenever the sun had disappeared over the ridge—then amble out, stretching and yawning, completely innocent-looking. Oh, hey, boss! Where ya been? Me: totally outraged and murderous.

            Doc Grishaw was there this morning, hustling around at his double-fast clip, busy tending to stock and any number of invented chores. Thus far we’d only greeted each other with cursory hellos. I went and found him loading hay for the evening feed.

            “Say, Doc…. My cat got loose and she’s under the office and won’t come out and I can’t get under there to grab her….”

            Doc smiled his maddening, semi-benevolent, tolerant smile and, knowing that he doesn’t care much for cats (classic dog-person…) and has often been amused by my keeping cats for company, I could tell he only saw the humor in my plight and really could care less. He did his slow-chuckle thing. (At least he was in a good mood.)  

            “…so…I was wondering. Uh, are there any long garden hoses around?”

            He reflected. “Yeah, I think there’s several pieces of hose up at the house. You’ll have to tie ‘em together but I think they’ll prob’ly reach.”

            The house was thirty yards away and I stomped up there and found one length already on the faucet and another tangled old derelict in a pile nearby. Snooping around, I found another leading to one of the trailers where packers sleep, hooked to another faucet. It took about fifteen minutes to unscrew and re-screw them all together and drag the whole line into position.

            I went and found Doc again, dropping bales onto the flatbed from the big stack. “Doc, can you give me a hand?” He’d already switched into his very-busy-can’t-be-bothered-now mode. That familiar, impatient scowl let me know he was willing (though not eager). But he left his hay-hooks stuck in a bale and strode up to the office, with me jogging behind him to keep up. “Whaddya want me to do?” he asked, sourly.

            “If you can just try and hose her down from the back, here, I’ll try and nab her when she comes out that hole on the other side.” So Doc crouched in the still-dewy grass and directed a spray toward the opposite side of the shack. Squinting through the hole I saw he wasn’t reaching her and Rip, near the hole, watched this with mild interest. I yelled, “More to the left!” Then he got her and she scrambled over to the other side but huddled a few feet from the corner on Doc’s side, near her friend.

            “I can’t see her,” says Doc. Then, softer, “Oh…there’s two of ‘em.”

            I yell back, “Yeah, I know. Keep spraying!” I go back to his side and look under. She’s six feet away, obviously scared, so—completely fed up—I just go for her and wriggle under the 10” gap. My big belt buckle hangs up but I make myself skinnier and writhe in farther, scooping dirt into my trousers, and seize the cat with a death-grip. I reverse-wriggle back out with Spring wrowling (knows she’s in trouble…) and stalk back to the truck—thoroughly disgusted, with dirt sifting down my pants legs and into my shoes—to fling her in the cab before slamming the door. Emphatically.

            Doc had already gone back to his bales. The water was still running so I went to turn it off. When I got back, Rip was gone and I spent another twenty minutes trying to find him—finally did, under the tack shed—and he was napping just out of reach and squinted at me, half-asleep, while I pled. Finally, repeated my contorted squeeze-act: more dirt in the pants and fully-grimed shirt; another cringing cat flung into the cab.

By the time I got the hoses back to their places I’d lost an hour and a half. Finally out of the pack station yard well after noon…wishing I’d gone to the office instead.

© 2014 Tim Forsell