1978 (1) – Keep On Truckin’

Going back to Big Bear Lake was never really on my mind again until I reached High School.  My parents had gone through a messy divorce, and we had other things to worry about besides camping.  By the time my tadpole years had flowed into the bullfrog pool of the freshman football team, some of the guys naturally got to croaking about the physical tests they had conquered.  I made it clear to everyone that until they had tried hiking to Big Bear Lake they hadn’t done anything much to brag about.  Due to the physical weakness of my youth, I had exaggerated memories of the arduous Bear Creek Trail, but learned later it’s considered only “moderate” difficulty by guide books and the U.S. Forest Service.  Over time its legend had grown in my mind, until the memory burned as no less than a holy flame for a twelve-year-old’s rite of passage to manhood.  From the guide books I perused surreptitiously in the narrow aisles of a local book store, I learned there is indeed a sister lake, another 1,000 feet up and over the southwest pass from Big Bear Lake.  In a typical display of government eloquence and originality, the Forest Service had christened this smaller body of water “Little Bear Lake.”  It would have been interesting to learn what the local Indians called it.

By the time my sophomore year was over in 1978, I had already turned 16 and was one of the first in my class to get my driver’s license.  I had a gutsy ’55 Chevy truck, a teenage urge to tackle that trail all the way to Little Bear Lake, and two buddies crazy enough to try it with me.  We had met before High School even started, on the hot, dry August proving fields of the freshman football team the year before.  Rob was gung-ho about any challenge; bold and reckless, with a personality too large for any moment, and a maniacal perseverance that made him a fearsome football opponent.  Dave was quieter and more reserved, but exuded the resilient, laconic steadfastness of a cowpuncher.  Our ambitious backpacking expedition would be the first time any of us had been away from our parents for an extended trip, much less an epic wilderness quest 200 miles from anyone we knew.  None of us were yet old enough to die for our country, but that never dissuaded us from trying death-defying stunts.  We partied a lot in those days, and hung out in the lowest social stratum of school; disdainfully known as “bleacher creatures” by the jocks and “good” kids.  We regularly participated in drugged-out road trips that were reckless and illegal in several ways at once.  So naturally, I didn’t remember much about the road trip to get to the Trinity Alps… for the first time without adults.  I vaguely recalled that we crashed out at Eagle Creek campground sometime after dark, with the intent of mounting our assault on the Bear Lakes first thing in the morning.  Predictably, being suburban 16-year-olds who weren’t used to getting up at dawn, we were reluctantly prodded into activity late in the morning by the sun’s rays peeking over the ridge across the highway.  That’s when my very own trekking memories began, unfiltered by parental agendas or sensibilities.  I didn’t think about it much at the time, but I was about to leave all machinery and comfort behind, and sleep out under the stars for the first time; hundreds of miles from home in a national wilderness.

After a languid breakfast, defiantly horrid personal hygiene, careless packing, and compulsory bitching and moaning, we left the campsite sometime before noon, with AC-DC blasting out my truck windows, annoying even the usually brazen blue jays.  The soundtrack of our epic action movie was accompanied by the tinkling of empty beer bottles rolling around in the bed of my truck.  The day promised to be a hot one, and clouds of fine beige dust chased my hulking truck as if it were a camel in the Sahara, all the way down the desolate dirt road to the trail head.  The sight of a sign at the trailhead boosted our morale and resolve for victorious conquest, and we lashed those bulging, lopsided packs to our backs with careless bravado.  Our camping gear consisted of random junk from tool boxes and garages; without regard to weight or utility.  Devoid of fanfare, we marched with the naïve determination of youth into the great unknown, with no more thought to the dangers of our quest than to fill our canteens.  Oh, to be sixteen and invincible once again!

The first part of the trail with the scarred landscape and scrub forest passed much quicker than I remembered from my inaugural hike.  Longer legs and a stronger back made all the difference!  “Watch out for rattlesnakes” echoed in my mind as we labored under unfamiliar burdens and altitude.  Buoyed by our audacity, and not wanting to look weak to each other, we hustled our way ferociously up to the bridge and took a brief pack-off rest like seasoned pros.  Then it was “Hup! Hup! Hup!” briskly up the switchbacks as if we were in training camp.  As we gained altitude, however, the diminishing oxygen took its toll, until we were blowing in shallow gasps, and sweating like iron workers in a forge.  The pace slowed down considerably and talking ceased.  For the moment, it appeared the trail had gained the upper hand.  Eventually, our young and robust bodies acclimated to the task, and we fell into a deliberate, rhythmic marching that ate up distance.  After the hottest and scratchiest part of the trail we changed into shorts, and Rob took off his shirt and tied it around his head like Rambo.  His white, sun-starved chest was streaked with red from shoulder straps.

“You just scared away all the wildlife in fifty miles,” drawled Dave, from a safe spot in the shade out of Rob’s reach.

“That’s what yer maw said, haw haw!”  Rob had a limited repertoire of insults, but hurled them with vigor.

I realized with growing discomfort that this canyon was a lot hotter than I remembered as a child.  My head smoked and fizzled in the sun as the black end of a burned-out match.  I begrudgingly acknowledged the wisdom of my early-rising father, and resolved never again to start a hike at noon, when the sassy sun glared straight down through the trees.  Fortunately for us, it was June and not August, and trail water was plentiful and relatively pure in those days.  Now, I have to hike with a micro filter pump to avoid giardia, but back then we just flopped on our bellies and drank right out of the little snow melts like cattle.  There were many such bovine respites, where we would wallow shamelessly and fill our small aluminum canteens; then drain them in less than ¼ mile, only to flop down and refill them again.  We boldly sweated enough to make a new Bear Lake, although bears, with their keen sense of smell, would probably have stayed as far away from it as possible.

