“Quantum theory provides us with a striking illustration of the fact that we can fully understand a connection though we can only speak of it in images and parables.”
— Werner Heisenberg
The next day, we luxuriously slept in – the better to recharge the batteries that had been gleefully drained the day before. Today was our last full day at the lake, and we wanted to explore some of the more distant, yet accessible, attractions of the Little Bear Lake basin. We planned to circumnavigate the lake counterclockwise, as a way of approaching it from unprecedented viewpoints. We laid out all our food supplies for the next two days, and carefully preserved ample fuel for the trip back to the car tomorrow. That left us with a great variety of snacks for lunch, and an assortment of dehydrated food and weathered coppa mista for dinner. We knew it made more sense to eat all the food, rather than carry it back down. Anyway, we packed our remaining cache in chew-proof containers, and hoisted it high in the tree limbs, to protect it from the acrobatic rodent marauders that would surely try to take advantage of our long absence.
From the top of White Bear Rock, we scrutinized the stony faces of Altamira, and argued about the best route to take. Once again, we were struck by the many attractive ledges, and how they stair-step all the way up to the top of the ridge with perfect little platforms, like box seat sections at a baseball stadium. In fact, we agreed that the lake and its basin were arranged very much like a stadium, and that the lake is about the size of a baseball field. We imagined that our campsite was right behind “home plate,” where the crystal cove and outlet trickle lay. We would be hiking up the first base side to the “upper deck” of Altamira, where the cheap seats were.
The autumn morning bore a distinct chill, but the day promised to be warm. Wispy clouds had already formed to the east, from the updrafts of hot air around Mt. Shasta, which rose ponderously into view as we ascended the modest flanks of Dis Butte. We were roughly headed towards the pass that formed the “back door” to Big Bear Lake. Leroy Brown tagged along automatically, just in case we were headed for a steakhouse. Almost immediately, we abandoned the conventional route between the lakes, clambering over boulders and squeezing through the brush that seemed compacted by the sharp, tight angle of the mountain as it reared up to the spires of Altamira. Actually, from this angle the peak resembled more of a castle fortress than a cathedral, as if we were seeing it from the moat. We chose to stay high over the lake at this point, somewhere out in right centerfield. It might have been possible to stay near the shore, but the views were so spectacular to the north and east, that we hopped from one ledge to another to see which would be the best seats from which to view an imaginary baseball game played on the surface of the lake. Several of the ledges would be fantastic campsites, except for the poor access to water. From most of them it almost seemed possible to fling a bucket to the water tied to a rope, and haul some water back up the cliffs. But we could barely reach the lake with a stone’s throw, let alone a bucket.
The sheer playfulness of trying to see who could make the farthest splash brought me back once again to the conditionally careless days of boyhood. For me, our home was stressful and full of rules and decorum. Outdoors was where I could be free to pursue my own interests, and with nobody telling me how they should be done! When one is young, it is easy to go for hours – or even days – at a time, wrapped in a blanket of contentment with one’s surroundings. Every familiar bush in the yard, or tree by the fence, seems to beckon comfortingly with the promise of escape. By contrast, the sunless indoor confines are cold and unsatisfying, and the shadows are bleak. Thank God for doors. What is a door but the passage to another reality? Beyond doors, a child may spend hours at a time in his own world, like collecting shells, bits of glass, or gleaming stones on the beach. He forgets everything else, and becomes completely absorbed in the landscape; his mind reaching out beyond his shoes and fingertips. The heartbeat of the present moment vibrates through every cell in his body. As adults, we sometimes lapse into such a reverie for a fleeting instant here and there, when the stifling curtain of civilization is pierced by an unexpected sunbeam, and we glimpse the brightness once again. A baby’s face. The year’s first snowfall. The inaugural flower of spring. A tranquil alpine lake. Perhaps that’s the primary reason I am drawn back to the Bear Lakes again and again, because the veil is so amazingly thin up there, and can be wiped away like cobwebs.
We climbed ever upward, ledge by ledge, until we reached a large balcony about 100 feet from the top of Altamira. Here, the trees were bigger where their ancestors had made some soil. It was easy to see why the hundreds of ledges on this rock wall were so decorative. All the successful growth was collected in the places where snow lingered the longest. Shadowed clefts sprouted thick with a variety of grasses, flowers, ferns, and succulents. Slender, perfectly shaped baby pine trees nodded their little caps in the lee of great granite slabs. Here and there, mature specimens loitered in the sheltered spots, with a thick, neon green pelt of lichen and moss on the northern sides of their trunks. Where lingering snowdrifts had turned to puddles, an extravagant carpet of grass thrived in the warmer months. This seasonal transformation of a frosty glacial mountain to a lavishly landscaped bonsai festival was awesome to comprehend. By that time of year, the growth surge had stalled, and the energy was turning back to the earth. Late flowers still bloomed, and the moss was vibrant green, but the grasses and ferns looked a little torn and faded – like party decorations left up for too long.
