“The Nevada Ents, Great Basin National Park” © December 2006
http://stujenks.typepad.com/photos/the_biscuit_papers_part_o/the_nevada_ents_bw.html
Cynthia the Park Ranger smiles at me. She’s cute. Svelte, muscular, smart, tough, blond. Guessing in her early 30’s. We’ve been talking about this and that for a while now. I’m flirting with her and she doesn’t mind. It’s a slow October day, plus it’s a federal holiday and it’s just her and an another ranger named Tom, here at the Visitor Center. As we continue to talk, I figure out that they are the only Rangers in the entire Park today. And it’s a big park, with Mt. Wheeler rising over 13,000 feet, straight up from the flat valley floor that surrounded this isolated mountain range. And nothing’s really near by to the Park either, in this part of Nevada. Vegas is way to the south and all the fashion model National Parks are many miles to the east.
“Not many people come here, I bet,” I say to Cynthia. “If you were closer to Bryce or Zion you’d get more, but then again, it’s kind of nice that you don’t get that many folk.”
“Well, Great Basin National Park is the 3rd least visited National Park in the system,” Ranger Cynthia says, “Only two other Parks get less visitors and those two you can only get to by boat.”
“By boat?” I laugh.
“By boat,” she smiles. Isn’t the first time she’s said that to a tourist. She’s enjoying herself.
We talk some more, about her plans to go to Medical School, her concerns over the lack of benefits for seasonal Park Rangers like herself. My love of the Sonoran Desert around Tucson and my suggestion that she might want to consider the university in Flagstaff. Not a great school but a good one, and she’d like the town.
After a couple of days traveling by myself, fifteen minutes talking with a pretty smart girl is really a delight. And she’s having a good time too. At least I’m helping her past the time.
I go into my City Mouse-Country Mouse routine and after I’m done, she calls over Tom.
“Hey Tom, come over here,” she yells. Tom just walked in from making a cursory tour of the Park.
“Tell him about the City Mouse, Country Mouse” Cynthia says to me.
Tom is taking off his light parka. It is a bit nippy outside. Reckon we are at about six thousand feet here and it does kinda look like snow in those clouds.
“Country Mouse?” Tom says. Tall, wiry, probably strong as a linebacker.
“Well,” I say, “I was just telling Cynthia that basically you can divide up all Americans into two categories: City Mice and Country Mice. Now, City Mice get scared when they go into the Country like here. They carry too much stuff with them. They usually have a tight itinerary. They don’t just point their car and go. Nope. They have a plan.”
Tom chuckles. Cynthia smiles.
“And the reason they do this, as I said, is because they’re scared. Nature scares them. It’s unpredictable. Can’t control it. Something big and hairy may come out and eat you. Scary, Scary.”
Cynthia laughs again.
“Now City Mice ain’t bad people. Just kind of pains in the ass to the Country Mice.”
All of us laugh now.
“Now, I’m a Country Mouse. I grew up in the suburbs but I’m still a Country Mouse”
Tom raises his hand, indicating that he too, is a Country Mouse that grew up in the City.
“And you can be a City Mouse that grew up in the Country too. Someone who watches a lot of TV, complains about the weather, and goes from air conditioned building to air conditioned building, in say, places like Butte, Montana.”
Both Tom and Cynthia nod in agreement.
“And finally about City Mice, there are always in a big hurry to get somewhere, talking up a storm as they go, stressed out likes some kind of crack addict, whether they live in New York City or Prescott, Arizona.”
The Rangers have this look on their faces like ‘Ain’t that the truth.’
“Now as I said I’m a Country Mouse, and I’m guessing the two of you are as well. Now Country Mice don’t find the wilderness scary. We find it exciting, mysterious, wondrous. Actually, we feel crazy if we don’t get outside enough during the day. We like the spontaneity of the moment. We live for Synchronicity. If we go on a road trip, we might make plans, but they could change at the drop of a hat, depending on which way the wind is literally blowing. We tend to live in the moment more. City Mice are living in the illusion of an hour from now.
Tom laughs again. Cynthia is enjoying hearing this a second time I think. Sweet.
“And finally, Country Mice are slower, talk slower, move slower. And since we do, City Mice think we are dumb. But we ain’t dumb. We are smart people. Able to take care of ourselves and others too.”
