“The earth is all that lasts.
The earth is what I speak to when
I do not understand my life
Nor why I am not heard.
The earth answers me with the same song
That it sang for my fathers when
Their tears covered up the sun.
The earth sings a song of gladness.
The earth sings a song of praise.
The earth rises up and laughs at me
Each time I forget
How spring begins with winter
And death begins with birth.”
— Nancy Wood
I noticed the stars for the first time that night. Indeed, they had been silent witnesses to each of my previous trips to the lakes, but I hadn’t noticed them because in the early summer they were visible only after I had abused myself into a stupor through fatigue, drugs, or both. Now in late September, the evening “star” (actually the planet Venus) was immediately noticeable around dinner time, after I had finished my nippy bath. Down by the lake shore, where the most sky was visible, I looked upward and around to try and locate the first pale pinpoints of real stars faintly perceptible in the blue steel sky. This became a game of hide and seek, where I would see one plainly and look away, and not be able to find it again. The ephemeral photons appeared and disappeared, dancing in the periphery of my vision after their journey of many light years, but trying to focus on them was fruitless. The truth of the stars was always there; only my ability to see was lacking.
Gradually, I could see each star become fixed as an image on a developing photograph. Other stars would then take up the invisibility dance, until they also toed their mark in the firmament. As more and more players took the stage, the curtains of twilight drew back to reveal the full company of night sky, and the celestial orchestra gathered itself and paused in hushed anticipation. I quickly ran back to camp to get my pipe and air mattress for maximum enjoyment of the performance. Chris, Judy, and the dogs tagged along to share a front row seat.
First, the color of the sky returned gradually from the mysterious gray, as deepening shades of indigo fortified the budding starlight. Seen in the thin air of these alpine heights, all color had a depth and brilliancy that was masked at lower altitudes by haze, dust, and ambient light. Rapidly, the fading twilight evaporated from the air, leaving a residual glow in the darkening spaces between the stars. The rim of the lake where it met the night sky bulked like cardboard stage scenery juxtaposed with a rich, organic tapestry. More and more stars were crowding their way onto the stage. Clusters of brilliant, multicolored points of light billions of years old gathered in the wings, appearing spot on cue in the precise moment. We could see the differences between the red, white, and blue starlight clearly, with the disparity of coded dots on a map. It was incredible to think that we were lying on our backs on a huge rock spinning madly in space; eternally suspended in a fathomless universe of heavenly bodies and showered with particles of light that had traveled immeasurable light years of inconceivable distance. Satellites appeared from time to time, weirdly bisecting the rhythmic, circular dance of the stars in an even straight line to nowhere. It was a magnificent show that evoked remembrance of the Author of the play and Conductor of the orchestra. Judy and I had been raised by agnostic, indifferent pseudo-Presbyterians, and Chris was scornful of religion, but on that night, lying on that rock, we surely gazed into the trillion eyes of God.
Meanwhile, as we were stargazing and snoozing, the chipmunks were raiding and pillaging.
Morning crept stealthily into the Little Bear Lake basin, exposing three twisted, deformed sleeping bag cocoons containing snoring caterpillars. Two comatose dogs were strewn nearby, and the whole menagerie resembled debris that had fallen from the back of a garbage truck. I had worked my bag completely off its air mattress, and down a few feet to a cleft in the flat rock. We had eschewed tents this trip in favor of a lighter load, and our bags were noticeably damp from morning dew, although the skies were clear. I stood up stiffly, with resentful back and leg muscles complaining, and looked around with eagerness to start the day. The mirror surface of the lake was mesmerizing and disorienting, and it was dizzying to tell which way was up. The mountains thrust their peaks into the water, and not a sigh of wind stirred its surface. A pulsating, tranquil silence clamped down on the basin like the lid of a pot, and a few diehard stars still peeped through the underside.
“Coffee,” I said to myself with grateful anticipation, remembering the luxurious, dark French roast we had brought instead of instant coffee. Stiff and scratching, I stumbled along the fifty yards back to camp, trying to convince my rebellious legs that we weren’t really hiking anymore. As soon as I was in sight of our gear, several sharp whistles emitted from the camp, and I glimpsed the disappearing brown rumps of scattering, scurrying chipmunks, tails held high in triumph. “Uh oh,” I now thought, and looked up at the suspended food bag just in time to see a cute little rodent face with something in its mouth pop out of a quarter-sized hole near the top of the bag. The rest of the chipmunk emerged, impossibly agile as it ran up the nylon cord from which the bag hung, and evaporated into the foliage of the tree. Slowly, with increasing irritation accentuated by dehydration and the lack of caffeine in my system, I morosely surveyed the damage.