From our “nosebleed seats,” we could plainly see Shasta again to the east. The wispy clouds had completely burned off, and she appeared naked and distracted without her perpetual shroud. Greg happily settled in a comfortable depression between two boulders at the edge of a cliff, and gazed out at the spectacular panorama. Leroy Brown panted in the shade, while I turned my attention towards the rock wall, to a particularly attractive adolescent Mountain Hemlock. It was only about 16 or 18 feet high, but its purposeful, symmetrical shape indicated that I was in the company of a master tree. I mean, if a tree’s purpose is to grow, then this individual displayed a level of superior development that made me feel somehow inadequate. Thinking of all the effort it required for me, just to get out of bed each day, I was chagrined that something so beautiful and perfect could fashion such a glorious existence from the alchemy of mere sunlight, minerals, air, and water.
I imagined the roots of this magnificent being, and how they miraculously extracted molecules from somewhere deep in the rock, to nourish and expand the whole. Delicate as corn silk at first, these roots slither and surge with an impossible force that eventually cracks granite, hungrily grinding the chips and particles down to a fine dust, where the smallest root endings suckle. My eye followed the smooth trunk upward, with its healthy mantle of bark, to stout branches festooned with needles… and all of it made from molecules that used to be ordinary air, rock, and water. By what alchemy of genetics and physics does a tree exist? How can the latent mass in a small pine nut contain the blueprint, and vital force, to construct such a perfect manifestation of life from practically nothing? Of course, every molecule had to come from somewhere. Surely, the mass of this tree was greater than the sum of the raw materials within its reach. The secret ingredients came from the stars. Actually, every subatomic particle in existence came from stars originally, as the universe exploded and energy coalesced into matter. Everything on this planet is composed of molecules coalesced from smaller particles that were once part of a star. These molecules are shared and recycled by all living things to become other forms and substances, from which other life grows. We have particles in our bodies that are threads unraveled from everything else until they became tangled in “us,” and by our living and dying we weave them back into the tapestry.
“By blending water and minerals from below with sunlight and CO2 from above, green plants link the earth to the sky. We tend to believe that plants grow out of the soil, but in fact most of their substance comes from the air. The bulk of the cellulose and the other organic compounds produced through photosynthesis consists of heavy carbon and oxygen atoms, which plants take directly from the air in the form of CO2. Thus the weight of a wooden log comes almost entirely from the air. When we burn a log in a fireplace, oxygen and carbon combine once more into CO2, and in the light and heat of the fire we recover part of the solar energy that went into making the wood.”
— Fritjof Capra
What is this thing called “photosynthesis” that enables plants to create worlds of life? We are all taught the basics in grade school science, along with the highlights of chemistry and physics, but this vital process seems to be so much more than science can explain. We all know that trees and plants have an astonishing ability to convert sunlight into energy effortlessly, from the tiniest single-celled algae to the largest living beings on the planet. The mystery of photosynthesis is one of the fundamental building blocks of all life on earth, and yet we know so little about it. We tinker with crude photovoltaic panels to extract an inefficient form of solar power, but what would be the greatest breakthrough in the history of science eludes us, mocks us; seems to tower magnanimously over our petty achievements with cool indifference. The ultimate miracle is taking place all day long, right in front of our faces, taunting us a trillion times a second until we are numbed by our inadequacy. Our greatest scientific minds and laboratories throughout history cannot replicate the simple and profound efficiency of a common blade of grass.
Essentially, photosynthesis is the conversion of light energy to chemical energy, which becomes organic matter. A transmogrification of photons sent from the stars, which are the burning and dying of massive amounts of chemical energy; beyond the ability to fully understand with our “science.” The photons escaping from the slow death of our nearest star, Sol, are stripped of their electrons and synthesized back into organic life, in endless cycles of procreation. Nothing that man can build is as efficient as a simple chloroplast; billions of which are contained in a simple, tiny leaf. These miniscule, molecular recycling factories work ceaselessly in nearly every corner of the globe, transforming matter and creating oxygen from carbon dioxide, making all life possible on our planet. Look at a diagram of a simple chloroplast in any eighth-grade textbook, and you will see the source of all order in the universe. These are the countless trillions upon trillions of microscopic dynamos that run the cosmic motor, which at that moment, were manifested in beautiful symmetry before my eyes as a tree: invisible, yet somehow recognizable.
Clank! Whirrr! Chugga-chugga-chugga… the factories are indefatigable, but whence comes their impetus? What is the ultimate source of the subatomic agenda?