“And if the shit hits the fan in the wilderness,” I say softly leaning forward so just they can hear, “Who do the City Mice call and even expect to come out and get them out of trouble? Other City Mice? No. They call the Country Mouse that they sort of treating like dirt a few miles back. The old gas station attendant in bib overalls down the road a piece. The nice Park Ranger they ordered around at the Visitors Center. The funny looking photographer with the weird light in his eyes. They call us. And we don’t mind, for being Country Mice, we see it as our duty to help really dumb animals out, especially when they’ve driven themselves into the Ditch of Life.”
Cynthia and Tom laugh really loud. I’m starting to laugh at my own story now.
“And we don’t mock them or belittle them as we are helping them. Nope. That would be rude. We belittle and mock them later at our local tavern for Country Mice. No, we are kind. But we might look them square in the eye and say ‘Next time, don’t do that.’”
“No, we Country Mice can’t be smug, for as soon as we think we are better than others, we begin to creep into City-Mouse-Land, and that’s a place we do not want to go.”
I’m done now.
Tom puts his parka back on and moves toward the door.
“That was great,” he says, smiling, as he goes out into the slightly overcast afternoon.
“You know, we have a phrase for City Mice here,” Cynthia says.
“What’s that?”
“We call them ‘Fanny Packs’,” she says, motioning toward her stomach.
I hear my laugh echo off the walls.
Minutes later, I’m heading up the mountain. Cynthia said that at the top, there is a relatively short trail that’ll take me up to a grove of Bristlecone Pines. I didn’t even know there were Bristlecones here until Cynthia told me so. If I had known before I left Tucson, I would have bypassed Bryce and Escalante all together and come here first.
Bristlecones are a amazing creatures I hear, the oldest living things on the planet. One in California has been dated as being 4,600 years and the oldest known but now dead Bristlecone Pine was almost 5,000 years old when it died.
Mt. Wheeler is mostly shrouded in clouds now. No snow coming down here yet but looks like there is some up there and Tom mentioned they were predicted more snow tonight. Cool.
I check the clock on my truck dash. 2:35. Should work out just fine. Hour up, hour back, an hour to shoot.
The road is steep but well paved and well designed. Don’t you just love the Park Service? I round a corner and the jagged expanse of the Mt. Wheeler ridgeline explodes before my eyes. I know explodes is a bit hyperbolic but it truly does.
“Wow,” I say. I say Wow about 3 more times.
Up and over and down and before I know it, I’m at the trailhead parking lot. Snowed here, looks like about a half a foot fell last night. Pinons and Junipers trees are down at the Visitors Center but none of them are up here at this altitude. Ponderosa Pines and Doug Firs mostly dominate this forest. A few Aspens but not many. And then there is this tree I haven’t seen before. A Limber Pine. Got the bottle-brush tuft at the end of its branches like the Bristlecones pictures I saw at the Visitors Center but the tuft is a little fatter. They say people sometimes confuse the Limbers for the Bristlecones. I can see why but they just seem too young, too spry to be as old as Bristlecones. Heck, what do I know. Never seen a Bristlecone before. I hope when the time comes, I can tell the difference.
It’s cold, freezing perhaps. I put on everything: North Face jacket, Dad’s wool gloves, Pamela’s wool scarf, my Olympic Boo Boo hat.
Then the quiet still voice within says four words. Then it says them again.
“Bring all the cameras.”
I stow the Brownie and the Pentax in my Camelbak waterpak. I grab the Rollei in its own bag, and sling it over my shoulder. Put the tripod on the roof of the truck as I get my stuff together. Don’t have to tell me twice.
In no time, I’m heading up the trail. My Park Service’s map is accurate and precise. Even has little notations for where the Bristlecones are. Seems there are a couple of large groves south of here, many miles away, and one grove just up this trail a couple of miles near a glacier. Glacier? Good lord. This is Nevada! Glaciers in Nevada!
The walking is easy. My feet are toasty. My mind is clear. I have a big grin on my face. Then, after only a half-mile or so, I see my first Bristlecone Pine tree. It’s right on the trail. No way I would confuse this old boy for a Limber Pine. Most of it appears dead. I put my hand on part of its bare bark-less side. I can literally feel life flowing just below the surface. Old slow life. My eyes mist you a bit, feeling awe and gratitude to touch something, someone this old.
It really doesn’t feel like a tree. It feels like a person who walks very slowly.
I continue up the trail. Not bad going. Icy in the middle from the footprints of those hikers from earlier in the day, but good fluffy traction in the few inches of snow on the edges. Then I arrive at the Interpretive Loop, a very short loop trail that visits a half a dozen Bristlecones, each with their own plaque denoting its age. Seems that the Park Service has taken multiple core samples to pinpoint each’s age. This one, around 2000 years old, another big guy over 3100, that fellow 3600. I’ve stopped saying the work “Wow” now. I just silently mouth the word.
