“All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware.”
— Martin Buber
Saturday Evening
Back at camp, I learned that the Three Amigos had names and lives like I did. John, Doug, and Aaron preferred to talk about “guy stuff,” and showed little appreciation for the spectacular splendor that surrounded them. That’s okay. The lofty hyperbole that I wanted to gush about my phenomenal day was not fit for ordinary American campfire conversation. Sports, weapons, and fishing were about the limits of their insight, but they were jovial and full of themselves, and I was glad for the company. My biggest lesson of the day was that I must be fully in the moment to understand my lessons. I could learn from these well-grounded campers as much as I could learn from a shaman, if I found a way to truly be present. As it turned out, I had picked a good afternoon to explore Bumblebee Springs on the other side of the lake. The Three Amigos had spent their day plunging into the depths of White Bear Cove from the top of the rock. Well, maybe halfway up. Okay, more like a third. But they had made great, noisy man-splashes with admirable exuberance. I could hear every whoop and cuss word clearly while sitting at the springs, but chose to ignore them.
As we were discussing masculine topics like the relative merits of handguns, movement from another group of hikers tickled the corner of my eye. They were partially screened by the trees where the path ascends from Wee Bear. Two or three people with packs were shifting about uncertainly, no doubt recognizing that the prime campsites were already occupied. Instead of greeting us and actually learning the state of accommodations, they circled around behind the huge rock pile behind my camp and emerged on top, looking down on us briefly before heading on towards Bumblebee Springs. Their group consisted of two young men and a young woman, which made for some crude speculation in “guy camp.” They behaved as if we were a tribe of cannibals, and they might be on the menu if they approached us. I saw them moving around on the south shore from time to time, and then they just disappeared. Presumably, they returned to Big Bear Lake before dark to find better accommodations; far from the Neanderthal hostel.
Dante finally woke up, and was hanging around our camp, hoping for something better than his eternally unappetizing bowl of kibble. Was possible that these other human servants brought him steak or sausage? He abandoned the cereal fare to the chipmunks and sidled up to our man fire, wagging his tail meekly like the omega dog he is. His “pitiful starving puppy” act was lost on me, but garnered many treats from the gullible, big-hearted guys from Redding who talked of their own dogs and guns late into the night. They also told me an amazing story that had been big local news earlier in the summer. They related how an Air Force doctor from the Redding area had come up to Big Bear Lake with a couple of friends to do some rock climbing on the southern face of Sawtooth. I was impressed to learn that indeed – as I had postulated from a distance many a time – those craggy cliffs were legendary in the local climbing community. Anyway, this doctor broke his leg somewhere up on the mountain, and his friends couldn’t move him far, so they returned to town for some help. Hours later, the helicopter arrived and landed somewhere near the trail; probably in the sloping flat spaces where the outlet creek flowed across the granite. The rescue team hopped out, and because the helicopter wasn’t in a level spot, one of the first responders was tragically struck in the head by the rotor blades. This of course resulted in severe trauma (for the human; not the helicopter.) So now there were two patients, but one was a doctor. Amazingly, as it turned out, the one doctor in Northern California who was most qualified to treat such an extreme head injury was the guy with the broken leg! He couldn’t get down to the chopper on his own, but some other hikers had come along and they helped his friends carry him down the slope. So, the doctor was “rescued” by some random hikers, and loaded in the chopper, and as they took off, he administered life-saving procedures to the first responder who was now a patient! He wound up operating on him back in Redding before his own leg was even set!
The story impressed me on many levels. The irony of a rescuer being saved by the victim is obvious, but there were greater forces at work. I felt awestruck by the selfless courage of the doctor who was a patient, then became a doctor again for the rescuer who had become his patient! Not to mention the significance of the random hikers who happened to appear at the most opportune time. Then I remembered that the section of the trail where all this happened was surrounded by hoodoos that resembled the frozen spirits of ancient warriors, and I could hardly bear the astonishment of knowing that such an intense human drama had played out in this enchanted landscape.
On a more practical note, my newfound friends also told me about a local guy who had trained “pack goats” that he hires out to carry gear and stuff up to the various lakes in the Alps. “Goats?” I asked incredulously, and got three wry nods in reply. Later, when I returned home, I found pictures of those unlikely but whimsical creatures on the Bear Lakes trail, with their queer little goat faces grinning happily under bulky loads. I chastised Dante with mock disdain. “Why couldn’t you have been a goat?” My tone of voice indicated that he had done something wrong, so he looked guilty and tried in vain to get sympathy (or a bit of beef jerky) from the less abusive humans. The Three Amigos spoiled him all night long, and he was in heaven. He didn’t even care that all night long, cheekfuls of his kibble were being spirited away by rodent mercenaries.
