Horses and a Bittersweet Peace

Several days ago, a group of cowboys and stock came for a night to stay as they moved the stock from a high elevation (and thus colder) ranch on the Main Salmon to a ranch on the Middle Fork for the winter. Seeing the horses and mules occupy the normally empty pasture was really beautiful; imagine these beautiful, graceful creatures peacefully grazing with the dramatic backdrop of mountains and the setting sun. I asked the cowboys if I could brush down the horses since they were tired and sweaty from a long day on the trail, and they happily obliged. I spent three hours brushing and talking with the stock, and it reminded me of some of my childhood daydreams of owning a horse. I think my time in the West has made me rediscover this dream, and I hope that one day, I can ride horses frequently! 

Peaceful sunrise view on a ridge that served as a campsite. Can't get much better than learning, 360 degree views, and an amazing community of people, can it?

It's hard to believe that it's already November, and several days ago marked two months of living at Taylor Ranch in the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness. In less than two weeks, I'll be flying out of here to continue classes for the remainder of the semester, along with a break at Thanksgiving. Thinking about leaving has been consuming some of my time, and the best way I can describe it is bittersweet. I have learned so much about living with a group and in my classes, and spending lots of time just wandering around--on and off trail--has taught me to appreciate even the smallest details in nature. 

Ellen Meloy (one of my favorite authors--you should check out the book The Anthropology of Turquoise) wrote, “The streams and rivers ran with water so clear it pressed against my heart like a hand.” These mountains and rivers are within me, and I know that wherever I go, I will continue to think and write about my time in Idaho. 

The Philosophy of Life Stages

Three months ago, I would have been confused when asked to imagine a bighorn sheep. I’d always heard of the creatures, of course, and seen photos from calendars of mountain scenery. But I’d never actually imagined myself seeing one of these animals perched on the cliffs of the wilderness. However, only a couple of weeks after my arrival at Taylor Ranch, I came face-to-face with my first bighorn sheep encounter: a skull and a huge horn resting on a bench near Goat Creek. I was astounded by the sheer size of the skull, and I picked it up, smudging my fingertips with the calciferous bone. I tried to imagine skin and fur and muscle stretched around it, giving the bone emotion and spirit and life, but all I could think about was Georgia O’Keefe’s skull paintings. When I returned to Taylor Ranch and told some of my peers about my discovery, they expressed interest in collecting the skull to send to relatives. I swallowed down sadness, upset that these people who supposedly respected the wilderness were unable to see the value and beauty in leaving the skull where it was, resting high above Big Creek.

Several weeks ago, during campsite inventories in Wilderness Management, we spotted an ewe and lamb up on the cliffs above Big Creek. They seemed to follow us as we wandered back to Taylor Ranch, occasionally peering out at us, the lamb scampering after its mother to keep up with her long strides.

The most powerful image of bighorn sheep that I’ve had to date came right before we left for a two night camping trip with Gary. Some sheep hunters had set up camp across Big Creek from Taylor Ranch, and at the news that they had filled their tag, several students headed over to see the sheep. As we descended the hill into their camp, I saw the sheep’s head, and drew my breath in sharply. He seemed to be almost floating on the ground, wise eyes staring up at me and everyone else in a style similar to the Mona Lisa painting. Although dead, the sheep seemed to be noticing and taking in everything, including my reaction to him. The hunters had wrapped some of his neck and skin in white cloth—“for the taxidermist to work with,” they stated.

As we departed on our slow ascent of the benches with our backpacks, I mulled over what I had seen: life stages of the bighorn sheep. Images of the skull, the lamb, and that majestic head, floating in space, surfaced to my mind, and I searched for the meaning behind these life stages. Seeing the skull and the live sheep seemed to be part of the natural life cycle, but that floating head continues to haunt me, and I’m not exactly sure why. I haven’t had much experience with hunters, but the men that shot the sheep seemed humble, thankful, and respectful of the beautiful animal they harvested. Yet I still felt anger at them—they were from Boise, they said—city boys out for a good time in the wilderness. Did they really need the sheep’s meat for nourishment, or could they afford to run to the local grocery store to buy food? I realize that one of the main motivations of hunting is for the experience, an entertainment of a primal instinct: harvesting one’s own food. But, in this day and age, when humans have already done so much to interfere with creatures and processes that we did not create, do we need to involve ourselves in the sport of killing majestic, wise animals that contribute to the beauty of this world?

I’m not sure why, but the sheep’s head, disconnected from its body and still so large and muscular, continues to haunt me, its empathetic eyes begging me not to apologize, but to think and consider its killing, and how it felt when it was shot, tumbling down steep talus slopes until its spirit could no longer withstand the pain.