I wondered aloud to Greg, who had left his aerie perch and joined me, wondering what was so fascinating about a small tree. When I explained it as best I could, he gently caressed the tree’s needles with his fingertips, in reverence. “So this is what we’ve been hearing,” he mused, with his usual tone of wonderment, and looked at me with wide, knowing eyes that communicated far more than words or symbols. That was the amazing thing about Greg: he understood everything. He may not have had the education to spout erudite rhetoric, but he knew far more than most people about what was being discussed; on many subtle levels. I was aware of this because I had tested him many times, thinking him to be just the smart-ass little brother of my best friend at the time, Chris. He could take almost any line of reasoning, realign its essence succinctly, and place it triumphantly before you like a solved Rubik’s cube, leaving no room for argument. I enjoyed his insight tremendously, as he often stated complex subjects plainly.
“I wonder how it knows what to do,” he asked quietly, as a way of opening the game.
“Well, that’s RNA, I guess. Genetic coding.” I offered uncertainly, straining to remember the experiments we conducted in college microbiology.
“Yeah, but those things are also made of molecules, and subatomic particles.” He continued stroking the soft boughs. “Where do they get their instructions? How do they know how to put all the particles together to make the molecules that form a tree?”
“The same kind of tree,” I reminded him.
“Maybe the instructions come from the sunlight.” We shared another look of wonderment.
“But who writes the instructions?”
What messages are being received all over our planet, in nearly infinite variety, countless times per nanosecond, as it rotates to face our omniscient star? Simply considering this information as random bits of synchronous data is staggering enough to comprehend. But to think of it as the conscious fulfillment of a master plan, by a sentient intelligence infinitely superior to ours, is a humbling realization indeed.
Click! An electron is stripped from a photon and processed on an assembly line, to fit precisely next to another electron, and synthesize a molecule of carbohydrate. Whoosh! In comes another photon, and it is briskly routed to a different assembly line. Sproing! A molecule of oxygen is released into the atmosphere. This happens so plainly, in each present moment, that it becomes unknowable. The clamor of the green factories is too deafening to be audible. We peered closely at a few needles, as if trying to watch them at work. The air was hot with the fragrance of pitch. Leroy Brown snapped at horseflies in the shade.
Meanwhile, the brass sun was working its way over our heads, where it would soon disappear behind the face of Altamira. For now, it still exulted above us, and reflected its thin autumn rays down upon our magical little grove. We were reluctant to depart the magical scene, as if leaving would break a connection to something vital to our survival. Still, we needed to eat, and prepare for leaving the next day – back to our “real” lives where everything is known and nothing is understood. We turned away, and the ledges led us step by step down towards the south wall of the lake to Bumblebee Spring, keeping us in the slanting sunlight as it raced off to the west. By the time we reached the shoreline trail, the sun was dipping behind the rim, and we faintly heard a trillion tiny mouths breathe a profound sigh of satisfaction. The wind played a lullaby through their open mouths, all night long.
A sharply cold, autumn morning on getaway day reminded me of winters in Lagunitas. My breath spread whitely into the chill forest air, like milk poured into a clear, still pool. There were mornings at the Rusty Bucket Ranch where the air gripped like ice. I developed the technique of tunneling inside my covers and wrapping the edges into a breathing tube that warmed the air before it reached me. Propane was expensive, and we were poor. Some days I just stayed in bed until it was safe to walk on the floor without sticking to it.
We wrapped our still-warm sleeping bags around us, and crawled out of our tents like inchworms to make lots of strong, black coffee for the strains of the day. Leroy Brown opted sensibly to stay in Greg’s tent. Stumbling like mummies, trying not to spill any of the hot, steaming coffee in our plastic mugs, we headed for the shoreline to hear the morning broadcast of the cosmic radio. For many minutes we sat there, the stillness broken only by occasional blowing and sipping of the liquid life support system. We strained to capture the essence of the absolute silence that utterly surrounded us as if we were suspended in oil.
Nothing.
Not a single buzz or vibration. “Are you hearing anything?” Greg breathed through lips that were noticeably warm and red in the otherwise blue, frozen fields of his face.
“No.” I whispered dully, with only the slightest sound. Nothing else could be heard – not a ripple of water, a sigh of the wind, or the faintest murmur from the fountains of life all around us. It was like wearing ear protectors – I strained so hard I could actually hear my pulse increase deep inside my ear. “Maybe it’s too cold.”
“Yeah,” agreed Greg stiffly, “I think we’re too tense here just trying to stay warm. Let’s make a fire and come back later.”
We lurched to our feet and that was it – the spell was broken and the moment was gone, folded like a map and thrust deep in our pockets.