The Three Amigos left early the next morning with cheery waves and stout farewells, and for safety’s sake I had thoughts of joining them. More compellingly, I was tantalized by the prospect of another half day alone here in my personal paradise. However, the prudent fact of greater safety in numbers when descending a rugged and rocky trail was a very real consideration. In the end, the lake won out, as I knew it would. By that time, I had done everything up here that I wanted to do, or at least that which my knees would allow. This was the best time of all – when I had run out of scripted things to do and could just make them up as I went along. I decided on a plan of compromise that would take me back to domestic reality after one more blissful promenade, and a silent, contemplative lunch.
There are just so many gorgeous views up here; it’s hard to walk around for constantly stopping to take it all in. It’s a minefield of distraction to pursue an agenda in any direction. I wound up simply poking around the area of the campsites to conserve my energy. I wanted to look very closely at the things that I thought were so familiar. I tied up Dante again, so he would rest up before our descent, but somehow he got loose and wandered out of sight, still attached to his leash. I called and called in a falsely happy voice, and looked in the likely spots, but he was too much of a weenie to bark in reply or come running. He was probably afraid that he was in trouble, and was cowering nearby in abject mock contrition. In reality, I was mostly concerned that he might be tangled somewhere in a bush, and was too neurotic to call for help. As soon as I fetched the binoculars and some water for a full-scale search & rescue effort, I found him meekly crawling back in a pathetic ruse of groveling, with his tail thrust between his legs, and averting his eyes as if he was not worthy of the oxygen he was wasting. I was very nice, and didn’t scold him at all, but he was so predisposed for subservience that he rolled over in a laughable doggie submission pose. So naturally I chuckled, and he got up right away, offended that I wasn’t swayed by his performance. I tied him tightly to a thick tree trunk, and hoped I wouldn’t have to carry him back to the car.
As I made this final entry in my notebook, I was sitting near the outlet creek where I collect my water. It had been a sublimely delicious morning, with the weather caressing my skin like a nourishing blanket, and I was grateful that I stayed an extra few hours. Soon I would start packing and strike the tent; more or less committing myself to the trail. I still had the option of staying one more night, but there were bears known to be in the vicinity, and they were surely aware that some campers had left. I really didn’t want to be here when they came sniffing around, ravenous with the lateness of the year; looking to scavenge whatever calories might be left behind. “Oh! Look what’s on the menu: a small canine appetizer and the Mayne course!” Okay, that was a bad joke, but it’s a family tradition.
In that shady cove next to the lake it was so perfectly pleasant, and I had everything I needed for the moment. I knew that before too long I would be working so hard to get back to the baggage I left behind… nearly as hard as I had worked to get away from it all just a few days ago. This had been a concentrated, effective, and sorely needed recharging of my soul’s batteries. Sadly, the charges didn’t seem to last as long as they used to. I had no regrets about leaving that day to get back earlier than I had planned. I would be glad to see Joy, and she would feel better knowing I was home safe and sound. If these pages seem littered with superfluous hyperbole and delusions of grandeur, I challenge the reader to follow in my footsteps with an open mind, and visit the wild, elemental places alone. The greater challenge, which I expect few could meet, would be to leave all of one’s preconceptions, biases, and cultural conditioning at home where they belong. Come to the wilderness with an open and humble heart, and she will whisper soothing words and heal your wounds. If you’re not happy with yourself, you won’t be happy anywhere. However, if you can leave your SELF behind; or better yet, balm the open wounds and the childhood scars that bind you to your self-loathing, and you will find the wild places to be a source of authentic power and efficacious therapy. So it had been for me on this trip, and I left a better person than when I had come.
The return hike down the trail was mostly uneventful, except for the incident I described at the beginning of my blog posts for 2012. The preferred technique to traverse the mile-long slope from Wee Bear back to the Bear Creek trail is to maintain altitude as much as possible. Little Bear Lake is 600 feet higher than its Big Bear sibling, and staying high avoids the worst rock jumbles and brush-choked gullies. What’s more important, staying on top of things lets you see where you’re going, and pick the best route. Once the Bear Creek rock pools are visible below, it’s much simpler to find a safe path down to the trail. That’s the theory, anyway. In reality, that “transition zone” where there is no real trail or visible route is the most hazardous part of getting to and from Little Bear Lake.
