“It is one of the most beautiful compensations of this life
that no man can sincerely try to help another without helping himself.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson
By the next morning, the high pressure system that had been baking the region in an enormous clay oven was finally moving on. In its place, a low pressure mass with some entertaining high clouds slid across the sky like the mechanical roof of a great stadium. Weather jets were leaving contrail graffiti at high altitude in an attempt to get a reading on the new changes. If any rain were to come I would be well prepared, so I said, “Bring it on!” The temperature was already about 15-20 degrees cooler than it was yesterday, and that alone was a blessing. A little light shower to wash the air would be welcome, too.
I slept in even longer to avoid having to deal with the unspeakable vampire bugs. I could see them hunkered down all over my tent, their beady little eyes glistening with ravening malice. When the sun peeked over the eastern knob, I briskly reentered the food chain. My new tent location was more exposed to the light, yet many would-be predators tried to get in a quick meal before retiring to the shadows. Mother bugs were ringing tiny little breakfast bells to call their children. I fought them off as if my hair was on fire, and dashed up to White Bear Rock for my first meal of the day. Their breeding factory-puddle was half the size it had been when I arrived, so in that sense my timing was terrible because I had arrived in the midst of a “baby boom,” and set up my tent about 20 feet away from the nursery, providing a convenient pantry. I was so glad I moved my camp! Every time I walked through my favorite campsite, where so many fond memories resided, the fiendish little devils dropped out of the tree branches like kamikazes in their lust for blood… my blood! I was still the only decent meal up at Little Bear Lake. I was coveted more than the last beer in the cooler. Everywhere I went in the forest, mobs of excited mosquitoes chased after me as if I was a pop star. I could finally understand why celebrities often feel unnerved from ceaseless adulation.
Later on, it was time for some housekeeping. I washed my trail clothes for the trip down on Monday, sponge-bathed a bit, and straightened up the camp. Then I decided to hike through Lothlórien forest and circle around to check out the cave. My knees had been bothering me a lot – especially the right one, which had never had surgery. So whatever hiking I was going to do, I would have to take it real easy. Dave and his dog showed up as I was getting ready to go, and he wanted to circumnavigate the rim. I walked with him into the forest and pointed him up the easiest slope, then left him to do it on his own. I’m afraid my days of ridge-conquering are over.
As if to compensate for my lack of mobility, there were many different kinds of flowers in the forest, staged in an idyllic arrangement as usual. If ever there was a place conducive to fairy habitation, that glade must have been teeming with unseen magical creatures. The pure energy emanating from the woods was fantastically palpable. I saw Dave up on the rim a couple of times, then made my way down to the pile of boulders that formed the cave. Approaching from the bottom, I scouted the forest floor for sign. There was still no sign of even a casual visit by anything larger than a rodent. Inside, the cave remained cold and crisp, like the inside of a cucumber.
Coming back out into the sun, I checked for other possible visitors. It was getting to be the time of day when hikers would arrive. Over the years, it seemed as though most people who came up here were day trippers. They never took time to experience the magic of this basin, and that was perfectly fine with me! There I was, in the middle of the July 4 weekend, and I still had Little Bear Lake all to myself. Dave and Jen were inhabiting their camp down by Wee Bear, and were no doubt enjoying its spectacular setting. It appeared as though they had that lovely garden spot all to themselves, as well. Suddenly, like digital apparitions, a couple of older ladies appeared on the north shore of Wee Bear, accompanied by a trained squirrel – or possibly a small spaniel mix. The snake that Dave saw could eat that thing, no problem, I thought gruesomely. These intruders also had just one small pack between them, and stayed for less than an hour. Sightseers. I warned them responsibly of the snakes when they passed, waved cheerfully as they left, and sniffed sadly with sympathy as they remained oblivious of their nearness to the Divine.
I wound up down at the Beater Cedar again, watching Mt. Shasta deal with the passing clouds much in the same way that I had to deal with mosquitoes. Unlike my unruly entourage, all the clouds must bow down and pay homage to the Lonely Mountain as they pass. I was contented there in the shade, well equipped with water and snacks, and out of the wind. I reflected how the evening before, Dave, Jen, and I had been commiserating about all the changes to Northern California and Southern Oregon, and the dire effects of an ever-increasing human population. Nature’s checks and balances will likely require some sort of mass epidemic or climactic disaster to regulate overgrowth, just as it had occurred throughout earth’s history when some form of life has spiraled out of control. What will happen to our species by the time Sheldon is a senior citizen? First, we will run out of clean water. After that, the food production won’t be able to keep up with the hungry mouths to feed, and we will be forced to eat only what we can produce locally. That’s why having land and the know-how for farming is so damn important… but it’s already too late! The ice caps are melting at an alarming rate, and the oceans are turning into deserts of lifeless water. They will soon be completely sterile if there is no replenishment of the plankton – the base unit of the food chain – on a massive, global scale. The forests will be clear-cut, with only pockets of habitat preserved like displays in a museum. Look around you now: the next generation of old growth is already gone, except for a few curiosities. The lungs of the world – the rainforests and jungle – are being ripped out with ever-increasing avarice to raise cattle for hamburgers that are also killing us. Generations to come will look back at us, who always had the power to change our course, and ask incredulously, “What the fuck were you thinking?!!” We will be remembered in infamy as the foolish generation that gambled away a great and precious inheritance.
