“Once in a lifetime, perhaps, one escapes the actual confines of the flesh. Once in a lifetime, if one is lucky, one so merges with sunlight and air and running water that whole eons, the eons that mountains and deserts know, might pass in a single afternoon without discomfort.”
— Loren Eiseley
Author’s note: For this post, I shall intentionally write in the present tense, to convey the sense of being there. Trust me, it’s worth the effort.
I decide to check Wee Bear before I move my camp, just in case any RVs have pulled in, or maybe a tour bus full of Japanese tourists. I also want a good look at the developing clouds before I decide where to stake my tent. When I pass by the spot where I had tried to create a painting so many years before, I stop; spontaneously enchanted. The clouds are slowly streaming up and over the jagged peaks of Sawtooth, with a foreground of Wee Bear rippling in the breeze. The scene is framed on the right by a cute Bonsai hemlock, and on the left by a thick, healthy Ponderosa trunk, with its jigsaw bark pattern sharply defined in the filtered light. I consider plugging my phone into the portable charger I brought so I could capture the image, but I want to have enough battery to call Joy when I get back in range tomorrow. I try using the camera of my phone while it’s plugged in, but the charger won’t turn on. There is only one button, and it does nothing. Nuts. I hadn’t bothered to check the darn thing before I left, because Joy said it was full. I try pushing the little button over and over, holding it down, tapping on it, saying prayers over it, etcetera… but it is stone dead. The really embarrassing thing is realizing that I carried its useless 6.75 ounces all the way up that ass-kicking trail! I seem to have the worst luck – and even worse foresight – when it comes to photography. It would be spectacular to bring some REAL video camera equipment up here, and capture the complete spectrum of amazing shots properly; in the manner of Louie Schwarzenberg, who does the Art in Motion videos I admire so much back home. This place would perfectly suit his muse (and his trademark). A time-lapse video that makes the clouds speed up would be an awesome shot. They are now thrusting themselves upward into the sky at a good pace, while their opposite shadows crawl swiftly down the gray granite facets of the mountain like dark salamanders.
When I arrive at the front of the bluff below Dat Butte where I intend to camp, there is nobody else around (for a change). I finally have the entire upper basin to myself! I quickly clamber up a level or two behind me, to observe the effects of the clouds on a broader 180 degree scale. I am rooted in this place now, transfixed by the amazing, jaw-dropping scenery that comes alive before my very eyes. Photography is superfluous when confronted by the ultimate picture. Altamira bulks at my left hand, rising above the forest and Little Bear Lake like the façade of a great cathedral, with streaks of mist getting tangled in the steeple. Sawtooth is on my right, still streaming more clouds across its jagged crags. In the center is the white-hot pyramid of Dis Butte, with streaks of billowing altostratus soaring right above me, and their shadows flowing straight down its sloping sides like mud. My skull becomes a video camera with two lenses, deliciously guzzling the views like ice cold lemonade on a hot day. The art is in motion, indeed!
I am stationed near a ledge about 50 feet wide that still has a whale-sized snowbank tucked up against its southern wall. There is a small, crystal clear puddle of about 200 square feet, next to a cluster of stunted, distressed Bristlecone pines clinging to existence. At the edge closest to the forest, a family of White pines stand tall to shield their unfortunate neighbors. Here we have another perfect camping spot! If one of Louis L’Amour’s iconic cowboy-woodsman characters ever came up here, he’d probably choose this spot. It has ample water, some grass for the horses, a little firewood, and a sheltered spot for a hatful of fire. More importantly, it has a clear field of vision to see anyone approaching the upper basin from the front. But like that cowboy, it’s time for me to move on… There is an exceedingly dramatic nature performance happening today, and I intend to circle around through Lothlórien and gather my things to move down closer to the stage.
As I turn to traverse the rock ledge, I can see far above me the wizened Pharaoh faces of Sphinx Rock, and I smile because they have seen this shadow play many times before. In fact, they have seen it all: from the first Indians who struggled up the valley in search of food, to the helicopter that landed to rescue the doctor with the broken leg, and everything in between. Including that little gnome-like creature that struggled up the trail recently with a pack that was way too big… oh wait, that would be me! What do the clairvoyant kings of Egypt see in my future, as they gaze off to the eternal North? Will that gnome ever come back again? Only God knows, and as they say: She ain’t tellin’.
