“A lake is the landscape’s most beautiful and expressive feature. It is the earth’s eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature.”
— Henry David Thoreau
~
I return to this place alone, to forget – and to remember.
I want to forget the blinding oppressions of living in society, the personal demons that are tearing at my soul, and my failure to cope with the vicissitudes of raising a family. I want to remember who I truly am, and forget what I have made myself to be!
I have never gone backpacking solo before, although I always thought about it. I want to be like a cowboy in a western novel, seeking out the lonesome backcountry and high places of solitude. More to the point, I feel like removing myself from the society in which I feel I can no longer function.
I have only a few days in which to accomplish this ambitious task, and so I humbly ascend, figuratively crawling on my hands and knees in a pilgrimage of contrition, backpacking alone and afraid for the first time in my life. In spite of the real dangers, this place is a “sure thing” when it comes to healing the wounds of the soul.
But am I worthy of healing? That is a question to ponder.
I drove up to Highway 5 once again because I needed to get away from my so-called “life.” Things had become hopelessly twisted in my mind, like a snarl of string that might be easier to cut than untangle, and it needed the space in which to unravel. I wanted to get reacquainted with the good part of me. My excitement at the early prospect of becoming reunited with the profound peace of Little Bear Lake was ominously mutated into a vague sense of apprehension. It was almost as if a hidden malevolence didn’t want my higher self to regain power over my ego-dominated existence. This vague trepidation, however, became concrete anxiety as I drew closer to my destination. I could clearly see from the highway that renegade rain clouds were ravaging my beloved mountains, and I hoped that the weather report was correct, promising that those hooligans were headed into Oregon.
I got my permits and registered at the Ranger Station like I told Joy I would. Even though they were closed, they still had lots of resources outside on the porch. I grabbed all the materials I could (my tax dollars paid for them, after all). Then I headed up the highway to Eagle Creek campground, where I might be near some people for the last time before heading into the wild. The previous winter had been severe up here. There was a sign where the access road left the highway: the bridge over the Trinity River to the campground was washed out from violent storms! I recalled there was another way into the camp from the north, by looping around after the highway crossed the river. Instead, I decided to just drive a few miles further north to the trailhead, and throw my sleeping bag out at the parking area for the night. To my dismay, again I was met with more “Road Closed” signs as I reached the trailhead access road, which also had to cross the river. Now I began to have valid doubts about the relative wisdom of taking on this challenge when my self-esteem was at an all-time-low. A familiar dilemma chattered between my ears. Were these obstacles a warning; a premonition urging me to avoid disaster? Or were they heroic challenges to be overcome in order to prove myself worthy of entry to another level?
I sat in my car and weighed my options. I could camp alone up here at any number of developed campsites. Or I could go back to the Ranger Station and find another trail on the map they posted outside. My backpack was all prepared, and it would be a different sort of adventure to go somewhere in the Trinity Alps I had never been before! My wave of vain enthusiasm rippled away in an undertow of doubt. It would not be the smartest thing to take on my first solo trek in an unfamiliar area. I already knew it was impossible to get lost up at the Bear Lakes, because there was just one way back down the mountain, and it followed the only outlet creek. I envisioned myself once again in the heart of God’s Parlor, turning in wide, panoramic circles of wonderment.
This place isn’t real – it can’t be. It’s too indescribably beautiful to be real. It must be another dimension; another plane of existence reached only by those who can truly appreciate its majesty.
The placement of every tree, rock, and plant is stunningly perfect. Landscaped for eons by the gods of the mountains, and displayed for the ephemeral enjoyment of man. It’s as if this entire mountain lake area is God’s own personal garden; where He fashions His most intimate artistic creations and displays them exclusively for a few select guests. There is a pervasive sense of harmony here like no other place for me.
