The Secret Petroglyphs

Caretaker’s Log, Saturday, April 25, 2015

I dream there are seven or eight mice in the bathtub. I'm trying to get them all in one container and they keep escaping. My sister Jesse shows up and then my dad is there also to help make the container breathable so the mice don't suffocate when I take them half a mile away.

In real life, I wake up. There are no mice in the tub. The little guy that was stuck last night somehow escaped—whether on his own strength (perhaps aided by the sugar in the raisins I left him) or with a little help from his friends, I don't know.

There's a frosted covering over the land. Last night’s snow.

The Hydro is working the way it should.

I post a blog.

I make pancakes for breakfast. Top them off with strawberries and a dash of maple syrup.

I read a little.

I talk to Loring. He wants me to look for some documents that he can't seem to find anywhere at his home.

I can't quite decide what I want to do. Which is bad because it can mean I end up doing nothing at all.

I clean up the dishes, report in to Loring that I couldn't find the papers. While we're on the phone he tells me how to find the petroglyphs because I’d asked him about them in an email.

"No one is supposed to know about them," he says, "but since the cat is already out of the bag."

I assure him I’ll keep their location secret and will do nothing to destroy them. I tell him that Todd had told me about them and that he had said one of the previous caretakers had added a tepee to the rock wall beside them which had made Loring furious. Loring says, "I don't think that's true. I don't remember that. There was one guest one summer who went around drawing Mickey Mouse on everything. Maybe the stories got jumbled up."

"I guess I can't believe everything I hear," I say with a laugh.

"But if it makes a good story," Loring says. "There's no reason not to keep on telling it."

"Even if it's fiction," I say.

I call and talk to my grandmother.

Then I clean the mouse droppings from last night’s mouse out of the tub.

After that's done, I put on my hiking boots and head out to an undisclosed location. Following Loring's flawless directions I find the petroglyphs. The etching is a human figure carrying a trident riding on some kind of animal. I have no idea how old this work of art is. I think about the artist and wonder if as he'd been etching these figures into the stone if he’d thought, "What I wouldn't give for a canvas."

 

I leave the secret location and hike back to the lodge. I take my time. I'm not in any hurry. It's a nice day out. I'm glad to be outside in it. I spend some time with the cat on my return. Bring in some wood. Take a bath. Eat the small remnants from my breakfast.

The day gets away from me. Soon enough it's weather time.

I write a little bit.

I read.

I watch a show.

I head up to bed.

Caretaker’s Log, Sunday, April 26, 2015

There's already 2 inches of snow on the ground and more falling when I get up.

I water the plants first thing. Empty the leak bucket, clean out the ash in the fireplace, make coffee, take the cat fresh water and add food to her food dish, refill the diesel dust bucket, work a crossword, get some information off one of the systems in the generator shed to send to Loring, and send a couple of emails all before breakfast.

I see a coyote in the west field trudging through the snow. Then it vanishes into the trees.

I have an omelet for breakfast and use up some of the precious spinach.

When the afternoon brings warmer temperatures, the snow, although it's still falling, melts into the ground. So much for any accumulation.

The ground squirrels are more chummy with each other. I wonder what they're up to.

I'm out with the cat when I hear a bizarre buzzing like a giant fly or a bee. I look around puzzled. Then the swans come trumpeting in to view. Buzzing and trumpeting. They stand out so white even against the inconsistent snow.

I'm in an odd mood, wistful and a bit, not quite lonely, but feeling distanced. So I do as my mom once told me and write through the emotion. I work on a short story all afternoon.

I talk with my grandmother. My grandfather has been released from the hospital and they will be heading home at any moment.

I write.

Outside the snow falls. Stops. Comes again. Although the ground accumulation has already melted with the above freezing temperatures and the snowboard shows nothing more than a damp trace the precipitation bucket will give a big number tonight.

I do an hour and a half yoga workout.

I take a bath. Wash my hair.

At six o'clock, I go walk around in the snow-rain with the cat. We’re at the Hydro pit when a goose comes flying in. It puts down its landing gear and slides across the top of the water to a splashing landing, making an "oh my God, I can't stop," kind of noise. But then, suddenly, it collects itself and settles in the water. It says, "Honk honk." As if pleased with its performance. I laugh out loud, but try to keep it low enough so as not to offend that silly goose.