Drawn by the ever-expanding views, I make my way as far up the bluff as my legs will stand. They’ve had quite enough of leveraging my carcass upward against the force of gravity, thank you very much! When the effort gets to be more than I want to invest in the moment, I carefully pick my way straight across the west-facing side of Dat Butte, to where the toes of Lothlórien are dipping in an ecstatic bath of sunlight. It seems as though the forest, too, is intoxicated by the spectacular afternoon. I get a very handsome view of Sawtooth, framed by demure hemlocks and White Pine, as I cross the upper part of the spring that trickles into Wee Bear. (I dub this place “Mama Bear Spring” because it feeds the baby.) Reverently, in harmony with a choir of forest spirits saturating my awareness with their praises to God, I pad across a thick, burnt sienna carpet of pine needles that meanders through an artfully strewn arrangement of boulders. Fallen logs alter my course in a pleasant way. It’s like wandering in slow motion through a giant, organic pinball machine. I get my bonus by caressing the soft branches of the trees in solemn gratitude as I pass. In this state of meandering meditation, I approach my current camp from the rear.
In my heightened awareness, it is a simple and easeful thing to throw a few things in my backpack and carry it down to Wee Bear. I use my walking stick liberally – both to ward off the vipers, and to assist my legs with the chore. I don’t need a last-day leg injury! After setting my first load down, I glide silently back up the trail (except through the snake-infested bushes near the creek, which get a noisy whacking with my stick). It is so much better to do simple tasks with great concentration and presence. Two loads makes it easier… I arrange all my soft stuff inside the tent, roll it up like a big nylon burrito, and relocate to God’s Parlor for my last night in paradise.
Hiking down a trail with this cumbersome bundle would normally be a problem. Back home, I would probably get agitated from the strain, and provide a profane narrative to the process. Up here, with these surroundings, a gentler industry prevails. The way to do is to be. I imagine I’m clinging to a helium balloon, and floating down to my new campsite. After setting up the guest bedroom, I come back a third time and rest a while on White Bear Rock, washing up a bit and communing with the landscape. I am inspired to pray a long Rosary for myself and my family. I have faith that we might always be well; irrespective of our physical health. I fervently hope that we all might someday make it up here together… or at least individually. I can think of no greater treasure to bestow on my loved ones than for all of them to experience the intimate healing powers of the Bear Lakes.
The forest is just so benevolent up here, and yet there are ample signs it has to be resilient as well. Several trees have been sheared off by wind, or some other disaster in their lives. Then they healed the broken places, grew in a different direction for a while, and pointed once more to the heavens. Here and there a twisted trunk or transformed branch tells a story of a great struggle won, as a testament to the glory of God. I pray also that I might emulate the strength and determination of these trees. I certainly need that kind of faith in my own life – even though the destructive storms are of my own making. The persistence of trees is a gentle and loving reminder that even when a disaster rips you apart, as long as there is still life there is always a chance to heal and grow.
On the way back to Wee Bear, I inspect the possible routes up Dis Butte in anticipation of my departure tomorrow. I can see where I might quickly gain a hundred feet or so, and be above Wee Bear in a few minutes. This would give me not only an excellent vantage point from which to say goodbye, but other stunning views as well. The best part would be not having to bushwhack uphill out of the cleft that slopes down from the portal at the north end of the tiny lake. It seems counter-intuitive to go up to find an easier way down, but it’s good to plan ahead.
I’m totally ready for my last night at the Bear Lakes for who knows how long. Everything is in place for me to eat and go to bed, so I can take my time and be one with the stillness of twilight. Dave and Jen picked a nice campsite, even though it’s right next to the only trail around the tiny lake. My tent is on a thick, flat area of sandy soil, and everything around it is solid rock that gets very hot in the direct sun. A few scrawny Bristlecone pines shelter it in the late afternoon, and that’s enough to make the evening more tolerable in the open stone skillet. There is also a large, well-placed boulder the size of a car parked on the edge of the bluff above a 10-foot drop to the outlet creek. Its underside is polished with a patina from being dragged beneath the long-gone glacier. Some of it is as smooth as a granite kitchen countertop. The angles of this stone block are such that it casts a small amount of shade nearly all day; in different directions. I approve, and dub this spot “the nursery.”
