“Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.”
— Kahlil Gibran
I shifted my pack, and stepped where I thought there was a rock beneath a bush, but there wasn’t. I fell suddenly, hands and face first, with my mouth scraping against rough granite. I lay there for a few seconds in shocked silence, gingerly taking inventory, hoping that no bones were broken. I was tangled in a jumble of sharp boulders and grasping bushes, with a heavy pack kneeling on my shoulder blades like a wrestler, and I could not gain leverage with my arms to push myself up. My breath labored in stunned gasps of hyperventilation. I was four rugged miles from the highway, and off the marked trail. In this remote spot, it was not likely anyone would find me if I needed help. An injury was the worst possible thing that could happen. I loosened my shoulder straps awkwardly, and unlatched my belt so I could wriggle free. With solemn deliberation, I checked all my body parts and equipment for damage. Thankfully, there was nothing but a few scrapes on aluminum frame and flesh. When hiking the back country alone, a guardian angel is even more important than a walking staff!
Then I remembered this was supposed to be my idea of a good time.
I hadn’t walked the Bear Lakes trail in over 7 years, but had yearned for it every fall. It was the second longest hiatus since I first came up here almost 40 years ago. It had been 12 long years since I last visited my holy of holies, Little Bear Lake. That was nearly one fourth of my life at the time, and this would be the 5th decade in which I had visited the Bear Lakes. On this trip, I brashly decided to hike with no human companions. Instead, I teamed up with my little rat-dog, Dante, who doesn’t really qualify as a hiking buddy. Over the years there have been many canine camping cohorts, but this was the first time I had brought my ‘best friend.’ Actually, he was a sad, strange little dog, and not anyone’s BFF. If I were seriously injured, one thing for certain was that he was not going to run and get help like Lassie. More likely, he’d chew through his leash and leave me there to die when he got thirsty. He was a Rat Terrier, similar to a Jack Russell terrier, with a devious, selfish personality in the manner of a conniving rodent, who feigned obsequiousness while plotting treachery. He panted loudly in the shade of a rock, grimacing with his mouth wide open and showing all his pointed teeth.
We were on our way back to the car, having spent a full three days at the lake by ourselves. I saw a total of five other people during that time, but in essence this had been my second solo trek. My first foray into unaccompanied adventure hadn’t gone very well for me, mentally. I wanted to experience emotional solitude in a positive way; when I was somewhat comfortable with myself for the first time in my life. To enjoy being alone, one must learn to be at ease with one’s company. That is the fundamental challenge of a Vision Quest: to overcome self-made barriers. Not to say that I was engaged in any kind of grueling wilderness trial. Quite the contrary: once again I had brought more equipment than necessary for my physical needs. It seemed that I wanted to be ready for anything, but there were far greater mountains to climb in my own mind. Since my last solo trip, I had to develop into a mental warrior in order to conquer some of the demons that had tormented me most of my life. It seemed as though I had vanquished many old foes, but I wanted some time away from the battlefield, alone, to take stock and monitor the authenticity of my healing heart.
Besides, I couldn’t get anyone to go with me, so I tricked a little doggie into thinking it was time for “walkies.” I knew he would never forgive me, but I didn’t care. I reflected sadly that I didn’t have any true companions anymore, other than my dear wife Joy, who was most definitely not interested in hiking that trail again! She probably never would, for reasons I shall reveal later. David was still my good friend, but his job and property kept him busy 100% of his time. After his divorce he had moved to a small ranch way up in the hills, where he raised chickens and bred cows like a gentleman farmer, with a lucrative biotech job and a 2-hour commute to boot! The rascal had achieved the success I had envisioned for myself, but had sabotaged with my weaknesses. My former friends and career were gone. I pieced together a lonely existence as an independent software developer to pay the bills, but it there was never enough time or money. Besides, I never wanted to be a techie – I always wanted to live close to the land.
