Sowing on the Mountain

≈ 7 ≈

She woke before the sun cleared the eastern ridge, and hiked over to the Lodge for breakfast. Arlene said to go round the side, where there was a messroom for the hands. The woodstove was fired up and the room was warm, nice after her walk. Sam introduced her to the crew: Zack, the head packer and guide; Per, a Norwegian, the campjack; Disney, a stout rosy blonde, the camp cook; Jared, the wrangler who took care of the livestock and tack at the Lodge, and Miwha, a shy Korean sprite who worked as cabin girl.

Zack was indecently handsome, and knew it. When she failed to fawn on him, talking instead to the others, he got rather miffed. So he was vain, as well. The Carly Simon song riffed in her head as she tried not to giggle. She'd have to get Slim up here and show him off, such as he might be.

By sunset, she had the shack cleaned up, although it reeked of pine disinfectant. She'd dragged the mousy mattresses out and bagged up all the nests and droppings. When she looked in the oven, mattress stuffing tumbled out: the whole thing was a mouse nest. She got the mess out, but the oven still stank— I'll probably have to take the damn stove apart, she thought. The refrigerator was musty, but mouse-free, thank heaven. She added a tank of propane to her list. And maps of her territory, for the walls.

The outhouse was identical to the one at Elf Creek, and she had a nasty little flashback before opening the door. Inside were drifts of pine needles and a hole chewed through the back wall, where some critter had made the pit home. She flashed a light under the seat, to make sure there wasn't a skunk or any black widow spiders, and then nailed a piece of roofing over the gnawed opening.

What else? Pieces of screen for the two windows, to keep mosquitoes out. And another for the screen door, which was rusty and holed. She'd probably have to buy most of the stuff herself, if her first encounter with the Head Clerk was any indication. I wonder if I need permission to stay here? she thought. Should I bring it up? What if they say no? They love to say no.

Gris woke her up a few times, barking at something, and mousetraps snapped at regular intervals. Other than that she slept well, and woke early to the sound of baaa-ing. She looked through the pines— the Opening was mobbed with sheep, hundreds. Maybe thousands.

Were they supposed to be there? Sexton, the Rec guy, hadn't mentioned sheep. She brewed coffee and ate, annoyed by the constant yammer, then put on her uniform and made up her pack for an overnight trip. She planned to hike up to Big Sandy Lake, set up camp, then climb to the pass above which was the limit of her area. Technically, it was her day off but she'd spent a full day and then some cleaning the shack, so she thought she'd at least a glimpse of her territory. She didn't have her patrol schedule yet. For each hitch, she'd have an itinerary: where to camp, where to patrol, scheduled radio contact. That was more regimented than she liked, but she could work around it and do some exploring off trail.

She put a leash on Gris, to keep him from chasing sheep, and waded through the herd, which had bunched up at the bridge, unwilling to cross or to ford the creek. They were really making a mess, sheep crap plastered the road. She slipped in it and cursed as she crossed the bridge. At the fork next to the Lodge sign was one that said Campground .5 mi and Trailhead .7 mi. The coarse grit of the road rasped under her soles as she trudged that way, feeling the weight of her pack. Better get used to it, she thought.

The campground lay on the east side of a moraine, sites strung out for several hundred yards, cars and trucks parked by log barriers above the creek. About half the sites held tents, and smoke rose from firepits. In the wilderness, no fires were allowed: that would be fun to enforce.

A shaggy chap strolled over with a map to ask her whether he could descend the west face of a peak and get on the Highline Trail back to the Opening.

"Sorry, this is my first day and I can't answer the question. But let's look at the map." He spread it on a picnic table and traced the route with his finger. "Hmmm," she said. "Wouldn't be surprised if there's still snow on the west slope. Might have to posthole for a mile or so."

"Hadn't thought of that. I guess we'll be able to see from the peak."

"Good luck."

She signed the trail register and took the leash off Gris. He trotted happily, sniffing and roaming, while keeping her in sight. If anyone asked, he was a stray that started following her, and had they heard about a lost dog? She'd have to tie him when she checked campsites. The wilderness boundary sign was twenty minutes along. Freshly painted. She looked back and saw that someone had scratched Fuck Sheep into the east side.

It took an hour and a half to crest the rise below Big Sandy Lake, which was incredible, a blue gem overlooked by scoured peaks and walls. On the opposite slope, she could see the trail to the pass. In the conifers that ringed the lake were spots of color, the bright fabric of tents. There was one set up in the meadow, too close to the lake— didn't seem to be anyone around. She'd leave a note. But before that, she'd pick a camp and get out from under this pack. Oooch!