“At some point in life the world’s beauty becomes enough.
You don’t need to photograph, paint, or even remember it. It is enough.”
— Toni Morrison
I woke before I could see anything except the stars decorating the spaces between trees. My intent was to walk down to the Altar to see the sunrise over Mt. Shasta that morning, but that required timing my departure so I could see well enough to avoid any snakes. I dozed off a couple of times, and when the details of the forest could be seen through the screens of my tent, I dressed quickly, grabbed my gear, and cautiously crossed the diminutive trickle I now thought of as “Rattlesnake Creek.” I judged there was plenty of time before the sun made its dramatic entrance for the new day, so I practiced the safest method of travel that I had taught to the boys. In snake country, your eyes should always be scanning two or three steps ahead, paying close attention to the edges of the trail. If you want to look at the scenery, stop and stand still, and be sure to look again where your feet will go before you resume walking. In this slow but rewarding manner, I reached Wee Bear in about ten minutes. My attention was riveted on the water crossings where vipers were likely to be hiding in wait for rodents to come down for a drink. I made it to the Altar without incident, found my seat, and settled down for the show.
The pre-dawn silence was interrupted only by the faint rustling sounds of Bear Creek, 1,000 feet below in the valley. There was absolutely no wind, and somewhere behind me a bird hopped and scratched underneath the manzanita bushes. The cloudless, amethyst sky behind Queen Shasta was glowing with a powerful white-purple locus where the star of the show was due to make its appearance. This glow soon became impossibly concentrated, with beams of shadow radiating outward where rock outcroppings blocked its corona. Gradually the intensity became too much, and just when it seemed the top of the great mountain would burst into white flame, a dazzling point of solar flare peeked over its edge, and quickly grew too bright to look at. At this moment the solar winds pushed the atmosphere against my face as a puff of breath from heaven. Our nearest star rose rapidly and turned bright yellow as the rocky surface of the planet rotated towards it, and soon the entire granite bowl in which I was seated was illumined with the incomparably fresh radiance of a new day. Sitting on the Altar gave the impression of riding in a gigantic roller coaster car, plunging down into unknown bliss and holding on for dear life.
As the sun lost its endearing qualities and condensed into a citron circle of fusion that could be felt on the skin, I turned my attention to its effects on the surrounding scenery. The craggy granite features of Sawtooth were honey-glazed with sunlight, and the shadows of trees stretched horizontally across its flanks. Off to the west, the cathedral spires above Big Bear Lake were etched in amber; sparkling with an illustrious character all their own. Over my right shoulder, the Sentinel stood sharply defined in yellow ochre, playing the music of an ultramarine sky as an inverted phonograph needle. Closer to my right, the Pharaohs of Cheops were sulking deep in purple shadows, but the tops of the trees on the peak were flaming phthalocyanine green with golden highlights.
My stomach reminded me that breakfast was overdue, so I reluctantly disembarked from the ride and made my way back to camp. Along the way I stopped and took several photos that were ideal in this “golden hour” of early morning. Dimari was up already, boiling water as usual, and the boys were beginning to stir in their tent with the promise of breakfast. I fired up the other stove, fetched more water, and by the time Jordan and Miles appeared, rumpled and hair-tousled, I was enjoying my oatmeal and coffee up on White Bear Rock, blissfully distant from the bugs.
“Good morning, sleepyheads,” I greeted them fondly from 50 feet away. Jordan grinned and made an excuse about Miles snoring. Miles grimaced and punched him in the arm.
“What are we doing today?” That was Radar, checking on the camp agenda.
“We haven’t been to the forest yet,” I suggested, adding “I call it Lothlórien,” just to whet their appetites.
“Is everything up here named after Lord of the Rings?” Jordan inquired with the air of a literary professor, as he wrestled to open his foil pouch of breakfast.
“No,” I said honestly, “There’s a ‘lost’ cave we found once that we named Sitch Tabr.” He knew the Dune reference right away and smiled, then I qualified, “It’s really just a 15-foot crack that’s wide enough to rappel into.”
“No sandworms?”
“Nope. Just more stupid mosquitoes,” I slapped my neck for emphasis. “I haven’t been able to find it in over 30 years.”
