us know who we are. Left with a more receptive mind and more attuned ear, we become better listeners not only to nature but to each other. Silence can be carried like embers from a fire.
— Gordon Hempton
As usual, the first night in camp was uneventful and remarkable only for the sheer ignorance of slumber in which we paralyzed our bodies and brains. All our food was well packaged and safe from marauding varmints, and the sturdy presence of Leroy Brown, combined with the sonic assault of Greg’s apnea, kept the local wildlife in confused disarray all night. I’m certain the moon rose stately and luminous above the trees, and the inquisitive, uncountable stars pushed through the veil of the indigo sky, but we were oblivious to their charms.
The first thing I remember was the dawn creeping stealthily into my awareness like a housecat, unaware of its presence until it sat on my chest. “The work is over, time to enjoy this trip,” I thought to myself as I rolled out of my bag and shook out my sneakers before putting them on. I learned this trick from reading many Louis L’Amour descriptions of cowboys shaking scorpions out of their boots. It’s astonishing how many irritating objects establish residence in one’s shoes at night, even if inverted, as my sneakers had been. I had devoured L’Amour’s books in my youth, shortly after discovering them by chance, and they tremendously influenced my way of relating to the landscape. He wrote over a hundred novels in his astonishing life, some of them rich in Western lore, and some at the level of pulp fiction. I first saw the vast number of his books during a visit to the house of a friend of a friend. The bookworm owner had torn the sheet rock off the walls throughout his house, using the studs for bookcases, and stuffing every possible nook and cranny with shelves of paperback books. Science Fiction, Westerns, American Literature, and classics – there must have been over 10,000 books insulating the walls of his small home from floor to ceiling. I did nothing else while I was there but stare at the rows of books in distracted reverence, head cocked to the right so I could read the titles. I got a sore neck when I discovered that one entire wall was devoted to Westerns, and most of them were by L’Amour. I had enjoyed a couple of his novels before, battered paperbacks that had been left behind by one of the Rusty Bucket Ranch’s many itinerant hoboes, but I had not known there were so many. I vowed right then and there to read them all, and so I have… most of them several times. To me, they were a lesson in right living: as clear as a blaze carved on a tree by one who has found the best trail. I only wished that in my lifetime, I could rise to the challenge of being on purpose that the heroes of L’Amour’s oeuvre represented so well.
Once the all-important footgear had been properly inspected and installed, I put on my U.S. Army surplus “Desert Storm” camouflage hat, and proceeded to march gingerly down to the lake in my underwear to pump some water for coffee. This gruesome spectacle frightened the trout away from the shoreline for several hours, a fact about which Greg reminded me in frustration when he tried to catch his breakfast. I admit that if I had been a young, impressionable trout lounging serenely near the shore on that particular morning, I would have been scarred for life.
In this undignified regalia, I perched at the edge of the lakeshore, painstakingly filtering water a few tablespoons at a time with my awkward backpacking pump. The incongruous clack-clack of the pump action rattled off the opposite wall like bullets shattering the early morning glass-like quality of the lake. As usual for this time of day, the surface of Little Bear Lake was impossibly smooth, reflecting the grand, harmonious wall of Altamira to the southwest. The pulsating ripples from my rhythmic pumping spread languidly across the lake, breaking the reflected images into thousands of fractal wiggles of color. My pace slowed, and finally stopped. I experienced a profound realization, as if an epiphany had floated up to me on the miniature waves I had created. The palpable energy of this one moment; this one place was revealed in waves! The surface ripples were just a visible reminder of the countless waves that permeated the landscape in the tiniest molecules of air, plants, rocks, and water all around me. Each present moment was like a large ocean manifesting as endless waves rising to a crest and receding back into the whole. My total immersion in this consciousness was so overpowering that it felt as if I left my body, and was looking down upon myself, hunched in isolated self-absorption on a lakeside rock in my underwear.
It was going to be a good day.
Unlike our previous expeditions, Greg and I hadn’t planned this trip much at all, with the exception of two things: each of us could bring whatever we wanted in the way of food and supplies, as long as it included plenty of the essential ingredients that would make our trip memorable. Like Carlos Castaneda’s Don Juan, and Professor Jessup from Altered States, we intended to delve deep into the mystical layers of awareness that permeated the Little Bear Lake basin, and to seek the singular origin of our species. This was our way of counterbalancing the demands of our more urbane lifestyles back home: three days of getting in touch with our inner Neanderthals. No women; no obligations; and very limited personal hygiene. Let the gaminess begin!
