“Don’t be afraid. There is nowhere you can fall, but the power of the earth will hold you.”
— Sally Oldfield
This year marked the fiftieth anniversary of my first trip to Big Bear Lake. In that time span, I made nineteen others, although I would have liked to have made many more. Sadly, I can barely summon enough fortitude to visit every 2-3 years, on average. There is no question in my mind that the physical limitations of my disabled body have prevented me from following my bliss to the regions my heart would lead me. I could have made a hundred journeys to the Bear Lakes, and other parts of the Trinity Alps. I would have made it a goal to hike the entire Pacific Crest Trail, if I had been born into the body of one of those athletic through-hikers who climb mountains, and cross vast ranges of territory. I could have visited the great trekking sites of the world, and seen all the beautiful alpine lakes and forests. I console myself by thinking I have found the best attraction of them all, and that few could compare to the spectacular intimacy of the Bear Lakes Basin.
But how many more trips will I be able to make?
I stayed overnight at the Epps house, and drove them to the airport early Saturday morning, to begin their family vacation in Cancun. Jordan stayed home to work and take care of the dogs. My old Corolla was still running for him; now serving a third generation of our family. Dimari & Fiona let me use their Highlander, which was rugged enough to handle the dirt roads. I left as soon as I could pack it with my gear, by about 6 am. There was a fair amount of traffic already, due to the holiday weekend. It took 5 hours to get to the trailhead, with one stop for gas, and another to revisit the locally-famous Olive Pit in Corning. It had turned into a slick, modern tourist trap, with shelves full of more pickled specimens than a biology lab. The tasting jars were long gone due to Covid, but the establishment efficiently separated me from some of my money, in exchange for a multitude of snacks and gifts. I missed the buzzing fluorescent lights, and torpid old ladies who used to work there. As I continued on, I watched the outside temperature climbing towards triple digits.
By the time I reached the trailhead at 11, there were 10 other cars parked already! Bear Creek was full, owing to the 92-degree temperature (even at 3,000 feet), and all the melting snow funneling down from higher elevations to join the Trinity River. All the usual stepping stones to cross the creek were fully submerged. I scouted around a bit for an easy crossing, but found only a hastily retreating rattlesnake. I checked the lower ford, where 3 people were crossing without their boots on, and I realized I could do that, too! I returned to the car and prepared all my trail gear, then loaded it all on the pack animal (me). Mindful of more snakes on such a hot day, I picked my way carefully down to the crossing, removed my boots and socks, then tied the laces together and hung them around my neck. The water was only about a foot deep, and I started to feel my way across a jumble of rounded, slippery rocks. Some random lady who followed me down from the parking lot was watching me from the shore, to see if it was safe to cross or not. My bare feet quickly became numb from the chilly water, and one of my trekking poles collapsed half way across, but I managed to keep my balance and ford the modest, 20-foot-wide torrent. My shorts didn’t even get wet! I took my time drying and caring for my feet, and lacing the boots very well for the trek. Then I levered myself upright, waved at the random lady, and started walking uphill…a lot. My pack was heavier than I would have liked – roughly 40 pounds – due to having to carry everything myself, including a partially frozen gallon jug of water, plus an extra 3 liters for the trail.
The uphill climb was slow going, because of the heat, altitude, and very little sleep the night before. I rested as often as I could find a place to sit in the shade, to bring my heart rate down and pump my lungs for some oxygen. The contents of the melting jug of water were very helpful in keeping my core cooled down, but none of it came out the other end! My body absorbed every single drop! The dry and dusty first leg of the trail was littered with deadfalls and branches big and small. These were greeted with friendly enthusiasm, because I was headed for the Bear Lakes …under my own power! I often had to navigate over, under, or around an obstacle, being careful to avoid slips, scratches, and snakes. I met a few groups on their way down, and they said the trail was very tangled ahead. I was just glad they were leaving. One guy said Big Bear Lake was full of snow drifts and ice! Oh boy! I looked forward to seeing all the familiar views, still dressed in their winter clothing.
It took 5 or 6 hours just to get to the Twin Towers, where I planned to spend the night, and already I was pooped. It was really amazing how clear and powerful the creek was, as it rushed through this normally tranquil glade. It had also been loud in the cataracts after the bridge, where the canyon became narrow and steep. My legs were holding up well, and had just enough energy to explore a little bit around the creek. I found some new flower friends, and discovered several other ponderous Ponderosas in the flat spots where nutrients collected. They were almost as big as the Twins, but not quite. The Towers remained the royal couple in their kingdom, but the queen was missing her crown, which she’d lost a long time ago. I’m sure there was a very cool literary reference there somewhere, but it plumb escaped me at the time. I was running on reserves of trail adrenaline, and could barely think. Soon I was too tired to walk safely in the waning light, so I just set up my tent and fell inside. My legs had held up well, and deserved a good rest. The tumultuous roar of the creek right next to camp became a white noise that quickly put me to sleep. I dreamed of babbling voices within the rush of water, but slept well enough. I sure needed it!
