1981 (3) – High on a Mountain

Our alternative explorations around the shore of the lake only whetted our appetites for more ambitious adventures the next day.  Chris and I had regaled the group around the campfire with tales of Sphinx Rock and the eerie “alien landing pad” up on the eastern rim, and the youthful bravado built to a fever pitch, until we brashly planned to surmount every peak in the region.  The highest summits were barely over 7,000 feet on the topo maps, but from our blustery exhortations you would think we were about to conquer Mt. Everest in bathing trunks!

It has always been hard for me to sleep late in the wilderness, owing to a sense of responsibility for making the most of every day.  Nights in the mountains have a certain magic that is an abdication of duty to miss.  But early mornings at the lakes are the most beautiful times, when the veil of darkness is slowly lifted to reveal the soft, maiden face of a new day.  Not wanting to restart the fire and leave it hot while we were away, I used the gas stove to make coffee.  Soon the outrageously rich aroma drifted around the campsite and woke everyone up, and the mugs full of alpine coffee stimulated them with vim and vigor to begin the day’s explorations.  Coffee always tastes better in the mountains.  As Louis L’Amour would say, it should be strong enough to float a horseshoe, and hotter than the devil’s saddle.  We planned what essentials to bring and filled every canteen because we would be high above the obvious water sources.  Everything but the canteens went into the smallest pack, which was Jodi’s formerly bright, new pack that would be scuffed and shredded into an unrecognizable heap of nylon by the end of the day.  We took turns lugging the ersatz contraption over the rough terrain, and this soon became a source of earnest arguments about who was carrying it the most, owing to the irritation of our still aching shoulders.

We started up towards the south rim first, reasoning that the views would be excellent from Sphinx Rock with the sun shining from the east.  We scrambled up the side of Dat Butte in no time, and romped like children in the maze of standing stones.  We imagined that those remarkable monoliths had been placed by some ancient tribe of Druids, in a significant astronomical alignment that drew power from the stars.  More likely, they were pillars of splintered granite that had weathered the alpine winters for millennia, while the softer soil and rock powder between them had worn away.  The views from Sphinx Rock were as spectacular as anticipated.  Great patterns of blue, green, white, and gray shifted all around, as the winds blew the clouds away towards Mt. Shasta.  We could have stayed there all day, watching the cloud shadows creeping across the valley floor, but we had ambitious goals to achieve. We bushwhacked back to the south along the general line of the rim, and soon rediscovered the flat sandy area that had become legendary in our minds as a landing pad for extraterrestrials.  I explained patiently that the symmetrical oval shape was the result of a natural, level depression caused by collected snowmelt.  Everyone nodded their heads in agreement, but still searched for the telltale marks where the landing gear had touched down.

After a brief snack, and being tired of waiting for phantom extraterrestrial visitors, we followed the rock outcroppings along the rim angling westward towards the summit we called Altamira; the cathedral peak that rose from the shoreline of Little Bear Lake.  The lake itself stretched out flat and blue-gray like a sleeping cat, 800 feet below.  On the south side of the rim, the mountainsides tumbled down to Eagle Creek – the same stream that flowed past the campground of the same name, and into the North Fork of the Trinity River next to the highway.  I tried to estimate the effort it would take to hike straight up the ridge to Little Bear Lake from down there, and quickly abandoned the preposterous notion.  There is a valid reason that trails don’t take a direct line up mountainsides.  It’s called gravity.  The trail to the Bear Lakes was difficult enough, as it wound around three sides of a square, modestly but steadily gaining altitude.  Only an extreme masochist would bushwhack 2,500 feet straight up a mountainside when there was a perfectly reasonable (and stunningly beautiful) trail to be used.  I can trace the hypothetical route along the contours of a topographical map, but the reality is too intimidating to consider.

