This life always unfolds itself within the individual, who is a continuation of the earth =
he has his roots there, there is where he appears, and there is where he returns.”
As it turned out, I didn’t sleep well at all. My body flushed out all the toxins, and I had to get up and pee three times. Each time, I had to unzip the sleeping bag and climb out of it, unzip the tent, and tiptoe on the ground cover to where a nice flat rock from which to urinate was gleaming in the Super Moon glow. As I gave the slightly-used water back to the environment, I marveled at the visibility made possible by the brightness of the Lady of the Night. Individual bushes were clearly visible, with black scars running through them where lay the many trails used by humans and other animals. I hardly needed a flashlight on the entire trip!
While trying in vain to get comfortable in my tent, the rumbling in my digestive tract sounded like far off thunder. It was as if my gut was unclenching after releasing the lactic acid from my system, or perhaps I picked up a few mercenary microbes that wanted to party in my body. I wondered if my ancient, seldom used water filter was adequate to prevent the passage of giardia, but seriously, how would I know? I certainly knew enough about microbiology to realize these stowaways would be really, really small, and I didn’t have a microscope handy. Hey, would somebody turn out the freakin’ lights?! This Super Moon thing was really annoying.
Maybe I’m just getting old and cranky. Lord knows I set store by my snores. For the first time, I have been feeling my age on this trip; that time when a man is decidedly past his prime and realizes the candle of life is burning shorter. My physical flame isn’t going quietly, however. When I listen to my body, it sounds like a grumpy old guy driving a bus. The knees, back, thighs, ankles, feet, eyeballs (yes, eyeballs), hips, and shoulders are all trying to out-scream one another, with the old fart yelling loudest of all. This guy has a hemorrhoid the size of a grape that’s been following him everywhere he goes, and it’s really pissing him off… like sitting on a pine cone all the time. If only the brain would shut up, and turn off that damn light!! Seriously though, my spirit was enjoying itself immensely, but the flesh wanted to be in a comfy bed or office chair. Regardless of the reason for my gut growling like a lion, from now on I’m boiling all my drinking water.
After the third time delivering nitrogen-rich moisture to the parched forest floor near my tent, I finally put my boots on and transferred all my comfy stuff to the top of White Bear Rock. I sat and watched the stars for about an hour, with my back against a resolute, stunted Ponderosa Pine that grows from an unlikely crack at the very top. I could identify with its staunch yet puny defiance against the elements. Slowly, I calmed that unique variety of agitation that comes from not being able to sleep, and my mind opened to the transmission of the night’s message. Old Orion was hunting in the late summer’s southern sky, chasing herds of galaxies across the black plain. He shot a couple of arrows in the form of shooting stars, but he didn’t hit anything… except my heart. After a while, I sensed it was getting near dawn, and weariness descended on my awareness as a shroud covers a corpse. Stiffly, I arose and picked my way carefully down the rock back to my tent. Even after the moon had set, there was a residual glow to the rocks, as if I were seeing an infrared image in soft, pearly white. I’m not sure when I drifted off to sleep for a couple of hours, but all of a sudden it was morning, and all the awareness of my surroundings came rushing back in.
We had made plans that today would be a day of no plans. After breakfast, Kevin decided to set off for the saddle between the lakes, with the goal of visiting the inviting pinnacle of Altamira. I had done that many years ago and really wanted to join him, but the discretion of age reined in my lofty ambitions. Instead, I watched as he climbed up the arm of Dis Butte all the way to its shoulder, and then turned west toward the green knob above the pass. When he was out of normal eyesight, I turned my attention to my own modest agenda. After boiling plenty of water, I went down to Wee Bear to snag some pics in the morning sun. Drifting aimlessly with the mood and energy of the spectacular setting, I was drawn eastward up the arm of Dat Butte, from whose brawny bicep I could see both lakes. I originally went up there for the photos, then decided to scan the ridge with my binoculars for Kevin. After a systematic search of the likely routes, I found him heading for The Sentinel, surely drawn by its siren’s song on the brisk morning breezes. The wind out of the southwest had picked up quite a bit that day, but it was still delightfully mild weather with no clouds.