The next morning, I crawled out of my tent as soon as I could see, and made a quick breakfast of oatmeal and coffee. There were a few mosquitoes in the woods, but not many, including a tiny variety I hadn’t seen before, and some other species as big as vampire bats. I made a deposit in the local compost facility, packed up my gear quickly, and was back on the trail before it got over 65 degrees. The terrain became rougher, with more and more fallen trees and limbs blocking the path. I saw a couple more groups leaving, and that should reduce the number of cars to about five. They said there were still more campers at the lake, but it remained 90% covered in ice! I continued on through the overgrown, littered, and tangled mess of a trail. In several places, I had to reroute into the woods to avoid debris. Sometimes the trail turned into a creek bed from all the melting snow. Happy spring plants surged from the edges of the trail inward, growing towards the open space. Directly above, Sawtooth was nearly free of snow, but ice was still seeping from deep in the cracks. On the upper leg of the trail through an avalanche meadow, there was a large field of old snow about 100 yards across, completely covering the path. I saw where people had traversed it, and it was so compressed that it easily held my weight. I crossed it quickly, and found the trail on the other side. The wet winter had caused lots of vegetation growth, which now choked the established path.
With great relief, I soon reached open rock, where the normally mellow pools below Big Bear Lake were raging ribbons of icy water, flowing every which way. Part of the outlet creek ran beneath a huge snowbank, and was carving itself a slot canyon of ice. I crossed another large field of snow to reach the lake itself, and immediately headed for the exposed, high ground to the south, where I knew of a couple secret spots to camp. The best campsite right next to the lake was completely flooded by the higher lake level, and several tents crowded into the bushes indicated that the remaining groups were sharing one small clearing. They either knew each other already, or were being forced to. I found my flat spot on top of the rock pile, with a killer view of the whole lake. Most of the surface, except for patches near the outlet, was thickly covered with sculpted ice resembling cake frosting. Great swaths of snow resembling glaciers flowed into the lake in a few places, from the slopes of the surrounding granite rim. I had returned to the lake I first saw 50 years ago, but now it looked very different, indeed!
My chosen campsite had no shade, so I laid out my tent in the most comfortable spot, and sought relief from the sun in some nearby scraps of shade, courtesy of a scrawny hemlock. This was near the melting edge of a huge snowbank, where the cool, running water lowered the air temperature significantly. It also provided a mellow soundtrack to the crisp, crystalline beauty of a snowy alpine lake. I sang “Rippling Waters” to the local birds and chipmunks, who probably asked for their money back. In this miniature glade of bliss, I passed the rest of the afternoon pleasantly on my Stare Chair, washing up and relaxing my knees, tendons, and leg muscles. That trail had taken a lot out of me already, but I still had a ways to go! So far, I was very pleased with the stamina of my legs, but was still finding it hard to get enough oxygen. Massive clouds were piling up behind the ridgelines to the north and northeast, putting on a show of strength that made me glad I packed the rain fly for my tent. I moved my chair with the shade, and enjoyed a splendiferous afternoon with my new hemlock buddy, who was now adorned with all my freshly washed trail clothes. The day was hot – probably over 100 in the valley – and even in these few hours, the snow patches receded noticeably, while the lake reclaimed a little more of its surface.
My singing had driven away all forms of life except for insects, of course, which are oblivious to human foolishness. I hadn’t seen a mosquito since I left the woods. The bumblebees seemed to be desperate for minerals after a longer spring than usual, and were frantically checking my socks for any remaining sweat. These “piss-lickers” gathered wherever I peed, and because my sweat also has urea, they even wanted to lick me! They didn’t care to sting; they just wanted to sip a little salty nectar from my wide-open skin pores. I’m here to report that it’s a very unnerving feeling to let a bumblebee lick your skin, but ultimately, they will not harm you! Tomorrow, I will leave these thirsty little beasties, and climb up to Little Bear Lake, where I anticipate even more snow, because it’s 600 feet higher. It may also be hard to find a place to camp… but I know a few exposed sites that should be clear. The evening stars came out as the brassy sun faded away, but I was oblivious to their charms: snug as a bug in my nylon cocoon. I reflected that this same sleeping bag had been on every one of my backpacking trips over a 50-year span, and I silently thanked my father for forcing me to come up here when I was young. Drifting in and out of mountain memories, I rested my weary but faithful legs, with visions of tongue-wrestling bumblebees dancing in my head.
“To be human is to continuously mistake our frames of reference for reality itself.
We so readily forget that our vantage point is but a speck on the immense plane of possible perspectives. We so readily forget that there are infinitely many kinds of beautiful lives.”
— Maria Popova