I look deep into the cleft where the creek begins trickling down the cliffs to valley below, and less than 20 feet away lies a tiny patch of leftover snow. It’s only about the size of a pillow, and will be gone in a day or two. It’s impressive to imagine that some of its water molecules, released from the bondage of ice and snow, could someday make it back to the Pacific Ocean even from way up here. Tomorrow I will have fresh-squeezed ice pellets to cool my water! It’s incredible that something so cold could be just an idle stone’s toss from something so hot, but one gets used to incredulity in this place. Everything seems do damn convenient; as if someone had let you use their beautiful condo, and then stocked it with all the supplies you might need if you just looked. It makes me laugh out loud at the absurdity of the commonplace.
Shasta now is almost completely obscured by a huge mass of clouds, as if the hand of God had liberally sprayed it with whipped cream to make a colossal sundae. To the north, however, is a burgeoning stripe of blue sky. The weather has been dramatic at times, but never threatening. I’m just hoping it will clear up enough so I can see the stars. At this time, about an hour before sunset, I truly appreciate the shade, but I intend to have open skies by the time night falls. It looks like a magnificent sunset is developing… or am I creating it?
I take my hiking stick, binoculars, and water across the gully to the altar-shaped rock, stepping deliberately over the rough spots with great concentration on the present moment. I am considering rolling up my sleeping bag and pads and bringing them over here, to communicate with the heavens on a direct channel. I would have to return to my tent in the dark, however… not a smart thing to do over rough terrain. There is a singular place on this knoll where the energy in the air is almost palpable, like ozone. I used to refer to this area as “God’s Parlor” (and I still may, when the whim suits me), but it is so much like the raised platform of a church on which the altar is the focal point, that from here on it can only rightfully be called the Sanctuary.
When I arrive at the central vortex of this exposed church and feel its power, it’s very tempting to make the risky trip tonight, anyway. My mind expands to fill the boundless spaces of the nave. Come to think of it, if God were to have a church (or need one, for that matter), she would surely build it without any walls. Why shut out the glory, or imprison the sacrament in an edifice? I could just pray out here all night. Large, sculpted clouds are filing across the sky in a solemn procession behind the grand expanse of Sawtooth. Luminous rays of afternoon light beam down the valley in amber shafts. Stained-glass windows of green and granite are blazing everywhere. The eye-popping majesty makes my whole face tired, and I avert my gaze respectfully. I would dare to proclaim in well-educated company that this is one of the most awe-inspiring places on earth. How many vistas like this could there be on one planet? Probably at least as many as there are people to experience them. Each of us has our own “most beautiful spot.” Mine is in a church with no walls.
The first holy boulder I see is about the size of a hot tub. It is shaped like an oversized mortar, and situated in a way that gives the impression of a signal pyre. The edges are artfully sculpted and wavy, with a heart-shaped granite depression in the center about 2 feet wide and 3 inches deep where water collects. It appears somebody actually tried to build a small fire in there. The meager ashes could be swept off easily if I decided to lay on it. A bonfire in this receptacle could be seen all the way down the valley – indeed, for miles in every direction. It faces Mt. Shasta directly, as if the signal could be meant for those who dwell secretly beneath the mysterious cloud cover. Come to think of it, I don’t know if I want to risk lying down on this unsettling sculpture – it resembles a sacrificial altar too closely, like the ones mentioned in the Old Testament. I’m not stupid enough to tempt the gods that much! Those ashes may be left from the last fool who tried!
Next is an even more astonishing work of art: the centerpiece of The Altar. This one is about the same size as the pyre, and is stunningly balanced on the edge of the knob of granite forming the sanctuary. It is almost perfectly level, with boxy, 90 degree corners like a king-sized bed all made up. It even has granite pillows and a bedspread of thick, dark lichen. This uncanny image is the same from every angle. Right now I’m using it as a standing desk as I jot these impressions in my notebook, and stretch my legs out to prepare for the long trek home tomorrow. My current orientation to the southeast would be perfect for stargazing in the direction of Sphinx Rock… if those pesky clouds ever go away. Looking around the base of this level dais, I see my obelisks – those modest fingers of stone that I erected on its tabletop surface during my last trip here with Kevin. It seems they have been laid down by someone who either resented the intrusion, or just enjoyed tipping things over, like that mean kid in preschool. “These stones must be standing,” I vow to myself, and reverently replace them in their niches. They look like they belong here as much as the amazing structures on which they stand. When viewed with affinity, the feeling they evoke is that of highly focused benevolence.
