— John Muir
Yes, It’s Still Saturday
The swarthy lakeside forest opened its arms to welcome me back, the way it always did. For me, walking into a forest is sheltering, the way a toddler seeks the supportive embrace of a mother. When one is enfolded by the arms of the trees, it’s like visiting an all-inclusive network that has existed for millennia. Imagine a line connecting each tree to every other tree, then witness your own passing through the resulting web, and know you are intrinsically congruent to the matrix. I meandered gently up the edge of Dat Butte, where there was a modest ravine choked with brush. Through that bushy bottom flowed a shallow, serpentine creek of very short but seductive length. It slithered through the Sierra Laurel in wide bends, surrounded by thriving patches of other vegetation. The plants glowed neon green in the sunshine, and the air was electric blue. The forest floor was carpeted in burnt sienna, deepening to umber where the water flowed gently into Wee Bear. Looking up, I saw dark purple tears of spring water staining the cliff face of Dat Butte; a nourishing seep which surely fed this bountiful but brief wetland. I got an impression that the mountain was weeping with joy for the sheer beauty of the day, and nodded my head in agreement. I found myself randomly standing in the midst of a thick tangle of plant life. The sweet flow from melting snow had clearly boosted the undergrowth in early summer, but now it was past its prime. As I crossed the creek bed rife with insects swarming in the sun, I could see the fading handiwork of crocheted shooting stars, pitcher plants, and corn lilies, laid out like tattered quilts at a yard sale.
I noticed I was just beneath the site of the improbable cave in the rock pile twenty yards up the slope. It was well camouflaged, and its opening could not be seen from below. The terraced view of fairy tale trees and jolly boulders climbing all the way up the ravine was enchanting, but of course I had no camera. Silently, I transformed the negative energy of cursing the makers of rechargeable batteries into appreciation for my blessed ability to capture the same picture forever in my mind’s eye. I am the camera. If you, gentle reader, want to see any of these images firsthand, a steep hike will be required! Unfortunately, I was unable to bring back any of those sacred snapshots for your vapid armchair consumption. For as long as there have been pictures it has been said they are worth 1,000 words, but actually being there is a value beyond calculation. Some visions are so impossible to convey in a photograph that it becomes irrelevant how many words it might have taken to describe them. I guess that’s good news for poets, in a strange sort of way.
The eye sees, and the Eye sees farther;
Past the need to conceptualize; only to exist
Beyond the artifice of language: in the space
Of a single instant subsumed in time.
In a more practical treatise of words, I realize that this modest marshy area must have been an ungodly factory of mosquitoes in high summer! (That’s one big reason I like visiting late in the year.) That unpleasant reality was in marked contrast to the charming character of the scene – which one always tends to romanticize in a photograph, anyway. It’s hard to distinguish in a photograph the ever-present, bothersome elements of reality like wind, temperature, or swarms of insects. I crossed the mucky marsh (or enchanted stream, depending on your outlook), at a place where the grasping bushes seemed thinnest. Right then I was directly below the still-hidden mouth of the infamous Bear Cave, which to my eyewitness testimony has never been inhabited by actual bears at any time in the recent past. It was a good opportunity to determine if 13 years’ passing had changed the state of the local bruin demographics. The entrance was camouflaged by the upper half a dead tree that had fallen at the base of the cave long ago, making it difficult to use the natural upsloping path to the entranceway. The best way to get in now was to traverse the jumbled rocks sideways towards the opening. The large piles of bark and wood debris from the rotting tree showed no erosion or other signs of large animals passing regularly, but I wanted to bounce a few rocks in there anyway, just to make sure. Okay, I also tossed the poor little doggie in there twice (but gently). When Dante emerged the second time, unscathed and highly offended at being used as bait, I figured it was safe to poke my head inside.
When my eyes adjusted to the dim, I saw no difference from the mental picture I had cherished for so many years. The unlikely configuration of the truck-sized boulders from which the cave had been formed remained astonishing and unfathomable. The sculpted walls were clean and cool to the touch, and the impossible stone firebox still waited silently for a flame. It all looked so absolutely composed, with a light litter of natural wood waste sprinkled on the floor, that it had the overly staged appearance of a model home. It remained naturally appointed, as if it were waiting to be used as a shelter, as I have amply described before. Did it maintain its form exactly like this for 40 years? Or 540 years? Quantum physics says that the subatomic particles of which these miraculous rocks were composed had cycled to and from a “void of potential” trillions upon trillions of time since the last time I had been there to observe them. It’s no wonder so many quantum physicists turned into mystics and poets, as their discoveries delved deeper into that void!