“How far is it up to the rim?” Dimari asked. He had joined me up on the rock, under the singular little ponderosa that still clung to the cracks at the top.
“Not far at all,” I shrugged, “I haven’t been up there in years.” I rubbed my knees reflexively, “But it’s pretty easy if you zig-zag, and take your time.”
With the agenda ratified, everyone went their own separate ways for a while, because nature was calling before our big adventure. I had held an impromptu seminar on proper wilderness hygiene and poop etiquette early in our trip, and everyone knew the drill by now. They may or may not be following protocol, I mused to myself, but at least I hadn’t seen any evidence that they weren’t! I saved my own dirty wipes for packing out, like I always did, and camouflaged the area as well as possible, and hoped everyone else did the same. I certainly wasn’t going to be the latrine police!
Even though our platoon intended this to be a short hike, we all carried water, and I brought a pair of trekking poles, knowing they would be an aid on the steep terrain. Most of the forest was level, but the sides sloped up steeply to the rim of the basin, and were slippery with loose rock particles and pine needles. We did a quick clean-up after breakfast, and left the camp to the chipmunks, who no longer waited until we were gone, but checked our camp frequently with great indifference as to our presence. In just a few minutes we were a level up from the lakeshore and surrounded by trees. I showed them the forest camp, and the ancient Elf camp, and noticed a few of the long-dead trees had finally toppled. As usual, the forest floor was littered with fuel, and was hauntingly vulnerable to fire – whether caused by a lightning strike, or careless campers. The lure of the rim was strong, and everyone started zigging and zagging along different routes; headed ever upward. It was like an uphill pinball game to find stable footholds in the slippery, slanted ground, cross the sloping spaces laterally, and use the bases of trees as a resting spot. Most of the trees here grew in a pronounced J shape, as a way of compensating for the angle. We skirted the great ramparts of granite (where the lost cave probably laid hidden), and found a passage through the trees all the way to the rim, without having to climb anything difficult. I was monitoring the condition of my legs the whole time, because the severely angled slope naturally put more pressure on the knees, but they were holding up surprisingly well. I had opted not to wear the neoprene braces, because they made me sweat so much. In less than a half hour, we could see blue sky between the trunks, and the rim was within reach.
The first oddity we found was a flat campsite that could comfortably accommodate twenty people, except that it was far from water. It was probably full of snow for much of the year, however, which would provide water in a different way. A few yards away through the trees, we could see another clearing that was even larger. The clearings were bordered on the south by a jumble of very large, flat boulders that we had to surmount in order to see the views. We could see over twenty miles (even with the smoke), including the bulk of the Trinity Alps and Mt. Thompson at just over 9,000 feet. Trinity Lake lay flat and listless in the hazy distance, a great scar on the land that appeared to be nearly devoid of water. Bonanza King loomed to the east on our left, and to the right, we could see the twin spires of the Sentinel. From this angle we could pick out a rugged but navigable path to the top, where the pointed crag resembling an eagle was clearly separated from the rest of the peak. Behind us to the north, the jagged Sawtooth ridge became just another wave in an ocean of granite; stretching away until it faded in the smoky horizon.
“This would be a great place to see the stars,” Dimari commented, gesturing at the nearly 360-degree views.
“Yup,” I nodded in recognition, “From now on, I’ll call this place The Observatory.” The platform rocks did offer ample observation points, as if they had been arranged for optimal viewing by the astronomy department of a university. Several small rock overhangs or caves offered shelter from any inclement weather that might prevent stargazing.
We admired our hard-won view for about 15 minutes, although it really hadn’t been that difficult to reach. A determined hiker could reach this spot from the lake in the same amount of time. We briefly considered continuing on to crest the Sentinel; perhaps even circling the whole lake, but we didn’t have enough water or gear for such an ambitious excursion. The boys were hot from the climb, and wanted to return and do some serious jumping off rocks into cool water. That sounded good, but Dimari and I wanted to explore laterally as we descended, and they wanted to go straight down, so we cautioned them about the dangers they might encounter, and let them have their little hike through the woods, free from adult authority. The men headed towards Cheops, angling across a saddle and down through the trees; avoiding the great blocks of granite that formed a sturdy bulwark as seen from below. This took us down to Mama Bear springs, which was mostly dry, and we passed beneath Baggins End in less than a half hour. The boys had already eaten, and could be heard arguing about rock-jumping techniques over by the lake when we arrived back at camp.
