“The moment of crisis is always a moment of potential.
The gates of grace open in a way they were not open before. It is a strange thing: when human beings reach a real crisis, we are given a grace we are not otherwise given.”
— Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee
Morning: approximately 07:00, Thursday, September 13, 2012. The man and his little dog emerged from their nylon cocoon. The dog peed while the man looked around, and vice-versa. It appeared that the parking area had changed significantly. The bridge across Bear Creek on the access road was gone. A bulletin board said it had been destroyed after the recent floods, and was never going to be replaced, as it only led to the washed-out part of the loop. I scouted around, and the sign now pointed southeast to the Trinity River, where a team of volunteers had forged a new route with pure sweat and muscle. It was most frustrating to see the gateway to the Bear Lakes, just a hundred yards across the haphazard jumble of boulders in the creek below, and no way to get to the trailhead easily! I threw everything in the trunk and put my pack on quickly, before I could talk myself out of the ordeal. Excited by the prospect of “walkies” in a strange new forest with fascinating smells, Dante pulled briskly on his leash. The new “pre-trail” led down to the confluence of Bear Creek and the Trinity River, where hikers could cross on stepping stones. As it turned out, the U.S. Forest Service had added an extra 1/8 mile to the hike, routing downstream from the former bridge site to cross the creek; then returning up a switchback on the steep embankment to where the start of the trail used to be. Recalling all the times I had struggled up this trail, an extra few hundred yards was really annoying! I confess I thought ill of the hardworking trail volunteers, who absolutely should have built an escalator over the creek, or some other convenience.
Early sunlight was already shining feebly on the western treetops. The morning air hung chill like a damp towel, but I knew that was only temporary. It took a while for my soft office body to get used to the hard and serious backpack, but it soon became a part of me, like the extra twenty pounds of spare tire around my midsection. I was happy to discover that the old knees held up very well! My worst problem once again was not being used to the altitude or exertion. Put the two together, and the first part of the hike proceeded very slowly indeed. The man and his dog were rather frisky in the beginning (as expected), but they soon realized it was going to be a long “walkies,” and their pace became more measured and sullen. In time, I was pleased to discover that Dante was almost a perfect hiking dog. I emphasize almost (see below). He did have an efficient way of hustling along the trail directly; without distraction, like a bee headed for its hive.
I had a distinct plan for this trip… a habit I had picked up in my work where I survived by anticipating the steps of every project. I wanted to ascend rapidly, and have lunch at noon where Bear Creek trickled across the bare rock just below Big Bear Lake. Not factored into my plans was my deliberate pace, which turned out to be much slower than expected. I was fortunate that Dante turned out to be such a good trail dog. He had never been on such a long “walkies,” and I hadn’t planned for the contingency if he just up and quit on me, and wouldn’t walk anymore. Would I carry him, or tie him to a tree next to the creek and pick him up on the way back? The cartoonist envisioned fashioning a platform on the top of my pack, so he could be regally borne on a palanquin. That would probably suit his vanity just fine. Luckily, I didn’t have to find out what I would do, because he trotted along happily, although a little uncertain when we would get back home so he could have his treat.
The rugged trail crew depicted on the bulletin board back at the parking area had done their best to help us along. I saw many improvements since the last time I had hiked the trail. There were more squared stone steps at the beginning, and extensive shoring up with logs for drainage control. I blessed them for the many calories they expended to save a few for me. However, no reward comes without its omen. It seems the industrious crew had made the passage easier for gangs of traveling bruins, as well. On the trail I saw as much or perhaps more bear shit than ever before. One weird pile was unusually enormous, as if some crude sculptor bear was recreating Mt Shasta; with the obsession of Richard Dreyfus in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Walking respectfully around the mountainous deposits, I felt compelled to take a selfie in front of the mound like a tourist. Predictably, the resulting image was not nearly as appealing as I had envisioned, so I deleted it.
How cool indeed was digital photography! When I was a kid, my dad worked for Kodak, so we took more than our share of photographs. The problem was, back then you had to wait a long time to see what the images looked like. I remember shooting six rolls of film up at the lakes, schlepping them back to the car, driving them home, sealing each one individually in an envelope, and mailing them to the processing center. Two weeks later, I could finally see the pictures I had taken. This left little opportunity for corrective adjustments. Nowadays, I could click a shot with my digital phone, and view it instantly on the screen of the device. What’s more, I could enhance the resulting image, as a god-like editor of reality. It struck me that some technical developments are too astonishing to be fully appreciated by their contemporary beneficiaries. It will take the perspective of generations to assess the full impact of digital photography on our culture, and by that time we will be millions more innovations beyond the accomplishment. Technology is evolving at such a rapid exponential rate: like breeding bacteria on methamphetamines. Can our culture handle such an influx of information?
We eventually arrived at the bare rock pools about 2pm, judging by the position of the sun. (I resisted the temptation to check the time on my cell phone.) I maneuvered my pack on top of a ledge where I could slip out of it more easily, and propped it up with my walking stick, so I could slide back into the straps without lifting it. Dante had the happy impression that we had arrived at our destination, and he busily scouted about, nosing in the cracks and lapping the warm, shallow water as he waded through it. I opted for a long rest in the hope that he wouldn’t be too disappointed when we resumed our hike on the most challenging part of the trail. However, when we left the Bear Creek pools to traverse the east side of the ridge leading up to Little Bear Lake, the poor little dog started to look extremely sluggish. This was probably a mixture of disappointment and dehydration. He was hot and exhausted, and although I gave him plenty of water, it seemed to have no effect on him. The little lap dog was most unhappy with the current situation. It was humorous in a way, because I had never seen a dog’s expression say, “Fuck you” before, but now I clearly had to make a decision. Should I carry him the rest of the way, or reverse course and change plans to stay at Big Bear Lake? He lay panting in the shade of a rock, looking at me sideways, and his skin was hot to the touch. I opted to stay for a while under the shade of a ledge, and sponge-bathed him with water to cool him down. The spoiling ablutions seemed to revive him, and he drank some more water after a while. We pressed on, and I gave us both another breather whenever we found a boulder large enough to cast an adequate shadow. The nearest permanent shade was about 500 yards across a sweltering field of bare white granite, but by now Wee Bear was much closer than going back. This was by far the hardest part of the hike. I was glad I still had my custom hiking staff and exceptional balance with the pack, but my leg, back, and buttocks muscles were tweaking, big time.