There is also a third boulder in the sanctuary, perhaps not as useful to the gods as the others, but making a very pretty picture, enhanced by a dramatic view of Sawtooth in the background. It is shaped like a boat leaning on its side with a dead tree trunk “mast” – the very portrait of a shipwreck. If only it had a palm tree, it would be perfectly incongruous. Admiring its odd angles, I fantasize that it could have been washed here by some gargantuan tidal wave. Or perhaps the “mast” is really a 15-foot antenna, receiving radio signals from somewhere deep in the galaxy. It might even be a divining rod that draws power into the heart of the mountain. Methinks I imagine too much… but what is imagination, if not a message from an alternate reality?
There is an overpowering sense that these three monuments are placed on that exposed knob of granite for a distinct purpose. When I stand in their proximity, and take in the mind-boggling, 360 degree cornucopia of awe-inspiring panoramic views, I feel that I am participating in a very important ceremony. Right behind the sanctuary is Wee Bear, and behind that the Little Bear Lake basin and Altamira’s cathedral spire. When I view this entire locality as religious architecture – henceforth I shall call it God’s Church – I get a chill down my spine that is more a vibration of empathy than a shudder of awe. A church is a singular place to worship that which exists everywhere.
Focusing now on the middle ground, I can see my tent is only about 200 feet away across the outlet gully as the bird flies: a strange swatch of color that somehow feels miles away. I am not a bird, however, and clambering over those rocks will be a challenge at night… even with a good flashlight. I certainly don’t want a leg injury on my last night! I think it would be prudent to double-check my headlamp before I decide where my stargazing spot will be… and as soon as I write this, I notice the sanctuary is the only part of the basin lit by sunlight. Thanks for the subtlety, God!
Now the sun is less than a half hour from setting. Its happy, brilliant face is winking at me from underneath the banners of clouds that still parade across the sky above the ridge behind Big Bear Lake to the west. I turn to see its slanting beams illuminating the forested pyramid-peak above Sphinx Rock, against a dark gray backdrop of clouds: Come to think of it, those remarkable faces are one of several edifices up here that are large enough to be pyramids. Their stony shoulders rise nearly twice the height of Cheops, and the similarity is reinforced by the 3 or 4 escarpments of granite that look exactly like the heads of a sphinx, or Egyptian pharaohs. I know I’ve described this same impression many times, but if perchance you should witness their godlike visages someday, you will surely agree they are worthy of repetitive praise.
At the very moment I finish writing this, my osprey familiar appears suddenly like a revelation. From where my eye is gazing below Sphinx Rock, she swoops up to Wee Bear, as if materializing in my field of vision out of the shadowy bluffs themselves. Dreamlike, she silently follows the outlet creek up through the cleft, and passes me less than 20 feet away! She is close enough now that I can see the distinctive black horizontal stripe across her eye, evoking images of Ibis as she soars through my mind. Breathless, my attuned ears clearly hear the air sifting through the beautiful shaded black tips of her graceful wings. The underneath of her body is creamy white, and her feet are tucked in neatly where they cannot be seen. Her raptor eye shifts to identify me as she passes. We share a fleeting but meaningful recognition, and she is gone; soaring on the warm updrafts to stalk the shoreline of Little Bear Lake. In what seems to be a last friendly gesture, she waggles her wings as she disappears over the drooping emerald hemlock tips glowing in the last rays of the sun.
Now I know it’s going to be a good night!
