1978 (3) – Defending Our Territory

The next morning, we were ready to explore Little Bear Lake properly, to make up for our late arrival the day before.  A well-worn path ran through our campsite, down along the brushy outlet creek, but away from the lake.  Because it seemed like the natural way to go, we followed it down for about 100 yards and found another, much smaller lake, which was labeled on my USFS topo map as “Wee Bear Lake.”  It was less than a half-acre in size – more like a very large puddle caught in a big depression in the surrounding granite – but what surroundings!  From the first glimpse of Wee Bear, it was obviously the most spectacular setting of all the three Bear Lakes.  Just like Goldilocks, we found this one to be “just right.”  To the north the massive saw-toothed mountain peaks across the valley loomed larger than life, seemingly right on top of the tiny lake.  The morning surface was like a huge mirror, framing a perfect reflection of the triangular peaks, as if they were the sails of a great clipper ship moored in a stone-locked harbor.  The southern shore where we stood was wooded with fine hemlocks and healthy white pine, where isolated snow pockets remained, melted into fantastic shapes resembling carved marble sculptures in a modern art museum.  All around us were skunk cabbage, riotous flowers, pitcher plants, and jack-in-the-pulpits jostling for attention in a small marshy area where the outlet creek from Little Bear Lake entered this lower basin. The uphill or west side was lit by the morning sun, with a small but beautiful granite ledge set prettily like a stage, providing another diving platform into the deepest part of Wee Bear where fat trout drifted slowly in the green, glowing depths as if suspended in olive oil.  The main path continued directly down to the east shore, worn by hundreds of hikers over time that had all been drawn inexorably to the edge, hypnotized by the view.  And if some of them weren’t careful, they could have fallen right off into the panorama itself!

Just a few yards from Wee Bear’s eastern shore, the gray and white granite cliffs commenced a staircase descent to the valley over 1,000 feet below.  Each step down appeared to have a drop of about 15 or 20 feet, and a flat landing area.  Some had quaint little trees and bushes, or small pools of water from the outlet creek spilling over and disappearing.  Here and there were sheer cliffs, outcroppings, and channels marching down, tumbling down, until the boulders on the very bottom – which must have been the size of buildings – looked like scattered white gravel. The tiny model trees on the valley floor had the texture of a deep shag carpet, but were sharply defined in the pure alpine air.  Obviously, this was the gargantuan scaffolding we had gaped at from the trail the day before, as seen from the top.  Hawks soared majestically in the updrafts hundreds of feet above the valley floor, and it was strange to be looking down at them.  We could make out the thin scar of the trail we had conquered the day before, as it struggled through the verdant green underbrush and scratched across the bleached rocky places.  We had hiked the full length of a vast green and white candy cane and wound up on the curved tip.  In awed silence we turned our feet in slow circles with gaping mouths, as if to devour the 360 degree views again and again.  

The bulking triangles of the saw-toothed mountains to the north dominated the skyline, but glory and wonder lay in all directions.  A gathering flotilla of white and gray clouds gently peeked over the ridges and set sail across the sky towards the east and Mt. Shasta, which was obscured by more clouds about 40 miles away.  To the south was another, sheerer cliff of spectacular granite shapes piled impossibly high, like the façade and columns of a temple.  These soared almost straight up, perhaps close to 1,000 feet from their bases.  Up behind us, lovely little cliffs and ledges ascended from the stage at the edge of Wee Bear, and formed a large shoulder ridge leading off to the northwest, which culminated in a cluster of huge post pile crags similar to basalt pillars on a grand scale.  Near to us on our viewing platform of granite were absurdly appropriate white blocks shaped like couches and benches: toy furniture provided by the gods.  We sat down reverently; carefully, as if we were sinful guests in a pastor’s parlor, and tried not to disrupt the unfolding of the dream.

We spent hours hiking with our minds.  Our eyes traced back and forth over the panorama, following a ridge line here, a cleft in a mountain there.  Eventually, we began to think about conquering the grandness, and that’s when our egos regained control.  We shifted back into competition mode, and began debating the best vantage points.  “Up there, I said,” pointing at the top of the columned temple, where granite heads gazed solemnly northward across the gorge.

“Naw, over there at the cliffs,” Rob gestured to his left, “Where you can see Shasta.”

“The best one’s the peak behind the big lake,” Dave turned and said over his shoulder, “I bet you can see everything from up there.”

