“When observed in their essential nature, all the mountains, rocks, trees, and rivers appear as magical realms or deities… Those obstructed by spiritual transgressions can never enter this great mandala.”
— Lehnge Shepe Dorje
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Why do I come here year after year, drawn to this place inexplicably, as a spawning salmon? Is this One Place a representation of all places to me? It’s not easy to get up here, either. Is the attraction the challenge of overcoming obstacles, or is it the satisfaction of accomplishment? Maybe it’s just a masochistic rite of passage, to see if I can test myself against the unforgiving elements… Or a dance with death, where one misstep would end it all.
I rolled my eyes in mockery at the irony of my own internal melodrama. It’s easy to “fight the wild” when you’ve brought every damn thing you need with you! Many brave men and women before me have endured greater challenges with fewer resources. In almost every case, however, as soon as they could, they brought all their stuff with them. What if they had learned to simply live without the stuff?
I suffered greatly from many setbacks and tragedies on this trip, but few of them actually came true! The north loop was open and easy, and I drove my way successfully to the trailhead in no time at all. Duh. Next came the big commitment: releasing my hold on my “space capsule,” and severing my tether. I wondered if I had ignored too many signs and warnings. When I first turned on to the north loop, I passed a grim reminder of how difficult it must be to live up here year-round. Right off the highway is a charming little country ranch with red & white buildings and a garden with a picket fence. Between them and the river was a massive 20-foot levee of rocks scraped from the boulder-strewn river bed by an ancient, rusty, bulldozer parked nearby. It seemed the spectacular effort had saved the ranch – it was quite unscathed by the ravaging floods – but now it had the appearance of a small doll house about to be smashed by a tsunami of river rock.
I parked my car and opened the hatch. The Nylon Beast lurked there like a small rhinoceros, mocking me. I never weighed my backpack, but it must have been over 65 pounds. It was so full of stuff, and had so much extra gear lashed to it, that it was hard to find the shoulder straps. I closed up the car for a few days, and made sure I stashed the keys in my pocket. Then I dragged out that monstrosity and balanced it on the bumper, and it made the car sag. It had the overgrown, ungainly look of one of those ridiculously oversized astronaut backpacks, but they had less gravity, for crying out loud! I was going to transport this behemoth up 3,000 feet by myself! I got everything ready before wriggling my way into the shoulder straps. The Beast embraced me possessively; like a long-lost lover that would never let go, and snickered softly into my ear. For a moment I felt like a bug trapped on its back, legs waving frantically in the air. Then I gained purchase by using my walking stick, and leveraged my way off the bumper, staggering with the weight and change of balance. When I tightened the waist belt, the buckle promptly disappeared somewhere below my stomach. I left the car before I could have second thoughts, and floated away into oblivion. Somehow, I found my balance on the last bit of road, and scrambled up the difficult slope at the beginning of the trail. My pulse was pounding in my ears, and I hadn’t gone a hundred yards! Soon the adrenaline of liftoff was discarded like a spent fuel tank, and I settled into a measured pace that respected the long, rough trail ahead, and the fact that a twisted ankle (or worse) could be a disaster. There had been no other cars at the trailhead, so there was probably no one up there to rescue me. Slowly, with each step, I regained the rhythm of truth and left all falsehood behind.
Could I make it this year? Funny how second guesses and doubts come so easily when one is alone. I monitored my older, softer body carefully with every step. Aside from the usual whining and complaining, my joints and muscles gave no sign of serious endangerment. As a precaution, I had neoprene knee braces on each side, and elastic bandages in my outside pockets, “just in case.” I plodded past the bridge with no pack-off rest. I took frequent breath-catching pauses along the way, and I dared not stop for fear that I wouldn’t be able to get The Beast back on. Next was the part of the trail that would most seriously test my mettle. I carefully negotiated the switchbacks up the dry, brittle forest of black oaks, and gained a gradual but steady ascent of the ridge. The frequent, brief rests were paying off. Not only was I making good time, but I was enjoying a wondrous immersion in the rich tapestry of forest sounds. At each pause, my breath would draw out longer and longer, my heart would lower its drumbeat in my ears, and my senses would send their anxious antennae deep in between the branches, under thickets, and down bushy ravines. At first, I was uneasily listening for a stampede of ravenous bears (what else?), but was gradually soothed instead by the subtle sounds of the alpine forest massaging my overworked nerves. I thought less and less of wild beasts (both real and imagined), until I could hear the muted twitter of small birds filter through the chatter in my brain. I breathed with the rhythm of the wind filtering through the trees, and appreciated the soft descent of the autumn leaves.