The cave is like my higher mind.
It patiently waits for me while I scurry around with a thousand worries and anxieties per day.
The cave abides, as God intended it to, until I learn to live in it.
Just as the Earth hopes for humanity to wake up and take shelter in her.
Scrambling out of the opening (and bumping my head yet again… duh!), I remembered there was another fortuitous rain shelter just a few steps from the cave itself. Nearby, a 25-foot long rock like an upside-down lifeboat remained stranded on top of a huge, cubist block of granite the size of a garden shed. The cantilevered roof would have been a perfect place to wait out a light mountain shower, with room for a couple of guys and their gear. On the lee side was even more room, resembling a small stable, where it was warmer out of the wind. I observed the improbable boulders, interspersed with the tree trunks of the forest, and sometimes appearing to lean up against them. I knew that the trees had obviously grown up around the rocks, but their appearance gave the opposite impression. It all had a strategic pattern to it, as though a thoughtful giant had arranged the boulders amongst the trees as part of an immense board game.
I retraced my steps carefully so Dante wouldn’t get caught in the rugged upthrust of rocks, trying to follow where he could not. There were many deep cracks from which it would be most annoying to have to rescue him if he fell. We both stopped and sniffed the air. Oddly, despite the total absence of ursine habitation in the cave, there was a pervasive, musty, malodorous stench… oh wait, that was me! I decided it was time to go back to camp, boil some water, wash up, and eat more of that miserable dehydrated “food” that filled the belly but not the soul. (It also made me fart like a bull, which was another reason why Dante tried to stay upwind.) After a peculiarly delicious but horrid-looking lunch of Cup O’ Noodles, beef jerky, and coffee that would scar a French chef for life, I did some housekeeping around camp, and prepared to visit the south shore of Little Bear Lake. Dante looked dismayed when I grabbed my gear and walking stick, and not even a few spirited “Walkies!” could rouse him from his napping spot. He pretended to be asleep, obviously hoping that I would go away. I laughed, tied him next to his bowl of water, and headed off, forgetting my own water bottle. Oh well… I wouldn’t be long anyway, and I would be visiting a mountain spring!
Walking to Bumblebee Springs along the south shore involved a few dozen yards of awkward bushwhacking, although on that steep side slope I could acrobatically step on the branches of the downhill-growing bushes like rungs of a ladder. It was fun to traverse from one fallen log to another and balance on branches, and rarely have to touch the forest floor. Once I got to the easiest path along the shoreline, I found a swampy log jam on a muddy “beach” where many of the local insects – especially yellow jackets – were in the habit of getting water. Mountain air is arid, and it sucks the moisture out of plants and other living beings, and they all need to get their water somewhere. The bumblebees preferred the lush green micro-creek that flowed from the spring under the huge keystone above me, and no other species disputed that claim. It was interesting how all the creatures seemed as though they had arranged their watering territories to avoid conflict… but the swift dragonflies perched anywhere they pleased.
The sun was angling low over the rim to the south and illuminating the depths of the lake. I clambered up on top of the biggest promontory to get a look down into one of the deepest coves, where the rock ledge plunged downward into mysterious emerald darkness. The sun was blazing directly behind me and cast my shadow over the water about 8 feet below where I was standing. This produced a magnificent visual phenomenon, where the image of my shadow appeared to be projected deep down inside the blue and green depths, dancing among shafts of light. Described another way, the sun’s light bending around my shadow was refracting powerfully, with alternating starburst patterns of sunbeams and silhouette that radiated outward as if emanating from the crown of my head. This was all clearly happening under the water; at a depth of about 10 feet. I was stunned beyond all reasonable perception! I had never before witnessed such a captivating and extraordinary optical phenomenon without pharmaceutical aids. I had to sit in the shade for a while to let my eyes rest, then go back for another look. Yes, the underwater Aurora Borealis was still there, in shimmering 3-D: a vibrant, radiant explosion of light and dark shafts emanating from inside the water itself! I really didn’t think a camera could have captured this image in the way I was seeing it, but for the hundredth time I cursed the limitations of nickel cadmium batteries.
