The Annual Bath

Day 333: For as long as I have been hiking in the backcountry as an adult (some 50-plus years), I have observed a particular ritual of plunging myself into a cold mountain lake or creek some time during the month of September in what I refer to as my "annual bath." I will further inform you, should you ask, that the purpose of this ablution is to "cleanse myself of the dross of humanity," refreshing and renewing my spirit that I may survive another year of contact with humankind. It is, of course, necessarily done completely naked and is not complete until I am but one click shy of hypothermia, emerging from the water with tingling skin and painful scalp. Sometimes, the bath takes the form of a swim in an alpine lake, but the most common observation of this rite is done in a shin-deep pool of a stream, and consists only of splashing and/or pouring ice water on myself until every inch of me has been rinsed with clear, pure living water, and only that.

For the last several years, I've had to make do with a small kettle lake as my bathtub. I've stepped out of it at least twice with a scummy coating of fir pollen clinging to my hide. What matters is not the physical cleanness, but that of my inner being. Once, I dunked in the Nisqually River and came out coated in glacial silt and had to shower when I got home. For obvious reasons, the clear water of a mountain creek is more desirable, and for several weeks now, I've been trying to figure out the best spot for my annual dunk. There are more people on the trails than there used to be, and of course I am beyond the years when I could hike into the deep backcountry to find a private spot. One possibility kept rising to the top of my list of options: a secluded corner in Lodi Creek where it veers away from the trail to Berkeley Park. 

When my botany partners suggested a hike to "Fremont junction," I assumed we would be turning around at that point. When we got on trail, I found out that Joe had meant the Northern Loop junction instead, a mere half mile from first contact with Lodi. I really debated whether to ask them to wait for me there (Joe is still breaking in a knee replacement) since I didn't want to burden them, but when he said that he thought he might shear off onto the trail to Skyscraper Pass, I asked him if he'd mind waiting. He'd heard a rumour about goats in the area and wanted to get photos, and having not seen any yet, was more than willing to grant my request. I took off at a lope. Forty-five minutes later, I met up with my friends again, my spirit divested of humanity's dross and hair still wet beneath my hat. Unbeknownst to us, the Goat Rocks Fire was preparing to divert us onto another adventure: having to make a full circuit of the Mountain in order to get me back to my house. In Sharon's words, "At least there were goats." And I got my annual bath.

Separating The...

Day 339: Several years ago, I was told by a Fair employee that sheep were only brought in at the end of the Fair's run due to the possibility of disease being cross-communicated to cattle. In my years of raising sheep, I had never heard of any such thing, but I figured Fair officials knew what they were talking about. Consequently, I nearly always missed the sheep exhibit. Oddly, this year the restriction seemed not to apply. Sheep were scheduled for mid-month, and to my delight, the show overlapped one of my duty days. Again to my surprise, goats were housed in the same barn concurrently. Apparently the Fair no longer separates the sheep from the goats!

I've often thought about getting a goat. When I moved here thirty years ago, I brought two sheep with me, only to learn a hard lesson when they were attacked by neighbourhood dogs. A sheep is a docile animal, a goat not so much so. Unless taken down while in a small enclosure, a goat can stand its own against a dog or coyote. But sheep are grazers, good for keeping your lawn mowed. Goats are browsers, and will eat almost anything from knee-level up as high as they can reach, standing on their back legs to to do. I don't have a lot of brush, and wouldn't want them devouring my ornamentals. In any event, I feel that staking a goat on a tether is unkind to the critter. A little Angora is tempting, though.

Goats And Sheep

Day 345: For all of how much I've disparaged the Washington State Fair this year, I received a pleasant surprise today when I went in for my last shift. The sheep and goats were in, and sheep had been moved from a small barn into the new, much larger Agriplex, and almost every pen was filled. The only disappointment was in not finding any Romneys, one of the breeds I used to raise. Goats no longer had to share space with sheep and likewise were well-represented, occupying the whole of the barn they formerly shared. One nanny tried to eat my camera as I was taking photos of her pen-mates, and one ram tried to lick it but only succeeded in thoroughly sheep-slobbering my hand.

Sheep and goats are my favourite part of the Fair. I haven't had a goat since high school, but kept a small herd of Romney, Romney-Suffolk and Romney-Corriedale sheep for many years, supplying myself with both wool and meat. If it wasn't that they require daily care, I would love to have sheep or goats again.

Another Fair Favourite

Day 342: "Separating the sheep from the goats" became Fair policy some time ago due to health concerns for the animals, and nowadays, goats are exhibited early in the Fair and sheep are brought in during the last week or so. For that reason, I usually manage to miss sheep although they are right behind piggies on my list of things I'd like to see. Chickens also seem to elude me, their barn dedicated during the early part of the Fair to either rabbits or pigeons. However, among the "exotic" animals (a category which includes llamas and alpacas), there are usually a few goats, and since I enjoy goats almost as much as sheep, I search out their pens in the hopes of getting a few photos.

That's not an easy task, let me tell you! I don't care to do flash photography, particularly where there are animals involved. They don't understand why all those bright lights keep going off in their faces, causing their pupils to contract every few seconds. I personally don't think flash should be allowed inside the barns, but I have never seen any prohibitions. That said, getting a good picture without flash requires quite a bit more patience since the photographer not only has to deal with fidgety animals, but with people jostling the fence (the default makeshift "tripod"). However, with patience, the photographer can learn to judge when the ears will stop twitching or the animal will pause in its chewing just long enough to get a crisp shot. That's not saying I don't throw out 9 out of 10 images, but at least I've spared the critters another glaring blast of bright light in their beautiful eyes.