1981 (2) – Fungal Research

The newbies wanted to go up and see Big Bear Lake, so we left our packs in a pile beneath the best ascent to Little Bear Lake, and veritably floated up to the lake.  Without the tormenting weight of a backpack, our feet danced frivolously on the path that wound through the bushes, crossed the outlet stream, and emerged at the only good campsite – which was surprisingly occupied by the implements of a small but neat group.  They were absent (probably off somewhere fishing), so the six of us fanned out near the shore and did our best to appear as though we weren’t staying very long.  The amiable character of the lake sparkled in the lovely afternoon sun of this spectacular day, and the ever-present breeze chilled the wet spots on our backs.  We saw two guys around the south side of the shore, perhaps a hundred yards away.  When they saw us, they were probably horrified that a motley gang of hikers had invaded their tranquility, and they waved without much enthusiasm.

I pointed out the highlights of the rim, 600-800 feet above the lake, and Nate exclaimed his intent to climb every peak.  Having spent much time negotiating the rugged terrain in these parts, I just kept quiet and let Deion ridicule him; exercising his prerogative as the older brother.  We poked around for a bit just for fun, discovered a few halfway decent alternative camping sites for future reference, and then made our way back to our packs because the sun had already slanted in a westerly direction.  “It’s about another hour to Little Bear,” I offered unnecessarily, for the benefit of the neophytes.

With the tortuous loads wrestled back in place, we picked our way up the most difficult ascent.  Owing to the fact that this side of the bluff was so steep and ornery, we figured it was advantageous to gain as much altitude as we could and come out above the worst parts on the other side.  This proved to be a good strategy, but the magnificent views we left behind kept distracting us from our task.  Chris kept pointing out various sights of interest as a way to provide Jodi with ample rest opportunities.  She was beginning to get that exasperated “Why the hell did I let him talk me into this?” look, and she bludgeoned her beau often with baleful glances; muttering vague threats regarding his private parts.  Her attitude changed dramatically when we crested the bluff and could see the gorgeous panorama of the Bear Creek valley to the east, capped off by the stately profile of Mt. Shasta.  The route up to Wee and Little Bear appeared tantalizingly close in the clear air, and we had gained good altitude and could see a clear path ahead.

With the promise of virgin fish to catch, Greg adopted a new determination and (thankfully) stopped his ceaseless chatter.  Nate forged ahead with him, not wanting anyone else to get there first.  It was amusing to Chris and I, who had traversed this deceptively easy-looking mountainside before, to watch them disappear into one ravine after another, only to reemerge cursing, looking for a better route.  We knew to maneuver above the crevices and avoid the mirages that falsely promised a direct line to the lakes.  “Short cuts make long delays,” Chris said for the hundredth time.

With the vast scale of the looming Sawtooth Ridge behind us, the distant, brooding Shasta, and the coyly receding gap to Wee Bear, I felt like a little bug scrambling across a hot gravel driveway. Greg and Nate were having a contest to see who could knock down the most rudely intrusive rock cairns that others had placed.  These were well-meaning I’m sure, but they actually deprived others of the fundamental privilege of finding their own way in the wilderness.  They also do more damage to the wilderness, by focusing foot travel over the same fragile plants and meager soil.  Following a “trail” that someone else has left makes one passive and detached in the manner of a sightseer following a prearranged tour, while finding one’s own meandering route cross-country invites merging with the terrain.  Besides, it was blatantly obvious where the upper lakes were, so rock cairns were unnecessary, and a blight on the pristine quality of the high country.

The extra efforts expended by Greg and Nate were allowing the rest of us to stay close, so when we arrived together at Wee Bear it was in the respectful, communal manner of a tour group entering a famous wing of an art museum.  The bright white rocks framing the diminutive lake gleamed as though they had been scrubbed for our arrival, and the exquisite trees on the far shore were radiant in the afternoon sunshine.  One by one, we crossed a convenient log at the edge of the lake to get to the little shoreline footpath, and all lost their balance for trying to take in the stunning views.  Greg and Nate whooped and pointed at the fat, unsuspecting trout lazing in the emerald shallows.  Jodi beamed at Chris, whose immensely pleased face had “I told you so” written all over it.  Deion just gurgled and ogled at the lake, smiling widely at me with his wry little grin, then gaping some more, gesturing with his hands outward and struck dumb by the grandeur.  I was blissfully happy to have returned again, and to have brought so many who would now share the secret.  My sense of satisfaction and goodwill was vicarious, like a kind teacher who had brought underprivileged children to see an original Van Gogh for the first time.

