To live in the present moment is a miracle.
The miracle is not to walk on water.
The miracle is to walk on the green Earth in the present moment.
To appreciate the peace and beauty that are available now.
Peace is all around us –
In the world and in nature –
And within us –
In our bodies and our spirits.
Once we learn to touch this peace, we will be healed and transformed.
It is not a matter of faith,
It is a matter of practice.”
— Thich Nhat Hanh
Still enjoying the austere company of the Two Towers, I snapped back into the realization of elapsing time when two hikers passed me going up the trail, about 20 yards from where I was eating my modest lunch of gorp and jerky. I couldn’t see them well, but they didn’t behave as if they were very tuned in to their surroundings. They didn’t see me sitting there with my blue pack and yellow shirt, or the magnificent, oversized, twin Ponderosas just off the trail. Clueless tourists. There were already three cars at the trail head last night when I parked, so now there were at least five. No worries – I expected lots of company, and I knew where to get away from them if need be. I reluctantly put my pack on my imaginary horse, and saddled up to leave my cowboy fantasies in a dusty back trail. This was the area with lush, splendiferous forests, and I was determined to take my time enjoying them, so I knew I would never catch up to the tourists. It was just as well, for I highly valued my moments alone in such surroundings! Tiger lilies were still in bloom, and many other wildflowers dotted the open meadows among tall, thick ferns. It was like walking through a Technicolor video promoting a National Park. The bright sun made the foliage glow neon green, and deep blue shadows framed the burnt sienna trunks of the trees so they stood out memorably. I took several photos with my phone, and laughed at the absurdity of actually bringing a phone into the wilderness… and the sheer ludicrousness of taking photographs with it! Technology had certainly come a long way since I schlepped my old Olympus OS-2 up here, and had to wait a week to see the pictures!
As I framed a lovely Tiger Lily, the device appeared to have a mind of its own. Instead of focusing on the flower, it brought the background into sharp definition, leaving the subject as a fuzzy streak of orange. I viewed it on the screen and zoomed in using my fingers, and almost deleted it, but a new thought made me keep it. Perhaps the forest was influencing my software, causing the entirety of itself to be featured instead of a single flower. We always tend to objectify things – singling them out and giving them a name – and we forget the numinous field of creation of which they are but a small part. Objects become just icons in our world; isolated as representations of reality made by our minds. The forest was using my phone to remind me of the totality of the environment. There may be a bug in my phone’s software, but there are no bugs in nature. Slap! Except for fucking mosquitoes…
It’s funny how one can make significant progress when not in the least bit of a hurry. I arrived at the granite pools just below Big Bear Lake by noon, and was thrilled to see they were gushing with water! It was so gratifying to see them spread out all over the flat rocks, warming in the hot sun. In recent years past, they had been merely a seep. By midsummer there was little or no snow left, but it was reassuring to see the aquifers were still overflowing the lakes, filling Bear Creek to its normal capacity, and the plants were going nuts! The trail had been completely overgrown in some places. The worst part was about a half mile before the pools, where I almost had to take my pack off to get through the tangled alders. Now, seen from out in the open, the lush growth became attractive again. The peaks all around the basin were sharp and distinct, and the air was crystal clear. Off to the east, Mt. Shasta was 80% covered with snow and gleamed like a postcard in a gift shop. Clouds streamed off her peak in a long trail, as if the ancient volcano was venting steam again. It was truly a blessing to be able, in that moment, to contemplate the beauty of the earth.
There was a human side to all this beauty and grandeur, too. Another solo hiker passed me just as I arrived at the pools. He was headed up to Little Bear Lake, but only had a fishing pole and a small daypack. As it turned out, Big Bear Lake was extremely crowded already. A tribe of 10 (!) backpackers were forcing another four people to camp well below the lake near the pools. Their campsite had the benefit of 360-degree stupendous views, but was a bit exposed and within sight of anyone trying to enjoy the natural splendor. Counting the three who passed me on the trail, there could have been 20 people or more in the basin at that moment. I might as well have been at the mall!
I stayed there for about an hour anyway, exploring the channels and pools, refueling on gorp, and rehydrating. Aside from the dozens of picturesque arrangements of plants, water, and majestic backgrounds, the most interesting thing was that the water got noticeably warmer as it passed downhill over the exposed granite. The plant life changed, too, from the scrubby alpine variety, to a greater variety of bog and meadow greenery. There was very little soil or trees – just bare rock that acted like a solar hotplate. It would be a luxury to languish in the natural, warm Jacuzzi of the lowest pools, but alas, after a rest of about an hour, I must move on. At first I meandered all over the north face of the rugged slope, mentally making notes as to the best route. Evidently somebody else had already done that, and marked it with small red ribbons affixed to pitons. I forgave the intrusion of technology, because this was clearly the easiest way to get to the knoll, from which one could easily follow the rock cairns through the worst bits. As I have often surmised but rarely acted upon, the best plan is to gain as much altitude as quickly as possible, in order to stay above the roughest terrain. Most advantageous of all, from an elevated vantage point one would be able to see the entire granite causeway to Wee Bear, and determine the best way to proceed.