0.18 inches of precipitation.

In the lodge, I settle in on the couch and read. After a while I watch a show. Then it's bedtime. No mice in the tub tonight.

Caretaker’s Log, Monday, April 27, 2015

The phone rings at 8:10. I get downstairs and pick it up. One ring too late. All I've got to hear is a dial tone.

17 weeks today.

The morning is like a Carpenters song. Take your pick as to which one.

I work a crossword. Drink some coffee. Sit outside and read until the sun disappears behind a giant cloud and the morning breeze chills me.

I work the edges of one of the new airdropped jigsaw puzzles.

I read.

I have a spinach and fruit smoothie for breakfast.

The geese are active this morning. There are several pairs flapping about.

Again, I'm not feeling like doing anything. So I gear up and go for a hike. There's nothing like fresh air and motion to ward away ennui.

I walk to the dam, going through the willows and trees rather than up the muddy road. I hear a bird, two birds tapping trees. I assume they’re woodpeckers. I finally see one of them. At the dam things look fine. I get some pictures of the wood pecking bird, possibly both of them, on my way down.

I hike about an hour and twenty minutes. It does me good.

Back at the lodge, I take a bath.

I find out that the birds are not woodpeckers but probably yellow-bellied sapsuckers. Which sounds like a really mean insult.

I check my email and discover my mom had tried to text me and call with no response from me. I email her back and then call her. She's glad I haven't fallen off the cliff where the petroglyphs are hidden.

I call my grandmother but she has company and will call me back.

I eat the very last can of tuna for dinner with the last of the Monterey Jack cheese. I have a can of sliced pears as a side.

My grandmother calls back and while we’re talking the call waiting beeps in. Eventually, I get over and it's Michaela. Tomorrow is her birthday. We talk for a little bit. Finally, I call my grandmother and we get in something of a conversation. It's all so jumbled that for the first time since I've been caretaker I'm late in recording the weather. Twelve minutes late.

The cat and I do our walk around. I give her more food since the ground squirrels have cleaned her out.

I work on the short story I’d started yesterday.

The evening turns dark and eventually I go on up to bed. Another day for the books.

No Mouse Left Behind

Caretaker’s Log, Wednesday, April 22, 2015

I'm lying awake in bed thinking about my dream in which I’d been hanging out with President and Michelle Obama. I’ve just decided to get up when the phone rings. It's Marie. I ask if I can call her right back. I run back upstairs to get dressed and brush my teeth. There's a mouse in the bathtub. I run downstairs for the mouse collecting bucket, get the mouse, take it outside, wish it well, empty the leak water bucket in the entry room, and call her back. We talk about an hour. When I tell my niece about the seven moose I had seen the day before she says, "Well, maybe when you come to visit me you can bring one with you." She makes it sound so simple.

Then I get the other morning things in. I check the generator shed, start a fire, give the cat water and food, drink another cup of coffee.

I work a crossword on the front porch with the cat’s help.

The phone rings. It's Michaela.

I make breakfast. Post a blog. Then I start on the inventory of the storeroom food for Kathy. After a couple hours, I take a break. Add wood to the fire. Open a multi-green Kumbucha I’d brought with me. Read for a little bit. I do some more inventorying. Then I take a walk outside. It's 59 degrees!

I start the generator at four o'clock. I'll let it charge since it was getting low again. While I'm in the shed I hear a strange sound. A strange cracking noise. I go outside to hear it better and am just in time to see a tree fall on the north slope.

I make salmon and rice for dinner and have a can of sliced pears as a side. I clean up the dishes. Record the weather. Check on the generator shed, the charge is still running. Talk to the cat.

Back inside, I see a mouse sneak in to get some of the cat’s food.

I write a little of this new short story I'm working on.

Check the shed again. There's a beaver swimming around. Then there are two. They stand on the bank working together. A third one joins them. I sit on the Wild Hydro pit's roof and watch them for a while.

Caretaker’s Log, Thursday, April 23, 2015

There are two mice in the bathtub. They’re huddled in the drain catch together. As I'm collecting them in containers, I set one on the edge of the tub, but it jumps out the top and runs off in the blink of an eye. Damn. I should have known better than that. Hey, mouse, I think after it, whatever happened to no mouse left behind?

I take the second mouse about a quarter to half a mile away and let it loose. It looks scared and I feel badly. I would have liked to have set it free with its friend alongside.

