“Place and mind may interpenetrate till the nature of both is altered.”
— Nan Shepherd
Once more I lay on the shore of Little Bear Lake, saying goodbye. This time I had a comfortable bed for a few minutes while using my weight to deflate the vinyl boat, which by now seemed to be losing air from more than one hole. The afternoon sun was a brilliant white ball glowering down from above Altamira’s cathedral spires, behind which it would soon take refuge on its long slow slide to rest. Wheezing in protest, the warm and supple vinyl yielded slowly to the pressure, releasing my pent-up exhalations into the atmosphere. When at last all the waylaid molecules of air had been returned to their rightful places, I stuffed the folded lump into the backpack, cast one more wistful look around the peaceful shoreline, and led the ladies back down the way we had come.
We cruised past Wee Bear, pausing momentarily to admire a perfect portrait of Sawtooth, framed between a young and an old Ponderosa; reflected in the shimmering surface of the tiny tarn. Then we had to be on our way, as the shadows were getting long and we wanted to be back in time for a grand dinner in the mountains. Originally, I had aspirations of trekking up to Little Bear Lake and spending the last two nights there, but it was clear the females in our expedition would have no part of any more uphill, laden forays for my folly. So, we made a day hike out of it, and a very satisfying day it had been for all of us! The girls got to see a lifetime of spectacular scenery in one day without carrying anything but a walking stick, and I had the immense satisfaction of sharing the place I love the most with (most of) those whom I love the most (lacking only Logan, who was too young for the trip). Wanting to end with a pleasurable descent, I led them down the broad, green slash in the granite that pointed directly to the trail far below. This was easy going for a while, and when it was bisected by vertical gorges of thick manzanita, we stepped up onto the granite ledge above it. The goal was to keep our altitude as much as possible to make an easy rendezvous with the trail in the vicinity of the Bear Creek pools. However, in an effort to pick the easiest route for the girls, I miscalculated and we began to struggle more and more through the brush that got thicker as we approached the creek – far below the pools as it turned out.
We needed to turn back upstream, and we could easily see where we wanted to go, but it was a puzzle how to get there – or more of a maze as it turned out – as we turned and climbed through an increasingly convoluted labyrinth of boulders and brush. I sought the bare ledges for egress, and arrived at the gateway to solving a problem: a 10-foot sloping face of white granite that led up to the easiest route back to Big Bear Lake. “C’mon, this is it,” I exhorted the troops, ignoring their sullen looks of dismay at having to climb up the face of what appeared to them a sheer, insurmountable cliff. I showed them where to put their feet, and ushered their hands to the cracks for gaining the top – only a few feet away – when suddenly, like a mountain thunderstorm, all the accumulated frustration of wilderness trekking and bushwhacking became too much for them. Dehydration and exhaustion combined to paralyze their fair limbs until further movement became impossible. Disappointment crackled in the air with the bitter smell of ozone. They both began to cry.
My mind folded in on itself like a house of cards, and I laid flat against the rock wall, seeking shelter from the waves of despair that had overwhelmed my dear companions. Fiona trembled uncontrollably above me, supported by my left arm. Joy sobbed in hoarse gasps like a braying donkey just below me, clinging to my legs in a death grip from which extrication seemed impossible. The three of us were stuck in the middle of a ridiculously small and not at all dangerous ledge that could hardly be called a cliff – but for them we may as well have been dangling over the edge of the Grand Canyon. Three feet up or three feet down, it didn’t matter. Further movement was not an option. Words of encouragement fell away and rattled hollowly like tumbling pebbles. The only thing to do was to wait for the crippling hopelessness to pass, when it became evident that a rescue helicopter was not going to throw a ladder down to us, and the only way to get out of the unenviable situation was to do it ourselves.
I felt so sorry for them, and so unable to help them at the same time. I couldn’t push Fiona up and separate from Joy, as she clung to my legs tenaciously with fingers of steel. I couldn’t bend down to help Joy because Fiona had reached the limits of her diminutive physical strength and lay on my arm like a tranquilized cat, shuddering every now and then with nervous exhaustion. We clung together that way for several agonizing minutes, feeling completely helpless, and yet so close to our goal, but absolutely devoid of the willpower necessary to achieve it. The only thing we could do was to wait for the absurd paralysis to pass. Eventually the sobbing died down, the shuddering stopped, and inch by inch, I pushed Fiona to the top of the ledge, dragging Joy with the sledge of my left leg, which was now mostly numb and useless. We clung resolutely and irritably to each other like crabs in a trap, and somehow made it over the top in a tangled mass, just a few feet above where we had been immobilized for what seemed like 4 hours. It had probably been only ten minutes. Looking down, we had “climbed” less than a dozen feet. It was a lesson in heeding the needs of those around me. Too often, my mind gets ahead of my body as it rushes for a place to which I haven’t yet arrived. I needed to learn not to subject others to my impulsive follies, and to truly understand their needs. Out here, in what can only be called the wilderness, I was responsible for the safety, well-being, and morale of those I had influenced to come along with me on my journey. I needed to develop the skill of empathy.