I still have time before the sun disappears to check out a sister knob of granite about 50 yards west of where I’m standing, upon which another monolith is raised in an unnatural position. I swear, this site I call a ‘sanctuary’ has a provenance; like the ruins of a deliberately placed stone circle. The fourth stone is almost 10 feet tall, with a large, flat side directly oriented to the valley, the trail, and Mt. Shasta in the distance. The pattern of lichen and shadows on its face reminds me of the enigmatic Easter Island statues. Right now it is blocking the setting sun, and is backlit incandescently against the darkening bulk of Sawtooth. Rainbow shafts of sunlight blaze off its edges. I cast my eyes down to clear my retinas, and pick up a pure white piece of quartz the size of a matchbox and shaped like the iconic stele next to which I’m standing. The talisman is still warm from being in the sun a few minutes ago, and it seems to radiate a power as I hold it tightly. I see no other bits of quartz, a vein, or any source of such a mineral nearby. Just another amazing coincidence, right? A souvenir of the white bird. The osprey might have been a vision, but this is a real object I am holding in my hand. It is possible that somebody dropped it here – perhaps a long time ago, or perhaps just now – and I have been chosen to carry it forward.
The rocky showground that frames these two granite knobs is littered with oddly shaped rocks and boulders, and has the disordered utility of an abandoned quarry, or perhaps a long-forgotten sculptor’s studio. In places the bluff itself has been combed by the winter ice and wind for centuries, leaving hard rock edges raised up in rows like a radiator, where the slightly softer stone has eroded away from parallel cracks. In one place, a blade of hard, black granite the size and thickness of my hand protrudes from a rock wall oddly, like a steelhead’s dorsal fin frozen in a glacier.
Ding! As if I’m getting off the elevator in a department store, I find two flat, mattress sized slabs displayed in a nearly level position behind the monument. There could be some good stargazing from here as well, with a view to the southwest over Altamira. Suddenly, I notice the sunset is nearly at its climax, and I rapidly scurry back to the heart of the sanctuary to view it from the proper setting. Instinctively, as the sun draws close to the edge of the ridge behind Big Bear Lake, I hold the tip of my Rusty Bucket Ranch walking stick in front of my face to block out the brilliant, fiery orb as it descends. Bidden by some unseen conductor, I am inspired to begin chanting the Gayatri Mantra by Deva Premal. This mantra is sung in Sanskrit, and I can only paraphrase it, but it translates to:
Address the sun in this fashion:
You, who are the source of all power,
Whose rays illuminate the world,
Illuminate also my heart,
That it, too, may do your work.
Even as I am making this happen, I appreciate that my chanting is completely spontaneous and somehow connected to the energy that drives the unfolding of the universe. I can’t stop singing until the sun has completely ended its performance. As I am rooted there, tremulously participating in the pageantry, the blazing, descending disk aligns itself perfectly in a V-shaped cleft between twin spires on the ridge. Then, guided by some higher power, it settles into the notch with fantastic precision, until a solitary bright dot is piercing through the exact junction of the spires. Even as I realize this is an indescribably profound experience, I raise my hands to observe the last flashes of light through a frame made by my thumbs and forefingers, blocking out all else. For one vivid moment, I witness a kaleidoscope of light being refracted by one of the vertical columns of granite on the ridge that just happens to be at the precise center point of the setting sun. Brilliant rays of rainbow light burst from the blazing pinpoint of Brother Sol as he finally disappears behind the ridge, and I remember to breathe again. After a brief moment of absolute stillness, a cool breeze emanates from the west: a backwash from the solar winds. It seems as though the entire basin is exhaling after holding its breath. Then the wind stops, and all is silent.
[Pause to let this sink in, as I did at the time.]
Spellbound, I turn around to see what features remain illuminated by this magical light. Like a curtain being drawn in reverse, a line of shadow is rising, advancing towards the regal tops of the Pharaoh heads to the southeast. No wonder the ancient Egyptians were obsessed by the sun! So much of what we experience now is inauthentic; filtered or aided by technology. In the natural world, the energy is received directly from the Source. I turn north to Sawtooth, and broadsword blades of translucent light are radiating from behind its ridgeline. The dark edge looks like an intensely backlit, broken-tooth jawbone. Speaking of mandibles, mine had dropped a while ago somewhere at my feet, and I dare not move for fear I might step on it. Like a tennis fan, I swivel my head back and forth 180 degrees, to avoid missing any nuance of the display.
