Nature Noir by Jordan Smith (romantic books to read .TXT) 📗

Nature Noir

A Park Ranger's Patrol in the Sierra

Jordan Fisher Smith

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

BOSTON • NEW YORK 2005

To Ray Strieker, Joe Burrascano, and Dan Abramson,

who rescued a rescuer

Copyright © 2005 by Jordan Fisher Smith

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

For information about permission to reproduce selections from

this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company,

215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

Visit our Web site: www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Fisher Smith, Jordan.

Nature noir : a park ranger's patrol in the Sierra / Jordan Fisher Smith.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-618-22416-5

1. Fisher Smith, Jordan. 2. Park rangers—United States—Anecdotes.

3. United States. National Park Service—Officials and employees—

Anecdotes. 4. Natural history—Sierra Nevada (Calif. and Nev.)—

Anecdotes. I. Title.

SB481.6.F57A3 2005 363.28 —dc22 2004059416

Printed in the United States of America

Book design by Robert Overholtzer

QUM 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of nonfiction based on the experiences of the author. However, some names,

places, physical descriptions, and other particulars have been changed. For that reason, readers

are cautioned that some details in the text may not correspond to real people, places, or events.

Chapter 7 of Nature Noir was previously published in a different form in the Autumn 1997 issue

of Orion: People and Nature, and in the anthology Shadow Cat: Encountering the American

Mountain, Susan Ewing and Elizabeth Grossman, eds., Sasquatch Books, Seattle, 1999. A passage

from the Prologue was previously published in a different form in the April 1996 issue of the

Wild Duck Review. Lyrics from "Don't Worry, Be Happy," written and performed by Bobby

McFerrin, © ProbNoblem Music, are used with the gracious permission of ProbNoblem Music.

Passages from Lao Tzu: Tao Te Ching by Ursula K. Le Guin, © 1997 reprinted by arrangement

with Shambhala Publications, Inc. Boston, www.shambhala.com.

CONTENTS

Prologue 1

1 A Day in the Park 7

2 It Never Rains in California 21

3 Career Development 43

4 Occurrence at Yankee Jims Bridge 62

5 Rocks and Bones 82

6 The Bridge over Purgatory 104

7 A Natural Death 120

8 Finch Finds His Roots 136

9 Crossing the Mekong 156

10 As Weak as Water 168

11 Eight Mile Curve 190

Epilogue 202

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 214

Prologue

AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-TWO, I decided to become a park ranger. I pursued that life with a freshness and single-mindedness I can scarcely bring to anything now. At twenty-eight, I could move around the mountains in summer or winter through any kind of weather. I could climb rock and ice, pack loads around the back-country with mules, fix trails, build with logs, read maps and aerial photographs, and find my position in any kind of country. I was impervious to the sight of blood. I could splint broken bones and I could locate a large vein in an arm or leg by feel and get an intravenous needle into it to save a life. You could drop me into a small fire with another ranger and I could build line around it. You could drop me into a big fire with a crew and I could stay alive and sleep when the nights got long in the warm ashes in the heart of it. I could shoot a pistol and hit the target every time. I could go out on skis in the winter and live in snow caves. And I was, I thought, an accomplished lover of the land.

In my first summer with the Forest Service, I lived in an old fish hatchery near the southwest corner of Yellowstone National Park. From there I hiked up the Warm River in the orange light of evening through clouds of mosquitoes in the willow thickets around the beaver dams, startling sandhill cranes, which would burst from the brush with strange cries and circle over me in fear for their hidden nests. Later I lived in a tent in Granite Basin and then in Alaska Basin in the Grand Tetons, and I kept my pots and little stove in a hollow tree when I was away from camp. I lived at the end of the road in an alpine valley in Sequoia National Park, and in the autumn I returned to my cabin on horseback at night in the sleet with my feet so cold I couldn't feel them, to stand in front of the stone fireplace and drink hot tea. In the winters I would go back to a job on the coast of Northern California, where I went to sleep to the sound of the waves on the beach and the foghorns and bells on the buoys beyond the harbor. Still later I spent a summer living in a tiny cabin in western Alaska, a long airplane flight from the nearest road.

After all of that, I came to spend the greater part of my career watching over 48 miles of river and 42,000 acres of low-elevation California canyons that had suffered various forms of abuse for over a century and a half and had been condemned for a couple of decades to be inundated by a huge federal dam. And there probably wasn't a day when I didn't wonder how I came to choose this hopeless place on which to lavish my attention.

The path that led to the American River began like this: As a twenty-one-year-old student, I'd been spending every spare moment I could in the mountains and I'd resolved to find a way to make a living outdoors, as either a mountain guide or a ranger. As is often the case when you're young, in the end the choice between the two hinged upon happenstance. That September I sent out résumés for junior guide jobs—one I remember involved packing loads of supplies for the senior guides and their clients up the glaciers of Mount Rainier—but the season was over and no one was hiring, so late that month a friend and I decided to go climbing in Yosemite.

Leaving our car at Tioga Pass, we began hiking toward an ice climb in the cirque of Mount Dana, laden with rope, ice axes, and clanking equipment. As