I consult my map. Seems the main grove of Bristlecones is just a few hundred yards up the trail. I notice I’m now in a valley of large boulders. Thick groves of Limber Pines rise up a steep slope to the west. No Bristlecones, but these Limbers are impressive too, no spring chickens themselves. A valley of big snowy rocks is to the east. The clouds are low now, sometimes blocking Mt. Wheeler completely from view. Others times, just a bit of the ridgeline can be seen.
Then the forest of Limber Pines recede and I’m on the edge of the boulder field, with no trees around. And then I see them, here and there in the glacial talus field. Dozens of Bristlecones, some young and small, maybe only a thousand years old, others large, knurled and wide, perhaps three to four thousand years old.
Again, I mouth the word ‘Wow.’
No trail to the grove. Just need to rock hop over boulders the size of Volkswagens. For a moment I consider not risking it, the dangerous walk over snow, ice and rock to get to the good shot. I am probably up here alone, and if I sprain my ankle, it’ll be a long truck back to the Pathfinder. But my fear only lasts a few seconds. I have a flashlight, plenty of water, warm clothing, good socks. And I must photograph these trees. I simply must.
I pull my Boo Boo hat over my ears, and head into the wintry boulder field. Step. Stop. Step again. Focusing just on the rock I’m on and the one I’m getting ready to step on. Step. Stop. Step. Step. I look at the tree I want, a hundred yards away. See the general path I want to take. Go. Step. Stop. Step again.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m deep in the rocks. The trees too. So many Pines to choose from. I settle on a couple of guys toward the south to shoot at. For two reasons actually: One, Mt. Wheeler makes a majestic backdrop behind these trees and Two, they look like men.
And then I think of Treebeard and the Ents from Tolkein’s Middle Earth.
“These are the true Ents,” I say to no one but the snow.
“The Real Ents of the World.”
I sigh away some joyous tears and get to work.
The shoot takes quite a while but it doesn’t seem like it. I use all three of my cameras, bracketing like a son of a gun. Shoot with the snow falling and shoot with no snow in the air at all. Then I have no choice but to shot with the falling snow, for it’s really come down now. Not so thick that I can’t see, not a blizzard, but thick enough that Mt. Wheeler is getting harder and harder to see.
Starting to get dark to the west. An ever so slight change of density in the cloud cover.
“Stay a while longer. It’s OK,” says the still voice.
“Really?” I say.
“Really.”
Hmm. Ok, then. I look toward the trail a hundred yards to the west and think, once I get there it’s an pretty easy hike down, and I have a couple of flashlights so if it get dark, it shouldn’t be too hard. Maybe a little tricky if the snow picks up, but not too bad.
I move the Rollei and take a different angle at the old Brisklecone in front of me. Then I grab my Pentax and take some close-up detail shots just for fun. Snow’s heavy now, hitting my glasses a bit. I finish shooting and then pack up the gear and take a swig from the Camelbak.
I then touch the bare skin of one of the Ents and say a prayer of thanks to him.
“I give you a bit of my energy to you, to do with what you will,” I say, stroking the hard wood.
“Thanks for being here and for teaching me a thing or two. Maybe what you are teaching me is just be in one place for a while and see what I see. to slow down and just be.” I close my eyes and breathe.
“I’m so happy you are here. Really happy to meet you too.”
I take off my glasses and wipe away some tears with the back of my right-gloved hand.
Getting darker.
“Time to go?” I say to my gut.
“Time to go.”
Takes me a while to shoulder the Camelbak and adjust the Rollei Bag and grab my tripod. But not too long. OK, I’m good to go.
I begin to make my way back to the trail when suddenly I stop in my tracks.
I see a man walking down the trail.
He must have been up by the glacier I suppose. He’s got a jacket and hat on but no pack or water I can see, and he’s taking baby steps down the gradually sloped trail. Tells me that he doesn’t have on very good shoes. Looks to be my age or older. Does he see me? Nope. He’s focused on the trail, walking slowly. I probably catch up to him at some point.
A few more minutes and I’m at the trail myself and notice something right away. The snow’s heavier than I thought. This morning’s footprints of other hikers are being covered by this afternoon’s snow. Could get a little dicey if it gets dark. Trail is pretty well wound though. Maybe the trail will fade a bit when I get closer to the truck, in that thick White Fir forest near the parking lot. We’ll see. I think we’re ok.