We talked about how we might possibly tell others about what we had experienced. Most especially, we wondered how we would be able to integrate our new knowledge and understanding with our “normal” lives back home. It seemed so futile and unnecessary, like learning Swahili before a trip to the moon. There were only a handful of people who had come to these lakes in the years before who could possibly comprehend what had been revealed to us on this trip. I knew that back home, I was living a counterfeit, pointless lie. The only truth that mattered was what we now knew; far beyond the scope of empirical human knowledge. Could I somehow use this new understanding to conquer the demons that possessed me in the immoral wastelands of civilization? I had to try. I was going to be back there on this very day, even though I wanted to just stay up here forever, and be recycled into those subatomic particles that come from, and return to, the overwhelming affection of an omnipotent benevolence.
On an impulse, we decided to visit the cave one more time. With Leroy Brown leading the way, we were able to enter without the usual primal trepidation that something might be waiting for us inside. That dog was one of the most amazing more-than-human animals I have ever encountered. I was proud that he considered me his friend. He and Greg posed for a final photo, and the flash coalesced into a bolt of lightning that came out in the print. We humans, who could summon fire, had paid tribute to our canine companion with a small blaze of twigs in the hearth. That release of energy had been captured by the shutter of my old Nikon. Or was it perhaps the magic of the gnome sorcerers that lived deep in the rock?
We took our time leaving, and the morning warmed into another spectacular, windless autumn day. The slanted rays of the sun from the south threw amber beams across aquamarine shadows in the forest. The gray-white rocks appeared to have a lavender tinge, and the dark, recessed places oozed with indigo. As if sad that we were leaving, the lake was still and sullen. We spread our gear out on the flat rocks of the campsite, and packed one thing at a time, slowly, with the reluctance of a child who has been scolded to clean his room. Our last smashed power bars and beaten, crumbled granola snacks were stuffed into outside pockets for easy access on the trail. Greg and I ambled down to the lake to take turns with the pump to fill our water bottles, and to say goodbye.
“Splunk!” The ceramic filter on the end of the intake tube hit the water, and sank until held by the float that bobbed up and down as we pumped. “Ca-chunk! Ca-chunk! Ca-chunk!” Again, the clatter of plastic seemed obscenely out of place in the pristine setting. Leroy Brown came down the trail to see what the delay was, because like us, he was looking forward to his warm bed at home, and a full bowl of something other than what he had carried up more than 3,000 vertical feet.
“Hasta la vista,” I waved to the faces in the granite wall, and they did not answer.
Our return to camp interrupted the last desperate chipmunk attempts at larceny, and they hastily left our backpacks and scurried back to their rocks, chirping an alarm that echoed strangely hollow off the rocks. With everything packed and ready, there was nothing left to do but to go. The packs were ridiculously light, but abused muscles and tendons have a long memory, and my body creaked and groaned its way down the few hundred yards to Wee Bear.
We stepped carefully among the tumbled rocks that lined the faint trail around the little lake, trying to avoid stumbling from the atrophy of leisure, and regain the trail rhythm that eats up distance. With one look back into the sun, we left the lake basin for a time as yet undetermined, not knowing if we would ever return, but already looking forward to it. The view was spectacular (as usual), but the footing was difficult and required our full attention. Several times, we found ourselves caught in surprisingly disadvantageous terrain, and had to backtrack to find a way above it. The part of the “trail” just below and to the north of Wee Bear is peculiarly convoluted, like a miniature earthquake fault. It was the sort of terrain where following the natural flow was the most difficult way to go. Leroy Brown scrambled ahead with the poorest judgment of all, and often had to clamber awkwardly back to us.
It took over an hour to go about a half a mile, where we could finally see the way back down to the main trail. It’s easier to judge the best route from above, and we often reconnoitered before sliding off a rock to get to a lower level. We had to go slowly because of the rough and broken character of the mountainside, and we didn’t want to risk injury by trying to hurry. The sun was already angling towards its western resting place when we finally reached the intersection of the trail near where Bear Creek passed over the naked granite. At last, we could stretch out our gait and measure our strides with the flow of the trail, and we made good time – even through the tangled vegetation that had given us so much trouble on the way up. Once again, we got caught up in the hypnotic rhythm of the downhill, and carried along by gravity, as we pressed on when we should have stopped to rest. It took a week for my feet to heal from the blisters that formed on hot toes mashed into the front of my sweaty sneakers, but on the way down, I hardly noticed the pain until I stopped. So, I kept going down, down the dusty trail to the car, with the weight of my curse becoming more suffocating with every step. The burdens of domestic life reattached themselves to me like burrs in my socks, and the mortification of the flesh resumed. Weary with resignation, I accepted my self-inflicted devices of persecution, as one at a time, like rush hour subway commuters, they pushed and crowded back into my consciousness.
And yet, as always, I was shamefully glad to hear the beep of the car respond to my remote key. It was like being accepted back into a frightful, yet familiar club, where the benefits were false and misleading, and paid for with the loss of reality. Step by step, the present moment evaporated and left only the bitter residue of the past, and a strangely disturbing anxiety for my future.