In the technical world we have fashioned for ourselves, our minds become numbed by all the myriad details there are to learn, just to keep up with all the things we make and buy. There are mass quantities of information to be processed every day. There is no longer any room it seems, for more than a cursory awareness of the natural environment in which we exist. Today we know more about trifling Internet minutia than we know about the things that are really important in life. We can name more stars in Hollywood than the ones in the night skies. We can recognize more kinds of apps than trees. Our attention span has been hijacked by meaningless games and entertainment. We wander around, eyes downcast, peering at life through the false filters of our phones and ignoring our outward surroundings almost entirely. The accumulated consciousness of 250 million years of evolution is being replaced by “emojis” and artificial info-bites that further erode our dwindling awareness of the real world. In a world flooded with complicated details to remember, one must hold more and more droplets of information in one’s brain until the cup is overflowing and there simply isn’t room for any more. A trip to the wilderness is an opportunity to drain away some of the saturation of useless trivia and clear away the flood-tangled debris of thoughtlessness in order to make room for the essential knowing once again.
All my life I had been striving to overcome this cultural suffocation. Was I finally arriving? In one lifetime, could I grow from what I had been into what I ought to be? So many of us suffer through life like bored children slumped in the back seat of a sweltering station wagon, wishing we were somewhere else. We whine for comfort, and miss the solace of the journey itself.
“Are we there yet?”
Another reason I decided to go alone was due to emotional fatigue brought about by another bout with cancer in the family. This time, it was a pitched battle and ultimate victory instead of an unconditional surrender. The year before, Joy had learned she had stage 3 uterine cancer. Together, we experienced many months of surgery, worry, chemotherapy, hair loss, radiation, and crying – leading to eventual triumph and total remission for her! Owing to the sudden loss of my mother to lung cancer just ten years before, I had been in a state of emotional “red alert” for the entire campaign. At the same time, I had to work harder than ever for longer hours to compensate for the loss of some of her income. We got by on her work benefits, but were left with a significant share of the medical bills. The thrill of victory over an old nemesis was tempered by the agony of defeat when it came to our finances. Once again, we had to take on more debt to survive. I racked my brains for new ways to make money, and sold an assortment of my late father’s collections to make ends meet. We were all emotionally drained by the fall of 2012, a year after Joy’s surgery, when she returned to work and life resumed its normal level of drama. She insisted that I go on this trip and leave her to recover her competence, and so we both did just that.
The only good thing about having such an overcrowded mind is that there is less room to worry about something as trivial as a camping trip. I had no time or opportunity to stress about the details. My preparations for this trip were pretty straightforward: if I needed it, I had to bring it myself. Dante wasn’t going to carry more than his collar and a few fleas. As a result, I wound up with a pack full of “might need that” and “you never know.” Someday, I really wanted to try an extreme minimalist backpacking trip. If this wasn’t technically a wilderness area, I could simply cache most of my equipment, rather than lug the same old things up there every few years. I was not yet confident enough to attempt a complete withdrawal from material comforts. I had to subjugate my mental security blankets before I could leave the physical ones behind. So, I brought a thick sweatshirt in case it got cold, and a backup pair of socks, too. Two extra ropes found their way inside my zippered pockets just because there was room. I also packed the usual accoutrements of dehydrated food, water pump-filter, and propane stove, so I wouldn’t actually have to live off the land but on it. I was still so addicted to sustenance that I had to bring much more than I needed to be sustained!
