[pct-l] After Action Report - Bears and Bakery - October 09

Tue Oct 27 03:24:19 CDT 2009

Yes, once again your intrepid PCT hero and raconteur, Switchback, has cheated death. This time on the Horseshoe Meadow expedition to test out gear for the 2010 campaign. The Inyo County S&R was notified that I would be in their mountain jurisdiction just in case. 

Earlier this month, when I had been over here on a recon, many earthquakes hit the Lone Pine area. I wonder if word of the curse the Wagon Master had put on me had spread to this PCT trail town near Mt. Whitney. The Wagon Master is a geologist and has influence in the scientific and layman communities. He and the Kelty Kid run the big April PCT Kickoff at Lake Morena each year. 

As I drive over through Death Valley, I wonder if I might be as welcome to the Owens Valley as the Los Angeles Water District. People have a good memory about things like earthquakes and the last ones got everyone's attention big time.

Then the thought strikes me that in the old days mountain men had to marry into an Indian tribe to hunt and travel safely in their territory. Would this apply to me now in the Eastern Sierras? Would the local authorities make me marry a local gal? I wonder if they would be so mad at me that they would import a Cougar Terminator (an older woman who thinks any male activity should be for her well-being and entertainment) for me to marry. 

This could be serious, since Cougars and Trail Pirates are arch enemies. My other alternate trail names do not sit well with them; The Goof-Off, Mr. Meritorious Combat Nap, Trail Boy-Toy, Trailtown Party Animal, Trail Arm-Candy, Trophy Hiker-Trash, Mountain Woman Magnet, etc.

A nightmare starts to unfold in my mind. I can see us walking down a street in the big city after a session with her Nordstrom personal shopping lady. I am walking behind her with a load of Nordstrom silver shopping bags. We are now headed to the De Elegance Spa and Rejuvenation Clinic for her pedicure, manicure, massage, etc., etc. She is getting the deluxe treatment after all the energy draining power shopping. 

"Hey. Buster Brown, keep up! And I am not in the mood to hear your disabled veteran lip and excuses."

I reply, "Yes, sweetie pie. But it is hard to see through all these packages. The limp pain is subsiding, so I can now double time it to catch up."

"And remember that I want to stop by the gourmet chocolate shop after my spa treatments, so save some room for more packages."

I quickly respond, "Yes, precious."

We check in at the pleasantly appointed spa waiting room. A startlingly well proportioned and tall young man named Bruno comes out to get her for her deep tissue hot rocks massage. She stares for a good 15 seconds and then is off in a flash dragging poor Bruno whimpering behind her. All the Nordstrom bags would be scattered all over the place. The other customers and myself would be left coughing and wheezing on our hands and knees. In her hasty exit there was an oxygen decompression. The air turned into a white fog --- a white-out in the spa waiting room. Nice. Real nice. 

A kindly, elderly gentleman slowly gets up off the floor with a pale face and mutters, "Terminator wife too, huh." 

I reply, "I guess it’s a great life if you don’t weaken. Say, what do you do about the prodigious chocolate requirements?"

I throw some water in my face to wake me back to reality as I drive over to Lone Pine. As I pass the Father Crowley Point over looking Panamint Valley, I start to pray.

I am getting depressed and am in a funk. May be this trip is not a good idea after all. All at once the mighty Sierras appear in front of me. This is always a dramatic moment coming in from Death Valley NP to the Owens Valley. The eastern Sierras has to be one of the great landscapes in the world. Curses and Terminators cannot deter me now. I am home.

I get excited like I am going to a mountain man--iker trash jamboree, shindig, and rendezvous all rolled up into one. I always have a good time over here. The first time I came here was around 1969. This was back when the land was raw, the mountains new, and the Indians friendly. This was back when I use to earn extra college expense money guiding wagon trains through the mountains to California‘s central valley.

I check into the Ranger Station and get my permit. Then, since it is early, I head up to Bishop to get some goodies at the Schat's bakery to take back home later to the Long Suffering Mrs. Switchback. The bakery aroma has been a wonderful fixture in Bishop since 1938. I select some heavily laden cherry and pumpkin pies and loaves of cinnamon breads. 

I drive back down to Lone Pine and head up to Horseshoe Meadows and the 10,000 foot parking lot. I walk around to check things out. The air is fresh and the snow line is just above the campground elevation. Eventually, I go back to my car to start assembling my gear for my expedition. As I open my Prius hatchback, a powerful bakery scent hits me in the face. All my gear and car are heavily contaminated. I had not noticed it driving up here as it slowly permutated everything.

I am now a bear magnet. Generations of bears have heard of Schats Bakery. Scores of bears are now headed my way. This is ridiculous. I have made a terrible mistake. This has never happen to me before. I do not have my Spenser .56 buffalo gun or my Colt 1860 .44 cal. pistol. Or my well-used Bowie knife. All I have is a container of grizzly bear spray. But that will not last long against the coming onslaught. I imagine that the ground is shaking not from an earthquake, but the tramp of many paws. I am the epicenter for bear central.