Somehow, a skull or sheep’s head looks less majestic and less compassionate when displayed in a cluttered home, a trophy and proof of a hunter’s ability. I feel sorrow in my heart for humanity’s need to store these frames of life indoors—an environment in which such a stately creature can look measly and meek.

Bighorn Sheep

On the way back from a day in the field for Wilderness Management, we spotted a mother and baby bighorn sheep!

Girls' Night Out

Today I returned from a typical event in a very untraditional setting: girls’ night out in the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness. Normally, this is a social happening that occurs on Friday or Saturday nights and involves female friends getting together to dress up, socialize, and generally have a terrific time discussing news and memories. Yesterday’s girls’ night out included all of these necessary requirements: we dressed up in our backpacking garb and even scored extra style points by donning super-fashionable down jackets, patterned fleece pants, and even color-coordinated backpacks. We chatted the whole seven miles, laughing about funny times that have occurred during Semester in the Wild.

When we arrived at our destination, we even met up with some new friends who happened to be two female U.S. Forest Service wilderness rangers. Perched on a rocky beach at the confluence of the Middle Fork and Big Creek, darkness gathered around us like a cloak as they told our three-girl group all about their adventures in blizzards and rain, encounters with quirky visitors, and spotting enormous mountain lion tracks. We told them about our hike to Taylor Ranch from Big Creek, which was cut short due to a forest fire, and all of us took pleasure in a little mouse that was skittering around us on the rocks, occasionally summoning the guts to climb onto our dusty hiking boots. Returning to our own tent, we reminisced on how neat it was to see two women working in the wilderness. These women were so friendly and approachable, and we felt as though they had offered us a looking glass into which we could gaze and visualize our own futures.

            Over the summer, I worked as a wilderness ranger intern in the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness. My internship consisted of going on “hitches”, or periods of service, in which I worked with other crewmembers to clear and maintain trails for hikers and stock users. I had the privilege of working with two other females for my first hitch, and they helped me learn how to use a cross-cut saw, chop trees with my “inner dragon”, identify and consume edible plants, and, most importantly, how to persevere, even when my weary feet felt as if they had been chopped off and were no longer connected to my body. One night, after a particularly long day of chopping fallen trees and hiking for nine hours, we arrived at Fish Lake cabin, a picturesque little spot in the middle of lovely, quiet, absolute nowhere, which seems to be increasingly rare in the hustle and bustle of everyday life. We watched fog roll across the airstrip, covering the herd of elk grazing a distance away, and celebrated the summer solstice peacefully, telling stories as we sat around the light of a Coleman lantern. Although I was exhausted, I was extremely happy in the simplest of ways: getting to know two wonderfully genuine people and having the chance to explore this landscape. Throughout the summer, I had the opportunity to work with a number of other female crewmembers, with whom I felled trees, cooked meals, exchanged advice, and discussed future education plans.

            I used to think of the term “feminist” in a somewhat negative light, envisioning women who got upset when a man held the door for them, instead of considering it a decent, courteous act. However, now that I’ve been in and out of the wilderness for four months, I find myself believing in the power groups of women have to accomplish truly amazing feats.  I didn’t believe that I would be strong enough to saw through a cedar tree that was 42 inches in diameter, or ascend and descend 6,000 vertical feet in 11.5 hours. I didn’t believe that I could become someone who thinks of hiking seven miles as “only” seven miles, and I certainly didn’t think that I could casually haul a 50-pound pack up and over rocky peaks. I always seem to return from female-only trips into the wilderness feeling inspired by the women around me who are spunky, fun loving and completely hardcore. Through my summer and fall in the wilderness, I have become not only physically stronger, but also mentally stronger. I know what it’s like to reach my physical limitations, and I know how disheartening long hikes can be. I’ve experienced the challenges of working and living in rugged, unforgiving wilderness settings, but I have been fortunate enough to share these challenges with many lively women, who taught me about the true power of living in the moment, friendship, laughter, and putting one foot in front the other.

Mara and I fell our first tree. Timber!

Sarah, Sadie, and I head off to summit Dave Lewis peak and an 11.5 hour hike

Kristina and I backpacked in the Bitterroot National Forest during our days off from backpacking!

Susie and I finish a 30-mile hike along Big Creek as part of the Semester in the Wild program.