Walking through this wonderland is hard work, but mostly because I have chosen to bring everything I “need” to survive. Would it ever be possible to carry nothing, like the creatures God has endowed with every contrivance and intuition to make their way in the world? If I left all my stuff behind, would I be able to survive on God’s loving provision like John Muir? These are natural thoughts when the grasping straps of entitlement dig deep into your back, and you feel the familiar lash of your own dependence driving you to the brink of pitching it all in.
Still, the mountains lay silent and distant, indifferent to my fears and struggles. Every rock looks away awkwardly, seemingly discomfited that I don’t know the answer. The sky blushes in its embarrassment for my ignorance. With extreme indifference, I trundle my superfluous stuff around like a homeless man with an overloaded shopping cart, oblivious to the abundance all around me.
Whoops! I almost stepped on the compost pile that must have caused such consternation over Labor Day weekend. This bear scat didn’t look as large and fresh as the one I saw during my morning constitutional, but it eroded my confidence nonetheless. As the insidious doubts crept back in through the cracks, my thin veneer of being one with the wilderness evaporated, leaving only the ugly scars of childhood fears. I carefully scanned the line of trees on the uphill side of the trail. I looked for tracks. I sniffed the downhill side, where the creek burbled somewhere far below in the undergrowth. Nothing moved but a small bird, hopping and scratching leaves in the manzanita. I continued warily, and began cracking my walking stick against boulders every 20 paces or so, and exhaling every four steps with a loud “Huh!” If Sir Poops-a-lot was still around, I wanted to provide him the courtesy of announcing my approach long before I surprised him in mid bowel movement. Most bears will avoid you if they know you’re coming. I most certainly wanted them all to get my RSVP; with fanfare and advance press releases.
The trail passed grudgingly under my dusty boots, through all the delightfully familiar changes of flora and terrain, but with a significant difference brought on by my predisposition. The thickly forested parts seemed uncharacteristically spooky and silent, with the trees muttering in tight groups as if I was intruding on a secret gathering. Scratchy bushes indignantly impeded my passing. I struggled alone, up through the most difficult parts of the trail, where the vegetation grows downhill in a grasping obstacle course. After almost four hours I dumped The Beast unceremoniously where the trail opened up to bare granite near the water slides. It wasn’t such a monster, after all. I instinctively scanned the natural slopes and walkways on the mountainsides, looking for the black flicker of bruin that would ruin my trip. Nothing moved except the occasional bird flitting from branch to branch in a distant bush. (I had excellent long-range vision, and deployed it to ascertain every nuance on this day.) I was ready to make the final push to Little Bear Lake and deliverance.
With ceremonious disdain, I strapped on the backpack formerly known as The Beast, and marched up the bluff. Cautiously I coaxed my old, braced legs up through the jumbled boulders and brush below Big Bear Lake, to where the route to Little Bear could be seen. I knew my reflexes and judgment were compromised by fatigue, so I had to focus on keeping my balance and delivering each foot securely forward as I traversed the broad assortment of granite ledges. Even with due caution, I fell down a small ravine; through a bush that looked like it had a foothold. I instinctively rolled with the fall, and luckily avoided the sharp rocks, but screamed “Shit!” over and over again in alarm. Obviously, the universe had a sense of humor, because as soon as I said it, my eyes saw it. Another fresh bear scat, right in front of my face.
“Crap,” I said in frustration, but smiling at the continued wordplay. I didn’t want to go back at this time… I was 90% there already, and had invested too much in terms of sweat and solitude. My anticipation of seeing Little Bear Lake in all its glory and being soothed by its ripples of peace was too alluring. I really needed this trip to cleanse my soul of the garbage it had been accumulating. I tried to deduce what direction the spoor was pointing. Did Mr. Bear poop on his way up to the lake, or going down the trail? I reasoned that bears would be interested mostly in food, and most of the interesting food would be concentrated down by the creek. Until I came along, that is, like a vendor at a baseball game, delivering treats and sweets. “Man flesh! Get your red-hot man flesh here!” I felt naked, delicious, and vulnerable, like the last donut in the break room. I continued on to the lake, cracking my alarm stick more often, and with greater vigor. Huh! Huh!!
“On a fundamental level, the world conforms itself to our inner vision, just as chemicals that bond with certain receptors in the brain alter how we see. Pilgrimage, in this sense, becomes a journey from ordinary perception into full consciousness of our role in determining reality.”
— Ian Baker