Fond memories assuaged my impulsive, self-destructive temperament. While part of me felt like going off into the wild like Chris McCandless, a small, quiet voice wanted it to be in an area where I was expected to be, just in case a rescue was needed. Anyway, my familiarity with the terrain reduced the risk considerably. I knew every bump and crack in that area the way my tongue knew the roof of my mouth. It was my inner landscape from which I needed saving. Pausing to consider, I noticed again that I was completely alone. Highway 3 was a deserted strip of black ribbon winding away through the trees in both directions. I hadn’t seen another soul in quite a while. I maneuvered my car to shine the lights up the access road. It appeared to be passable, despite the sign. (Admittedly, this is how many bad decisions happen in the mountains.) I rolled slowly forward, tires crunching on the gravel, my headlights being the only source of light for miles. Just a few hundred yards past the signs on the access road to the trail, a stout pair of sentinel boulders prevented my meek little car from plunging off a crumbling cliff into inky darkness. I had only been traveling about 10 miles an hour, and cautiously rolled to a quiet stop. The river may have damaged the road too, in its winter rage. Certainly, a large part of it was gone, just a few feet in front of my windshield, where the light from my headlights dissipated into nothingness. This road was also a loop, and I remembered there was another way to this trailhead, but as it was dark, and I was tired from the long drive, I decided to just park and sleep in the car. Prudently, I backed it up 50 feet from the edge before turning the engine off. The silence and the darkness rushed in, beating their fists against the windows and pounding in my ears.
It was utterly devoid of light, so that the afterimage of the dashboard on my retinas was all I could see. Soon that, too, faded away, and I was left with nothing but my own self-potential in the dark. Even though I felt like crying and driving home to mommy, I resolutely put down the seat of my tiny Toyota, and hoped I would sleep fairly well despite the discomfort. I would surely need my energy tomorrow! To keep my soul from completely dissolving into the blackness, I switched on my little headlamp. The inside of my car could have been the Apollo lunar capsule approaching the moon, as far as I felt from earth and society at that moment. I didn’t fit well in society anyway, I reflected dismally, and was better off here: in the prison of mind I had made for myself. Call it solitary refinement.
The light of morning gave me a new opportunity to turn tail and run, but I was determined to proceed with the challenge. At first, there was just a general lightening of shadows all around my car, as if I was being enveloped in a thick fog, and couldn’t see a thing. Ghostlike, the outlines of trees emerged from the grayness, and their branches began to take on color and definition. I was surrounded by thick forest on two sides. Out the front windshield was nothing but sky, where the road had washed away. I couldn’t see out the rear window because of my gear, but of course that pointed back to the highway, where I might still return to civilization and forget this folly. I could relax by the river somewhere, and never have to punish myself. That’s what this was, I realized. I was punishing myself, taking on a fanciful risk in the hope that it might kill me and I wouldn’t have to go back and face the consequences of my actions.
Just like my heart, my pack was heavier than it had been in a long time. Despite having learned by trial and error to travel lightly with only the essentials, I had brought a lot of extra “what ifs” and “just in cases.” (That this was a microcosm of my life at home escaped me at the time.) After all, I reasoned, I was hiking alone, and if I might need something, I was the only one who could bring it. I worried only that I was so out of shape that I might not make it up the trail, and vowed to turn back at the slightest evidence that this was truly happening. I wasn’t really out to kill myself; I was just going to meet my Maker. In a faithful, childish way, I was seeking reconciliation for my misbehavior; hoping some divine entity would do the hard work to make it right.
I got out of the car and stretched my legs. Peering down the road leading back to that from which I was running, I wondered for the hundredth time if I should just call it quits. Back and forth I went; from fear to resolve. Irrationally, I thought an act of bravado might purge me of my iniquities. I walked around to the front and looked at the damaged road. Like the erosion of my life, the turbulent winter flood had gouged a great swath of land and forest; literally altering its course. The dirt road itself was cleanly sliced off to a sharp edge, and trailed off to nothing just 30 yards past the boulder sentinels. It appeared as though I could get up into the forest and walk around the damaged part, and I mentally committed to conquer the challenge. But first, I had a more pressing achievement on my mind.
As I took a roll of toilet paper into the woods for my morning constitutional, another sign appeared – this one without letters, but with a symbolism clearer than any written message. There, not four feet directly in front of where I was squatting with uneasy concentration, was a large-bore pile of ominous bear shit. This double-wide beauty had been laid by a very BIG bear with a very BIG ass, and instead of freaking out as I should have done, I grinned at the absurdity that this was the first time in my life I was contemplating two bowel movements at the same time. Oh, how the sense of humor both saves and condemns! Great, now what should I do? The ranger had told me on the phone a week ago that there was bear sign reported on the trail during Labor Day Weekend, although no actual sighting of the perpetrator. Come to think of it, he had failed to mention an even more important detail: the lack of a road to the trailhead. Maybe his information was of the usual government quality. This pile appeared rather fresh, although it was hard to make an accurate assessment because of the recent rains. At least it was composed entirely of leaves and berries, and not bits of chewed up backpackers.