By the time we reached the places where the forest opened up and the granite peaks became visible, the trail had earned the sincere respect of Rob and Dave as an opponent.  We exchanged steely glances as if we were competing against a championship team, and knew we had to lay it all on the line for the goal line stand.  Rob was becoming agitated in a peculiar way that Dave and I knew all too well, when a challenge became bigger than expected and Rob’s normally hyperactive personality became utterly fanatic, petulant, and irrational.  When we first sighted the massive rise of granite steps and ledges that led up to the southwest, with small puffy clouds glancing off the tops, I pointed and said, “The map shows Little Bear Lake is up there.”  Rob and Dave looked up slowly in disbelief, slack-jawed, in a way they might size up a huge, intimidating opposing player and imagine the effort it would take to bring him down.  They had never gone on more of a hike than a school field trip.  “The trail follows the ridge up on this side then you go around the big lake and up behind that mountain,” I added knowledgeably.  I was considered the quarterback of this drive, not just because I had actually hiked this trail, but because I the only one who had actually camped out before, in a tent.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Dave broke huddle and stared as if I’d tricked him into blocking the fearsome Raiders pass rush.  Or perhaps he was under the impression we’d be taking a lift to an air-conditioned luxury hotel next to a lake resort.  I admit I did play up the beauty of the area maybe a little too much, but my linemen were less awestruck than irritated.

“Neither,” I retorted.  “I told you it was hard!  You wanna quit and go home?”  The sneering ‘Q’ word slapped his face like a gauntlet.

“I can do this all day,” Dave blinked thickly with mock conviction.

“I don’t care, let’s just get there,” Rob snorted abruptly, bowing his head to make a first down.

From then on, as we often did in a football game, we rode the wake of Rob’s will over the rough spots.  He broke the trail like a crazy machine, flailing at the ferns and alders with his stick, kicking big rocks out of the ditches, and expending more energy trying to look tough than actually making progress.  But he didn’t stop.  Onward and upward he led, with barely a surly glance or a growl at the astonishing beauty all around.  My head was on a swivel drinking it all in, but any attempts to share the beauty were met with irritated grunts from my jilted teammates.  The wildflowers were swaying in riotous orgy with the bumblebees, birds of all sizes and colors were calling the glad tidings of summer, and crystal water sparkled with bubbling exuberance in the little mountain streams.  Through this intoxicating paradise trudged three oblivious football players in full gear, attacking each small climb as if the game depended on it.

By the time we reached Big Bear Lake, the sun had slanted towards its westerly position over the rim, and the long summer day was well past its zenith.  Puffy clouds hung fat and lazy, reflected in the broad, glassy-green surface of the lake.  Rob and Dave were duly impressed with the scenery for the first time, and spirits lifted considerably.  We wrestled our misshapen packs open and dumped the contents on the ground carelessly, as if visiting the local landfill.  Nourishment and calories were what we sought, but our deli sandwiches had been pounded into pulp by the jarring, jolting trail.  We devoured them lustily with our fingers as if they were mashed potatoes, and licked the wrappers clean.  One warm beer each (yes, we brought beer – why do you think this was so hard?) and we were ready to continue to the pass.

Just as I remembered from five years earlier, the trail bushwhacked around the southeastern shore until it mounted a large rock ledge like a giant’s porch.  Everywhere the trees and boulders were arranged with such oversized character and style that it felt as if we were munchkins exploring the way to Oz.  Nearing the base of the pass, the verdant undergrowth became thicker and more tangled, due to fewer people venturing this far.  The path eventually petered out in “every man for himself” fashion, and we took different routes to see who would get through first.  All we really wanted at this point was for the bushwhacking to stop – we couldn’t have cared less about the destination.  At times my awkward pack became so snagged I had to wriggle free from the straps, untangle it from the grasping branches, and drag it for a stretch before putting it back on.  When at last we reached the clearing on the other side, we found another excellent campsite on the southwest shore, and the trail up through the pass was clearly marked through a gateway of two large boulders, like a portal to another level in a video game.

Here there was a lush spring or strong melt flowing into the lake, and our surroundings took on the manicured, decorative appearance of suburban front yards.  Up a few ledges and around a boulder, and a whole new display of wildflowers, delicate succulent plants, and healthy green moss captivated the eye.   This was mostly lost on the wayfaring warriors, who were too busy watching where they stepped, heaving their packs up to the next level, and attacking whatever was next to conquer.  The new and dazzling features were stimulating at first, but the constant altitude gain (we were over 6,000 feet now) combined with the aftereffects of reckless partying the night before, began to take a brutal toll.  Wordless, floppy rest stops became more spontaneous and frequent, with rolling eyes and lolling tongues.  By now, we ignored the ubiquitous, ridiculously huge bumblebees, and they ignored us, though one flew into the side of my skull with such force that I thought someone had hit me with a golf ball.  The air was clear but sparse and unsatisfying, and the sun reflected off the white rocks so that the heat seemed to be coming from beneath us, as if we were hamburgers on a barbecue.  Staring up at the purple-shadowed rock wall of the canyon made me nauseous and dizzy.  Gradually, the saddle shaped pass came into view, until the ghost of a trail could be clearly seen mounting its crest and disappearing over the other side.  The other side!  We pushed our hands down on top of wobbly knees and worked our legs like pistons to reach the end zone.