Bridge Of Childhood Nightmares

Day 188: You know how it starts: "Back when I was a kid..." Well, back when I was a kid, this bridge scared the livin' daylights out of me every time we crossed it. My uncle Gus was a ranger in this corner of the Park in those days, and occasionally, he'd take us on a day excursion to Ipsut. It felt to me as if we were driving through time to an era when miners worked long hours with pick and shovel in the coal mines of the area, when they went to work on horseback and returned home to meals cooked on enormous wood-fired cast-iron stoves. I half-expected to see them, such were my childhood illusions, and that Gus was a part of protecting one corner of nature from their imagined predations upon the land and its animals elevated him to a position worthy of reverence in my young eyes. The fantasy was compounded a hundredfold when we reached the dreaded bridge over Carbon River Canyon, for in those days it did not have a surface of asphalt, and the gaps between the crosswise timbers seemed large enough for Gus' Plymouth to fall between, were it to slip off the lengthwise boards which served as tire tracks. Gus delighted in winding my mother up about crossing the bridge; by the time we reached it, she was thoroughly petrified, and her anxiety transferred to me in the back seat. And then, just to be wicked, he would drive ever so slowly across, explaining that he didn't want to put undue stress on the structure. I don't recall that I was ever fully in tears by the time we again had our wheels on the dirt road, but I do remember that the bridge appeared in my dreams on more than one occasion in a nightmare of the car falling, falling, falling toward the river 250 feet below. Brave Gus travelled across that bridge repeatedly during his years as a backcountry ranger. How could I not worship him? How could I not wish to follow in his footsteps? But by the time I was old enough to continue his mission at Carbon River, the bridge and the dirt road had both been paved, and the ghosts of the miners had retreated to their tunnels in Melmont, Fairfax, Burnett (lower and upper), Wilkeson, Carbonado. And for me, the bridge is now an old friend.

Genetic Predisposition

Day 104: Mount Rainier National Park, Sunrise Community Kitchen, circa 1933. The young woman in the foreground is my mother, the babe-in-arms my uncle-Gus-the-Lake-James-Ranger. It was Gus who set me on the course of my life when I was but nine years old, having obtained permission from his superintendent for me to stay with him in his duty station for ten days. My father had died in the spring, and Gus (ever my idol) was doing his part to help me adjust. In those ten days, I determined two things: that I wanted to climb the Mountain and that I wanted to grow up to work in the Park. My first stint at Carbon River as a volunteer preceded my first successful ascent by a year or two, but I went on to summit five more times (a total of six), and my readers know to look for me at Longmire today.

Aside from having a Park Service bloodline, I feel a strong bond with the broader NPS "family," and I know many of them are likewise moved by a sense of kinship, as well as being united in a common cause. When one of us is attacked or oppressed, it affects us all. Recent events have shown how we will rise to meet the occasion, "rogue rangers" defending our own in their private time. There aren't many organizations which generate that depth of community connection. Parkies together!

Old Friends

Day 289: I haven't been to Carbon River/Ipsut in over a decade, too afraid of what I might find in the aftermath of the 2007 floods. I had heard all kinds of stories, and every one of them made me want to cry. But let me back up a bit to explain my connection with this special place.

When my uncle Gus was in college, he took a seasonal job with Mount Rainier National Park as a ranger at Carbon River. The family made a few trips up to see where he was working, and in those days, it truly felt like we were voyaging into the Back of Beyond. The road to the Park crossed the Carbon Canyon on a high, rickety one-lane bridge planked lengthwise with timbers spaced such that a car's wheels would just fit. The under-layer of the bridge deck was made of similar timbers at 90 degrees to those on top, but spaced so widely apart that when you were on the bridge, you felt as if the car would slip between them if it should happen to stray from the lengthwise planks. My mother was terrified of it, but Gus piloted the car across with ease and we continued up the south side of the river until we reached Ipsut Campground. There, I experienced a great disappointment. Gus had explained that the Carbon River looked muddy because it was full of glacial silt; I misunderstood the word, and expected to find SILK fibers on my fingers when I withdrew them from the water. But I was entranced by Ipsut and Carbon River from my very first visit, probably because Gus was my favourite uncle.