Dimari and I busied ourselves with the domestic chores of meal preparation, and I gathered my soup mix ingredients from the rock next to my tent. My stove was easy to operate, so there wasn’t much to do. I decided I wanted to change my shirt, and returned to my tent. My water was already boiling, so I turned it off and remembered my spoon. I turned to pass by my tent for the third time in as many minutes, and a young rattlesnake came slithering out from under a bush in the middle of our camp – right where I was going to step! This time I reversed my weight shift quickly, and stepped far back. “Ayee-ah!” It was moving away from me, casually and slowly, as I yelped, “Another snake!”
A deep voice cautiously commented from behind me, “Dang, was it under your tent?!” Dimari kept his distance, eyeing his own tent suspiciously.
My palms were suddenly sweaty, and I was ready to climb a tree, but the viper was in no hurry. “No, it was right under that bush, where I had walked like three times already!” It was another beautiful, golden-colored specimen, about 3 feet long, and headed straight for my backpack! I tossed a couple of small stones to deter it, and one bounced off its tail, prompting the loud, sharp buzz of a shuffled deck of cards. Now it wanted to get away from all signs of humans and slithered towards the creek, which was fine with us. We tossed a few more pebbles of encouragement.
Dimari had called the boys to the scene, so now the four of us were watching from a respectful distance, but crowding the creature all the same, as it retreated to the relative safety of a bush between two trees. I didn’t really want it to stop there – I wanted it to be far, far away – so I rolled a fist-sized rock about ten yards in its direction. Damned if it didn’t roll a strike, exactly where the serpent laid, coiled up under a little hemlock, and boy, did that piss it off! We could see it bunch up and hiss, with a louder, more strident rattle to let us know it didn’t appreciate my bowling skills one bit!
“We’d better just leave it alone,” Dimari decided sensibly, after rolling his own small gutter ball for good measure. “It’ll probably go away if we stop harassing it.”
I was pumped on adrenaline again, after yet another close call with a poisonous snake. “Why do those fuckers appear right where I’m walking?” I sputtered without thinking, “Oops, sorry Miles. I’m just excited.” I didn’t like to swear in front of the boys, but some of those words were so darn useful!
“That’s okay, I would be, too.” He wanted to toss a few more rocks at the bush, but I advised it would be bad snake karma, since it had fully withdrawn and obviously had no interest in engaging four apex predators in a battle. Jordan concurred with big-brotherly counsel, and Miles dropped the rock.
We chattered about the snake while my soup got cold, and I showed the boys where it had been hiding less than a foot from my tent. That inspired them to take the trekking poles over to their own tent and gave it a thorough cleansing: reaching underneath and whacking all the bushes around it, until they were satisfied that tent-sitting was not a new reptilian trend. We all checked our stuff with poles, but no more snakes were found.
“I wonder why it was in our camp?” Jordan mused, “Wouldn’t it be afraid of our smell?”
The answer flashed in an instant, and I was embarrassed I hadn’t thought of it before. “It must be hunting the chipmunks!” They had been frequenting our camp more often since the discovery of Dimari’s snack mix, and where the chipmunks went, of course the snakes followed.
“You’re right,” Dimari agreed, holding up the offending plastic bag of gorp; now riddled with holes. “We should get rid of this and dump it way over there. It’s all contaminated now, anyway.”
“What about the coffee beans?” My overwrought imagination played cartoon visions of chipmunks exploding around camp like popcorn at a movie theater.
“That should be interesting,” agreed Jordan. Now I could see rattlesnakes on pogo sticks trying to intercept caroming rodents. The adrenaline was having hallucinogenic effects!