So, there I was, hyperventilating in some random rock-strewn bush after my bad fall, wondering if I was going to die. Truthfully, I was certain in an instant that my minor injuries were unlikely to result in fatality, but it was natural to consider the possibility, as there would be no helicopters or magical hikers appearing to help me. All I had was a little rat-faced terrier who would not look me in the eye, but who was, I reflected in the moment, absolutely without concern whether I died or not. To tell the truth, at that moment I really didn’t care what happened to me either, and that was the scary part. I will never know from what depths of survival instinct came the impulse to get back on my feet, but there I was – smothered by an oppressive burden, with a choice to make.
I chose to live.
When I finally regained my composure, we proceeded as the blind leading the blind, or rather the neurotic man escorting the neurotic dog. Dante wanted nothing to do with the worst terrain where uneven boulders were choked with wiry, grasping manzanita bushes. I had to carry him once again, and he trembled in great trepidation for his plight; feeling immensely sorry for himself. My own legs were shaking, and unreliable from the fall. How we ever got down that steep pile of cracked boulders with all my gear, and without further injury, I will never know. It was as if I was guided by a higher power to pick myself up, dust myself off, and get back in the race. Both man and dog felt a great relief to get past this purgatory and descend through easier terrain. I took my pack off at the pools, tied the miserable mongrel in the shade, and assessed the damage. Thankfully, I found no real problems with my gear, so I washed my scraped hands and chin in the cool water and filled my bottle for the downhill trek. From that point, we would rapidly descend 2,800 feet in just a couple of hours to reach the car. I wriggled stiffly into the straps of my misshapen pack like a displaced turtle trying to get back into its shell. Dante waited balefully in the shade, lamenting that there was no longer any excuse to make me carry him. The problem was, how to get up? In my near desperate state, I had forgotten one of the most useful things I learned about backpacking: always put your pack down in a place where it’s easy to get it back on. Mine leaned backwards against the base of a boulder. I had to pole myself back to a standing position with my walking stick, pulling hard with my arms, as if climbing a rope. It worked, and I tottered down off the hot granite with the devil dog leading the way, until we were swallowed by the undergrowth that nearly obscured the trail, and visibility was down to a few feet.
Almost immediately upon entering this brush-choked part of the trail, we encountered another large, intimidating pile of bear shit. This one was the freshest yet. It was still glistening with moisture and a few stunned flies that were overwhelmed by their good fortune. Was this asshole defecating in the middle of the trail on purpose? Wasn’t there a Federal regulation against that, or something? I mean, if I did the same thing, I would probably get arrested. If Dante pooped like that, and I didn’t clean it up, I could be fined, or get a stern letter from the Homeowner’s Association. I decided that if we actually did meet this big shit bag, the plan would be to throw the dog and the beef jerky at it, and run back to the car while it decided which to eat first. Dante would probably flip out, and yap hysterically with the exuberant bravado of small dogs everywhere. That would ensure Mr. Bear would eat him first so he could enjoy his beef jerky in peace. As usual, however, we saw no bears at all. Apparently, they were above us in helicopters, carpet-bombing the trail with piles of poop.
I did see a jeweled yellow alligator lizard about 8 inches long, which was very impressive. At first, he bore a resemblance to an unusually pretty stick in the trail. A closer look revealed the stick had little obsidian eyes, and stubby brown legs. An intricate pattern of brightly colored scales made him appear to be a beaded piece of Native American art. He did the only thing he knew how to do, which was to open his large jaws wide and hiss. I knew from unforgettable boyhood experiments that alligator lizard bites hurt, and they don’t let go. Dante, being an avowed weenie of the first degree, was extremely wary of the fierce little creature. He wanted to bite it, but it exuded danger and malevolence like a scorpion. I thought of attaching it to his collar, as a kind of souvenir of our trip. I was too tired for shenanigans, so I rewarded his ancient reptilian courage and left him there.