On the long drive up Highway 5, I reflected on the journey my dear wife had recently taken. She had been experiencing heavier than normal periods during the first half of 2011, and I finally persuaded her to see her gynecologist in the summer. Things immediately turned serious when the suspicious doctor invoked the “c” word and ordered some tests. Her first PAP test revealed just a few cancer cells, but the little bastards were there, for sure. Other tests and scans followed, and she soon learned that she carried a hereditary gene known as the “Lynch Syndrome,” which was like a cancer virus. This nasty mutation of DNA gave her an 80 percent chance of colon cancer in her lifetime, along with a slightly lesser propensity for uterine cancer, which had of course already manifested… at stage 2. The battle lines were grimly drawn: the first attack would be a total hysterectomy to eliminate the cancer’s breeding grounds. I had to keep reminding myself that it wasn’t a risky operation. It was the information to be gained from the operation that represented the real threat. Tissue samples would be obtained that would reveal how far the cancer had spread from the relative isolation of the uterus… My thoughts were interrupted by a profound doggie sigh, with a melodramatic little whimper mixed in, as Dante lamented the lack of opportunity to be spoiled in a moving car. I had been pausing more often so he could pee, or else he would ruin my floor mats. I stopped at a typical olive tasting tourist trap to give him a nature break. He stretched out on his leash and quickly did his business next to the parking lot. I rewarded him with a neck massage. There is something about the expression on a dog’s face when it is getting scratched behind its ears. Most dogs appear grateful beyond the ability to display emotion. Dante’s face showed only relief that the world was finally conforming to his notion of how it should serve him. He tried to hypnotize me with a desperate, intensely hopeful stare, but I made him get back in the car, where he yapped insanely like a Pomeranian. I could only shop for a few minutes because even in the shade the car would get hot quickly, and I had visions of an angry mob of humane society vigilantes calling the police to save the poor, suffering little pooch.
Corning was not quite the armpit of California, just a sweaty little crack in its skin. Inside the cinder block of the “olive tasting” showroom, it looked as though the same sickly jars had lain open in rows under the same blinking fluorescent lights since the last time I was there. I prudently passed on the “free tasting” because I took microbiology very seriously. Instead, I bought a few safe-looking packaged snacks and tried to remember why this was such a memorable “pit stop” (witty pun intended). I guess it was one of those places that get pasted in falsely bright colors in the memory’s scrapbook, like pictures cut out of an old magazine. In reality, it was more like a bus station for germs traveling from one end of the state to the other. So I drove on, cursing our microscopic enemies. My thoughts returned to Joy’s ordeal, and how apprehensive we had felt in the days after her surgery. The surgeon was heroically aggressive, spending twice as much time as normal collecting lymph nodes and other tissue samples during the operation. Only one sample showed a solitary cancer cell. It had spread outside the reproductive system and was now officially Phase 3, but apparently not by much. However, one should never underestimate cancer, and the oncologist was recommending a strategy similar to dropping a hydrogen bomb to rid a kitchen of cockroaches. Joy would receive the full menu of chemotherapy and radiation, with several delightfully invasive tests for dessert. She was steadfast and valiant as a patient, doing everything right, and refusing to back down. I encouraged her as best I could, with nutritious cooking, long massages, and even a few household chores – although she insisted on doing them when she could, to retain a sense of normalcy. Part of her astonishing strength and strategic genius was to continue to participate in daily duties and cycles, to combat the sense of abnormality in her life. This also flew a noble banner in the face of the disease, proclaiming “I am who I am; you will not change me.”
In the end, she whipped cancer’s ass like the sniveling cur that it is, and it slunk back down the dark hole from which it came, with its tail between its legs. That image somehow reminded me of Dante, so we stopped for another pee break. At least the rest stops were getting more scenic as we headed west from Redding on 299. The ones on Highway 5 were about as attractive as the inside of a urinal. We arrived at the trail head when it was nearly dark, and there was just enough light remaining to pitch the extra tent I had brought to keep the mosquitoes from bothering me. I thought of tying the brave guard dog outside, but his whimpering, fidgety insecurity would keep me awake for certain, and I needed a good rest on this night, of all nights. When I unzipped the flap and motioned him inside the tent, he was so thrilled to be sleeping “in bed” once again, that he solemnly turned, nose down, in seven canine circles of deep satisfaction before curling up on a blissfully motionless floor.
It should be said that Dante was not the name I gave him, but it suited him totally. He was a hell hound of anxiety – a spoiled demon of neurotic paranoia – all because of the way he was treated by the family from whom I adopted him. I had seen an ad on the Internet for a little terrier mix, which was just the type of dog I wanted to scare away the swamp rats that thought our backyard was a resort. Even better, the anxious owners wanted to get rid of him that same day. I drove to their apartment and heard, rather than saw, a whiny little dog; snarling and bumping around frantically inside a small cat crate. The bars of the door had been pried apart. The whole crate was strapped with rope and bungee cords and was lurching savagely on the laundry room floor. I immediately got a mental picture of the Tasmanian Devil from Looney Tunes, and should have left right then and there. However, after hearing Dante’s story I felt sorry for him, and “rescued” him from his torment. In more ways than one, this was reminiscent of Frodo saving Gollum, so their destinies could be fulfilled together. I felt like we needed each other, somehow.
