Friday, September 14 – Recovery Day
I didn’t remember actually falling asleep, but I awoke in my tent before dawn. I hadn’t really slept well, though the forest and lake had been blissfully peaceful and quiet all night. Come to think of it, it was the first night I had actually slept up here alone; with no other human being around for miles. On my first solo trip, I had gotten no sleep at all. The time between daylight, as my spot on the planet revolves around again to greet the sun, is a time for rest and reflection. This usually happens while snoring on a mattress in a plywood box, but up here I was dreaming under the stars. During the night, Dante had stealthily abandoned his blanket for the cozier cushion of my down sleeping bag. It was the same sleeping bag my father owned, 40 years ago. Some elements of continuity are too serendipitous to describe.
The Man and his Dog emerged once again from their nylon cocoon, just as the rising sun was glinting off the top of Altamira on the lake’s west wall. It glowed as if the topmost ramparts were heated from within, the way steel is forged in a furnace. The golden gleam didn’t last long, however; it faded away under the overcast cover of high clouds. After breakfast, I let Dante follow me without a leash down to Wee Bear. He enjoyed his newfound freedom immensely, darting this way and that through the bushes, and across the flat rocks, in search of the chipmunks that had been mocking him the day before when he was too tired to chase them. This was the first time he had been in a world without fences or leashes, and what a great big world it was! His inquisitive personality devoured the forest the way a vacuum cleaner sucks on a carpet. His Rat Terrier instincts kicked in, and he actually cornered one varmint in a crack that had two openings about three feet apart. The terrified chipmunk tried first one escape hole, then the other, but couldn’t muster the courage to make a dash for it with a crazy dog whining and scratching; seemingly at both exits at the same time. Back and forth went the desperate rodent inside the crack, too terrified to make a break for it. Back and forth went the frantic dog outside, like a yapping character in a video game. This kept the two of them busy for over an hour, so that after I finally stopped laughing I could explore more interesting sights.
From the 20-foot ledge where Dante was playing chipmunk pong, I could look directly down at the tops of some young, charming Mountain Hemlocks that had thrived in the shelter of the micro-ravine that channeled the meager outflow from Wee Bear down the face of the 1,000 foot bluff. This was the topmost step of a long, grand staircase that ascended from the forested valley far below to the austere granite heights above, where I was profoundly happy to be at the time. Old King Silver – the –massive dead tree trunk on the east shore that had been the focal point of so many photos in the past – had finally plunged into the depths of the tiny tarn, leaving only a few feet of its majestic trunk leaning above the waterline. Like the old tree, my skin tingled with the dramatic return to the nourishing elements of an intimate little paradise. In contrast to the fallen monarch, I found the Beater Cedar still vitally intact; looking quite hale and hearty. I was visiting all my old, familiar friends in the neighborhood, and reverently laying my hands on them to remake their acquaintance. To the east, the untouchable Shasta brooded and sulked under a swarm of high clouds that circled her like flies.
Admittedly, I was bummed that my new creations could not be photographed for posterity, but the disappointment soon transformed into a new kind of freedom from not having to filter the scenery through the tiny display screen of the camera. I will be the camera! That was to be an ongoing thematic perspective for the day. The now useless device was banished to the trash pocket with the granola bar wrappers and bits of string. Suddenly unfettered by the technical demands of photography, I could interpret everything much more clearly. I hunkered down to an angle from which I could sight Mt. Shasta directly between the two obelisks on top of the flat divan-like rock in the Parlor of the Gods, and I could finally understand the insatiable, megalithic urge to build a pyramid.
My Egyptian obsession was cut short when I spotted a lone man walking along Wee Bear’s north shore with no pack – obviously a day hiker. When he got within conversational distance we exchanged pleasantries, and he told me he had passed three guys on the trail who said they were headed up to Little Bear Lake for the weekend. I hoped they would decide Big Bear Lake was good enough… he described them as being pretty spent when he’d passed them in the first stretch of trail. Just in case, I called Dante from his chipmunk games, and started gathering firewood on the way back up to camp for lunch. I had been too tired the day before to build a fire, and I wanted to collect all the easy deadfalls in case those other guys made it up here. Soon I had enough for the rest of my stay, and boiled some water for soup.
After lunch I lounged in different spots that offered a scenic view, reading The Hobbit again, in between long looks at the lake. The masterful descriptions of Tolkien reminded me once again why I loved this place so much. It was hard not to think of the other hikers as menacing orcs advancing ominously on my mountain stronghold. I hoped they would at least be quiet, if they made it up this far. The high clouds had broken up into wispy cobwebs that raced across the sky, headed for Shasta (the Lonely Mountain) to the east. These cirrus wraiths were competing with a few fat, ugly cumulus that resembled the sort that could bring rain, but the unattractive ones didn’t hang around long. Soon the wind picked up noticeably, following briskly in the wake of the clouds and swirling back up the gully from Wee Bear to where I sat next to Little Bear Lake. I didn’t worry – I was prepared for a little rain – and anyway, it appeared as though this bluster of wind was getting sucked along with the solemn procession of clouds that pursued other business to the east.
While I was sitting around camp, wondering what questionable freeze-dried delicacy to prepare that evening, the Three Amigos finally arrived. First the fit one appeared quietly on the trail from Wee Bear, posing as if he had marched straight out of an REI catalog. He was accompanied by the loud sounds of crashing and cursing from further downhill. The first guy saw me and waved apologetically, and waited for the comic relief. Up staggered not a herd of rhinoceros, but two large, out of shape hikers, huffing and puffing with misshapen packs and beer bellies. Despite all the racket, they actually seemed very nice, and approached my camp respectfully to exchange information. Names were not offered yet, so I privately dubbed them GI Joe, Bluto, and Curly. The two out-of-shape characters stared with the vacant obsession of those who had finally reached a destination that had taken on mythical proportions in their minds. They too, had circumnavigated frequent huge piles of fresh bear scat. They also related that the day hiker coming back down the trail told them he’d actually met up with the likely culprit somewhere below Big Bear Lake. I told them of the other spots around the shore, and they made camp sprawled out across the flat spot that led west down to the lake’s edge. At least I knew they’d be quiet tonight – two-thirds of their party looked all done in.
As I wrote that passage in my notebook, the wind had completely died down, and a beautiful veil of quietude enveloped the lake. My fire hissed and popped playfully, chasing me from rock to stump and back again with its dancing smoke. Dante was exhausted again – this time from chasing chipmunks – and was performing an encore of his dead dog act. His languor reminded me that I should hang the food and trash… there was certainly a hungry bear in the vicinity that had a notion we were the only substantial food for miles. He wasn’t making those big piles just from nuts and berries! Once again, my emotions were suffering from the self-inflicted wounds of thinking too much. My sensible, rational brain reasoned that Mr. Bear would surely be wary about invading our lake now that it had four times the sweaty man odor (and the little dog didn’t smell too hot, either). My ancient limbic system felt like staying up all night to feed the fire and stomp fiercely to ward off the darkness. The tired old body won, as it reminded me that I was much better prepared for sleeping that night – with makeshift pillows and pads – than I was for an extended display of false bravado. The sounds of a hungry bear ripping into my food cache might even go unnoticed. At least I had my trusty dog to protect me! He would make a brief, distracting snack while I dashed for the car.
“And the world cannot be discovered by a journey of miles, no matter how long, but only by a spiritual journey, a journey of one inch, very arduous and humbling and joyful, by which we arrive at
the ground at our feet, and learn to be at home.”
— Wendell Berry