I noticed again that the forest glades were a lot more attractive when I was going down, and not plodding uphill on a hot afternoon. This provided an opportunity to enjoy the trail itself, and the remarkable arboreal sanctuary through which it passed. I revisited the Halloween Tree, which I have photographed amply in years past. The creepy old cedar’s thick, resilient trunk was at least 10 feet in diameter, fire-scarred and twisted, with bright orange branches as large as regular trees. It was probably a seedling before there were any white men in the area. I saluted its preeminence, and turned back towards my car. At this elevation, the trail has a great variety of large specimens of cedar, white pine, ponderosa, and the delightful Jeffrey Pines I have described before. Waking past them on a leisurely downhill stroll was surely a much more relaxing way to get down the trail than the desperate, barely controlled plummeting of years past.
Although going downhill was definitely better than uphill, the relative ease of descent combined with anticipation of a hot shower and fresh food distorted my sense of distance, and it seemed as though the trail was much longer than it was when I had ascended just three days prior. Apparently, the U.S. Forest Service had snuck in over the weekend and added an extra mile or two to the hike! Still, I made good time, and the rocky yards disappeared one by one under my dusty boots. Dante had thankfully regained his energy as we passed through the oxygen-rich forests, and was back in trail dog mode. He even had enough vigor to chase after lizards and chipmunks again (but only small ones), which was why he had to remain on the leash. I was trying to decompress, enjoy the scenery, and not get “the bends” from resurfacing in society too quickly after diving deep into paradise. I wanted to say a proper goodbye to my favorite place on earth, and suffered constant annoyance from the necessity of watching where my feet fell on the rocky trail. One… two… three… four! The walking stick rhythmically swung with my strides, hitting the ground in strategic spots where it would do the most good. My feet fell into place like the teeth of gears into their cogs. With constant attention, rolling rocks and branches were avoided, stair steps were descended carefully, and piles of bear shit circumnavigated with great deliberation. In this methodical manner, we made excellent progress.
By the time we reached the bridge, my old legs were complaining loudly, the knees were threatening mutiny, and my back was filing a lawsuit. The only reason I didn’t collapse under the constant downhill pounding was because in that split second where one leg wanted to buckle, gravity swung the other leg into place, and the weight was thereby transferred down, down… ever downward. This “sleight of limb” performance continued all the way down a dusty trail that seemed to never end. I had forgotten about the extra 1/8 mile at the trailhead, and that really pissed me off. I could see my car across the washed-out bridge, and considered crossing the rocky creek bed, but decided that prudence was better than impatience. I followed the new trail like an obedient citizen, and remembered to fetch my cold drinks from the creek. After the indescribable refreshment of guzzling chilled fruit juice, I stumbled up to the car on creaky legs that swung stiffly from the hips like stilts, and gratefully dumped my pack on the hood of my car. Omigod, I couldn’t believe I just did that again! I looked down at Dante, who was whining for me to open the door so we could go home. It was a great feeling to be back in contact with the world, and no longer drifting in outer space.
It’s an equally great feeling when the trusty spaceship starts right up after a long extravehicular excursion! I profusely blessed the clever people who invented batteries, ignition sparks, and especially air conditioning. Dante crawled gratefully into his spot on the floor, and was asleep before we reached the highway. He never moved the entire five hours’ drive back home. Of course, I had no such luxury of relaxation, piloting my little space shuttle in between lumbering hulks of metal all the way down Highway 5, and back to Marin County. My knees locked into driving position, and stayed that way. I felt a sensation as if the car was my body, transporting my mind back home. It reminded me that my body is just a vehicle for my soul as it sojourns in the cosmos. If the body is just a means of transport; then who is the driver? Most of us let the maniacal ego control the steering wheel, while the higher Self sits passively in the front seat, patiently observing. For some, the true consciousness is asleep in the back seat; while others have it tied up and locked in the trunk. Mine was looking confidently over my shoulder, whispering that it loved me… not in spite of my faults, but with full acceptance of them.
My joints would no longer bend when I got home, so I left my gear in the car, extricated my worn-out body as if from a wreck, and half-crawled up the stairs to bed, still vibrating from the road. Joy made sure I took a shower before getting into bed, and it was the most luxuriant cleansing I could ever remember. Dante slithered into his crate and hid under his blanket for a week. The way I felt then, the natural impulse was to say “I’m getting too old for this.” But I knew I’d try it again someday soon, and next time I was gonna bring a goat!
“The mountain has left me feeling renewed, more content and positive than I’ve been for weeks, as if something has been given back after a long absence, as if my eyes have been opened once again.
For this time at least, I’ve let myself be rooted in the unshakable sanity of the senses,
spared my mind the burden of too much thinking, turned myself outward to experience the world,
and inward to savor the pleasures it has given me.”
— Richard Nelson