Words are grossly inadequate, as evidenced by the giddy phrase I am writing in my notebook: “What a super cool experience this has been!” More aptly stated, this is one of the most awe-inspiring spectacles I have ever witnessed in person; something similar in perspicacity to watching the birth of my children. I smile with satisfaction, remembering the double meaning of the word “inspire,” and the breath I had drawn when the basin itself expired. Coming to these lakes in the right frame of mind is a religious experience, and like any good religion, you come away with more than you brought.
“Where your treasure is, there so is your heart.”
— Jesus of Nazareth (Luke 12:34)
Reflecting on the spiritual take-home message from this evening’s epic entertainment, I have an overwhelming realization that, truly, I AM unconditionally loved by the universe. Otherwise, how to explain the incredible show put on solely for my benefit? Surely I AM privileged to a degree far beyond that which I deserve, but why? Because I AM loved for who I AM, despite the horrid mistakes of my past that make me feel unworthy. Of course, in order to properly gain this insight I have to at least be aware of what’s going on around me. I could have stayed in my tent, reading or hiding from tiny little bugs. Instead, I AM an active participant in (dare I say conductor of) the stupendous natural phenomena, and the numinous benevolence flows through me as radio waves flow through an antenna.
With reluctance to leave the site of rapture, I mentally grope for my jaw and put it back in place, snapping back to reality and the tasks at hand. It’s time to return to the tent and make safe plans to access the spot from which I plan to gaze at the stars when it gets dark. I take the trail that follows the shoreline of Wee Bear to see if there is an easier route up to the sanctuary, to use when I come back. As I near the creek, I stop still in my tracks. There in the trail right in front of me, next to a huge rotting log, is the first rattlesnake I have ever encountered up at the lakes! It is crawling very slowly; seemingly unaware of my presence. Wire-like with tension and licking its tongue warily, it crosses exactly where I was going to step. It is a juvenile about 3 feet long, skinny as a broomstick, and heading into the scrub manzanita below the sanctuary to look for its dinner. “Okay God, I get it… I’m not going this way!” I could have touched the snake with my staff, it was so close, and I feel the urge to hurry it along so I can get back to camp. I count seven rattles as it passes, ever so stealthily. All the while I am sending it blessings and love, and neither of us show any signs of alarm as it disappears into the bushes.
I solemnly realize that getting bit by a venomous snake up here would ruin the religious experience, for sure. My headlamp better be working damn well! With all my planning, I hadn’t considered snakes. Actually, I haven’t brought a snake bite kit up here since I was a young man. When alone, those thumb-shaped, rubber suction cups would come in handy if bitten in a place where one’s mouth could not reach to suck out as much venom as possible… like an ankle. I remember what Jen said the day before, that you’d have no time to hike out, and may as well just relax and go with it, to see if your body could overcome the effects of the toxin by mind over matter. Come to think of it, perhaps it would be prudent to stargaze closer to camp tonight!
And so I stay meekly close to my temporary, snake-proof home for the rest of the night. I eagerly anticipate the special effects that will surely result from the unusual combination of refractive light and attractively feathered clouds. I can’t wait to witness the encore performance of the sun, which has already produced the most amazing evening I have ever experienced by myself. Actually, I am not by myself at all. It’s me, myself and I… we three: the Holy Trinity. All the other humans have vacated the premises, and left us here all by ourselves to experience this wonderment. My face is turned towards the western sky in anticipation. Slowly, as I watch in an unbroken gaze, the clouds graduate in color from a dark lavender gray to a bright orange cantaloupe that seems to be illuminated from within. This glowing spectacle contrasts sharply with the charcoal tones of Sawtooth’s ridge, where the jagged columns and spires are silhouetted intensely. Off to the east, a huge swathe of clouds 20 miles long is turning dark purple and scarlet, in hues of cooling lava. The orange tie-dye above Sawtooth intensifies, until the wisps become impossibly brilliant orange tongues of flame rippling across an aquamarine canvas in super-slow-motion towards the southeast.