The Sierra bears have been after me for years. This is their opportunity. In 40-years up here in the mountains I have never lost anything to the bears. And I have had many bear encounters. This is their chance to get even and wipe me out. They will eat my fresh baked pies and laugh about it. Soon empty pie tins will litter the camp area. Their vendetta will be fulfilled along with their stomachs.

I do have my 2-pound solo Bear Vault canister. Normally, it is the only canister you really need for hiking. It can easily carry enough food to get you out to a resupply if your main food supply is taken by a bear or satisfy a ranger inspection. And that is a very low probability if you keep a clean campsite and hang your supplies properly. I always think the advice/contests about stuffing tons of food into a large heavy canister is funny and unnecessary. 

There are the bear boxes all over the campground. But these are not odor proof and I have only one odor proof bag for my canister. It will just delay the inevitable and does nothing to protect my car from break-in. If I tried to hang some bear bags in the trees with so many bears around, they would treat them as piñatas. I would get no sleep tonight. I would always be defending my campsite from continual assaults and forays. Bears are very tenacious. 

I might as well organize this thing. I will have the bears take a number and wait in line. Each will get some pie and bread for a Bear Thanksgiving. They will like that. May be they will not trash my car and gear when I run out. But that is unlikely. Somehow I think the Terminators are behind this disaster. My fate is sealed.

Of course, there are many other pie stealing animals that would be joining in on the attack tonight. One is the wolverine. This animal is tough and legendary. I remember one time on the PCT at Marie Lake below Selden Pass, I had a 2-hour long battle with a wolverine that came into my camp for vittles. I fired a whole pouch of balls into him, but he spat them out as fast as he received them. Eventually, he wander off with some of my jerky. It seems he had enough entertainment at my expense and had an appointment somewhere else. 

Then I think about another acceptable alternative. I could just go down to Lone Pine and check in to the Dow Villas Motel. Later I could have a nice meal at the Merry-Go-Round restaurant. Then I could watch the tube and read my books on the nice soft bed. Periodically, I could look up and see the Sierras in all its majesty out my second story window. I might even hit the Jacuzzi and pool. Then I could leisurely drive back to Las Vegas in my aroma filled car whenever I felt like it --- safe and sound. No problem.

I declare victory and head back down the mountain to the Dow. Another successful road trip will soon be completed. Copious amounts of fun will have been had. I always have great road trips full of adventures and sights. I think about my next one. I think in the coming cabin fever season I will head east to the Indians ruins at Canyon De Chelly National Monument in Arizona --- but no stops at bakeries.

Faithfully reported and respectfully submitted. Your obedient servant ---
Switchback the Trail Pirate

Earlier this month, when I had been over here on a recon, many earthquakes hit the Lone Pine area. I wonder if word of the curse the Wagon Master had put on me had spread to this PCT trail town near Mt. Whitney. The Wagon Master is a geologist and has influence in the scientific and layman communities. He and the Kelty Kid run the big April PCT Kickoff at Lake Morena each year. 

As I drive over through Death Valley, I wonder if I might be as welcome to the Owens Valley as the Los Angeles Water District. People have a good memory about things like earthquakes and the last ones got everyone's attention big time.

Then the thought strikes me that in the old days mountain men had to marry into an Indian tribe to hunt and travel safely in their territory. Would this apply to me now in the Eastern Sierras? Would the local authorities make me marry a local gal? I wonder if they would be so mad at me that they would import a Cougar Terminator (an older woman who thinks any male activity should be for her well-being and entertainment) for me to marry. 

This could be serious, since Cougars and Trail Pirates are arch enemies. My other alternate trail names do not sit well with them; The Goof-Off, Mr. Meritorious Combat Nap, Trail Boy-Toy, Trailtown Party Animal, Trail Arm-Candy, Trophy Hiker-Trash, Mountain Woman Magnet, etc.

A nightmare starts to unfold in my mind. I can see us walking down a street in the big city after a session with her Nordstrom personal shopping lady. I am walking behind her with a load of Nordstrom silver shopping bags. We are now headed to the De Elegance Spa and Rejuvenation Clinic for her pedicure, manicure, massage, etc., etc. She is getting the deluxe treatment after all the energy draining power shopping. 

"Hey. Buster Brown, keep up! And I am not in the mood to hear your disabled veteran lip and excuses."

I reply, "Yes, sweetie pie. But it is hard to see through all these packages. The limp pain is subsiding, so I can now double time it to catch up."

"And remember that I want to stop by the gourmet chocolate shop after my spa treatments, so save some room for more packages."

I quickly respond, "Yes, precious."

We check in at the pleasantly appointed spa waiting room. A startlingly well proportioned and tall young man named Bruno comes out to get her for her deep tissue hot rocks massage. She stares for a good 15 seconds and then is off in a flash dragging poor Bruno whimpering behind her. All the Nordstrom bags would be scattered all over the place. The other customers and myself would be left coughing and wheezing on our hands and knees. In her hasty exit there was an oxygen decompression. The air turned into a white fog --- a white-out in the spa waiting room. Nice. Real nice. 

A kindly, elderly gentleman slowly gets up off the floor with a pale face and mutters, "Terminator wife too, huh." 