Each time I have come up here, I have taken a different route across the vast shoulders and flanks of this gargantuan megalith. The glacier-polished white granite is slowly breaking up into cracks: great gashes that act as obstacles to divert one’s path. From the air, this basin must appear to be half of a huge, crumbling porcelain sink. This time, I did something I always wanted to do, and picked my way below the worst of the brush-choked gullies. I followed the green slash of vegetation that angles up to Wee Bear in all my photos – the one that is clearly visible from the trail down in the valley. The robust bushes and trees burst from a rift in the granite as blood flows from a cut. This was a very rugged but rewarding choice, with lots of water seeps from winter ice still locked deep in the cracks somewhere. These unexpected, temporary fonts provided for fascinating gardens of flowers and interesting plants on every ledge. Eventually I could see a couple of small waterfalls that came from the Wee Bear outlet – oops, that sounds too much like shopping — I mean the rivulet that flows out of Wee Bear’s eastern shore. I stayed low instead of angling up to the tiny lake, in order to enjoy the sparkling cascades and lush greenery. This remote, hidden glade was surely the realm of fairies, nymphs, and brownies… I was possibly the only human being who had ever visited this delightful spot on the planet. Imagine that!
I was getting drunk on all the beauty… or was it the lack of oxygen? All the little plants and wildflowers were just so perfect, and arranged in such a harmonious way, I felt like a visitor passing through an enchanted botanical garden. Going up the last 50 yards to Wee Bear Lake was a little tricky, and I was just about out of gas. I was well hydrated this time, but my ankles were sore and altitude fatigue was constant. I had been stopping often – not from exhaustion, but out of prudence – to let my heart rate slow down, and avoid the metabolic meltdown I had on my last trip with Kevin. Overall, I felt like I was in pretty good shape for the roundabout path I had chosen. Soon I crossed the trickle that could only be called “Bear Wee,” and bushwhacked the last 20 feet up to where Beater Cedar still stood proudly. “I’m back!” I whispered reverently as I touched its bark in solemn, grateful recognition. Another short scramble, and I arrived at Wee Bear with the sun high in the sky, and the water sparkling with a deep, emerald welcome.
I was still enjoying all the opulent growth and unfamiliar plants this early in the summer, so I took my time getting up to Little Bear Lake. The area abounded with weird but delicate succulents, most of them producing one or another unlikely sort of flower. I picked out a couple of serviceable campsites, in case all the good ones were taken at the upper lake. I was happy to find that I was breathing easily, and congratulated myself for handling the difficult trail pretty well, all things considered. It took me over 9 hours to gain 3,200 feet, but it was worth it! I met the unfriendly guy with the day pack as he was leaving, and he informed me there was nobody else up there. He acted as if he couldn’t get away from me fast enough, and I was alone before I got my pack off. How fortunate that, despite the mob scene down at Big Bear Lake, I had the more beautiful Little Bear Lake all to myself! I bellowed a huge Tarzan yell, and surely the departing lout heard me. I hoped that it would hasten his retreat.
It really didn’t matter if nobody wanted to be my companion, because the local mosquito hordes were delighted to see me. To them, I was as welcome as room service. I had come prepared for lots of bugs, but these were legion, and desperate for a meal! Come to think of it, I don’t know what they eat when there are no humans around… there’s nothing bigger than a chipmunk on which to feed (and they move too fast). So there I was, a hot, fragrant mass of slow-moving protein, and the crowd went wild! No sooner had I shucked my pack, then the sky appeared to darken with a descending cloud of ravenous insects. Now I understood why Mr. Misanthrope had been leaving so quickly! At first I cringed, unable to move, like a field of ripe tomatoes surrendering in the path of locusts.
Fortunately it was a hot afternoon, and I could foil their evil plan simply by standing in the sun. This wasn’t very restful after a long hike, but it felt good to hear the little bastards whining with frustration in the shadows! Unfortunately, that was where the best campsite was, and where I had left my pack. I could stay in the sun and avoid them for the most part, but as soon as I passed through shade there would be a flash mob attacking from all angles. It seemed as though they followed the invisible vapor trail made by the sweat rising off my overheated head. I’m sure it would have been very Zen-like to just sit and endure the feeding frenzy with supreme detachment, but I had far too much adrenaline from the long hike. I just wanted to rest in the shade, but the damn mosquitoes owned the shade. Instead of resting and enduring, I was hopping, flailing, and slapping like crazy. I sprayed copious amounts of the strongest repellant all over my hat and clothes, but it had little effect except to make me extremely flammable. Even in my toxic, fatigued state, I had to quickly change position every few seconds. Take it from me, being hounded by a cloud of thousands of mosquitoes is very unnerving, indeed! I was the only decent meal for over a mile! I really don’t know how the old timers and Indians ever endured it. I’m sure there was some level of indifference that would have enabled a harmonious acceptance of the situation, but it completely eluded me at the time.