One of the most satisfying aspects of camping in the wilderness is that it’s possible to have absolutely no agenda. Aside from the physical necessities of moving food and water from one end of the body to the other, there’s really not too much to occupy the short-term memory. Back home, the awareness of each moment is a surging pack of paparazzi flashing and shouting for the attention of a starlet. In the wilderness, the present reality stretches out to a tranquil pace; allowing for the proper contemplation of each passing moment as a masterpiece in a gallery. Absorbed in this equanimity, we unhurriedly prepared a most unlikely concoction of dried mushrooms and apple cinnamon oatmeal, and got ready to alter our states of mind commensurately.
We meandered down to the emerald cove next to White Bear Rock and sat on the giant logs tumbled about the outlet like a giant child’s forgotten playthings. The silence was entirely absolute. Leroy Brown hung out with us at first, and his rhythmic, light panting accentuated the stillness, the way a drum track is laid on blank tape. His rapid breaths seemed to reverberate across the cove and off the granite walls until they had a backbeat of echo. When he saw we were going to be doing nothing, and had eaten all the oatmeal, he nosed about in the bushes farther and farther away from us. The roaring silence gradually returned. At first it was hard to “hear” the noise that wasn’t a noise at all, and seemed to come from far, far away, wafting on the gently moving air and drifting down around us, like a trillion tiny bumblebees on parachutes. At times it was as loud and tangible as an airplane flying overhead. “Do you hear that?” I asked Greg softly.
“You mean the buzzing noise?” he replied softly, moving only his lips, his voice barely audible.
“Yeah, it’s like a motor or something,” I breathed, turning my head at angles, as a satellite dish tries to pick up signals. We sat there for a long time, and the quieter it got, the stiller we became. The deafening quietness pulsated in our ears as an ephemeral growl that waxed and waned; seeming to be everywhere at once. It was similar to the distant, mystical echo of my own pulse, which I remembered hearing in a large seashell as a child. However, this was no mere reflection. The soundless vibration permeated the spaces between the air molecules all around us, and carried the promise of truth.
“What is that?” asked Greg unnecessarily, his eyes wide and deep with shared experience. The mushrooms couldn’t have taken effect yet – it was barely ten minutes since we’d scraped the last of the oatmeal from our plastic bowls – and yet, there we were, having a mystical prelude of seemingly great importance.
“It’s the cosmic engine,” I whispered reverently, recalling the descriptions of the yogis whom I had been studying for a couple of years, and whose meditative bliss I had yet to replicate. Our auditory epiphany was certainly not a new discovery. Similar phenomena had been described by countless holy men and women for 10,000 years, sanctified in the annals of the Upanishads, and passed down from guru to disciple in various unwritten forms as Aum. In hushed veneration, I added, “It’s the vibration of everything that’s holding the universe together. Like the word of God.”
“In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God.”
The growling noise was very noticeable now, as though a temple full of Buddhist monks were chanting somewhere just on the edge of our senses. A corona of golden light infused the topmost spires of Altamira’s cathedral peaks. The grayness of dawn dissipated, and the air crackled and shimmered with light and sound. “The word of God,” echoed Greg wonderingly.
“God’s love,” I added meaningfully. We looked at each other searchingly, as if the other had the answers to the questions in our minds. Spontaneously, in unison, we added our own vibrations from deep in our bellies.
“O-o-ommm.”
This sounded so good, we repeated it over and over, feeling the vibration of the breath leaving our throats. Soon we were chanting like hermits, ironically contemplating the “word” of God at a time when words were trite and superfluous… and so far from adequate. Our reverie was broken abruptly by Leroy Brown, crashing and snorting back through the brush like a bulldozer. The window of cosmic vibration slammed shut as the huge brown dog skidded off a log into the water.
That was right about the time we started to feel the effects of breakfast.
The first sensation of psilocybin mushrooms is a sort of grinding at the back of the skull, as if the ceaseless internal chatter of the brain is being drowned out by a louder, cohesive pattern of noise, similar to the intricate auditory matrix in a waterfall. This sensation spreads subtly to the other primary receptors used by the body to experience its physical existence; chiefly the senses of sight and touch. Eventually, the influx of stimuli and the ceaseless stream of awareness that the brain processes to determine its position in the universe is slowed down tremendously, to where each datum can be recognized for its place in the pattern. The overall effect is beyond description. Imagine the brain being aware of everything in Creation all at once; without the subjective filter of individuality. One “hears” the sap being drawn upwards through the trunks of trees, pushing out to the millions of tiny lips breathing in each pine needle. One “sees” the infinitesimal gradation of light, as it plays along the surface tension of the lake, where liquid water meets gaseous atmosphere. One “feels” the purposeful nuances of each molecule, shifting in the components of granite gnawing against one’s buttocks… and on, and on. One could spend a lifetime arranging words of any language into futile patterns in an attempt to convey but a minute fraction of what one’s awareness is able to perceive in a single instant. The ultimate impression is a pervasive reassurance that everything is okay, and that one’s place in the everything is exactly what it should be, in this extended, present moment. This realization of Truth is not just comforting, it is fundamental to one’s existence. Conveniently, it’s also a perfect antidote for the accumulated toxins of falsehood imposed by “reality.”