Between the yelps and bumping noises, I was told by the regretful husband that the frantic cluster of anxiety before me had been raised from a puppy by his young bride before they had any children, so she spoiled him ridiculously. His paws rarely touched the ground. He ate from his own plate on the dinner table; seated on her lap. (He swore this was true and even tried to give me Dante’s special plate, but I refused.) The little pooch also slept in bed with her, and went everywhere she went. She gave him baths daily in perfumed shampoo, and dried him with soft towels. (These I took gladly, not wanting to use my own towels on a dog.) If only his hair had been long enough, it surely would have been groomed and adorned with pink ribbons! He enjoyed a privileged life in the lap of luxury as their “only child” …until she got pregnant. The changes probably began when she was moody and uncomfortable. She paid less and less attention to her dog, as she prepared for a more sophisticated pet. When it came time for the baby to arrive, Dante was summarily locked outside the bedroom – and without a satisfactory explanation, mind you! He proceeded to whine and scratch at the door all night, so they locked him in the laundry room where he gnawed on the edge of the door jamb and knocked things over. Eventually they had to buy the crate.
After the baby was born, the poor, formerly spoiled doggie had to be kept in solitary confinement because of his desperate, hyperactive appeals for attention. Soon they had to leave him in the crate nearly all the time, as he reflexively tried to jump on the mom’s lap while she was nursing, and got under her feet while carrying the baby. His privileged little brain snapped like a dried-up doggie biscotti. He literally went insane, and descended into the lower levels of the Hell for which his name had predestined him. Scars built up on his nose from pushing the bars of the crate apart, and his gums bled from chewing on the plastic edges of the door. He didn’t know me from Charon, but he welcomed any opportunity to get out of that damned crate, so he hopped into my car hopefully, like the Grinch’s little Max. In this uneasy good cheer, I drove him to his new home, as we eyed each other with increasing doubt.
Predictably, Dante turned out to be a very high maintenance pet. He was understandably nervous at first, had major housebreaking issues, and wanted to jump up on everything due to his insecurity. The mildest discipline or corrective commands made him cower in elaborate ruses of abject misery. To say he overacted would be an insult to silent film stars and soap opera hacks everywhere. He would crawl on his belly and writhe with obsequiousness like Uriah Heep, until I had to laugh at the silliness of the charade, and the spell of anger was broken. We eventually reached a middle ground where he behaved the way I wanted him to when I was looking, and when I wasn’t, I had to lock him in his new, larger crate. Dante fancied himself a sly mercenary who could take full advantage of any opportunity, and then pretend as if nothing had happened. His favorite trick was sleeping on the couch to regain some covert semblance of luxury. I would come downstairs and find him in his crate with the door open, projecting a simulated halo above his head. His little white hairs and a warm spot on the couch betrayed him, however, and he simpered with mock contrition when I scolded him. Joy did not like him to be on the furniture at all – she came from a country where street dogs were vile, verminous scavengers. This denial of a basic canine right mortified the poor creature, and convinced him that the oppressive, two-legged ruling class was hopelessly corrupt of heart, and therefore unworthy of respect (when they weren’t looking). Oddly enough, he was most secure in his “cave,” and eventually became a guardedly accepted member of the family, like the child whose bedroom door must be locked to avoid dangerous episodes.
On this particular night, farther way from the comforts of home than he had ever been before, he snored blissfully at the foot of my old sleeping bag. He had no idea just how far from comfort he had yet to travel! In the morning, he was all the way inside my bag, having wormed his way in like an intestinal parasite. With typical amusement for a cartoonish character, it dawned on me that learning to love his defective little personality was an analogy for what I needed to do with my own temperament. I laughed, and vowed to understand his needs on this trip, and love him just for what he was – what we both were – foolish moths with broken wings, banging our heads on the porch light.
— Mark Twain