Time and Sage

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

            I keep waking up in the realm of 4:00 a.m., which encourages me to think about time. My perception of time has changed so much since arriving at Taylor Ranch, coming from a lifestyle in which efficiency and speed are among the most highly valued characteristics to be found in one person. The first days that I was at Taylor, I found myself fidgeting during long conversations—after all, I need to get stuff done, done, done! Now the days barely feel long enough for classes, schoolwork, chores and cooking, walking in nature, and writing letters. I am curious that my mind was able to meld so quickly into this busy-but-in-a-different-way lifestyle. Time is different in nature and in a lifestyle lived in the wilderness. People are more eager and willing to have meaningful conversations that last as long as necessary, and sometimes even longer than that. Time scales in geology are huge, and it takes thousands of years for certain processes to take place. It’s also interesting to consider the temporal scale and its relation to seasons—how does an animal prepare for hibernation in the face of changing onsets of seasons due to climate change? Animals in the Frank Church-River of No Return have much less contact with humans than the animals residing in suburbia, so I wonder if they feel less or more pressure to gather food and to guard their territory. I wonder if animals sense time, and to what degree they are being affected by climate change in terms of plants growing and dying at different times, different migration patterns, etc.

Big sagebrush

The first snow on the ridges outside our window! September 26, 2013

            I like to spend time an in area east of Taylor Ranch that I have christened the new Sagebrush Flat. This place seems much more deserving of that name than the actual Sagebrush Flat, because several hundred sagebrush bushes cluster together here. The river also widens and calms, flowing slowly by this flat plain surrounded by burned trees, rocky slopes, and grasses. The smell is soothing—simultaneously richly fragrant but also understated. The wind blows continually on this gloomy day, and on particularly strong bursts, it takes the vile of sage out from under my nose and replaces it with cool air laden with the prospect of snow. Once the wind settles again into a steady breeze, I rip off a section of the foliage, crush it with my fingertips, and rub the scent all over my hands. As I wander closer to the river, I spy a Douglas fir tree, and I pick a needle, and inhale its bracing and invigorating scent, such a pleasant deviation from desert aromas to a reminder of the woods. The wind forces fierce raindrops onto me, the strength of the sage fades, and the fragrance of the cool earth wafts up to me.

First Photos from Taylor Ranch

Big Creek

Welcome to Taylor Ranch!

DeVlieg Cabin

The welcome sign on the airstrip

A beautiful morning sunrise from the porch

The Journey to Taylor Ranch

The Semester in the Wild crew has officially arrived at the Taylor Wilderness Research Station (also known as Taylor Ranch), which is located in the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness. I'm very happy to be here because it was quite a long and confusing journey!
The original plan was to hike into Taylor Ranch from the Big Creek trailhead. This is about 35 miles, and we planned to spend several days camping along the trail while working on our River Ecology curriculum. We spent three nights at the trailhead working on data collection on upper Big Creek, and we also studied salmon ecology. The Forest Service told us about a fire that was about 20 miles down the trail, and asked us to hike in 15 miles so that we could meet two wilderness rangers who would then escort us through the portion of the trail that was closest to the fire. The 15-mile hike followed Big Creek the whole way, and the group did well working together to plan breaks and set a pace that everyone could follow. When we met the wilderness rangers, they told us that they had just heard on the radio from University of Idaho that it was too dangerous to try to be escorted through the burn area, and that we should turn around. This was a bit discouraging, but the. If there is anything I learned this summer, it is the importance of flexibility, especially when working or traveling in the wilderness.
We spent two days hiking back to the trailhead so that we could cover more River Ecology material. Since the Big Creek trip also includes an airstrip (the wilderness area is so vast that many people use their own planes to access various areas), we thought that the mail plane that goes to Taylor every Wednesday might fly us to Cabin Creek, which is six miles from Taylor. Then we would spend a couple of days doing more data collection and hiking to Taylor. However, we actually ended up getting picked up in two huge Suburbans and we headed back to the McCall Outdoor Science School (MOSS), where we had started our program. After two days of doing some River Ecology work, we ended up driving to Cascade, Idaho to fly out to Taylor. I immediately saw the airplane that would take us there, and I got extremely nervous. Standing next to the plane, I was taller than the wing! It held four people including the pilot, and it was not too terribly turbulent, although I did take some motion sickness medicine. Once I got over the fact that we were in such a tiny plane, I started looking out the window and enjoying the views. We could see so much of the wilderness areas, and we were actually able to see a fire burning on the mountain top. In order to land at Taylor Ranch, the pilot flew past it, turned completely around, flew back, turn around again, and landed on a grass airstrip that is adjacent to Big Creek.
We've been at Taylor for four days now, and it's been a flurry of settling in (some of our stuff is still arriving on the mail plane), doing river ecology work, and trying to finish up assignments for other classes. The setting is absolutely spectacular, and I will have to describe it more in another post.
I can feel the cool air moving through the valley that Taylor Ranch is nestled on, and the onset of autumn is approaching. Pete and Meg, the caretakers at Taylor Ranch, said that as it gets cooler, we won't have to worry about rattlesnakes quite as much.
The internet is too spotty for adding photos to the blog, but I will do my best to describe it with words!