Oh, what a grand time I had doing nothing in particular! Up on the butte, I examined several flat but unsheltered areas that would a perfect place to camp. I understood those sites only looked that way on the few days such as today, when the mountains exhaled benevolence upon all its creatures. In any kind of inclement weather, they would be no shelter at all. I noticed several car-sized boulders on the eastern edge of the cliffs facing the valley, perched on the parapet and held up by smaller rocks, as if they had been prepared; to be tumbled down upon unwanted invaders. All around me the rocks seemed staged, like very ancient ruins that had eroded back into the shape of a mountain. Some still had the prominence of distinct architectural features. Plinths and cornices lay seemingly where they had fallen, as if I were exploring a ruined temple. Rocks in the shapes of toys were strewn about, in a way that suggested they were waiting for the spirit children to come home and play with them. I moved deliberately and respectfully through their homes and yards with the ease of a guest at a formal party, cocking my head to hear the echoes of some lost music.
Looking out for my nephew, I once again scanned the western rim, and finally saw Kevin sitting close to The Sentinel — perhaps 10 feet away. He was just over 7,000 feet in altitude at that point, and 800 feet above the lake’s surface. The Sentinel is perched on one of the tallest peaks left standing on the rim of this ancient volcano. Kevin was perhaps 600 feet above where I was standing, trying to take a telephoto image with the camera and the binoculars coupling at the lenses, but it didn’t work as well as I had hoped. At least Kevin was thrilled to know I saw him there, and got photo evidence of some sort. At the time, he looked a little concerned about the wind slicing across the angled tops of the crags, and I sent him a silent prayer for a safe descent. I might have been only half a mile away as the eagle flies, but it would take me half a day to get to him if he needed help (or vice-versa).
To illustrate the aptness of this consideration, I found out after we got back that a guy named Steve Morris from Windsor – about 40 miles north of my home town – had been lost in the Trinity Alps since August. He was probably dead by the time we were at the lakes, only about 10 miles away from where he disappeared. After hiking up to Billy’s Peak with some friends, he left them to return to camp alone, and never arrived. Intensive searches in the rugged surrounding country resulted in few clues, until finally the first responders and volunteers gave up, and called off the search. His wife hired a private helicopter and trackers, and bravely rallied more volunteers from her church, and they managed to find where he had apparently fallen down a 30-foot cliff and injured himself badly. Thereafter, they tracked him to a place where it looked like he had spent an uncomfortable night, and then they lost the trail on hard rock.
Where did he go? If a hiker is going from one known point to another, there are only so many routes they can travel. It was 11 weeks after he disappeared that I first heard the story, and they still hadn’t found his body. Surely, he must have perished after becoming disoriented, or injured, and holing up instinctively somewhere. Searchers found a candy wrapper, but of course he had only day-hike gear with him, and would have run out of water quickly up on the dry, exposed granite and manzanita ridges. He probably thought of his wife and daughter often as he lay there dying, all alone, unable to call for help. I can imagine a thousand crevices typical to the area where he could have sought shelter and consequently made himself harder to find. Maybe he had a heart attack or passed out, never to awaken again. The molecules of his body remained somewhere up there, mingling with the decomposing particles of granite. His soul may yet blow through the lonely crags with the wind. How terribly insignificant is one man, injured and alone, in the steep, rocky tangles of the Trinity Alps!
There are 2 spires to Altamira, or twin towers if you will. It would be easy to give them names from The Lord of the Rings, but these towers have a much different character. They represent the last surviving wisdom of a stupendous energy that created this massive granite abscess in the crust of the earth. I had a perfect view of them here on the western flanks of Dat Butte, where I’d been wandering gently from ledge to ledge, ingratiating myself to interesting rocks and plants in the manner of one who is seeking new friends. I have always loved the small and intimate details of life’s energy at the Bear Lakes. Below me, on a much larger scale to the north and east, I could see the smoke from a far distant fire blanketing the sky. The scope from micro to macro was breathtaking. Up here, there was a fire burning in my soul, and the smoke could be seen below me – stretching for miles upon miles.
