Went this weekend back to the high pines on the Eastern side of the mountains. The Saturday sky was glorious as we rolled into the campground, tall cinnamon-barked trees swaying in the breeze. We went with good friends who know how to be alone with their own thoughts, who don’t worry about what to say or ever ask, “Are you upset?” if someone is being quiet. There are so many things to hear in the woods; the scolding chirrup of a chipmunk, the wind sighing in the trees, the deep call of a raven and the hard feathery beat of its wings, the soft sounds of one’s own breathing, the rush of water in the river. I like people who appreciate such things.
We had salami and cheese and crackers and beer for lunch, and then set out on a hike to see the waterfall marked on the map. During the hike through the desolate pine barrens the one song that stuck in my head was Leadbelly’s My Girl.
My girl, my girl
Don’t you lie to me
Tell me where did you sleep last night
In the pines in the pines
Where the sun don’t ever shine
I shivered the whole night through
It was not a very cheery hike. It was long and hot and dusty, dead trees and branches lying snagged in piles from a huge windstorm some twenty years ago, bleached silver by the sun and blackened by the snow and ice each winter, created a landscape of frightening monotony. Nothing ever rots out east, but things fall apart when all the moisture gets evaporated and then things crumble into dust. The trail twisted all around, curled up imperceptible hills, crossed BLM dirt roads, followed the riverbank and wended between stumps and snags and scrubby stunted pines. The forest was too thick in some places to see far, and sparse and barren in other places. It would be simple to get terribly lost, wander in circles for days, since there are no outstanding features, nothing to serve as markers. We stayed on the trail for the duration of the six miles, all four of us lost in his or her own thoughts most of the time. The wind took our comments and garbled the words, and we found it easier to communicate with gestures. An occasional gunshot would ring out; we were not alone in the woods. Deer hunters. I was happy to have on a red shirt.
The waterfall was not breathtaking, the hike back to camp was the same drab dusty land of right angles. The horizontal dead trees and vertical pines burnt a checkerboard in the mind’s eye, and the river, drawn down by the Army Corp of Engineers, slugged through the sand and gravel.
Once back in camp I tended to tenderfoot dogs and while bending over, a yellowjacket landed on the small of my back. When I stood, my waist band trapped the nasty little thing and it stung me hard just above my ass. I read somewhere that insect stings are rated in terms of electrical volts. It sure felt like someone had stuck an arc welder down my pants, and although I didn’t have any reactive problems with it, the site had a bloody mark in the center, and puffed up and turned black and blue around the edges. Today it is barely noticeable but Saturday it was some uncomfortable pain, and I walked around camp joking that I had a pain on my ass.
Night always creeps imperceptibly in the high woods; suddenly the sky is darker and the place looks flat in the half light of dusk. Voices carry for miles, as do gunshots. The campers across the road from us drove up with a big buck on the roof of their truck’s camper shell. They wrapped it in a blue tarp without gutting it and threw it into the back of the truck. Have you ever been to someone’s house and had bad venison? It’s called “field dressing” for a reason. It means you don’t let the thing sit dead overnight before you clean it. It looked like a nice buck, too.
We killed two bottles of red wine, ate steaks, mashed taters from a pouch, and spinach with mushrooms. The men cooked, and then S made a rip-roaring fire while we washed dishes. We drank Kijafa, Danish cherry wine that tastes like cherry pie, while we roasted marshmallows and S played his fiddle. He sounded sweet and clear in the cool night air. I don’t think he’s ever played better.
It rained during the night. Not a lot, just enough to settle the dust. It was very soothing to me. I love the rain.
Morning came soon, and we all stumbled out of bed by nine, ate sausages and eggs while the neighbor camper pulled the rigor mortised deer body to the tailgate and proceeded to butcher it in a most unusual fashion. He didn’t skin the hide off, and I could just imagine the gamey hair-covered meat. He cut through the hide in the usual places, and then before removing the guts, he hewed the hind legs off, which boggled my mind.
He then walked around with his knife and his bloody hands for about ten minutes, no doubt dreading the nasty job he was undertaking. I couldn’t believe all that he did; he cut chunks of flesh off and went into the tent, leaving half the carcass in place. He didn’t do anything with the deer’s shoulders, which is some of the best meat for roasts. It was amusing in an eyebrow-raising way. He threw the entire front end of the deer in a garbage bag and tossed it into the camper shell. The last deer S killed weighed 150 pounds and we got at least 100 pound of meat from it. This deer being butchered across the way must have weighed 200 pounds, and I doubt the hunter cleared 50 pounds of meat. The waste sickened me as much as the thought of what awful venison it would be when it was cooked. Deer hunting is a lot of work, and it doesn’t end when you drive victorious back to camp, dead thing on the roof of your car.
But enough about morbid things.
We broke camp after breakfast, and went to the portion of the park labeled “Big Tree,” where the largest Ponderosa pine in Oregon stands. We played Frisbee golf along the trail to the tree. It was my favorite part of the trip. It was nice to spend time with good friends outside, and despite the previous day's long march through the pine barrens and the sting on my ass, I had a fun time in great company.