Then I realized what I was doing. I was externalizing the moment, and limiting my ability to fully experience it by thinking it could somehow be better. I stopped wanting my camera. I desired nothing but to be there in the present. If I was going to look, I was determined to look with all my being! The alternating rays of yellow and dark green began to take on kaleidoscopic designs, and coalesced into a choreographed light show. As I concentrated on understanding the rhythm of their syncopation, it seemed as though there was an emotional message being conveyed to me in a didactic pattern of sunbeams. My ceaseless internal narration finally paused, as a new form of communication was being received. The message lovingly reassured me that I was okay. It conveyed tenderly that all the mistakes I had made and the terrible things I had done in my past would dissipate, if I could only let them go. It assuaged my pain, and confirmed that I only wanted to be good in my life, by reminding me of the appropriate ways I had tried to express the overwhelming urge to love and be loved. I was gently instructed with great compassion that I needed to love myself before I could truly feel the love of others. I felt as if my entire spinal column was a vertical shaft of burning affection, and the rays of light were the radiant beacons of allurement. The interspersed darker beams resulted from my own self-doubt and irrational dysfunction trying to get in the way, but they were pushed away gently and persistently by the rightness of the light. Of the many exquisitely beautiful sights that nourished me that day, that was by far the most rapturous and satisfying.
I stood there transfixed for as long as I could absorb the mesmerizing display, until the sun’s angle changed, and the wind riffled the surface into waves, and that singular metaphysical refraction was no more. Physical reality snapped back into focus like the aperture of a camera. My face was cold, and I realized my cheeks were wet with tears. The abrupt ending was probably a good thing, because looking at the display for too long was tantamount to a siren’s song, calling me to leap heedlessly into the blue-green liquid heart of the universe. I blinked, and looked around for the first time in several minutes, and all the miniature fairyland trees appeared to have little coronas. The afterglow of the sun’s redemption was tattooed permanently on my brain.
The sun redeems us every day
In starburst patterns of surging plasma
All we have to do is
Let ourselves be warmed by it.
Then I remembered I had a body, and that it thirsted. I had no drinking water with me, so I followed the fishermen’s path up and over the first small outcropping to where the pools of the pure, permanent Bumblebee Spring sparkled like sapphires set in green velvet moss. Regressing to a fear-based awareness of my body, I hesitated, knowing Giardia is the main reason that drinking water needs to be filtered in the mountains. From microbiology classes I had learned that this nasty little protozoan originates from animal defecation in the water. I thought about going back to camp and fetching my water filter. The still, small voice reminded me again that I was “okay,” and reassured me that if I drank the water right from its source, there was little or no risk of contamination. I climbed upward over ledges of lush grass and mosses to where the pure water seeped out from under a huge jumble of rocks. The spring itself bleeds from beneath the behemoth heart of a granite keystone the size of a building, which dominates the view of that shore from the campsites on the northeast side. At times when the light is just right, the promontory looked just like the face of the famed Sphinx of Giza – missing nose and all! Then the encyclopedic part of my brain realized that the large bluff back to the east overlooking the Bear Creek valley was actually misnamed “Sphinx Rock” on previous excursions, because the Sphinx doesn’t have a beard! The voices in my head were working overtime that afternoon.
Around the spring, there were still a few yellow-white flowers resembling poppies, that swayed at the end of long, slender stems to seduce the bumblebees as they stopped by for water. Charmingly clear pools descended gently from the font in stair-step fashion, all the way down to the lake’s shore. Each level was crowded with plant life. Neon green mosses grew around the edges of the puddles, appearing to swell outward from the soft interface of land and water. Beautiful clumps of ferns were everywhere: much healthier than the trampled, overgrown tangles back at the trail. The hollow that sheltered the spring was lushly carpeted with an enchanting assortment of alpine grasses and miniature, ground-creeping evergreen shrubs. Looking closer, I found a small herb – or something that looked like wild parsley – so I nibbled a bit. It tasted like a freshly cut lawn. Moo! I had to finish off the rest of my beef jerky to quell the bovine aftertaste. Then I used the empty pouch to gently scoop up some pure water to go with my granola bar. I imagined a cartoon image of myself, grazing on random vegetation and drinking from the spring with a plastic bag, and my laughter boomed off granite faces and out over the lake. Confucius say: in the path to enlightenment, mountain spring water tastes better if it is not flavored with beef jerky!