I don’t dally though. If I have a preference, I’d rather not be up here after dark. Plus, I’m pretty tired and I’d like to get the Park’s primitive campground and settle in for the night. Snow is falling harder now. Not much wind, if any. Deceptive when the wind isn’t blowing. Seems like less snow is fallen when in actuality, it’s really coming down with a purpose.
I pass the Interpretive Trail, say hello to a couple of old guys briefly. I continue down. Getting darker. Figure I still got about 30 minutes of light yet.
15 minutes or so go by and I can see I’ve almost caught up with the man with the bad shoes. I’ve been looking at his footprints all the way down and they seem pretty tentative. I bet he doesn’t hike much.
When I’m about 30 feet from him, I quietly say ‘Hello’
“Oh God Lord! I didn’t see ya back there,” he says.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he say with a smile on my face. “Just startles me a little.”
I pass him and he follows behind me.
“Name’s Frank.”
“Hey Frank. I’m Stu.”
“Please to meet you, Stu”
Frank proceeds to tell me about his life. A lot about his life. He’s a retired librarian from Helena, Montana. Has five grown children, one who’s name is Stuart, spelled with a ‘ua’. He’s a widower now. Wife died at 55 of a weird cancer, same odd cancer that many people get who grew up in Cedar City, Utah in the 50’s. Seems Cedar City is downwind of the Nevada Nuclear Test Range. They call it a Cancer Cluster he says. Wife been died about three years it seems. He still seems very sad about it. I would be too.
Seems Frank’s retired early at 56, and has been invited by one of his sisters to come to Vegas and sell real estate.
“...but with June dead and all, not much for me back there in Helena. All the kids except one lives somewhere else. So…” he laughs at himself, “Here I am, heading to work with my sister.”
He’s a good man, I can tell. A very good man. And a nervous man right now it seems.
Pretty close to dark now. I can still see the trail in the post-sunset ambient light but it’s getting harder. Guessing we’re still a half hour from the parking lot. Going to be hiking in the dark that’s for sure. I reach into my Rollei bag and pull out my trusty small Maglite and turn it on.
“Oh, you have a flashlight,” say Frank. “Thank God for that.”
I realize now why Frank seems a bit nervous. No flashlight, no water, bad shoes, getting dark. Good thing, I suppose, I came along.
Before too long, it’s dark, very dark for we are in a thick White Fir forest. Snow has cover up all the footprints from today. I’m navigating now by simply seeing the slight more depressed ground that is the trail. Some pinelog trail sideguards now and then, but most of them are behind me. Just going on instinct primarily, but I have a good sense of direction. Usually. I sweep my flashlight, back and forth and low to the ground, staining to see a bit of trail. Frank is keeping a running commentary behind me.
“Sure getting dark,” he says.
“Yes, it is,” I say.
Wish Frank would be quiet, for this is difficult going. But I know he’s frightened. And I can feel his confidence in me. I can hear it in his voice.
“Trail’s getting harder to see,” he says.
“Yep.”
Then I stop. Frank almost bumps into me.
“Problem?” says Frank.
“I think I’m off the trail,” I say. I know I’m off the trail but how far? Then I see what looks like the trail off to my left.
“There it is,” I say with certainty, even though I’m not. Maybe the lackadaisical sound in my voice will calm Frank down. I take a dozen steps toward what I think is the trail. Yep. It is. I exhale.
“Yep, here it is,” I say.
Almost pitch black. Snow is still falling but little is getting to us. We’re deep in the forest now. Pretty close I hope to the parking lot. I hope. Been walking with Frank for a good while now. Don’t really have time to think about it, but Frank could’ve been in some serious trouble if I hadn’t come along with the flashlight. But no time for that. Gotta get us out of here first.
Damn. Off the trail again. I Stop. Frank stops. Franks isn’t talking now, but I can feel his fear. I hear a stream down the hill a ways. We’re close. I can bushwhack us from here to the parking lot if I had to. Rather not.
I sweep the flashlight here and there and then I see a couple of trail railings, long thin pine poles, lying on the ground lining the trail.
“Over here,” I say softly.
I look over my shoulder. Frank is following me. Quiet. He and I and the forest, all silent except for the stream that’s getting louder and louder. The trail’s more pronounced now. Then through the trees, a couple hundred or so feet up ahead, I can see the red taillights of a vehicle in the trailhead parking lot.