Speaking of toxins, my liver must have been working overtime. The thought came unbidden, through the database of my training as a medical assistant. I realized that the reason I was having such an ultra-perceptive experience was because I was being poisoned within an inch of my life. The same neurotoxins that in some species of fungi can cause instant death were bludgeoning the receptors in my cells, and the result sounded as if the Great and Powerful Oz was speaking to my cowering sensibilities:
“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!”
I am the Stare Master in this eternal moment, gazing purposefully through the open window of all there is. I observe that intrepid life prevails in every nuance of this place. Lichen and water pulverize the rock particles into meager soil, and plant roots take uncertain purchase on the bounty. First the succulents, with shallow roots that massage the granite and quartz particles into sand, and contribute their own organic matter to the mix. Then the aggressive manzanita moves in, and wrestles its roots deep into the cracks, further breaking apart the rocks. Finally, a small tree takes hold — perhaps a seed that escaped a chipmunk’s dinner – shedding the finer components of soil as it grows, widening the crack, and nourishing a radius of alchemy as it brings gray rock out of its slumber to become green, brown, growing life once again.
The large mountain hemlock in front of me must be over 200 years old, and was a seedling long before white men ever visited this area. Every molecule that makes up this tree has been painstakingly extracted from the matrix of minerals found in the surrounding outcropping of igneous rock, mixed with nourishment from the air, and recycled from its own fallen needles and bark. It is a living, breathing, pure manifestation of its environment.
Directing my gaze upward to the rim of granite cliffs around the lake, I see that the complex and somehow cohesive wall of Altamira also has a natural rhythm to it – but visually, like a page of sheet music from a great symphony. In a subconscious dance, my eyes dart to and fro, following the notes of the melody. The One Mind is pleased, and hums with a crescendo of self-awareness.
Suddenly, I realized it was past noon. The sun had shifted from its place directly above, and my vision struggled to catch up to the new shadows. “If I Only Had a Brain” whistled through the interstices of my mental soundtrack. My eyes were drawn to the food supplies, reflexively searching for lunch. But the brain was AWOL, and lunch was irrelevant. I carefully maneuvered the parts of my body in those coordinated movements known as “standing up,” and purposefully left the place where I had been contemplating the essential intimacies. It was time for broader vistas.
Splash! “Goddammit Leroy, get outta the fuckin’ water!” That was Greg and his dog, somewhere on the edge of the lake, trying desperately to summon the tribal knowledge that would allow him to perform the ritual normally known as “fishing.” On the impulse of camaraderie, I wandered over to where he was studiously untangling a Gordian knot of nylon. He had changed his costume to fit the occasion – now sporting a one-piece Indian sari, except that the cloth was green and tie-dyed, and made him look like the Jolly Green Giant. I laughed, and he laughed, and neither of us knew what we were laughing about, which made us laugh even more.
Casting my gaze around happily, I noticed for the first time that the weather was weirdly spectacular. I have experienced many fine weather days up at the lakes, but there was an extraordinary and delightful welcoming quality to the weather that day, which lingered in the memory as an afterglow of bliss. Surely, our altered states enhanced our enjoyment of the environment, but we firmly agreed that this day was the perfect temperature and humidity for our bodies. The fresh breezes were not in a hurry to get anywhere, and they danced in slow, leisurely spirals around the basin, rubbing the exposed skin of our legs like affectionate kittens.
Being out-of-doors was the way to go. Backpacking tents are small, and not suited for much other than sleeping, so nearly all of one’s waking hours are spent without partitions. Contrast this with our artificial, sheltered suburban lives back home, where there is almost never a day spent entirely outdoors. Our pasty skin lost its usual hue somewhere between puffball mushrooms and sour milk, and took on a healthy, tanned glow. I remembered that the skin is our largest organ, and it purred contentedly with the attention. I transitioned to nearly the same outfit with which I had traumatized the baby trout at dawn, having changed into light gym shorts, sneakers, and a hat. I inspected the many scratches and blemishes on my body’s surface, where it interfaced with the rough, physical world. The skin is a miracle of biology; a renewable, semi-porous membrane that holds in all the parts of the body (which is an important job because we wouldn’t want our kidneys falling out when we’re watching a movie, the way we lose our wallets). My body was showing the outward signs of wear and tear, but inside, everything was just where it should be.