We rested uneasily on that ledge for another half hour, as I apologized over and over again, knowing that my errors in judgment had probably eliminated any chance that either Fiona or Joy would ever go backpacking again. Certainly, they would not embark on any orienteering, or cross-country hiking, without a clearly marked trail (with shady benches, water fountains, and bathrooms). Meekly, I led my mutinous band of disgruntled explorers the last quarter mile back up to camp. Neither of them spoke to me for the rest of the evening – out of pure exhaustion, I deluded myself. In low, exasperated voices, they conspired to leave the next day, without spending another night in this God-forsaken desolation. I knew how Scott must have felt at the end of his desperate wandering about, having misled his party in an ill-fated quest for the South Pole, and knowing that it was he who had brought them to ignominy. I hid the car keys, just in case.
Spirits were lifted the next morning by another dazzling, pristine display of beauty, as still and sensitive as a doe listening at the edge of a meadow. Sleep and rehydration had done wonders for soothing the blistered memories of yesterday’s wilderness debacle. Fiona shared her breakfast with the growing entourage of chipmunks that followed her around as if she was Snow White. Joy gruffly rolled up her sleeping bag before leaving the tent, but as soon as she had spent some time in the soft silence of an alluring alpine daybreak, her shoulders visibly relaxed, and she took off her sandals; cooling her feet in the crystal-clear waters. I noticed she sat a long while: facing first one direction, then another, until she had absorbed the outward splendor and stored it deep in her heart like a treasure. As I tactfully brought her a cup of freshly brewed coffee at a strategic moment, she turned to me and smiled, and I knew we could stay one more day as planned.
The tranquility of the morning was disturbed in subtle degrees, as the sun ascended into the impossibly blue sky. First the glassy water of the lake began to dull and riffle. Small birds sidled through the undergrowth, hoping to catch some languishing insects. A gentle breeze frolicked in the pine boughs overhead, whispering the potential of the day. Fiona wanted to play with the boat one more time, so I labored slowly and evenly over the course of an hour to inflate it all over again. I concentrated on building deep breaths in my lungs, culminating in long, slow exhalations into the garish vinyl dinghy, now growing floppy and soft in the warming air. The strenuous rhythm became a meditation. Lips tingling with hyperventilation, I cycled through several inspirations of the pristine alpine molecules; striving to assimilate the meager oxygen. Each was followed by a long, slow exhalation, mixing my own vaporized moisture with the dry mountain air… inside a ridiculous plastic bladder. This time, it only took a few minutes to finish. Either I was getting used to the altitude, or I finally learned how to inflate the stupid boat without passing out!
Joy busied herself around camp, valiantly fighting a losing battle to keep things clean. The sun broke free from the eastern ridges and changed the character of the day from a quiet morning to a hard-working day at the lake. Chipmunks bustled through the scrub manzanita, pursuing their ceaseless rodent agendas. The birds moved to the tops of the trees to catch the breezes that were now gaining momentum as the basin heated up. The lake’s surface sloughed into ripples, which aligned themselves downwind, and began to lap timidly at our shoreline. The trees stood alert and receptive, delicately stretching their green fingers to soak up the light. All around us, the music of the eternal was being played like a symphony; conducted by a living landscape of which we were but an incongruous part. Perhaps a bit more now, after a few days of listening to the rhythm of the lake and resonating with its infinite vibrations, but our bright clothes and manufactured implements of civilization still seemed grossly out of place.
Fiona’s interest in the inflated boat waned rapidly, and instead of being irritated at the wasted effort, my rock-abused buttocks gleefully anticipated a soft, yielding seat from which to contemplate the developing day, and read the book I had brought with me. A few puffy clouds peeked above the northwestern rim of the Bear Lake basin, as I settled in for a long respite from surviving. I could hear Fiona chattering gaily at her semi-tamed chipmunks, all of whom were now students in an impromptu kindergarten. Joy had piled all of our sleeping bags together to make a luxurious bed in the soft, grassy shade, and proceeded to have perhaps her best afternoon on the trip; just doing nothing at all.