Thank God.
We cross a wooden bridge and then we are at the asphalt. Just three cars in the parking lot, my Pathfinder, Frank’s Suburu, and a white U.S. Government Chevy Tahoe. Two people are standing outside of the Tahoe. Well, I’ll be. It’s Tom and Cynthia, the park rangers.
“Hey y’all,” I say weakly
“Really happy to see you guys,” says Frank much louder.
Cynthia and Tom turn toward us. Cynthia has a big smile on her face. Tom wears a crooked grin.
I shake Tom’s hand. I give Cynthia a quick hug.
“Remember me?” I say to them both.
I realize they don’t. They see a lot of people every day. Can’t blame them.
“I’m the City Mouse/ Country Mouse guy,” I say.
“Oh, hey!” says Cynthia.
Snow sticking pretty good now on the road. Probably shouldn’t hang out here too long. But the three of us do talk for a couple of minutes. Frank, about how happy he is that I came along. I’m not saying much of anything really. Mostly, I’m checking out Tom and Cynthia’s faces to see how worried they are. They are concerned and showing a little bit of relief. Maybe I saved them a trip into the forest tonight. No, probably they’d wait until morning to head up the trail to find Frank. Then again, maybe not.
Ranger Tom reminds up that we should get going and I head to my truck. I take off my North Face jacket and stow it in the back. I can’t help but notice the half-inch of snow on the top of my Boo Boo hat. I look around at the snow falling in the lot. Large and small flakes are falling now, brightly illuminated by the headlights of the ranger’s truck. Really coming down.
I put on a light jacket, get in the Pathfinder and start it up. Snow is on all the windows. I get out and brush off most of it with a gloved hand. I jump back in, shivering a bit. I put it in reverse and then I realize they want me to take the lead. I back out, put it in four wheel drive and head out of the parking lot, onto the Park road, leading a train of three vehicles.
Snow a few inches deep now on the road. Hell, the road was clear three hours ago. Not now. Tom says we have a couple of closed gates ahead of us that are self-locking after we go through them. Snow lessens a little as we descend but doesn’t entirely stop.
After a few miles, I see the first gate. I slow my truck and prepare to get out and open the gate when I notice Tom and Cynthia are passing me on the left. Looks like they are going to do gate duty. They open the gate and drive through, followed by Frank. I wave at Tom. He waves back. Cynthia simply smiles. I take the lead again.
At the next gate, a few more miles down the mountain, we repeat the process, but this time, Frank pulls along side of me as Cynthia and Tom are opening the gate. He rolls down his passenger window and motions for me to do the same. I roll down my driver’s side window.
“Hey, Frank,” I say smiling.
“Stu, “ Franks say, “I just want to thank you. Thank you for saving my life.”
“Oh, I don’t know Frank. I’m sure the rangers would have found you,” I say.
“Maybe. I don’t know.” he says.
“But you were there, Stu and I would have never made it out of there without you. Thank you so much,” Frank says, smiling.
“Well, you’re welcome and good luck to you in Vegas,” I say.
“You too, and….” He pauses. Seems a loss for words. He sort of bites his lower lip.
“Again, thanks, Stu.”
“My pleasure, Frank.”
An hour later, I’m parked in Campsite Number 7 at the more primitive of the campgrounds in Great Basin National Park. Not very primitive really, with its steel grated fire pit and its concrete picnic table, but it is on a dirt road and no RVs are allowed. No snow here but the rain has been steady since I arrived. Sounds like a rushing stream just a few feet from where I’m parked. I pop one of the rear vent windows in my truck so I can hear it. I’ll sleep good tonight. It’s around 8 p.m. Think I’ll have a little dinner before I hit the hay. I reach behind my front seat and grab a Tab out of the cooler and the string cheese too. Grab the big bag of GORP and some crackers too. Feast of kings here in the wilderness.
And as I eat the ambrosia of peanuts, raisins, and Mozzarella cheese and sip the bitter elixir of a diet soda, I watch the rain come down on my windshield, thinking it’s probably snowing hard now up by the Bristlecones.
Maybe I did save Frank’s life tonight. Maybe not. At worst, he would have probably just lost a couple of toes to frostbite.
Then I feel a presence. Don’t know if it was inside of me, or outside of me, or both, but it is good and strong and peaceful.
It said not a word but I get the message anyway.
“Stu, you saved Frank’s life.”
I smile and grab another handful of Good Old Raisins and Peanuts.
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