I marched the holey bag of gorp about 50 yards from camp, and scattered it along the edges of a swath of Sierra Laurel. We decided to go swimming again, and leave the disgruntled reptile to decide it would be wiser to hunt chipmunks in less contested territory. The boys needed to channel their energy into rock-jumping, and I wanted some time to reflect on my good fortune. That was the third snake that was within biting range of my ankles! In 18 previous trips spanning 47 years, I had seen a grand total of three rattlesnakes… and only one of those was up here at the lakes. I took my camera and carefully crossed the pit of vipers formerly known as Rattlesnake Creek, and found a nice spot in the shade that afforded excellent angles from which to photograph leaping grandsons.
Jordan and Miles had developed a new sub-culture of arguing about where the best places were for jumping, and Miles (being too hesitant to do this himself), was constantly goading his older brother to jump from the highest point of the rock, approximately 20 feet over the water. I knew (from doing that myself years before), the water was cold and hard from that height, and there was a large, blade-shaped wedge of granite protruding from the water that threatened to cleave any jumper dumb enough to leap in that direction. Jordan was well aware of this, and did a few warm up jumps from 10 or 15 feet; always launching himself away from that obvious hazard. The rest of the water was deep and clear, which made it safe enough to allow indiscriminate diving. Jordan quickly learned (and told everyone who would listen), that it was wise to hold the nostrils shut when jumping feet first, to avoid a rush of water into the sinuses. I took a few videos and photos until I noticed the battery was getting low, and I told him if he wanted a video record of his big jump, he should do it soon.
So, Jordan climbed all the way to the top of White Bear Rock, dripping wet and exposed to the wind. Miles splashed at him impotently from the foot of the rock 30 feet away, and heckled him without mercy. Dimari gave a few words of masculine encouragement, I prepared my camera, and off he went! He took four or five running steps so his momentum would carry him far away from the rock, which was nearly vertical at that point. His shorts had time to flap a little on the way down, as he grabbed his nose and extended his feet towards the water for what seemed like a few seconds, then ker-splash!! He stuck the landing on the surface of the cove and plunged into its depths as the noise of everyone’s shouts (including his own) echoed off the rock walls of Dis Butte. He must have gone ten feet down, but came up quickly, with a big smile on his face as we all cheered. He did it!! And I captured it on video for posterity! He bravely went back and did it again… and again… then decided not to push his luck any further. My boyish heart wanted to jump right off there with him, but my much-abused, disabled body was happy sitting in the shade and taking pictures.
After dinner came the grand opening of the Bear Lake Casino. Jordan and Miles hadn’t played much Black Jack before, and never tried poker, so Dimari and I taught them the basics. Miles was very competitive, and he quickly learned how to run the “table,” which was (what else?) a large, flat rock. He distributed pine needles to be used as “chips,” and insisted that players “ante up” before each hand. He learned how to bluff, and lie with his facial expressions, and generally dominated like a seasoned hustler. All of us won back more than our share of pine needles anyway, because, after all, they were everywhere. Money may not grow on trees, but pine needles certainly do!
The setting sun reminded us that today was July 4th. Would there be any fireworks? Perhaps a wayward jet, Starlink satellites, or a few shooting stars would be enough to celebrate our country’s independence. Having brought all that we needed (except Dimari’s toothbrush), in a way we were effectively celebrating our own freedom from domestic obligations, social compulsions, and workplace responsibilities. Still, the callings of these daily norms were subtle but clear, and conversation at the gaming table turned to musings about what our families were doing, our dogs, favorite foods, and other comforts we missed. A general proposal materialized that we might head back tomorrow, a day earlier than planned, so we could take it easy on the way down and explore the sights along the trail. Dimari suggested we could spend tomorrow night at the Twin Towers again, which would make it much easier the next day. I offered my opinion that once we started downhill, it would be difficult to stop, and we’d probably wind up at the car before we knew it. I had planned to arrive home on Tuesday night, and return straight to work the next morning at 6 am, but the prospect of an extra day to rest and readjust to “civilization” was always tempting. We decided to leave in the morning right after breakfast, and see what happened from there.
And so, the last marshmallows were roasted, the final batch of s’mores was consumed, and I watched as Dimari, Jordan, and Miles surreptitiously gathered and packed loose odds and ends from around camp. The call of the wild may have been imprinted in our genes, but the lure of comfort and security was stronger.
— Lama Govinda