Gradually, the awe wore off completely, our youthful boldness returned, and we planned what to do on our one full day at the lake.  We decided to make for the easiest of these vantage points – the straight-edged pillar cliffs Rob pointed out – by making our way up the Wee Bear ridge and back towards Big Bear.  Swiftly and with renewed purpose, we made our way back to camp.  Without so much as a glance at the gorgeous lake, we gathered up a few things and started climbing again.  Sore muscles creaked and complained, reminding us that the mind may like to be elevated, but the legs have to labor to get it there.  By now, we were insensible to the pain.  Being 16-year-old football players, we were supposed to exert our wills over our bodies, and push them to the limits of their last twitches.  We dared one another in turn to jump a crevasse, balance on a razor’s edge of granite, or climb sheer rock faces with no hands.  This senseless battle of adolescent boasting fought its way recklessly up the helter-skelter slopes of the butte, oblivious to the fact that a broken bone would have been a major problem so far from the highway.

We made good time now, having acclimated to the altitude, and headed up close to 6,500 feet in a northerly direction.  This course bore us on the hard, bare breast of a large rock knoll, providing an attractive overlook for Little Bear and the sweeping views down the valley.  Everywhere was continuous granite, broken up only by a few shrubs.  The only soil in the area was down at the lakeshore.  A few lone, brave, twisted trees clung tenaciously to cracks in the rock.  Soon we were drawing close to the cliffs and we angled upwards whenever possible, in order to come out on top.  It was every bit as impressive as Rob had thought.   Lying prone on the cliff edge, with our heads and shoulders over the void, we could see Mt. Shasta and Mt. Eddy to the east, with patches of deep blue sky mixed in with thickening clouds along the dark black spine of Bonanza King ridge.  Opening up to the south, more mountains disappeared in a haze towards Weaverville, behind the rim of the cirque enclosing Little Bear Lake.  The great bulk of the saw-toothed ridge dominated everything to our left, like a huge imposing skyscraper, in front of which we dangled insignificantly, as if we were helpless window washers stranded on wires.  Far, far down in the valley, the thin capillary of a trail inched its way up the side of the saw tooth ridge and passed behind our left to Big Bear Lake.

“Waaah!  Waaah!” Rob pantomimed, twisting small matches into stick figures and sending them screaming down the cliff face to their doom.  We all laughed, and when they were too small to see anymore he made gruesome squishing sounds to simulate the abrupt end of their descent.  All of us knew we would make similar sounds if we fell for real, and unconsciously we inched away from the edge until we were seated safely and comfortably in the shade.  More matches were sacrificed – this time for their intended purpose – to burn an herbal tribute to the mountain gods.

“Look, there’s somebody coming up the trail.”  Dave was the first to see them: tiny specks of color barely moving in the distance.  We strained to count and learn about them, as more and more specks emerged from the edge of the forest like multicolored blood cells passing through the capillaries of the mountainside far below.  “There’s more than twenty,” Dave said unbelievingly, after peering through his Dad’s powerful WWII binoculars.

We took turns estimating their numbers and tracing their progress, until we decided there were 23 specks, growing larger now and having arms and legs and personalities, as they struggled to reach the top of the trail where Bear Creek shimmies over the bare rock.  We jeered derisively as the specks bunched up in the steepest, brushiest parts of the trail, forgetting our own tribulations just one day before.  After a brief rest, and waiting until all the specks were together, they headed up towards the south, picking their way around the very feet of the mountain crowned by the crags where we sat.  They were getting closer, and were unmistakably headed for Wee Bear and Little Bear!

Immediately we felt invaded and irrationally territorial, and decided to run back to camp and prepare to defend our lake against the onslaught.  As we ran parallel to their course far below, we realized the wisdom of angling up towards the front of Wee Bear on the front of the mountainside with the spectacular views; instead of going all the way to the pass behind Big Bear like we had done.  By now we were experts at rock hopping and crack jumping, and we were back at the lake in less than half an hour.  We saw that our crude campsite was directly in the path the invaders would surely take in their approach to the lake, and we fantasized about setting elaborate deadfalls or booby traps to prevent them from trespassing.  “Why are there so many of them?” I wondered out loud.

“Probably Boy Scouts or something,” shrugged Dave, as we scooped up our grungy, twisted belongings and looked around for a fallback campsite for the night, where we might have some solitude.  There was a little knoll, or rather; a huge pile of car-sized boulders tumbled together like a junkyard a little back from the lake.  Mounting its flat top offered a level, defensible campsite with advantageous views of the approach from Wee Bear and most of Little Bear.  We worked ourselves into a tumultuous state of indignation, severely affronted by this intrusion, and imagining all manner of righteous repulsion.  When Rob began to get seriously agitated and made out as if to gather rocks for a catapult, that’s when we calmed down, grinning sheepishly at each other, realizing we weren’t actually going that far.  But Rob stubbornly placed a few choice missiles ready to hand, just in case.