There are two moose heading up the slope. Then they're out of sight. The swans fly across the way and settle in the water over to the northeast.

Then it's time for coffee and a crossword.

I'm in the kitchen getting a refill when I see the two moose galloping down the slope and across the field. They disappear into the willows. I like to think they encountered the mouse that I relocated, lifted up their hooves, cried, "Eeks!" and then fled away in the opposite direction.

It feels like a storm is coming in. I can feel it in the inexplicable bad mood and the pain that I'm experiencing.

For breakfast I make quinoa tortillas and have egg, potato, mushroom, spinach, refried bean tacos with fresh made guacamole and grated cheese on top.

I clean out the mouse droppings in two of the cabinets in the piano room. I clean out the mouse droppings in the bathtub and scrub and disinfect it.

I take out the trash. Bag up the recycling.

I finish the inventory count for Kathy and type some of it up.

I feel gross. Unclean and covered in dirty clothes. I go take a bath. Wash my hair. As I’m getting set to leave the bathroom that escaped mouse peeks his head out, sees me, and disappears again. I imagine I'll see him in the morning.

I put some laundry in the sink to soak.

I walk around outside. The cat comes with me.

I wring out the laundry and hang it to dry.

At 6:39, the storm I've been feeling all day finally arrives. It's rain! I go outside and put my hand out to feel it just to be sure. It's rain not snow.

I eat the leftover breakfast stuff for dinner.

The storm lasts for all of twenty-four minutes and then it's gone. Outside, the earth smells of water, the land looks brighter, the birds sing.

JoAnn calls.

I finish up the inventory document and send it off to Kathy.

It's already nine o'clock.

I write a token bit.

I watch a show and drink a glass of wine. A mouse runs by. Watches me from under the desk where I do my writing. The impudent little bugger.

There are frost imprints on the skylight that look like fern leaves.

The moon is a crescent.

The bathroom mouse pokes his head out again when I come to brush my teeth. Is it the same one as from downstairs? I don't know. There are just too many mice.

Caretaker’s Log, Friday, April 24, 2015

There are no tub captured mice when I get up. I'm glad to have a break from them. At least for now.

I see a kingfisher on the fence.

I start the generator and then make coffee. I work a crossword with the first cup. I check my email and the Internet while the fire gets going. I take my second cup of coffee and go sit on the front porch. The cat loves this. The clouds occasionally block the sun which makes me sing the Elton John song The Way You Look Tonight because one of the lines is, "I was feeling like a cloud across the sun."

The wind makes the trees hum every now and then. The birds add some harmony.

I pick out some of the little burrs that collected all over my boots yesterday morning when I was relocating that mouse.

I walk across the yard and do a little inventory of some of the things in the root cellar. While I'm there I get a jar of prepared horseradish and some cans of cubed pineapple.

I take the bagged recycling to the incinerator shed.

I finally stitch the hole in my coat that has been leaking white feathers all over the Gros Ventre Wilderness.

I call Loring to ask there's any reason not to start the Hydro up again. I'll do that after the generator charge has finished.

 

I eat tuna for lunch.

I stop the generator at three o'clock. Turn the Hydro back on at 3:15. It's all powered up. Now to see how long it'll last this time. I check in with Loring one more time to make sure the gauges are all reading the right numbers.

Clouds are moving in over the Valley. The storm rolls in just before five o'clock. The mama and baby moose dash across the field trying to beat the snow which is already falling. First it snow pellets. Then snow. It falls in pretty, thick flakes. I go out and turn my face upward. It's magical and wintry and I love it.

I go in, sit at the table so that I can see the snowfall, and read.

Just that quickly, the storm passes. Barely thirty minutes.

I read a little longer.

At seven o'clock, I gather the precipitation bucket and measure what’s there. 0.02 inches.

The clouds hang thick over the east mountains.

I write for a little bit.

At eight o'clock, it starts to snow again. This time earnestly.

I watch a show. I go upstairs.

There's a mouse in the bathtub when I go to brush my teeth. "You'll have to stay there all night," I tell him. "Sorry." I give him some raisins to sustain him. His buddy is lurking nearby. He comes and sits on the faucet but I know I'm not stealthy enough to trick him into falling in. I'll have to hope he does that on his own while I sleep.