Day 21: (Wo)Man vs. Man and Man vs. Beast

Day Twenty-One: (Wo)Man vs. Man and Man vs. Beast

6/30/11:

Noah Fribley (i.e., Furby, Furbilicious, Furbs, Fribs) is a cheery, sing-y, self-described optimist.

At seven in the morning, when we at the KNF start our ten-hour work day, I am none of these things. Actually, I am generally not cheery, sing-y or optimistic, preferring my own form of pessimism, or as I like to think of it, brutal reality.

And at seven in the morning, my reality is incredibly unpleasant: largely stunned to be among the waking, I am what may be called “cranky.”

This morning, breaking up the crew into smaller segments, Noah and I ended up on the flats of the Cureton Ranch, recording sites as usual. The sudden reduction of our group meant that I wasn’t allowed my normal grumbly hour of silence, but had to actually make contact before eight in the morning. In his normal chipper way, Noah tried to draw me out with conversation, succeeding only in eliciting monosyllabic grunts and some poorly masked glaring. Spirits undaunted, Noah opted to fill the growing silence with singing.

Already prone to violence at this hour in the morning, Noah’s non-stop falsetto was nearly too much. As he moved about, mostly unaware of my homicidal thoughts (all hyperbole, I swear), I reviewed the facts of our circumstances: alone on the scrubby flats and miles away from everyone. There was the size issue, but I had been called “scrappy” by more than one individual, and Noah bought women’s extra-small hip belts for his hiking pack.

Yeah, I could take him.

Luckily, my attention was diverted by Noah’s discovery of a pottery sherd drilled in the center with a hole. As the resident artist (well, sort of), it was my job to recreate the pendant on our graph paper. Absorbed in the texturing and shadows, I measured and shaded obsessively, Noah’s singing fading into the background.

Time passed, I finally woke from my grumpy stupor, and Noah made it to lunch unscathed.

Driving out of the ranch at the end of the day, I was able to channel any residual rage into keeping the Cureton horses from fleeing. As passenger, it was my duty to open any gates we came upon; at the final one, three horses and two burros harbored dreams of escape. When shushing and cajoling failed to yield results, I moved to pushing and body checking. Of course, this only got me some rather pitying horsey looks. The horses, round and soft and solid beneath my palms, were not going to be forcibly moved.

Noah, sacrificing his apple, provided the solution. Food held aloft, I lured the beasts away, hurriedly doubling back through and locking the gate.

On the road to the Williams Ranger District, I must confess, I may have joined in as Noah sang along to the radio.

So, not cheery, not an optimist…maybe a little bit sing-y.

Photos: 1. Noah recording site info 2. Noah and I not surveying (rather, Bill Williams Mountain Trail)