From down below at the lake, the rim that stretches from the south to the west gives the impression that one is deep inside a teacup, and the edge of the rim is razor thin.  For the most part this is a false impression, for the two cirques that comprise the Big Bear and Little Bear Lake basins are the collapsed cones of two closely-spaced volcanoes.  The craggy rims were once the fiery shards of a gargantuan, double barreled shotgun.  On the outside, they humbly sloped away from the broken edge, and were covered with trees. Inside the basins were mostly massive, cracking remnants of molten rock, slowly being broken apart and reclaimed by the surrounding forests.  In some places, we literally walked the razor’s edge on huge, broken blades of granite, to stay on top of the perimeter.

As we approached the topmost outcroppings of Altamira from the side, it appeared jagged and sharp, like the teeth of a dragon.  Only the façade facing the lake was flat and stately, giving the impression of a grand cathedral.  I was the one currently dragging Jodi’s pack over the sharp rocks with all our lunches in it, and we planned to eat them triumphantly on the tip of the peak.  The pack was securely in place on my back, but maneuvering through rock clefts and crags caused it to catch and scrape constantly, and many times it threw me off balance or altered the course of my clambering.  When we reached the last few ledges to the top, we had to use the rope in a few places to belay one another, and I was pulled up last, with the pack dragging six feet beneath me on an extension of the rope.  Suffice to say that Jodi’s parents would not be pleased at the condition of the brand-new equipment they had bought her for this trip!

We could not all fit at the summit, which was a collection of great, needle-like shards, and we wound up leaning against them to stay out of the wind, which was brisk at that altitude.  We felt like fleas clinging to the teeth of a giant comb.  Far below, Little Bear Lake looked just like the image printed on the maps, in the shape of a curled-up cat with her paw extended to form the shallow cove near our camp site.  We could pick out dots of color where some of our gear lay, and although they were too tiny to see, I knew the pesky chipmunks were down there, trying in vain to get at our food.  The tins and thick plastic containers that contained our rations had chipped more than one rodent’s tooth, I’d wager!  Dizzying views displayed all around us, but our purchase was too unsteady, and the air too thin and blustery for comfort.  Lunch was a hasty affair of gobbled beef jerky and trail mix, and our canteens were getting low.  The exposure to the wind and sun, combined with constant exertion, was quickly dehydrating us.  We decided to surrender the high ground, and pocketed ourselves in a more sheltered location to study the views.

Gazing westward away from the lake, and towards the main body of the Trinity Alps, we could see snow-capped peaks and ranges even this late in the year.  With our map we tried to pick out a few landmarks, but only the distinctly conical shape of Thompson Peak at 9,000 feet was recognizable.  Oh, the endless vistas of serenity that must lie hidden in the regions of alpine valleys and crags!  If such a concentrated collection of insanely beautiful views and intimate landscapes existed in just the Bear Lakes basin, imagine how many were repeated throughout the entire Trinity Alps!  One could spend a lifetime wandering in gushing, addle-headed awe, and never see it all.  The ranges divided invitingly in graduated ranks, fading off towards the sunset and the sea.  Eastward, the great Shasta was singular in her majesty, with the bulk of Cheops in the foreground, slightly taller than we were; with the line of Pharaohs forming Sphinx Rock prominently displayed.  We had started on that corner of the rim early in the morning, and had made our way 180 degrees around the cirque’s crusty edge, from which we could still see our campsite next to White Bear Rock.

To the north, we looked down on the pass between the lakes that Rob, Dave and I had navigated a few years before.  The rim continued on around Big Bear Lake, a small slice of which was peeking out from behind the edge of the separating bulk of granite we called Dis Butte.  There were three more peaks where the rim thrust upward to scratch against the sky, and farther to the north beyond that were more summits and ridges, probably the Salmon or Marble mountains.  “There’s another lake on the other side of Big Bear,” I announced, looking down at remote Log Lake on the topo map; tucked in discreetly just on the other side of Sawtooth at about 6,500 feet.  Even on paper it appeared more difficult to reach than Big Bear, as I had gotten adept at translating the contours, squiggles, and colors into their equivalent backbreaking, knee-busting effort.