I was enjoying a kind of “walking picnic,” as I slowly made my way down the arm of Dat Butte to what would be the axilla. A tuft of forest peeked out from the underarm, extending deep into the southeast corner of the Little Bear Lake basin. I was stuffing my face with gorp and beef jerky as I perambulated about, and stuffing my pockets with quartz and other delightful rocks that had chipped off from winter freezes and lay attractively on the sandy ledges like gems in a jewelry store. My specimen gathering had a cumulative effect, as my load was starting to get heavy. I was already toting a camera, binoculars, food, water bottle, knife – and of course this pen and paper – and now, a bunch of rocks for our potted plants back home. I was decorating my soul as I would design a garden.
I love finding trails where none are marked. To walk carefully, disturbing as little of the natural ground as possible, is to weave oneself into the loom of the landscape like a gentle shuttlecock. To navigate the nimblest egress in a tangled forest is to develop an awareness of the life patterns all around me: stepping carefully between plants, and making little sound, Injun-style. I balance on logs or ridges of rock and leave no footprints. I become an ardent part of the fabric of the environment, instead of trampling it over with the blind hubris of an “explorer.” One must lose all desire to classify; to control; to conquer, and just become part of one’s surroundings. The most graceful way to do this is with slow, attentive movement and complete silence. There is a valuable prize to be had in the wild, but the cost is too dear for most to attain it
When I walk in the open spaces around my home, or hike anywhere within a day’s drive, I am never experiencing the natural world fully. How could I? I’m still attached to the home paradigm, where all my obligations and agendas reside. The closer I am to home, the more affected I am by its false sense of security. The less time I spend away, the more I view the world through my judgmental lens. Only when I get far away for an extended period of time can I really begin to appreciate the natural world. In other words, the closer I am to home, the less I am part of the world around me.
What is our “home,” anyway, but a concentrated, manicured collection of our materialism, fears, and regrets? Shouldn’t our domicile be a liberating place to escape from the cares of the world? Instead, home is where we jealously hoard all our stuff, organize our worries, keep out strangers, and submit unequivocally to our preconceptions. At best, a home can provide shelter and a peaceful setting to meditate; a means of escape from the suffocating narrative between our ears. At worst, with enough detachment from the natural world, a home can become a prison, in which we are hopelessly confined by the walls we have created.
Angling down the slope to where granite yields to forest, I found where many huge boulders were strewn about, with the violence of a frightening freeway crash. Huge Mountain Hemlocks rose majestically in between them, and the forest floor was attractively carpeted with green shrubbery. The Knights Who Say “Ni!” would have been pleased. I was entering the heart of the spirit arboretum, where untold energies had altered the landscape. Big rocks took on eerie shapes. Bigger rocks leaned up against dark tree trunks, and massive boulders lay topsy-turvy where they had tumbled from the rim, and smashed through the forest at some far distant time. A few stout trees bore the scars of being struck by avalanches, and others were splayed about, or snapped off completely. Twisted, bare trunks stood rigid in agony, reaching their bony white fingers to the deep blue sky.
God is speaking to us passionately through the language of nature. Every intelligent being has a means of expression, and this is how the omniscient, ever-present benevolence communicates. There is a message being sent to us from everywhere at once. Are we listening? Our species originated in the forest, where the trees taught us how to live communally. In fact, the entire natural world had evolved cohesively into a balanced, interdependent ecosystem before we even left the shelter of its jungles. We came along after it already functioned perfectly, and became obsessed with finding unprecedented ways to mess it up. Before humans, no expression of life had ever harmed the whole. It is a disgrace for our species to bear, and a lesson to remember.