I set up camp as quickly as possible to claim the best spot, in case more hikers arrived for the holiday weekend. After that, the priority was to get washed and into some long sleeves and pants for protection. This was a good decision. It felt so good to wash off the trail dust and grime, DEET, and sunscreen, and emerge as a real person. A very clean and sumptuous buffet of flesh, indeed! Open all night, and all you can eat for free! Every time I entered my shady camp, the swarm redoubled their efforts; no doubt tantalized by the pure, privileged smell of human blood. With reluctant deference, I retreated to the top of White Bear Rock, which was mostly baking in the sun, but still had a meager bit of shade. From there I got my groove back, protected by a wide barrier of heat-radiating granite. Slowly, I managed to exit the insect agenda, calm my anxieties, purge my bloodstream of adrenaline, and get reacquainted with the faces in the great wall that rises from the back of the lake. However, as the sun angled closer to setting, I realized that the mosquitoes would be unbridled in their lust for blood as soon as there was no hot sun to deter them. I made my plans to dash into camp for all my dinner fixins, and hustle them back to the top of this rock before it cooled down. I also choreographed in my mind all the movements I would need to perform, to set up my tent as quickly as possible and hide safely inside for the rest of the evening and night. At any rate, no other catering service had arrived, so it was obvious I was going to be the only thing on the menu for the first night.
As the sun dropped below the ridge line of Altamira, I was off like a sprinter. I grabbed my stuff sack and put all the food and trash into it, then unfurled a rope and hung it on a tree limb 15 feet off the ground. The first rock throw with the rope attached went right over the branch! I wore garden gloves and a bug mask, but the desperate little devils drilled through the backs of the gloves as I tied the rope to the sack and pulled it up. Often, I had to quickly shift my position several yards, and the surrounding cloud of bugs shifted with me. Like an animated cartoon swarm, they followed my pheromone trail through the woods as I dashed from one task to another. I grabbed flashlight, water, stove, and other implements I would need up at the rock for dinner, or inside the tent. With practiced motions, I unrolled the tent and had it erected in minutes. I did this in stages, in between other tasks, in order to change my position often and keep the enemy guessing. At last I threw all the tent stuff inside so I could just slip in later, and scrambled back up to White Bear Rock. I deftly killed a few of the lingering assassins who tried to follow me, and enjoyed my dehydrated delicacies in peace. My dinner reservations were very difficult to get, but the view from my table was to die for.
In the spreading silence of twilight, as the lake basin cooled down, I could hear the faint, high pitched whining of several thousand mosquitoes gathering for their own feast. I figured I had better get back to the tent and zip myself up before they got enough wings together to carry me away! Once inside, I could be blissfully bug-free for several hours. I dashed back down and hastily deposited my dinner debris in several places around camp as they made their move. At the edge of my tent, I removed my boots and waved my foam pads about vigorously to clear a safe path inside. I became uncharacteristically frantic because of the wild keening madness all about me: a host of malevolent demons wailing in crazed lustfulness. With desperate alacrity, I unzipped my tent, folded myself and my gear inside, and re-zipped the flap in a series of coordinated movements that would have made a gymnastics coach proud. Safe inside, I sprayed a loud raspberry in the general direction of the thwarted marauders. I could see a dozen sharp noses poking disappointedly through the mesh of the tent screen, and it made me laugh in derision. Above them, an angry mob of tiny bug-devils howled in high-pitched frustration. With peace at last, I set up my bed, laid out all my gear where I could reach it quickly, and gratefully stretched into a position not requiring the use of my legs. Finally, blissfully, all my muscles could relax…
…except for that itty bitty one that controls the sphincter of my bladder!
With increasing annoyance turning into alarm, I realized I would have to reenter the maelstrom outside to relieve myself. I looked around desperately for a bottle or some disposable container… no such foresight, Captain Kirk! I was left with only my own plumbing. With scientific calculations of water pressure and trajectory, I estimated the angle of the tent to determine if I might be able to pee through a small, unzipped portion of the door. As soon as I realized that plan would expose a certain tender morsel of skin to danger, I quickly abandoned the idea, and started mentally preparing myself for the mad dash to the bushes. I tell you, I was not looking forward to running a gauntlet of famished beasties just to take a piss! What else could I use? No, I would need my boots tomorrow, and they were not waterproof. Aha! My headlamp was stored in a stout plastic bag! I quickly decided it was a worthy sacrifice under the circumstances, and filled it up (after removing the headlamp and checking for leaks). Then I tossed it outside the tent with disdain. In my last thought of a very long day, I sincerely hoped a few of the vampire bugs broke their bloodsucking fangs on the warm plastic!
“To think is easy. To act is difficult. To act as one thinks is the most difficult.”
— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe