The doors to the crematorium opened, and the cardboard coffin rolled inside on the conveyor belt. Through a thick little tinted window I watched the gas-fed flames gain purchase on the sides, and within seconds the whole box was aflame in an artificial funeral pyre. My mom had left the building. The show was over, and the decorations were being taken down. The kind mortician tactfully suggested that we go away for a while and come back for the ashes later, after they had… um, cooled down.
We were given a simple tin canister containing a plastic bag filled with something that resembled kitty litter. Wanting to make sure it was mom, we moved the ashes around inside the thick bag until we found, half-melted, the angel amulet that I had tucked in her hand before taking her inside.
The late afternoon shadows were shifting with my perception. The color of memory was blue and green, with flashes of brightness from the surface reflections of Big Bear Lake. As I had done so many times in the past, my eye traced the edge of the sharp granite ridges encircling the lake basin. Again it seemed to be a confinement; an isolating barrier between myself and the outside world. This gave me the perspective to see myself truly; without the defining filters of society. Could I find a way to love what I saw? I knew for certain that I didn’t really care what happened to me, but I cared a great deal about what would happen to my family if I just gave up. I had stared deep into that abyss many times, and it was so tempting to just step off, and see what happened next. I realized I had to go back and work harder than ever before, knowing I could never make amends, but understanding it was the only way to keep from going over the edge. To give up was to fall and never hit the bottom.
David had been fishing the bluffs and fissures of the south shore, wandering as far as his sore legs could be depended upon. He stumbled back with four more trout, and I thought to myself, “Why did he carry all that food up here, if he was going to decimate the local wildlife?” That sort of sarcastic, cynical soundtrack ran through my mind constantly: a defense mechanism for avoiding disappointment. It gave me lots of ideas for cartoons, but too often ruined the appreciation of the present moment. He was supremely happy, and who was I to judge him for doing what men have done since they first laid eyes on a fish? He half-crawled over the final rocks and logs, with a determined culinary gleam in his eye.
“Dinner is served,” he announced grandly.
“They look nice, but I’m not in the mood for sushi.”
“I was thinking of grinding them into trout burgers. I’ve got some potatoes we can use for fries.”
“You brought potatoes?!”
He had arrived just in the nick of time; interjecting some badly needed human companionship into my morose meditations. I suddenly noticed I was starving. Hunger comes quickly in the wild, with an urgency that is hard to satisfy with anything short of sheer gluttony. Little snacks throughout the day just don’t satisfy, which is probably why our species graduated from gathering berries and plants to hunting larger meals. I had some dehydrated Asian noodles that would pair splendidly with pan fried trout. I passed on the potatoes, not wanting to justify the folly of hauling fresh potatoes in a backpack up a steep trail. That’s why God made mules.
We got into a fit of cleaning after dinner, and made the camp presentable. Trout fragments would probably attract all sorts of unwelcome visitors, including bears. We hadn’t seen any sign coming up the trail, but we weren’t taking any chances. We stashed the dishes and utensils many yards from camp, on top of a round rock where their disturbance would make a warning racket. With our energy restored by the meal, we roamed far to gather wood, knowing that the shoreline where we camped needed all the help it could get to replenish its meager soil from fallen vegetation.
“Let’s have a really good fire tonight,” David heartily suggested. As usual for him, there was no statement that couldn’t be improved with a little hyperbole. “I want the mother of all campfires.”
“I’ve done that before with some friends, and it leaves a big ugly mess. Do you want to prepare some spots to hide the ashes?” He looked doubtful. “C’mon, help me with this log, it will last all night.” I had found a section of hemlock about six feet long and as thick as my leg, propped up on two boulders and air-dried to perfection. It was in a spot where it could not decompose into soil. I had grown more and more selective about wood gathering over the years, and was shocked at how picked clean the area around our campsite was – like a manicured backyard. There might be half a dozen spots to camp around Big Bear Lake, but this one got about 95% of the occupancy. The ecosystem needs its nurse logs and humus to maintain the cycle of nutrients essential to the forest, and we burn them up at an alarming rate. It was always shocking to witness firsthand the desolation caused by extended human habitation in a natural setting. Everybody loves a campfire, but like all dangerous and destructive powers, it requires respect, forethought, and attention.
That log turned out to be a marvel of nature. There was no telling how long it had remained in its exposed position before we found it. It was almost like petrified wood, with a strange ceramic sound when it bumped against the rocks, as if it were a cracked clay pot. The seasons had preserved it, but had also thwarted its obligation to return its minerals to the earth. Tonight we would rectify this oversight. I knew all the tricks for starting a fire in adverse conditions, but the dry wood and lack of humidity made this one too easy. Our teepee of sticks was so flammable it could have been ignited by a jealous glance. In no time at all, we had a nice bed of coals, and were discussing the best way to burn the prized log. David wanted to smash it with rocks, the way I had done with the smaller stuff. I was for the more manageable method of feeding it into the fire as it burned. “I don’t think you can break it, anyway,” I said with a challenge, only because I wanted to see him try. From shoulder level, he hurled down one of the melon-sized rocks I had used before. Dong! The rock careened off the log with tonal resonance as if shot from a Louisville Slugger, and landed almost six feet away.
He looked at me in shock and awe, with his jaw hanging like a garage door. Then his expression gelled into grim, masculine determination. “More power!” While he sought a larger boulder, I checked the spot where the rock had made only a dent in the log, but no sign of cracks.
David returned with heavy steps, lugging a manly projectile the size of an anvil. Visions of Wile E. Coyote flashed before my eyes, as he lifted it high over his head. I could envision all sorts of disastrous results from the combined force of the heavy rock and the tensile strength of the log. Then again, maybe the rock would slowly crack and split in two halves, the way boulders do when they land on a cartoon character’s head. Crack! It hit the log with the sharp percussion of a gunshot, as we both jumped backwards to avoid the possible repercussions. Nothing. The log cleanly absorbed all the force, and shrugged off the heavy boulder like water off a duck’s back. The force drove the base of the log several inches into the packed earth, but that was all. “Maybe we’ll try it your way,” puffed David, winded by the exertion.
Our legendary log burned through the night with the intensity of a rescue flare. Inch by inch we pushed it into the circle of fire, and it finally gave up its hoarded molecules. It produced almost no smoke, but gave off a rare incendiary power that prompted us to change positions several times. “A marshmallow wouldn’t stand a chance in there,” I said with reverence, as chips of white-hot dried pine flaked off and danced among the molten bed of embers.
“I wonder how hot that sucker is right now,” David mused rhetorically.
“Probably hot enough to start another fire with spontaneous combustion,” I answered with uneasy realization, and checked the perimeter of the hellish firelight for bits of wood or brush that could catch on fire. I noticed an odd sort of thermal dichotomy, where the side of my body facing the fire was too warm, and the side facing the night was chilly. I turned around, and the situation reversed. I felt like a planet: boiling hot where it faced the sun, and icy cold on the dark side. The analogy was not lost on a mind searching for a glimmer of retribution. I realized that to put my shadows behind me, I had to turn and face the fierce light of scrutiny.
At some unchronicled hour of the early morning, the last fragments of the great log turned to fine white ash. We had already retired to our tents much earlier, after finally pushing the end of it inside the fire ring. It had taken hours for the fire to consume this six foot behemoth, and the embers far beneath the layers of white ash were still hot enough in the morning to cook on. We had been careful during the night, collecting all bits of combustible chips and bark and tossing them in the pit, where they flashed like magnesium in the molten slag. In the morning it still seethed with residual energy in the center of a barren circle, like the navel of the world, or a volcanic crater ready to erupt. Like that log, my conscience had been converted from matter to energy during the night. In some great mystery of forgiveness, the material weight of my egregious existence was released in an upward spiral of radiance. With compassion and diligence, it would never flare up again, having been diminished to its basic elements. Although I had been reduced to the tiniest particles of pride, I was ready to rise from the ashes and fly again. I slept soundly for once, and awoke more refreshed than I had ever been before on a backpacking trip. I usually slept lightly – if at all – in a sleeping bag, and was pleasantly invigorated in the thin, cool autumn air.
We had an entire morning to enjoy the alpine serenity before we had to go back. Big Bear Lake was exceptionally calm that morning, in the same way that the waves of my anxieties had serenely dissipated. Everything was still and expectant, as if an eager audience was again waiting for me to do something. The hushed sense of anticipation stretched on for hours, even though the curtain had already risen, and the actor had missed his mark.
David wanted to torture the local trout residents one last time with some catch and release action, and I went with him for the company. He wasn’t looking forward to returning back home, where his marriage was in dissolution, and I sensed he needed a silent sympathizer. “At least he doesn’t have any kids,” I mused sadly to myself, as we navigated the stony path to the bluffs. We picked our way around boulders and through clinging bushes, and he revealed to me some of his own challenges. David was a very good man who never hurt anyone, and deserved much better than he was experiencing, and it made me wonder about the debts we pay for past lives. Sometimes the balances of one generation are paid by the next; with interest. Part of my own growth on this trip was to realize for the first time how profoundly affected I was by my own parents’ divorce, dysfunction, and animosity towards one another.
I had always known that it was difficult not having a father around, because I had gotten used to his absence even while he was there. When he lived with us, he would spend all his time in the garage, or at his hobby table, openly disdaining the companionship of his family. His last few years in our household were a frenzied distraction of complicated projects: a geodesic dome model, an intricate miniature railroad, and the restoration of an antique car. It was as if he was profoundly unhappy with the life he had created, and wanted to construct a better one that he could control. He could have devoted all that energy and dedication to building relationships with his children, but he either didn’t have the skills or the courage… or maybe he simply didn’t give a shit about us. That was the cold, iron stake that buried itself in my heart. I could handle being ignored, but it was tough to reconcile not mattering at all to my own father.
My mom wasn’t much better company after the split. At the beginning she was overly nice to us, but got a little carried away with her newfound freedom. It was rather fascinating, in a shocking sort of way, for this twelve year old to come home from school one day to the spectacle of naked hippies jumping off the balcony of our suburban home into the pool! Our first summer was a bizarre sort of magical mystery tour, as she announced we could no longer afford our elegant home because of our father, and we abruptly moved into a rundown shack in the redwoods with no heat or reliable electricity. As time went on, however, the rebellious appeal of freedom wore off. She became more distant and fanatically resentful, which made it difficult to talk to her. She handled those of our needs she could afford, and shrugged helplessly about the rest. She drank too much, and often left us to fend for ourselves while she hung out with friends, or down at the local tavern. It was as if my mom had finally mutinied against the rigid discipline that Captain Bligh imposed during his reign, and so she basically allowed us to do anything we wanted. She bought beer for us, shared her drugs, and was openly promiscuous with many men, which deeply affected her children in ways she didn’t anticipate.
Even worse, I was left completely alone to figure out how to grow into a man. Nobody ever talked to me about anything having to do with sex, or responsibility, or moral discrimination. My mom’s idea of parental guidance was, “Oh, he looks okay, give him another beer.” Good Ol’ Dad sometimes remembered to send a birthday card – that was about the extent of his involvement in my maturation. I tried to learn everything I could about how to live from books, and never spoke to anyone about personal matters. I dealt with the intense emotions that were building up inside of me by avoiding any mention of them, because I sensed that no one around me cared, or had the skills to help me manage them. With only the trial-and-error method of growing up at my untutored disposal, I naturally made a lot of errors and put myself through a lot of trials.
My wistful reverie was interrupted by the sound of cursing and boots scraping across the rock, David was having no luck with his lures, and had run out of bait, so he was trying to catch one of the grasshoppers that flew away with a clacking noise in a blur of yellow wings every time he got within a few feet. “Are you going to catch and release the grasshopper, too?” I asked with amiable sarcasm.
“No, I’m gonna fry it and eat it!” He timed his last jump, and the grasshopper shot out over the lake. Too late, it realized its error and tried to make a course correction, but it plopped into the water about 10 feet from shore. David paced the edge of the bluff impotently, looking around for something with which to retrieve it. Just then, a pair of white trout lips kissed the surface of the water, and the grasshopper was gone. The irony was wickedly amusing, and I laughed long and hard. David looked as if he wanted to jump in after it, and then he chuckled at his own folly.
“I think it’s time to go home,” he concluded with arms akimbo, gazing across the water.
Back at camp, while trying to return his tinker’s wares to his backpack, he was outraged and dismayed to discover that on our final day the mercenary chipmunks had chewed a neat little hole in the tent I loaned him. It seemed he had foolishly left some of his food inside, and the determined little varmints had surgically incised a hole about the size of a quarter in the mosquito netting of the door. Of course they ate his last granola bars, too! He was aghast at making such a rookie mistake, and with magnanimous embarrassment offered to replace the entire tent.
“I don’t need a whole new tent because of a little hole,” I reasoned. “Just see if you can get it fixed when we get back.” That assuaged his guilt for the moment, and he continued stuffing his many possessions randomly into his lumpy duffel bag-shaped pack. I packed the way I usually did: systematically, with everything in its place, and balancing the weight as best as possible. Either method was fine for the few hours it would take to get back to the V-ger.
I looked around one last time, wrapped in the comforting embrace of the Big Bear Lake basin, and breathed a silent farewell. It was time to leave this fantasy of living off the land, and return to existing at the precarious whim of society. I still had not yet learned to love myself without condition, but my Self and I had come to an understanding that would preserve my life, and that would give me another chance to learn. On this trip I rediscovered how to celebrate the small steps, and to appreciate the path that has led me to where I am now, with all its pitfalls and pratfalls. My ego had come to a realization that the road less traveled is the most difficult to navigate, and a life in which one truly learns hard lessons makes the going even tougher. In just a few days of immersion with the infinite, I had figuratively picked myself up, wiped off the dirt and grime, and gotten back in the race. However, I knew with all certainty that there was no finish line: it’s how I ran the race that counts, and not the size of the trophy. This was the thought I carried back down the trail with me that day, along with awkward bits of camping gear and smelly old laundry – both literal, and figurative. For all its difficulty, it was a load that somehow seemed easier to carry.
“When we fail truly to know ourselves, we fail to know the cosmos and our role in the cosmos… That is why we must return to the universe, to the stars and galaxies, to the solitude of the desert and mountains. The way forward is the way inward – to recover the mystical dimension of life beginning in the human heart as that heart extends into the cosmos.”
— Ilia Delio