“Oh, we can go there, no problem,” said Greg in his offhanded, matter-of-fact way, which had become very annoying as it meant the rest of us would have to soldier up to his level of bravado, or lose face.

“I’m going back to camp when we get to the pass,” Jodi said, glaring pointedly at Chris, who shrugged as if to say, “What are ya gonna do?”  It was true our canteens were getting low, and that was a significant consideration this far from water.  The last thing we needed up here was a casualty from sluggishness or altitude sickness, when an injured hiker would have to be carried back down to the lake across jumbled crevices and steep ledges.

We would make the final decision when we got down to the pass, but first there were some impressive cliffs to explore, where we inched across an eyebrow of a ledge with sheer drops of fifty to a hundred feet, awaiting an errant step or loose stone to claim a victim.  Straight below, the pointed tops of the trees pointed up at us menacingly.  By the time we reached the saddle it was well after noon, and we decided to split up.  Nate and Greg took a little water and an empty canteen, saying they would dip down to the feeder spring in the pass to fill up, before continuing on to explore the craggy peaks of Big Bear Lake’s rim.  Jodi and Chris took a few swallows of water each, and headed back down to Little Bear Lake about 30 minutes away, where they could drink all they wanted.  Deion and I collected the remaining water into our canteens, for we wanted to explore the dry western and northern slopes of Dis Butte, where I assured him no one has ever bothered to go before.  Our feet had trodden many places that day where we were sure no human foot had touched, and we aimed to make a few more inaugural boot prints.  In my case, I would be making feeble sneaker prints, for the rough climbing was shredding my lightweight “hiking” shoes into shaggy house slippers.

As Deion and I rounded the western slopes of Dis Butte, at an angle that would circumnavigate the easiest level, we could see Nate and Greg reaching the spring below and zigzagging back up to the rim.  They were working a lot harder than we were, but they were younger too, and it was funny to watch them expend their energy on poor route choices, when we could see from our vantage point the easiest paths.  We had both learned how to pick the most efficient route possible, not gaining or losing altitude, but rambling along the mountainside pleasantly and stopping often to identify the next ledge or crevice to head for.  If you’ve ever walked on the simple paths that cows make for themselves across steep hills like those in Marin County, where I’ve hiked most of my life, you’ll appreciate their plodding bovine genius for conserving energy.  Soon, as we approached Dis Butte’s northern slope, we lost sight of the others, and had an unobstructed view of Big Bear Lake from our aerie.  From here, we could plainly see a great shelf of granite sliding down into the lake at a 45-degree angle like a huge boat ramp.  It plunged into the sapphire depths, until it disappeared into what must be the deepest, bluest part of the lake.  We could also see tangled rivers of thick brush choking the ravines on the opposite side of the lake, which Nate and Greg would eventually have to ford to make a complete loop around as they had vowed to do.

“I’m glad we’re not them,” Deion said simply but pointedly, as we stood up from our shaded viewing spot and continued around to the northeast, which I was sure would lead us to the rear of the Cliffs of Dis Butte.  Deion and Nate were as close as two brothers could be, which was amazing because they were completely opposite personalities.  Nate was outwardly directed in everything he did, bold and outspoken, and Deion was quietly introspective and reserved.  Their bond was undeniable; as I would witness a few years later when Nate graduated from High School.  As soon as he mounted the stage in the main basketball gym, he whipped a Frisbee from underneath his gown, and flung it as far as he could to the opposite end of the vast interior.  The disc somehow weaved its way through the ropes, pennants, and guy wires hanging from the ceiling, and went directly to Deion, who was sitting in the bleachers at the extreme opposite end of the gym.  All he had to do was stand up and catch it.  It was the most incredible feat of Frisbee accuracy I had ever seen.  The gathered crowd, already cheering for the graduates, gave a laughing roar in appreciation, but few of them knew that the disc had traveled more than 200 feet from brother to brother in a planned tribute.