Just then the first wave of the invasion began arriving.  From the very beginning, there were whistles, shouts, and sharp echoes of excited laughter.  A skirmish line of multicolored intruders swarmed up from Wee Bear like locusts, crashing through brush, snapping sticks, and shrieking as if they had just been let out for recess.  After all our trepidation, they were just kids.  Well, most of them.  Hell, we weren’t much older ourselves, but we were certainly older, and we were there first.  So, why were we hiding?  There were a few adults scattered in the swarm like larger drones, and they made weak authoritative noises and tried in vain to control the stampede.  One after the other, brightly colored backpacks hit the ground, and small boys bounded off like fleas on a hot sidewalk.  Within a few minutes the campsites resembled dump heaps, and the entire Little Bear Lake basin resounded with shrieks, and shouts, and splashes, and exclamations of boyish energy.  What a racket!

Defeated by our own paranoia, we three grinches stayed hidden discreetly behind the walls of our little fort, and surveyed the ransacking of the lake shore with jealous eyes.  There were so many of these noisy little brats that there would be no good fishing, no peace, and no way to get to the lake without tripping over a bunch of Boy Scouts playing mumblety-peg, or singing “Kumbaya.”  After a desultory powwow, we agreed to retreat from this boisterous spot, and explore the back of the lake.  We melted with our gear into the dark green forest that bordered the back side of the knoll.  This was a thick, healthy glade, with desperate little mosquitoes that stung like darts as they hit our skin with headlong power dives.  Weaving and sweating, we trekked to the other side of the forest and met up with an overgrown trail that snaked under the bushes.  This led us gratefully away from the noise and hungry bugs, and brought us to a large flat area with an attractive spring.  Here, dozens of bumblebees meandered lazily among sticky meadow flowers, and there were fewer mosquitoes – even though it was swampy and cool.  Perhaps the little vampires had discovered the smorgasbord back at the cove, and would leave us alone here.  We found a nice, small campsite that someone had apparently used to gain seclusion before; perhaps in similarly annoying circumstances.

The day skittered on with distant sounds of high-pitched glee, until the noise abated somewhat as the cherubim settled down.  We reasoned they were probably busy making lanyards, or earning merit badges.  I examined my own sense of disgust about what was, after all, a perfectly innocent and joyous enjoyment of the lake by enthusiastic boys.   I recalled that all of my male cousins, my Dad, and his brothers had been Eagle Scouts, but I was denied the opportunity by an acrimonious divorce that yanked the privileges out from under our family.  I shifted my butt uncomfortably on the hard rock where we were sitting.  The smoke from several cheerful campfires now rose through the trees near their camp.  We self-deposed exiles spent a fruitless, envious afternoon exploring the spring and its surrounding ledges, grumbling under our breath.  The lake seemed to be very deep off this southern shore, plunging down into inky depths that could only be guessed at.  By this time of day, the pushy clouds had made considerable progress in their attempt to crowd out the sky, and our side of the lake began to get colder.  We were discussing how to go back around the tumbled boulders of the knoll and emerge on the ledges surrounding Wee Bear, when we noticed a strange silence.  The jabbering and snapping sounds from the campsites had abated, and there was no trace of smoke, or colorful clothes flitting through the trees.  Swiftly, with victorious glee, we grabbed our gear and bushwhacked back along the shore to the large diving rock and the campsites.  The Boy Scouts were gone!  True to their credo, they had drowned their fires and left no trace of their stay except for scuffed areas all around the primitive fire rings.

We strode triumphantly down to Wee Bear and out to the ledges, and saw the whole group stretched out away from us to the north, picking their way back down the face of the mountain the way they had come.  We had our lakes to ourselves again!  High fives all around!  Rob roared out a fierce bellow of triumph, and several of the boys stopped and looked back in surprise, expecting to see Bigfoot. Then all of us joined in with Big Bear bellows and Tarzan yells, until the boys hustled to catch up to their comrades.  When the thrill of victory wore off, and we surveyed our prize, we could see out across the wide open valley and beyond the ridges the clouds had significantly encroached on the most of the eastern sky: contorted, sickly gray, and vengeful.  The wind was definitely colder now, and had the moist taste of weather.  From our viewing platform we turned back to the west, where a froth of gray cumulus bulked ominously just behind the tall cathedral peak, like cresting waves about to crash on a rocky shore in slow motion.  This surely was a warning sign, but none of us had had any experience with rapidly changing mountain weather.  What’s more, we had grown up in the foggy Marin County redwoods, where grayness was generally ignored and rain took a long time to arrive on the scene.  We took our time getting back to camp, idly speculating what we’d have for dinner if we could have anything but the tasteless canned or cardboard crap we’d brought with us.  The little forest seemed very quiet after the exodus of the gremlins.  The normally ubiquitous birds and chipmunks were silent and hidden, and we were oblivious to their discretion.