I shift around on the broken edge of my bluff to find the best viewing angle, and come upon a perfect butt-shaped depression in the rock filled with soft sand, into which I nestle my grateful gluteus. I linger there for what seems like hours, carefully watching as the colors transform from fiery tangerine to burnt ochre until, dying, they finally cast crimson highlights on the dark lavender strands of drifting clouds. Greedily I stare, mesmerized, until every remnant of color is gone. I turn and look about the bluffs where I am sitting, and twilight is softening the purple granite like melting ice cream. The second act is over. I arise from my seat with the deep satisfaction of a theater patron who is watching the show of his life, and now it is time for the intermission. Gracefully, I retire to my tent to try and write it all down, and maybe get a few winks – perchance to dream – before the stars came out for the grand finale.
Right now I’m lying in the tent on my back, holding the notebook above my heart, clumsily recording as much as I can about the evening’s experiences. Frequently my arms get tired and I pause to rest and reflect on what has happened. Meanwhile, two frogs are calling and responding from somewhere along Wee Bear’s shoreline. From their growing excitement I gather they are surprised to actually hear another frog up here. There was a solo frog up at Little Bear Lake last night that tried halfheartedly to get a response, and soon gave up. These guys sound like they could go on all night. Tired of writing, I turn off my headlamp and notice that Venus is centered in my tent window directly in front of me. I can use its movements to mark time. I doze for a bit, and when it has left my window completely, I get up to watch the midnight stars on parade. It is still a wee bit lighter in the western sky, and I consider bringing my sleeping gear outside to watch it get really dark. There is a new moon tonight, so the starlight will have no competition. Alas, I’m too fatigued for a coordinated plan, and simply don my boots and clothes to go lie down on a flat rock close to camp. I find a spot where I have a full scope of vision, and settle down for the show.
The first thing I notice is that the Big Dipper is directly overhead and upside-down, which is disorienting. I rotate 180 degrees to right its image, and reflect on how much of our reality is based upon our orientation. We have named the north and south poles of our planet, but how do we know which way is “up”? From where I lay, half the universe is above me, and half below. I can easily make out Sagittarius over to the south, near Venus. The rest of the firmament is clear and distinct, with many stars appearing brighter than the others. Icy blue and pale pink starlight dance in constellations that I cannot name. Why do I need to know their names? The fact that they exist is the more pertinent reality. We humans try to compensate for our inability to understand this truth by naming every star; by cataloguing every physical presence in the universe. The higher knowledge is to become one with the energy that sustains the heavenly bodies; making labels pointless.
Dear God, there are stars upon stars upon stars! Countless pinpoints of light are crowding and jostling for position in the spaces between the dominant beacons. Turning my gaze to the southeast, I see the Milky Way rising over Sphinx Rock. That’s the only way to describe it, because it is actually growing lighter in that direction. The glow from this great spiral arm of our galaxy can easily be seen on the tips of the trees covering the pyramidion of Cheops. Looking up at this massive array I feel so very small, and yet so very much a part of it all. Especially after the exclusive show that was put on for my benefit tonight! The warm summer air is thinning out now, and the night takes on a slight chill. I scrunch down into my mummy bag and watch billions of galaxies climbing into the sky. I cast my mind out a trillion, trillion miles, and marvel at the expanse of the cosmos. Tonight, there is light reaching me from stars that died a hundred million years ago. Somewhere out there, between the unnamed astral planes, I drift off to sleep and never even notice the difference.
I can now say with absolute certainty that I have had an intimate and deeply personal interaction with the planet Earth. No other human had this particular experience in time and space; it was purely for my enjoyment alone. Nobody can ever take this away from me. What a deep and mystical honor… and a tremendous responsibility! For once the soul has expanded to a new dimension, there is no going back. Things that used to seem important, or even critical, are now revealed in their proper perspective. The universe abides in me. This greater sense of awareness is available to us all, if we just let go of the misperceptions that confine us in a cage of our own making.
“No pain here, no dull empty hours, no fear of the past, no fear of the future. These blessed mountains are so completely filled with God’s beauty, no petty personal hope or experience has room to be.
Drinking this champagne water is pure pleasure, so is breathing the living air, and every movement of limbs is pleasure, while the whole body seems to feel beauty when exposed to it as it feels
the campfire or sunshine, entering not by the eyes alone, but equally through all one’s flesh
like radiant heat, making a passionate ecstatic pleasure-glow not explainable.
One’s body then seems homogenous throughout, sound as a crystal.”
— John Muir