I introduced Deion to the Cliffs of Dis Butte, and we lingered a pleasant while, enjoying the cool, fragrant breezes rising all the way up to us from the valley like ghostly balloons, and launching upward to join the wispy clouds.  Our snacks and water were gone, so it was time to head back.  Using my old, reliable Army binoculars, we scanned the far ridge and brushy thickets for some sign of Nate and Greg, but they were not to be seen.  Staying on the top of Dis Butte for ease of navigation, we picked our way back to Little Bear Lake in less than an hour.  For the thousandth time, I reflected on the sheer ecstasy of being a soaring bird, and not having to scrabble over the rough and unforgiving boulders to get around this enchanting but abrasive playground.  When we got back, Chris and Jodi had a nice little fire going, and had made coffee and camp biscuits.  After our epic rambling, this modest fare tasted as good as any meal in a five-star restaurant.  The afternoon sun was nearly touching the western rim, and still there was no sign of Chris or Greg, and I could see Deion was getting worried.

“I’ll just go down to Wee Bear and see if I can see them coming,” he said offhandedly, in a failed attempt to hide his anxiety.

“We’ll all go,” Chris said, no doubt thinking of his little brother.  “My Dad will kick my ass if I come back without Greg.”

“I’ll stay here,” Jodi volunteered practically, “In case they doubled back and return by the pass.”

In a few minutes, Chris, Deion and I settled down in a comfortable spot on one of the many vantage points around the eastern edge of Wee Bear’s rocky balcony, and scanned the approach routes for the boys.  “What if they went too low, and aren’t taking the best way?” I said, and redirected the binoculars to the ledges beneath us.  Sure enough, there they were about 300 yards below, looking worn out and peering wishfully up to where we were.  Deion waved and yelled, and they shouted something and pointed back behind them, but we couldn’t make out what they were saying.

As soon as they got close enough, Nate’s bellowing sounded like “Bear!”  We craned our necks to see, but they didn’t seem to be in any big hurry, so we guessed that they weren’t close to being eaten, or in need of rescue.  We let them clamber all the way up to where we waited in the shade.

“We s-saw a b-b-bear!” Nate stammered in his excitement.

Greg told us they were bushwhacking their way down from the rim to the north shore of Big Bear Lake.  They had found it easier to swim and slide on the tops of the bushes, as the branches were all growing downhill.  At one point they tumbled out of the brush into a clearing, and startled a she-bear about twenty yards away.

“You’re lucky she didn’t have cubs, or you’d be dead,” Deion said admiringly, obviously proud of his little brother, who was beaming and tired but still flush with exhilaration.

“How do you know it was female?” Chris asked suspiciously, in the condescending tone big brothers reserve for little brothers when they steal the spotlight.  Greg’s adventure was decidedly more exciting than his own placid stroll back down to Little Bear Lake with Jodi, and we could see he was jealous that Greg had seen a bear, and he hadn’t.

“She had tits,” Greg grinned matter-of-factly, and continued on with his story.  I whistled softly, knowing that Deion was closer to the mark than I’d first thought.  If the bear’s teats were visible, that meant cubs had been nursing recently.

“So, what happened?  How did you get away?”  I asked, glancing nervously back down the ledges to make sure she hadn’t followed them.

“Well, she stood up kinda surprised-like, and just turned tail and ran into the bushes,” Greg said with annoying nonchalance, as if having bears run away from him was a routine occurrence.

“Wait a minute, the bear ran from you?” Chris asked incredulously, looking back and forth from Greg to Nate.

They just looked at each other and said “Yeah,” and then, “We’re starving, let’s go eat,” and I began to suspect the whole bear encounter was a ruse to try and scare us all into thinking we shared our little paradise with a carnivore.

“Well, if she was scared of you guys, she probably won’t bother coming up here,” Chris said with mock derision.  Still, we all peeked over our shoulders repeatedly as we trudged back up to camp, wishing we hadn’t put ourselves in a position where more uphill walking was necessary.  Bear or no bear, we slept like veritable logs that night, with Nate and Greg snoring like dueling chainsaws.  The last thought I remembered was that we wouldn’t be hard to find if the she-bear wanted revenge.