That year or the next, my father passed away. I was only nine, and it hit me hard. Gus, still working for the Park, managed to wangle permission from his superintendent (or so the story goes) to take me in with him to stay at his duty station at Lake James for ten days. That term in the backcountry set the tone of my life. More than anything else, I wanted to be a ranger (preferably one who was somehow involved with science).

Many years later, I started working at Carbon as a winter volunteer. By then, I had hiked extensively in the district and knew it like the back of my hand, both on trail and off. We'd had a number of things stolen from the Mowich cabin (our Stokes litter, a 400-pound wood stove, all our first-aid gear), so I became the winter "presence" to keep the thieves at bay. I didn't keep a regular shift, but when I snowshoed into Mowich, I generally stayed at least 10 days in a cabin almost entirely buried in snow. In all the years I pulled this duty, I never saw a soul. I also worked at Mowich in the summer.

Aside from the professional connection I have with Carbon, I also have a deep personal attachment to the area. I don't expect most of my readers to understand, but those of you who are closest to me will know what I mean. It was that which kept me from visiting Carbon these last ten years: a fear that I would find devastation among my dearest friends and family: the roots and rocks and trees who figure quite centrally in my life.

If it hadn't been for a report of a rare plant along the Carbon road (now a foot-and-bicycle trail), I probably would have gone the rest of my life without facing the demons looming so largely in my mind. However, I was dispatched to search for it, and if possible, obtain an herbarium specimen. Armed with very scant information as to its location, I set off for Carbon today, trying to bolster myself to face the unavoidable. In that, I had quite a surprise. The flood damage was no worse than what I had seen in prior floods except at Chenuis (the pretty bog survived) and at Ipsut Creek (there's a new bridge, but the old one still spans the creek's previous channel). There are some twists and turns in what used to be the Longest Mile, but I'd call that an improvement! I did not go farther than my old campsite in the campground, so I don't know what condition the trail might be beyond that point, but by and large, it's the same old Carbon.

I'll sleep a lot easier tonight, and I'll certainly be making a return trip to visit those old friends along the road. I never did find that darn plant!

An Historic Sighting

Day 14: I have been transcribing historic migration records for the Bird Phenology Program for a number of years now, always fascinated when I stumble upon one from Mount Rainier National Park and the surrounding area. Some have been disturbing, such as the "collection" of specimens in Grand Park or in Indian Henrys. Although undoubtedly done under permit in the name of science, the contrast to modern Park policy is shocking. However, most reports are innocent: Clark's Nutcracker observed at Paradise, Mountain Bluebirds flocking at Sunrise. That said, I had quite a surprise when this card came up in the rotation.

Ranger J. B. Flett was primarily a botanist in the early days of the Park, and produced one of the early field guides to the flora of the area. He wound up getting a glacier named after him for his labours (albeit a very small one) and thus earned a footnote in the annals of Park history. Coincidentally, he seems to have had at least a mild interest in ornithology, as this screen-capture of a bird card attests. I was thrilled to find it because it documents his presence in the Park on a particular day and in a particular location. As such, I have forwarded the document to our Chief of Interpretation who, I trust, will route it to the proper office for inclusion in the Park's historical records.

But that was not the only amazing thing about this card. Flett's sighting of a Belted Kingfisher (Ceryle alcyon) occurred at Lake James where, almost fifty years later, my uncle Gus took up his station as a ranger. After the death of my father, Gus wheedled special permission from the Park's superintendent for his young niece to accompany him for one ten-day tour of duty at the Lake James cabin. That trip charted the course of my life from then on.

I feel like the discovery of Flett's observation has brought me 'round in a circle, as if I was destined to find this card among the six million in the transcription database. What are the odds it would have come my way?