These quiet old farms in Milburn hide some secret places that few people have ever visited. I first sought out the headwaters of Sanpitch River just out of curiosity, but was at first frustrated for quite a long time by the many barb wire fences and no trespassing signs that stood in the way. Then one day, just by accident, I happened across that magic yellow gate that opened access to the Forest Service lands beyond, and suddenly I was happy to roam across many new miles of foothill trail, across the base of the Manti La-Sal. I discovered new places, secret places that only cowboys and sheepherders, foresters and pipeline layers knew about. No one else ever came here.
Most remarkable was finding the Sanpitch headwaters. It is a beautiful glade, shady and cool, sheltered under tall old Douglas firs on the south, and a mass of aspens on the north, that makes the steep canyon a private, hidden place, where the world cannot find you, and cool waters come tumbling off the Skyline straight from snowbanks. The banks are over arched with Cornus, the native flowering dogwood species, and it forms a protective barrier that guards against encroachment from any sudden intruders. Along the entrance, scrub oaks guard the way, growing so close down along the way that they scratched the paint badly along the sides of my 4runner, and I was angry, until I arrived at the bottom pool of the stream, and saw the enchanted glade beckoning me with a magic sirens song in the soft breeze sighing through the tops of the towering swaying green trees.
I wanted to lay down on the carpet of leaves and grass, and stay there forever.
When I explored further up the creek, I was not sure which was more startled, me or the sage hens I scared up.
They must be the silliest acting upland game birds in nature. They exploded literally from under my feet out of the low scrub. If they would have kept still, I never would have even noticed them. As it was, I could have scooped two of them up in my bare hands, and wrang their necks right then.
Instead, I watched gape-mouthed as they flopped around like a bunch of drunken spastics. Then they ducked back under the same bush they burst out from in the first place, and just stood there, aquiver and cowering, as if they had somehow done all they could and were resigned to whatever fate was assigned. Stupid, brainless birds.
In the same canyon, I had a more educational encounter with a young buck deer. He actually vocalized a challenge as he defended his home territory. I had never realized that deer had much of a voice. This young guy was not too careful about making his feelings known. It sort of sounded like an elk with a cold trying to make a bugle, not loud, but definately airy and harsh sounding and threatening. The buck adopted a very threatening posture too, with all his feet splayed out in a wide stance, like he was ready to start fighting. He was across the creek from me, so I felt I was in no immediate danger, but I was sure he would not hesitate to attack me with all his energy and might if I approached any closer. I backed away slowly, respecting his space, sobered by a close encounter with a wild animal probably weighing probably a third my weight, but still willing to go head to head to defend his home ground.
It was a lesson to learn, and I will not forget.
For me, and for you, the freedom of the hills does not come free, nor is it even cheap. It has come to us at a very dear cost, and we must defend it forever, as if our very lives depend on it. As they well do.
As they well do.
Here is another sight I frequently and fondly watch from the banks of the Sanpitch.