Our happy little party fairly waltzed around the wee tarn, and boogied ecstatically up the brief trail to Little Bear.  Once again, we had it all to ourselves.  The best campsite was beautifully prepared by the skilled hands of the mountain staff, with a fresh layer of golden pine needles instead of a mint on the pillow.  We shucked off our packs like the spent fuel tanks of rockets, and surged weightless into space.  The sun was at the perfect afternoon angle to glitter like a million satellites on the lake’s surface, which shimmered before the indigo and purple backdrop of the dramatic granite wall soaring up to Altamira’s spire.  The water was almost warm in the shallow areas, and all of us except for Chris and Jodi stripped down immodestly to our underwear, and immersed our pale, trail-worn bodies in the cool crystal baths.  Curious baby trout came and nibbled at our mistreated toes, and we sat stupidly, grinning at each other – mute imbeciles who shared an ecstasy so meaningful it was embarrassing.

After soaking happily in the cool water, Chris and I proudly gave an animated tour of Baggins End and the natural stone cave, and all were duly impressed.  There was still no sign of bears or other inhabitants, except for a pack rat’s nest in the amazing stone fireplace.  We lit it to demonstrate the excellent draft of the chimney, then put the fire out and removed the ashes to return the cave to its unspoiled state.  The weather was too fine to stay in the darkness very long, and we were each keenly aware that the sleeping spots had not yet been assigned in the camp, so we ambled back competitively as a group; each not wanting the other to return first and stake a claim.

As it turned out, making camp was much more interesting with a larger group of people vying for the choice spots.  The hierarchy respected female comfort, and so Chris and Jodi pitched their little love nest in the choicest spot: a natural “bedroom” formed by an unusual u-shaped cluster of a dozen small white pines, which offered easy anchors for the guy lines of the tent.  Jodi rinsed out her trail clothes in the lake and hung them on a clothes line, and the whole scene looked conspicuously domestic.   Deion and I, being the eldest single males, unrolled our sleeping bags crudely in the other two flat spots in the spacious camp site, leaving Nate and Greg with a choice of either sleeping in unlevel ground to stay close, or making camp in the adjacent, smaller camp site where I first stayed at Little Bear with Rob and Dave.  With spiteful bravado, they decided to camp all the way across the lake at Bumblebee Springs, in rebellious secession from the unfair rules of the pecking order.  They graciously decided to hang around for dinner, though.

We all rustled up some wood for our cook fire, and were gratified by how quickly the mundane camp chores were completed with so many hands pitching in.  I showed the group the “Neanderthal” method of breaking the deadfall logs for the fire, by hefting a large, sharp rock over my head and throwing it down on a log propped up on another rock.  The technique demanded agility and timing to simultaneously leap away and out of the line of any flying pieces of log or granite that resulted from the primitive force.  I’ve never been hurt by this method, and it’s a very satisfying use of testosterone (and saves the weight of carrying a hatchet, too).

The ample firewood that lies about the Little Bear Lake basin is absolutely the finest, most amazing burning material I’ve ever encountered.  Owing to the rough winters and partial shade of the pocketed forest, the slow-growing wood is incredibly dense and pitchy.  A single log the thickness of an arm will burn for almost an hour, producing a fine, intense heat with minimal popping.  Instead, the wood flares evenly – almost like a gas fireplace – hissing and flaking off ceramic-like pieces that ring and tinkle as broken teacups in the fire bed.  These amazing logs radiate so much heat for their size that it’s possible to have a smaller fire, feed it less often, and cook whatever is needed by scraping the hellish embers into a trough shaped by two square rocks.  We adopted two rules that were easy to keep: one, to use only exposed deadfall wood so as not to leave ugly scarred trees, and two, to make a fire ring as small as possible in a manner that allowed easy disassembly and cleanup just before leaving.  In this way, we practiced the “leave no trace” tenet that should be practiced by any considerate guest in such unspoiled surroundings.  We wound up reducing the size of an unnecessarily large fire ring some uncaring campers had left behind, and concealing the rocks cleverly to repair the blight that humans so thoughtlessly wreak in wild places.  In the morning, the ashes from our fire were so fine that they flowed like quicksilver when stirred by a stick, and live embers hid deep within the ash pile, ready to flare up a new fire with a mere handful of needles.  Knowing this, the protocol for putting out our fires at the end of a trip was meticulous and multi-staged, with deep digging to ensure the many dousings of water extinguished all the buried coals.  After a final scattering of new, flat rock chips (not flammable needles or sticks), one could not tell a fire had ever been there.

Late that first night, when the moon had already dipped behind the rim, we were disturbed by a dragging and rustling sound, punctuated by bobbing flashlight beams and sheepish curses, as Nate and Greg returned to the security of the group.  The spirits of the lake had been too intense for their puny little brother sensibilities.  They swallowed their pride like sour whiskey and made faces, opting to sleep on the unlevel ground.  In the morning they were tangled together, in a knot of flannel and nylon in the downhill bushes, with twigs and pine needles in their hair, and snoring shamelessly in a rattling imitation of drunken lumberjacks.