If I weren’t here to see this, would it all be the same? Like the childhood question, “If a tree falls in the forest and nobody is there to hear it, does it make a sound?” I wonder, if there weren’t any humans with the ability to perceive beauty, would there be any aesthetic value to the wilderness? Do the animals ever stop and smell the flowers? Is there art without an observer? Is beauty possible without the eye of a beholder?
The universe created self-awareness through humans so it could appreciate beauty. This necessitated the creation of ego, to objectify creation and provide the perspective from which to perceive and know. This experiment of understanding would appear now to be incredibly risky. Has the Ego run amok after tasting the fruits of the Tree of Knowledge, despite the best intentions of its Creator? Or is creation proceeding exactly as planned, aware of the delusions that would be produced by too much self-awareness, and having a plan for that, too?
Again, I decided that courage and faith would guide me, although I was sure that any bear I might meet that day would be more impressed with my speed than my fortitude. So, I installed my pack firmly on my back and walked past the symbolic gateway of boulders, down the diminishing access road. The road petered out, and I had to walk along a steep hillside and grab little trees to get around them. With each few steps I was more and more impressed with the extent of the damage from last winter’s forceful flood. Huge logs were strewn in house-sized piles along the widened river bed like Tinker toys, and the river itself had arrogantly decided to relocate about 100 yards west of where it had been. As I expected, the road reappeared gradually on the other side of this wash. I passed a final unlikely knot of trees, huddled together at the edge of the washout in a shocked overhanging clump. Somehow these steadfast beings had managed to divert an entire river’s focused rage. Then, about ¼ mile down the road and still another ¼ mile from the trailhead, the road was abruptly washed out by another new bend of the river cutting right up against a much steeper hillside. Here, the trees closest to the edge were thick and choked with debris. The river rushed loudly over 50 feet below a sheer drop where the road itself used to be, smugly congratulating itself on its audacity. The recent rains had swollen it to a degree of mayhem where even a daring hiker would not risk the crumbling eyebrow of purchase that remained on the steep slope. To cross safely, I would have to detour way up into the forest above the river’s new bank. I thought about the bear shit.
I had promised myself (and my wife) that I would not be daring on this trip, with nobody around to help me if I fell and got injured, or was ravaged by some bear that had a bad attitude because of an exceptionally wide anus. “Okay,” I said resignedly to myself, “God obviously doesn’t want me to do this. Maybe I bit off more than I can chew.”
Then the little devil appeared with a “poof” on my shoulder just like in a cartoon, and said, “Aw, come on! Guys go backpacking solo all the time! Even ladies do it! Be a man!” I remembered Colin Fletcher again, who walked the entire length of the Sierra Nevada all by himself. My head was filled with conflict as I traipsed back to the car. Naturally, the little angel appeared on the other shoulder. “Think about your responsibilities! What will happen to your family if something goes wrong?” I decided maybe car camping wouldn’t be so bad, after all.
But damn it, I wanted to be alone… not squeezed in with a bunch of safe, amateur campers and droning RV generators! I made one more concession to my dilemma. This road was also a loop, and if I could get to the trailhead from the north side, I would still continue my quest. Otherwise, it was hot dogs and beer can city for me. If there’s anything I’ve learned from dealing with a lifetime of setbacks and failures, it’s that as soon as I commit to an activity that will improve my outlook, the universe manifests all manner of impediments to test if I am worthy of the reward.
“When we get out of the glass bottles of our ego,
and when we escape like squirrels turning in the cages of our personality
and get into the forest again,
we shall shiver with cold and fright
But things will happen to us
so that we don’t know ourselves.
Cool, unlying life will rush in,
and passion will make our bodies taut with power,
we shall stamp our feet with new power
and old things will fall down,
we shall laugh, and institutions will curl up like burnt paper.”
— D.H. Lawrence