There are so many likely camp sites up here, just a short hike from the lake. Once I came across a lean-to ingeniously constructed from flat boulders, with a beautiful white fairy fire ring arranged in the front yard, just so. It appeared otherworldly, like fake scenery from Star Trek. I respectfully glided through this wonderland slowly, as if in a dream. My pockets were bulging and clinking with quartz and granite swag, and I must have sounded like Alladin, who had robbed the treasure and was trying to sneak out without waking the Genie! I gave silent thanks to the igneous spirits – millions of years old: sentient stones that formed a village. There were only about 2-3 acres of level forestland tucked against the steep rim, and yet it seemed much larger than it was. All of it – the forest, the bushes, and most of all the rocks – was alive with the timeless vibrations of an antediluvian mountain spirit tribe!
Meanwhile, back in the material world, I was out of water, and it was getting hot. I took off my sweatshirt and made a bag for the rocks, lugging them at my side like a troll’s hideous handbag. (I probably smelled like a troll, too, after removing my sweatshirt.) Butterflies veered away from my path, hastily changing direction. Small birds fled before me like terrified victims of an olfactory tidal wave. Mother chipmunks took their children to safety, as I tromped directly back to camp and found Kevin had arrived just 10 minutes before me. Our separate adventures had taken us around nearly the entire rim. He told me how he had found a BLM bearing marker up there, and showed me a pic of a disc-shaped artifact dated 1965. We traded stories and pigged out like lumberjacks, and then I went down to the shoreline to fill the water jug. The wind picked up again – I guessed it was about 2pm – and the aquamarine surface of the lake shimmered with ephemeral flashes of sunshine. Later, I laid down in my hot tent and tried to rest, so I could stay awake later and enjoy the Super Moon. But the sun was too insistent.
It was way too hot in the tent. I had to relocate somewhere cooler, but first I secured my bootlaces carefully. Pampering of the feet is paramount in the mountains… these tired old dogs would have to get me home tomorrow. I found a cool spot in the shade of White Bear Rock, and arranged my sore ass delicately on a stack of cushions to enjoy the cool afternoon breezes. Those simple chair cushions were a marvel, and one of the most useful items to bring. There were four of them about a foot square, with tie strips sewn to two corners. They weighed less than half a pound each, which was the best thing about them. On the trail, I tied them to the belt of my backpack to make a cushy yoke for my hips to bear the weight instead of my back. Once we arrived, I untied them and let them become flat again, and had been using them for comfort ever since. They were most delightful as chair cushions of course, but they also made nice pillows and lumbar pads for bedtime. They even played a utility role, as they could be tied together to make a windscreen for the stove, or used as pot cozies. And that’s not all! They had zippers on their back edges, so they could be used to carry my notebook!
Other than those four veritable treasures, I brought way too much stuff again. I’ve got to make my list more specifically realistic to reflect experience, and not “what if” scenarios. I could easily get by with one-third of the food and half the clothes I schlepped over that stupid granite mountain. Nearly everything was way more than I needed. Next time, I swore, I’m bringing a lot less of that junk, and about 50 foam pads! I’d probably look like a cartoon sports mascot flopping up the trail.
The rest of the afternoon was utterly wasted, moseying around the north shore along the cove, studiously doing nothing at all. I saw one of those rare Trinity Tree Frogs, and he agreed it was a grand thing to be devoid of any particular agenda. He was a dark emerald green, with a gunmetal stripe over each eye. He was warily ensconced in a crack and I couldn’t get a good pic of him. He decided all that attention couldn’t be a good thing, and so his pale legs suddenly unfolded. He was gone in one jump. Hopefully, this leisurely pace will leave me some energy to experience the Super Moon, and everything will get me so exhausted that I finally sleep well before we leave tomorrow. Yeah right. I may as well wish for a helicopter to pick us up, or to launch hang gliders from God’s Parlor.
“A mind that conceives of itself as fundamentally separate from all that it perceives is an instrument of division. It can do nothing but divide, analyze, compartmentalize, and dissect. Everything on which it turns its attention is reduced to disconnected segments, while the spirit, the life of the whole, is forgotten. With the fictitious premise that it is fundamentally distinct from both God and nature lying at the root of its thinking, it is not capable of reason, for its premise is a lie.
— Ken Carey, “Starseed: The Third Millennium”