Time Travelin' Tractor Boys

Okay, Internet, I hear the collective groans "Ugh, Donkey Camp AGAIN?? Can we move on, puhlease?"

No. No I can't. I can't really move anywhere due to the chest constriction and piles of laundry all over my house, but that's a whole other whine which I'll save for my stable boy. And my mom (thanks Mom. And stable boy - you're fired).

I wanted to share the pictures of this cabin that "we" helped repair. It was built circa 1910 and was used during the summer for "fire watchers" who lived in the mountains while they played on their Wii and ordered takeout and got all spooked reading the latest book in the Twilight series. Ever-alert for the smell of smoke or the crackle of lightening.

Seriously, these were people, like my husband's grandfather and Max's namesake, who spent almost half the year living alone in tiny cabins or lookouts. Hiking or riding through the vast and wildly unpredictable world of lightening and snow, bears, huckleberries and illegal hootch stills. To me, getting the opportunity to literally walk in their boots without the kitsch of Curry-run souvenir shops with bus-filled parking lots, or Williamsburg actor-types with fake accents and intrusive conversation, was humbling. And enlightening (pardon the pun, and in no way in reference to McQueen).


This cabin is located in the Eagle Cap Wilderness Area, which means that no power-operated tools or vehicles can be used. So chainsaws are right out, and hand saws are right in. When trees fall (which they do, a lot) on the trail to the cabin, one gets off of one's mule and grabs a buddy and starts cross cutting with a huge saw the likes of which most people only see at a "Paul Bunyon Days" Festival. And then you move on for another 20 yards and do the same thing over again. For miles.

And then, when the commute is finished, you get to work.

And, as you can imagine without any power tools, these things take time. There is no "instant gratification" in historical preservation. Because, just as you start making progress and figure things out, it's time to get down the mountain. And that's a commute that makes LA at rush hour seem speedy.

Down the mountain on mules, with dogs running at their feet, over and under wild brush, balancing on sides of cliffs that make you wonder if it's really that wise to be so dependent on a creature that drank her breakfast from a creek filled with giardia and other bacteria. Stopping for a quick break at the snow bank to retrieve the now-blessedly frigid beers that we'd tucked in the snow earlier on our ride up the mountain. Counting the minutes until Motrin could enter the bloodstream.

After returning to base camp and finishing the work of unsaddling, feeding, watering and praising the packs who really did the hard work of the day, they earned their reward in a shady spot with wild strawberries and fresh hay.

And our reward was found in lawn chairs and silence and the happy, still haze that comes from a day of hard work and exhausted muscles. The beauty of nature, the respect for that which has gone before, and the absolute amazement that anyone could do THIS after eight miles on horseback:



I think everyone is trying to kill me.