Hi Corky - in response to your comment -I am so glad that you had the opportunity to walk through Gods garden with them (him/her/other). I spent many years in those mountains each summer. Sometimes as a interloper other times as an invited guest. And other times as the only contract forest ranger in the US. While filling this capacity my job entailed picking up garbage along the trails and campsights (nothing stays buried). Believe it or not two of the main trash items were beer cans and feminine hygiene products. The latter was usually shredded and more than likely dug up by animals within hours of being buried.

The mountains are full of scavengers. Most people look upon these creatures with disdain and have no idea of the enormous role they play in the beauty that surrounds a person when in these mountains. People that bury their trash don't take into consideration the sharp keen sensitive sense of smell that the creatures of the wild have. A bear for instance can smell for miles the carcass of another animal whether killed by another predator, an accident, or illness - just like us all of God's creatures are prone to and victims of the flu, colds, measles, mumps, and the occasional emery. Well, maybe not the mumps. 

Although they have no neon signs I have found in observing the animals in the mountains, that they do have regular areas where they would congregate and socialize. I often wondered how many were meeting to pass on the Lord's word and pay their tithe, how many were there with their guarded partially fermented pine or scrub oak nuts, or a little stash of fermented berries. Sharing with their friends the stories of their close escapes from the "big bad wolf". And how but by the grace of God they're bear-ly there. Or the narrow escape from a hawk or eagle and how at the last moment they found a low branch to dive under and laughed about the hawk and his headache from colliding with that perfectly placed low branch.

I wonder if mama ground squirrel goes to their little bars and drags papa home by the ear. Or if she humiliates him by sending the eldest of her youngsters to retrieve him and let him know "boy are you going to get it when you get home". It was much better I am sure to be retrieved by a youngster than mama squirrel because it gave papa a little time to ruffle his fur, run around in a few circles, enter the tree rapidly, a little ahead of the youngster, throwing his back to the door, wiping the sweat from his brow and saying, "thank the Lord, I just barely made it by the skin of my teeth. That fox almost had me" Quickly taking the glance around and sharing his concern, "Where's little Bucky, I sure hope the fox didn't get him. We didn't stop to speak for fear of being caught by that big bad fox." In other words they are no different from us.

In watching those animals I saw they had rituals they followed and did not deviate from. One of my favorite camps was a small lake about three miles north and east from Red Castle Lake. It's what is called a "dead lake". The only water that flows into it is the rain off the hills around it. There aren't any streams out of it and it supports no fish. But usually surrounded by willow and tall sweet grass and succulent underwater vegetation which the moose just love. I had one of my main camps set up there and probably spent half of each week camped at this one. Each night the largest bull moose would enter from the north and browse his way across the lake. The lake was probably ten or twelve feet in depth which to them was like walking through a bath tub. The first time I ever heard the sounds I threw open the sash to see what was the matter. What was causing all the clash and the clatter. and I watched as the bull threw his head in the air with the water rolling off his antlers and his nostril's dispelling large volumes of water and air. Munching a few moments on the succulent he had just browsed. He would take a step forward and his head would disappear again. They can hold their breath for several minutes - ten or more - picking around for their favorite weeds, filling their mouths and trying to fill it some more. And their head would come up, the water would rush off, the snort and the bellow, the breath of fresh air. He would do this a dozen times from when he entered the lake until he was on the other side where the willows grew thick. Their favorite food was the willow.

This particular lake was where the largest bulls congregated and for many years there were only four. My last year up there they had added a newcomer. It was interesting to watch the ritual that year they were very picky accepting a new member into their little clique. That appeared they were careful in which newcomer they picked. The largest bull was first in each night. He would come across the lake to his willows. A little while later the second would arrive and the great whoosh from his head rising and the clearing of his nostrils reminded me of the breathing of a whale. After crossing the lake the second bull would amble over by the first. They would each give a couple of grunts, a snorkel, and a fart. The second one would munch on the bush the large one had picked out for the night. This process was repeated until all four were together. They spent a bit shooting the shit and munching on the same willow tree. They would then wander around where their favorite tree they found and spent the night peaceful and all by themselves. Should an interloper arrive and not know the rules like nibbling from the same willow as the "king", the rest of them would turn and chase him away letting him know he didn't belong.

These bulls had accepted me and my horses also. We spent many summer nights with them. They got familiar. I have a picture of the face of a moose that fills an entire frame of a 35mm camera and his face fills the whole complete frame. I could get within four or five feet. I never pressed it beyond. They tolerated my horses that were on what we called a "long line". I took a one hundred foot piece of hemp rope and every twenty feet or so I tied a piece of one inch cotton rope and attached to each one of my horses halter. This let them roam through the meadow so they didn't trample any ground into mud. I am sure you have seen pictures where people tie their horses to a tree. When this happens the horses walk round and round eating and killing off any vegetation that may be there, all withing the drip ring and damaging the roots close to the surface. By using a longline my horses were fine, they didn't tear up the earth. If they were to wander it wouldn't be far. Picture six horses tied to a rope a hundred feet long and spaced out every twenty feet. I never had trouble finding them all. When you have that many animals they all want to go a different direction. They are bound to find a tree or shrub they would wrap themselves around, making it easy for me in the morning to know that they would all be found.

Please tell me more about your trips to the Uintas. Which places did  you go? I spent most of my time on the north slope. From Gilbert Peak in the east to the east fork of the Blacks Fork on the west. From China Meadows and Henry's Fork on the northern boundary line, and to the south was Kings Peak. Everything within this semi-square was mine to take care. A steward of the land God smiled on me. As I sit here my wife glances over to see what my next word will be and I am sure that a smile with my eyes closed a little and a calm demeanor about me is all that there is. Because she knows I can see every rock and every tree. I love my mountains, my mountain loved me. My heart and my soul dwell there. Just as you I cannot travel there anymore. I am on fifteen liters of oxygen per minute. But I have my memories. Thank you for bringing them back to the forefront today. 

God Bless You Corky - thank you for giving me such a beautiful day. I was going to answer you with just an email, but others know me and my mountain, so I felt I should share because there are others that care and know that God is there. It's where he takes his vacation.

and God Bless you all,
Ken the afterlife messenger