Inside the food bag were chipmunk droppings mixed with the last few crumbs of our “gorp,” a nonsensical name we bestowed on a homemade trail mix of nuts, dried fruit, pretzels, m&m’s, and other choice tidbits. We had consumed about half of the gallon Ziploc bag on the way up, and had planned to save the rest for the trip down, or in case we ran out of food. The chipmunks had cleverly rendered that plan moot, as they somehow extracted over a pound of nuts and goodies (two cheekfuls at a time). “Shit!” I exclaimed with half a smile cracking my face at the audacity of these larcenous little critters, who were now watching me alertly from various rocks and logs near their headquarters a stone’s throw from camp. If chipmunks can laugh, I swear I was the butt of their joke that morning. I felt comically violated like Donald Duck, who had just lost his pants to the mischievous Chip & Dale.
“What happened?” yawned Chris, as he sleepily approached the camp.
“Omigod, did they get our food?” Judy asked more directly, dragging her sleeping bag. Che and Shirelle, the loyal camping companions responsible for guarding our supplies, trudged sheepishly behind Judy, cowering as if waiting to be punished for their negligence. Che stayed meekly close to Judy, while Shirelle perked up at the smell of varmint (which must have been everywhere), and went busily from one backpack to another, then to the food bag, and returning to my backpack, where she inserted her muzzle and sniffed forcibly. Suddenly, out flew the last stowaway chipmunk like a furry piece of popcorn bursting from the popper! It seemed to defy gravity as Shirelle followed its flight like a mongoose; twisting her neck completely around before her body followed in recoil. With scrambling legs and frenetic snarls, she zigzagged right on the terrified critter’s tail all the way back to its nest, crashing heedlessly through the brush. Che barked in ineffectual support, and took a few threatening steps towards the commotion, then decided discretion was the better part of valor and boosted his ego by pissing on a tree trunk. The last chipmunk got away, and the dogs spent a good hour huffily sniffing and snorting, anxiously tracing the antagonizing network of plunder that crisscrossed our camp. Despite the soothing aroma of strong, fresh coffee, the shrill echoes of chipmunk laughter really stunk up our morning.
Later, I discovered one highly skilled varmint had deftly nipped the thick nylon stitches of my side backpack pocket, where I’d forgotten a few granola bars were stashed. A chipmunk-sized hole through the seam and empty plastic wrappers were all that was left, save for one small chunk of granola and many mocking droppings. The surgical precision of the heist was so thorough that not a thread of the tough pocket fabric had been touched – only the seam had been bitten through for maximum efficiency. Owing to my affinity for cartoons and appreciation for shenanigans, I sincerely admired the skill of the larcenous little rascal who pulled off this adroit feat, and I placed the remaining chunk of granola solemnly on a flat rock near their nest in ersatz tribute; with a raspberry salute for effect.
This was how we learned the handy backpacking technique of packaging all food redundantly in lightweight aluminum, tin, or Tupperware containers. The rascals got us good on this trip, but future generations of Neotamias alpinus would find the pilfering much more difficult, and hopefully the unspeakable little bastards might break a tooth or two in the effort!
“Heaven is my father and Earth is my mother and even such a small creature as I finds an intimate place in its midst. That which extends throughout the universe I regard as my body and that which directs the universe I regard as my nature. All people are brothers and sisters and all things are my companions.”
— Chang Tsai
After breakfast, we held council about what we were going to do with the 3 full days we had at our disposal in this pristine alpine playground. “Explore!” said our hearts and minds. “What, are you nuts?” retorted our leg and back muscles, which had lugged far more than hearts and minds up 3,200 feet of granite steps and mazes. Owing to our youthful resiliency and sense of adventure, the hearts and minds contingent won out, but we split the vote and Judy decided to sunbathe on White Bear Rock, that great lump of granite next to our camp from which jumping in the lake was irresistible. Chris and I started mapping our route of exploration by naming some of the main geographical features that framed the basin. Thus, the rocky bluff to the north that Rob, Dave, and I had ascended two years before became known as “Dis Butte” and its partner to the south “Dat Butte.” These two minor ridges embraced both Wee Bear and Little Bear in a giant hug of granite. The far northern crags from which we had watched the boy scouts were christened the “Cliffs of Dis Butte.” To the west, the awesome cathedral wall of granite steps leading up to a pointed spire we dubbed “Altamira.” We decided to explore first the enthralling topography of the Wee Bear balcony, and work our way southwards up Dat Butte to gain a new perspective on Little Bear.