As it turned out, my poor little pampered pooch had to be carried twice – over two intimidating jumbles of rock that he hadn’t the courage to cross on his own. With a careful, deliberate pace and frequent rests, we made it to Wee Bear Lake about 3:30 or 4:00. It was such a beautiful sight! Once again, my eyes were consecrated by the view. I felt like the prodigal son being welcomed back into a spiritual assembly, and receiving communion after a long abstention. Dante continued straight into the shallow north end of Wee Bear, splashing and gulping the water as if he wanted to become a trout. He already had the brain for it. The hot sun and altitude had combined to reverse his evolution back to the nematode level. He lurched and stumbled as a zombie dog, and was deaf to commands. When I indicated it was time to go on a bit more, and leave this pristine alpine pond, Dante looked at me with brown eyes crossed and showing white crescents at their edges; as if I had completely lost my mind. That silly dog was such a sensitive soul, with cartoonish facial expressions that were endlessly amusing. I laughed, in spite of my impatience to drop my pack for several days like an anchor in a tropical bay. With my last remaining energy, I picked him up and carried him the final yards. How fortunate we humans are to have animal companions on our journey!
There was only one other visitor at Little Bear Lake when we arrived, but he wasn’t at his campsite. Fortunately for me, and strangely for him, he had chosen the worst camping site where Rob, Dave, and I had raised hell and propped it up with a stick over 30 years before. Random camping paraphernalia was scattered around haphazardly, as if dropped from a great height. His tent was all askew, and pitched at an angle that was in danger of falling into the creek. The forensic evidence indicated that some intense pharmaceutical research was being conducted, here. I could see him through the trees, sitting near the shore and staring out at the enchanting wall on the far side of the lake. Dante barked, and hopped out of my arms to defend his newfound territory, but the guy just smiled and waved as if he hadn’t a care in the world. I wanted to be that guy in a couple of hours! When he came back, I found he was really friendly, although a bit of an amateur backpacker. He came all the way up here with two undersized day packs. One he wore on his back, with a sleeping mat, bag, etc. roped-on like canisters of a spray pack. The smaller pack had stove parts lashed all over it, and was slung across the front of his belly like a baby chimp. To top it off, he carried a ukulele in a padded case, and an incongruous aluminum lawn chair was strapped on crookedly, like a walking yard sale. I know all this because he came to say “hi” and “goodbye” after he had packed up. I had to try hard to keep from laughing while talking to him. So, true to my wishes, Dante and I soon had the entire Little Bear Lake retreat to ourselves.
I had already dumped all our stuff in the nicest campsite, and Dante flopped down gratefully on a bed of pine needles and performed an award-winning imitation of a dead dog. By the time I wrote this in my notebook, I had the campsite all prepared for night, and it was getting dark. I had begun writing my “Bear Lake Journal” about a year before, and this was the first trip on which I attempted to record my thoughts and impressions in the moment. The air hung still and silent between the trees. Swifts and swallows darted across the dimming openings to the sky, chasing the many insects that came out in the twilight. My sweaty trail clothes were hung on a line across the main path up to our campsite – the better to advertise to all the local wildlife that a sweaty man had staked out his territory. While there was still a trace of adrenaline in my bloodstream, I got everything ready for bed early. That way I could easily tuck myself in later, when the muscles completely shut down from lactic acid overdose. All our food and garbage items were 15 feet off the ground, and 100 yards back down the trail, so if that sculptor bear wandered up here looking for a snack, he would find the food bag well before finding us. The day was winding down quickly, and so was I. The gathering twilight sucked all the color from the trees; and the tension from my brain. There had been a persistent screen of wispy high clouds since we arrived, at one point blocking out the sun. At first, when the sky faded to periwinkle gray, there seemed to be more wisps than actual clouds, but now they appeared drawn and pensive in the diminishing light. I already had the tent and camp prepared for rain just in case. That way I could be sure it wouldn’t happen!
I made the last few preparations, and gratefully pulled the boots off my comatose feet. The tiniest sounds were amplified sharply in the stillness. The zipper of the tent sounded as if it tore the atmosphere apart. I stepped in clumsily, and glanced outside the tent, to where Dante, ever expectant of luxury, was waiting to be tucked in. I invited him to join me, and he was indescribably happy to think he was going to sleep inside my sleeping bag again, as he bounded inside the tent with one precise hop! Then I pulled out the smelly old dog blanket I had schlepped up the mountain from his crate at home for precisely this moment. His narrow little face was crestfallen beyond the limits of a dog’s capacity to express emotion. Sad violins cued the end of the day’s movie, and I slept through the credits.
“Oh Great Spirit, we come to you with love and gratitude for all living things. We now pray especially for our relatives of the wilderness – the four legged, the winged, those that live in the waters, and those that crawl upon the land. Bless them that they might continue to live in freedom and enjoy their right to be wild. Fill our hearts with tolerance, appreciation, and respect for all living things
so that we all might live together in harmony and in peace.”
— Marcellus Bear Heart Williams