My vision zoomed out suddenly from the micro garden, and sampled more of the enchanting surroundings. A multitude of small bushes were crowding closer, like star-struck tourists drawn to a holy source of miracles. The ubiquitous Sierra Laurel was also encroaching on the pristine spot, and someday that more aggressive species will cover it completely. It mingled brashly like an unwanted guest, elbowing the softer dwarf hemlocks that seemed to stay small and humble out of respect for the sacred setting. Like dainty Christmas trees from a Hallmark card, they framed the lake with the season’s greetings. Their tiny evergreen scale made me feel like the Jolly Green Giant, striding through a miniature forest. Wandering along the crags and cliffs of this rugged notch in the shoreline, I found an opening framed by the angular trunks of fallen trees. At that point, I was looking across the lake at the camp of the Three Amigos from Redding, but they were having their “trail recovery day,” and were quite subdued.
Finally breaking free from the spell and climbing out of the enchanted sunken garden, I found an ideal picnic spot nestled out of the wind on a level platform between shoulders of the rock formations. I marked for future reference a few possible campsites in which I might someday pitch a small tent, in case the lake (or my head) ever got really crowded. Far away up to my left, Altamira loomed ever-present, gazing magnanimously from between the sensuous curved tips of the Mountain Hemlocks. From where I stood, the topmost spire of the peak became a mysterious hoodoo, or perhaps a stern sentinel on a parapet. The wind increased, and I moved from my shady spot to a sun-warmed bench of greenish granite. I may have forgotten to bring water, but I remembered my foam pads, for which my rock-chafed buttocks were unabashed in their gratitude. From this new vantage point I had my choice of jaw-dropping views, and reflected that if they could ever be photographed properly (ahem), they would make a very scenic calendar; or perhaps a lovely documentary on PBS.
When I returned to the spring to dip my jerky pouch for more water, I got sucked back into its micro scale. I kept discovering interesting small plants I hadn’t seen before. There was one gentle and delicate-looking plant in the deep, shady cracks that could only be described as a sort of lettuce, or baby spinach. It tasted delicious, but was far too beautiful to be pulled from its place and grazed upon. I walked back to my perch on the tops of naturally placed stepping stones, that allowed an aware, sensitive person to traverse the entire hollow without damaging a single leaf. Of course, I did just that: treading with extreme care, as if I were negotiating a scale model of a world-class garden (which I was). My mindful passage was quite unlike the thundering herd of macho fishermen who usually trample the most direct path to the next casting spot. I had come to commune with the wilderness; not to trespass and rip the guts out of it.
While circumnavigating that delightful botanical garden, elflike; atop stone and log, my mind’s own camera framed many wonderful arrangements that would make impressive photographs. Even on a small scale, such precious scenes have much more impact and intimacy when viewed in person. I don’t believe that any image could ever do them justice. I do know that not everyone can get to these wild mountain sanctuaries of the soul, so photographs will always serve a noble purpose when crafted with pure intent. And yet, what nobility, majesty, and grandeur of spirit awaits those who use their God-given mobility to go beyond the false idols of images, and stand (or kneel, if one is so moved) before the sacred altar of nature! With my artistic eye, it’s so difficult to lose the habit of composing a scene in a vain attempt to capture it for all eternity.
My stomach reminded me it was time for more calories. I took my time on the short trip back to camp, seeking a kind of walking meditation, or an awareness of how I, the observer, both affected and was affected by that which I observed. I stopped to gaze long and deeply where the angle of the sun made the waves on the lake’s surface splinter into thousands of ever-changing flashes, like reporters following the arrival of celebrities on a red carpet. The bursts of light on the lake’s surface seemed to synchronize with the synapses in my brain, to produce endorphin-rich patterns of pure enjoyment. I floated back to camp in a sweet reverie, where Dante was still asleep, oblivious to the nuances of enlightenment.
you cannot live in this world without treating everyone with exceeding love and compassion.”
— Swami Vivekananda