As I read my book, a young osprey was hunting around the far shore, and when I looked up from time to time to see where she was, I could see the clouds increasing in size and intent. This had the look of one of those quick mountain buildups of rock-heated air meeting the cooler jet stream, which often results in an abrupt, angry thunderstorm. Lost in the reverie of my book, and the caressing wind, and the gently lapping waves, I willed the clouds away with half of my attention. But they weren’t the least bit interested in my will. They had more important matters to attend to, and they began to bulk threateningly around the edges of my peripheral vision. The wind picked up, and the birds disappeared.
“Fiona, start getting all your stuff together, ok? We may have to go early. It looks like a storm.” She peered up at the sky, from where she was arranging pine cones like little desks for her furry students, and started to protest, but never got a word out before lightning flashed to the north, freezing her lips in mid-dissent. The thunder answered, still far off, but that was the final signal for me. I had no desire to subject my loved ones to a violent mountain thunderstorm on an exposed rock face. The trauma of being “trapped on a cliff” was still fresh in their minds.
“Honey, get up – it’s gonna rain soon, and we can still make it to the car.” She didn’t need much encouragement. It was still only about 2 or 3 in the afternoon, and we had plenty of time to get back to relative safety and shelter, just 3.5 miles down the trail. Besides, it was always 10 times faster going down than coming up. The sudden prospect of a good meal and a warm shower fueled our hasty preparations. I literally threw everything into my backpack, leaving Joy with all the light stuff. Fiona tried to deflate the boat with her insubstantial weight, but it was still wheezing plaintively as I crudely folded it and lashed it to the outside of my pack. It probably took us less than 20 minutes to break camp, and we left just as the first few drops began to splatter the ground heavily like eggs dropped on the floor. The lightning flashed again, closer this time, and the thunder rolled in right behind, pulsing in the air like a living thing. We reached the shelter of the trees below the exposed rock face before the rain worsened, gratefully falling into a silent, rhythmic march back down the valley to the car. Behind us, the lonely mountain giants began playing their games of ninepins in earnest, smashing rocks against boulders, and electrifying the air with their rumbling cries.
As it turned out, we departed just in time; deftly avoiding the worst of the storm. The features of the trail passed by in rapid reverse, like watching a video tape as it rewound. The rocks gave way to trees, the meadows descended into dusty trails, scrub manzanita reappeared, and before we knew it, we were crossing the Forest Service bridge – only a few minutes from the car. Even Fiona kept up without complaint, as dust from pounding the trail coated our shoes, socks, and lower legs. By the time we got to the car, it was just another peaceful summer evening in the mountains, 3,000 feet lower than where the titans were having their hoedown. We blissfully peeled off our hot, sticky socks, and bathed our tortured feet in the cold water of Bear Creek, before limping back to the car. Packs were tossed ignobly into the trunk, people piled into the seats (on towels spread out by Joy of course), and we barreled back down the highway to a place where I knew, some coin-operated showers would thrill us all.
After blissful showers, and a nice restaurant meal in Redding, my two faithful companions dozed off in the car as we glided south down highway 5. The long drive gave me time to process all that had happened. I contemplated the fullness of our adventures together, and thanked the gods for giving me the wisdom to quit while I was ahead, and hustle down the trail to avoid the thunderstorm. I thought of the osprey, her wild cries echoing off the granite faces of the leviathan deities as they thundered their imponderable exuberance. I remembered the ephemeral blue butterfly, and hoped she had found shelter from the storm. I reviewed the best route back from Little Bear to Big Bear, vowing to never again get caught up in the stupidity of shortcuts. As the residual buzz of the storm receded, the hum of rubber tires on asphalt took over, and, my mind downshifted into the delusion of the material world, from which the obligations (both real and imagined) already jostled and pushed for attention.
I looked over at the peaceful, exhausted faces of the dearest females in my life, and felt a deep but somehow wistful satisfaction. “Well, at least they got to see it,” I smiled to myself knowingly; suddenly certain they would never see it again.
“Who walks with beauty has no need of fear;
The sun and moon and stars keep pace with him.
Invisible hands restore the ruined year,
And time, itself, grows beautifully dim.”
— David Morton