But I am glad to be home in the land of mist and shadows. S promised me next time we'll go to the beach. And deer season will be over by then.
We had salami and cheese and crackers and beer for lunch, and then set out on a hike to see the waterfall marked on the map. During the hike through the desolate pine barrens the one song that stuck in my head was Leadbelly’s My Girl.
My girl, my girl
Don’t you lie to me
Tell me where did you sleep last night
In the pines in the pines
Where the sun don’t ever shine
I shivered the whole night through
It was not a very cheery hike. It was long and hot and dusty, dead trees and branches lying snagged in piles from a huge windstorm some twenty years ago, bleached silver by the sun and blackened by the snow and ice each winter, created a landscape of frightening monotony. Nothing ever rots out east, but things fall apart when all the moisture gets evaporated and then things crumble into dust. The trail twisted all around, curled up imperceptible hills, crossed BLM dirt roads, followed the riverbank and wended between stumps and snags and scrubby stunted pines. The forest was too thick in some places to see far, and sparse and barren in other places. It would be simple to get terribly lost, wander in circles for days, since there are no outstanding features, nothing to serve as markers. We stayed on the trail for the duration of the six miles, all four of us lost in his or her own thoughts most of the time. The wind took our comments and garbled the words, and we found it easier to communicate with gestures. An occasional gunshot would ring out; we were not alone in the woods. Deer hunters. I was happy to have on a red shirt.
The waterfall was not breathtaking, the hike back to camp was the same drab dusty land of right angles. The horizontal dead trees and vertical pines burnt a checkerboard in the mind’s eye, and the river, drawn down by the Army Corp of Engineers, slugged through the sand and gravel.
Once back in camp I tended to tenderfoot dogs and while bending over, a yellowjacket landed on the small of my back. When I stood, my waist band trapped the nasty little thing and it stung me hard just above my ass. I read somewhere that insect stings are rated in terms of electrical volts. It sure felt like someone had stuck an arc welder down my pants, and although I didn’t have any reactive problems with it, the site had a bloody mark in the center, and puffed up and turned black and blue around the edges. Today it is barely noticeable but Saturday it was some uncomfortable pain, and I walked around camp joking that I had a pain on my ass.
Night always creeps imperceptibly in the high woods; suddenly the sky is darker and the place looks flat in the half light of dusk. Voices carry for miles, as do gunshots. The campers across the road from us drove up with a big buck on the roof of their truck’s camper shell. They wrapped it in a blue tarp without gutting it and threw it into the back of the truck. Have you ever been to someone’s house and had bad venison? It’s called “field dressing” for a reason. It means you don’t let the thing sit dead overnight before you clean it. It looked like a nice buck, too.
We killed two bottles of red wine, ate steaks, mashed taters from a pouch, and spinach with mushrooms. The men cooked, and then S made a rip-roaring fire while we washed dishes. We drank Kijafa, Danish cherry wine that tastes like cherry pie, while we roasted marshmallows and S played his fiddle. He sounded sweet and clear in the cool night air. I don’t think he’s ever played better.
It rained during the night. Not a lot, just enough to settle the dust. It was very soothing to me. I love the rain.
Morning came soon, and we all stumbled out of bed by nine, ate sausages and eggs while the neighbor camper pulled the rigor mortised deer body to the tailgate and proceeded to butcher it in a most unusual fashion. He didn’t skin the hide off, and I could just imagine the gamey hair-covered meat. He cut through the hide in the usual places, and then before removing the guts, he hewed the hind legs off, which boggled my mind.
He then walked around with his knife and his bloody hands for about ten minutes, no doubt dreading the nasty job he was undertaking. I couldn’t believe all that he did; he cut chunks of flesh off and went into the tent, leaving half the carcass in place. He didn’t do anything with the deer’s shoulders, which is some of the best meat for roasts. It was amusing in an eyebrow-raising way. He threw the entire front end of the deer in a garbage bag and tossed it into the camper shell. The last deer S killed weighed 150 pounds and we got at least 100 pound of meat from it. This deer being butchered across the way must have weighed 200 pounds, and I doubt the hunter cleared 50 pounds of meat. The waste sickened me as much as the thought of what awful venison it would be when it was cooked. Deer hunting is a lot of work, and it doesn’t end when you drive victorious back to camp, dead thing on the roof of your car.
But enough about morbid things.
We broke camp after breakfast, and went to the portion of the park labeled “Big Tree,” where the largest Ponderosa pine in Oregon stands. We played Frisbee golf along the trail to the tree. It was my favorite part of the trip. It was nice to spend time with good friends outside, and despite the previous day's long march through the pine barrens and the sting on my ass, I had a fun time in great company.
But I am glad to be home in the land of mist and shadows. S promised me next time we'll go to the beach. And deer season will be over by then.
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