The chorus of a new Stevie Wonder song I’d heard recently was skipping gaily through my mind, “I’m going to treat myself to all the pretty places in my head.” It saddened me to think that Stevie, and so many other blind people, could never actually see the visual delights that surrounded me. There I was, gawking like a poor kid in a rich candy store, greedy for compound eyes, and there were some whose eyes could never see any of this. Still, I reassured myself, many blind persons are exceptionally artistic and visionary, and I was certain they could thoroughly enjoy this day – perhaps on levels that I could only dream of. I closed my eyes for a while, and marveled at the kaleidoscopic dance of capillaries inside my eyelids. To me, the sense of sight is the most amazing of the body’s senses. With hearing and smell, we are just receptors reacting to stimuli. The senses of taste and touch are more dynamic, as they are obviously an interface with the environment around us. But the sense of sight is all of these elements and more, as not only are we able to perceive the world around us, but by savoring the details, we interact with it on a higher level. There are indeed degrees of blindness, and conversely there are degrees of super-sight, and on that day, I was completely overcome by the stimulation of seeing everything inside and outside of me at the same time.
Greg was obsessed with fishing, as usual, and so my attention was drawn away from the water. To the south towards Bumblebee Spring, a robust company of young trees marched right down to the waterline. Enchanted by the song of the trees, my elfish genes were drawn to the green places. A pleasant little path meandered along the shore, stopping at every small rock promontory or log thrust into the water. These trails exist only because of obsessive anglers like Greg, who are ceaselessly searching for “the perfect spot.” Nonetheless, the indirect ambling of such footpaths is pleasing to the wandering eye as well. I found several new angles from which to view the ever-changing panorama of Altamira’s massively entertaining wall. Each new vista revealed forested ledges and balconies up on the cliffs where the lake spirits made their homes.
The years fell away like scales from my eyes, and I was, at that moment, a small boy again, delighted by the promise of the new day. I had spent a great deal of time outdoors as a boy, probably because the indoors of my homes were dark, and filled with a resentful tension that smothered gladness the way a candle dies for lack of oxygen. A huge swallowtail butterfly flapped across the trail and I followed at oblique angles, picking my way among the delicate plants and tiny flowers. The midday shadows clung tight and purple against the pebbled gray bark of the trees. Small birds scratched for insects in the dry leaves and flitted away when I got too near. An occasional chipmunk chirped an alarm, and the entire forest was alive with territorial sounds and the interrelated joy of making a living. The same reverence for life that used to send me sailing over the blond California hills and sliding down their tawny flanks on scraps of cardboard was echoed all around me in photosynthesis and birdsong.
The five senses become fully alive in the forest. One can feel the wind and the rough bark of the trees. The taste of pine wafts through the air, and adorns the breath with evergreen. One hears the sound of crunching needles underfoot, creaking trunks swaying, and birds yelling at each other (either “go away” or “come here,” depending on the time of year). The smell of lichen, and moisture-laden wind off the lake, combine as a sort of nourishment to the nose. And the vision! O glorious sense of seeing everything at once! Every nuance of color and pattern is arranged in an interlocking tapestry of organic life for one who truly observes. As Wordsworth said, “The mind that has little to confer perceives very little.”
I was deep in the modest glade of pines now, and could not see the lake anymore. A thick carpet of needles absorbed my every step as I snaked and shinnied my feet deftly to avoid stepping on anything that would leave a track or make a noise. I was eight years old again, and “playing Injun” …except that I hunted no game, and there were no neighborhood “cowboy” adversaries to ambush. With no motive to take or destroy, I became one with the forest, and she became one with me. I flattened myself against a tree trunk and felt the scabby bark bite into my barely protected back. I had stopped by the camp to grab a T-shirt for the shade, but it was no shield whatsoever. I wanted to feel the soul of the tree, but it was more like sandpaper, so I got up and resumed the wandering, insightful pace that was my preferred role in life.
It wasn’t an original thought, but I realized we’re all just actors on a stage; playing out our roles. Our lives are made up of just three things, two of which we direct. The first thing is the stage, or world around us, which includes fate and natural events beyond our control. The second thing is the way we respond to our stage: to “re-act” – or act in a manner familiar to us. They are the act-ions we take in our world as familiarities, or instincts in our genetic memories that inform us how to respond to various stimuli in our environment. These in turn can be affected by the third thing, which are our thoughts – the “script” that is running through our head constantly. Our instincts and actions can be conditioned by habits of right or wrong action, promulgated by obeisance to the endless stream of prompts and impressions flowing deep in the undercurrents of the mind. The triumph is to be the master of the flow, and navigate all the tricky currents and eddies that upset our craft.
From behind me, a gleeful whoop and a bark indicated that some poor German Brown trout had played her role to the death. Once again, I was struck by the forces of fate that had brought Greg and his barbed hooks from over two hundred miles away on this day, to take the life of an indigenous creature. All life consumes other lives of one kind or another. Are we all just part of the same final act? Or can we transcend the curtain’s fall and be reborn for another performance?
“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.”
— Albert Einstein