One cannot approach Wee Bear without proper respect. At first our boots thudded on the dirt path that led 100 yards down to the tiny lake, but we instinctively slowed our gait and walked softly, as when not wanting to wake a loved one. The sun was high in the eastern sky, and although we had disdainfully left all timepieces behind, we could tell it was mid-morning. Our pace was inquisitive and deliberate as we turned left to the granite ledge overlooking Wee Bear, with emerald trees making a picturesque frame for Mt. Shasta in the background. We discussed the finer points of leaping off the ledge into the water about ten feet below, where fat trout lazily swam back and forth in the deepest part of the lake. This platform was the ideal picnic location in an impressive garden of idyllic settings. Normally, what made a nice picnic spot was having a flat, comfortable place to lay or sit on a blanket and enjoy a tranquil view, and maybe some shade if you’re lucky. Wee Bear was replete with fantastic venues that far exceeded these minimum requirements. Everywhere we looked, there were flat grassy clearings, with cute little trees, wildflowers, and shaded chairs & tables of log or granite. And the views were to die for! Our eyes dried up regularly for lack of blinking, lest we miss some subtle nuance of the spectacular.
Past this pleasant ledge to the north, the massive stone sails of Sawtooth Ridge unfurled in the clear morning light, garnished by the usual banners of puffy clouds. This way around the lake was passable, but took more effort than we were in the mood for, so we doubled back to the main trail and explored the quaint little marshy inlet where the late summer trickle from Little Bear dawdled before seeping into Wee Bear. Even this late in the season, this small moist plot was rich with life and hosting a Mardi Gras of exquisite wildflowers. Corn lilies grew tall and lush, and delicate alpine grass mixed richly with a woven moss carpet underfoot. A school of black tadpoles lounged in the sunny shallows of the water, and we wondered how frogs could possibly live through the winter up here. Pitcher plants lined the shore of these pools, and we peeled them back to discover what unfortunate insects had blundered into the sweet nectar wells of death. Jeweled dragonflies hovered and darted, alighting ominously still on the edges of the plants before zooming off in pursuit of prey. There were even a few butterflies flitting lightly among the flowers, accented by the magenta manzanita, and mingling gently with the curiously large and shiny black bumblebees known to these mountains.
Making our way out to the eastern bluffs where the astonishing views opened up, we hopped among the rocks to find the best vantage point. About a hundred yards below Wee Bear we discovered the only incense cedar tree we had seen this high up: a majestic specimen perched imperiously on an advantageous ledge, with a few couch-like boulders positioned invitingly at its base. This singular, ancient, exposed tree had taken a beating over the years, but was robust and colorful, with large, healthy strips of rust-colored bark. We called this the “Beater Cedar” and sampled the dubious comforts of its furniture, which faced east to Shasta and south to the complex cliffs of Sphinx Rock. The outlet drip from Wee Bear trickled nearby, and we poked around a few exotic pools in clefts of granite, where strange alpine specimens of succulents clustered in the crevices and produced small, alien-looking flowers. Here and there chunks of hard, volcanic obsidian were embedded in the granite shelves, exposed in knobs and bumps as the softer granite eroded over millennia. The tortuous, cataclysmic forces that had wrought these lake basins were masked by the natural beauty we now enjoyed; however, the ridges and rims of the cirques were surely the walls of exploded volcanoes, and glaciers indisputably carved out the valleys. These geologic minions of fire and ice all paled in comparison to the impossible megalith of their master, the great Queen Shasta, which dominated the skyline for hundreds of square miles. The rocks that slid and scraped under our boots had a brittle, ceramic sound, owing to their crystalline components. At opportune spots along the cliffs, we tumbled a few large rocks noisily down to clatter and smash on the escarpments below, in our own miniscule tribute to the might of creation and destruction, and the endless cycles of the universe.
We followed the interesting little seeps back up to their source, which led us again to the shore of Wee Bear. From there we headed south and ascended the shoulder of Dat Butte, which provided a dramatic flat camping spot (albeit with no shade) commanding most of the views. We spent a few minutes artfully scattering and disguising the blackened rocks of a fire ring that someone had carelessly left there, so it looked as wild and untouched as it should. From this vantage point we could visually pick out a route all the way up to the top of Sphinx Rock, but we saved that for another day and headed back to camp for lunch. Our plan was to stay close to the lake this first day, to save our battered legs for more ambitious forays tomorrow.
Between Dis Butte and our camp was the large, jumbled pile of large boulders where Rob, Dave, and I had retreated during the raucous Boy Scout invasion two years prior. This was an odd collection of jagged chunks of white granite, ranging from refrigerator size to the bulk of a small house. How these massively heavy chunks of the mountain wound up all piled together was a mystery, for there was a gentle wash between the butte and the pile, which made a collective tumble down the mountainside doubtful. It seemed as though they had been pushed up mightily from below, as if a sand worm from Dune had peeked out, then retreated. From the camp side it was relatively mild and easy to traverse, but from this side it was ruggedly formidable. We picked the most navigable route, and came upon what appeared to be a cave opening, or a hole between several colossal boulders. Ever mindful of bears, we circumnavigated the opening to the top of its crowning boulder, and dropped a few rotten logs down to see if anybody was home. This produced no responding growls, so we hustled back to get our flashlights.
What we found on our return was nothing short of miraculous. The opening of the cave was bent and awkward, and well hidden from passers-by. We had to stoop to avoid a bulging ceiling at the threshold, from which I still have a scar on my scalp. After this painful obstacle, the space between the enormous boulders widened to reveal a neat little hideout in the rocks. A flat gravel floor could easily sleep four adults, and more space was available where a buried flat rock sloped up to the left at a 30 degree angle. On the right was a short vertical wall about five feet tall, with natural shelves and storage cubbies formed by broken rock pieces. Chris was over six feet tall and had to stoop a bit, but at 5’ 7” I could stand up straight in most of the cave. Our astonishment and wonder at finding this sanctuary was tempered with an eerie feeling that this granite marvel had been crafted intentionally somehow, which became stronger when we realized the back wall was a natural fireplace! Two large flat slabs formed jambs on either side, and the “hearth” was about 3 feet off the floor – at a perfect cooking height, with a small countertop in front. The inner hearth was shaped like a firebox about 2 feet cubed, with a flat, sandy bottom where the fire would lay. Above this miraculous formation were a wide airy flue and the promise of a chimney disappearing in the cleft as far as our flashlight beams could shine. We could even feel a slight pull from an updraft behind a cap rock that acted as a lintel! This was an incredible, one-in-a-billion find. What were the odds that rocks weighing as much as a building could fall together haphazardly to create this phenomenon?
There wasn’t any sign that bears had ever used the cave, and no sign of humans, either. A few sticks had fallen down cracks, and we built a tiny cupful of fire in the sweet spot, to see how it would behave. It quickly roared to life with an extraordinary draft upwards, and when it died down we excitedly extinguished the burnt sticks and twigs, hiding them back in the firebox so as to retain the pristine, unused appearance of this cozy little hideaway we had discovered. With hushed reverence, we backed carefully outside, bowing down in deference to the low ceiling at the threshold (ouch), and to the unknown spirits who had crafted the impossible altar of fire that still glowed in an afterimage on our retinas. We showed the cave to Judy, and the dogs scrambled dutifully inside to perform a varmint check. We ate our lunches giddily inside this miraculous shelter, fantasizing with unreasonable bravado about taking up permanent residence.
Imagine my profound chagrin when I realized after lunch that Rob, Dave, and I could have easily weathered the short storm that drove us recklessly down the cliffs through water slides and bushwhack hell two years ago! I silently vowed never to be goaded to impulsive decisions about weather at Little Bear Lake, for now we knew of an accommodating little hobbit hole, which we christened Baggins End, where inclement hours could be passed in sublime comfort before a cheery little fire.
To look at any thing,
If you would know that thing,
You must look at it long:
To look at the green and say
‘I have seen spring in these
woods,’ will not do – you must
Be the thing you see:
You must be the dark snakes of
Stems and ferny plumes of leaves,
You must enter in
To the small silences between
The leaves,
You must take your time
And touch the very peace
They issue from.
— John Moffit