Later, back in my tent, I wrote some more notes in an attempt to find the most satisfactory words to describe how much I loathe mosquitoes. They had already stolen two of the most precious experiences so far: the still, early mornings, and stargazing at night. They owned the place from sunset till well after dawn. There was nothing I could do but hide and wait for them to retire, peering through my tent screens, trapped like a chicken in a Chinese market. Actually, I have never slept well in the mountains. At home, sleep is a welcome respite; a secure escape from reality. Up here, there is way too much reality; from which there is no need to escape. I must become one with the surroundings or be rendered irrelevant. I feel uniquely a part of my surroundings, instead of like a parasite living off the work of others, or a foolish slave who trades his real life away for a false sense of security. Why would I want to be distracted from a reality in which I am part of a perfect whole? Sure, it’s much less comfortable up here, and hard ground has never been favorable to lie upon, but the night is so ALIVE, and I want to feel a part of it as much as possible. That practice is not conducive to sleep, which is like a little death every night. I only wished I could be outside my tent more, to blend in with the vibrant environment… but like I said, evil prowled the woods at night.
Dave and Jen came up to the larger lake for a swim after lunch. I tactfully joined them after waiting a bit, so they could first experience the magical cove as a couple. We had another long, pleasant conversation, smoking a bowl and moving with the spot shade as it crawled across the flat base of White Bear Rock. Occasionally, a big, white cumulonimbus would blot out the sun, then move along. It was hypnotizing to watch the slowly drifting shadows on the granite walls.
Dave had hiked to many of the other lakes in a large part of Northern California, including not just the Trinity Alps, but also the Marbles, Russians, Siskiyous, and Wallollas. As he said, this was his first time to the Bear Lakes, and he was already a true believer. He was convinced this spot was one of the most beautiful he had ever been to, and that was saying a lot. How privileged I was to be there, and introduce him to the place! He continued to impress me with his amazing knowledge about the entire region, its geology and flora, and especially the trees. As arborists, he and Jen both agreed the Bear Lakes trail passed through the most diverse forest they had ever experienced. Conversationally, he pointed out the difference between White Pine, Noble Fir, Mountain Hemlock, and Ponderosa. He casually identified many of the “lesser” plants that constituted the undergrowth, like shrubs, ferns, and flowers. It was as if he was showing me the familiar residents of his property. I wished I had more time to hang out with him, and learn everything I could about my favorite place on earth, but he said they would probably be leaving tomorrow. Farms don’t take care of themselves!
The three of us really connected, and had such an incredibly wide-ranging discussion about nature, farming, ecology, and how little time left we have to fix things. I wish the conversation could have been recorded, in the manner of Fritjof Capra’s Mindwalk. I think they were lonely, too, working on an isolated rural farm all the time, which they described as a sort of wholesale nursery for trees. The world definitely needs more people like Dave and Jen! I will indeed be sorry to see them go, even though it could mean total privacy for me. Of all the things I missed as a result of my past mistakes, I think I missed my friends the most. All were gone, except for David, and he was one of the last friends I made in life. I had known him for 16 years… God, had it been that long? Where did the years go? I needed to talk to other people who shared the same values and love of natural beauty. I missed that very much. So I had come to the mountains once again, back to the very same spot for the 16th time in 43 years, and for what? To learn all over again what is real. Friends, like homes, may change over time, but the natural world is always there.
When it was time to stop talking and think about dinner, I took a moment to show Dave and Jen the cave. I deemed them worthy, and they did not disappoint my trust. They were just as awestruck by its highly unlikely natural features as I had been when I first discovered it. With heightened interest and reverence, they carefully inspected all the architectural details created by randomly sliding, falling, and cracking boulders. They were delighted to find an alcove, shelves, storage area, flat floor with a sloping butt rest, and most of all, an enchanted fireplace raised three feet off the floor! Jen shone her light in a dark crack and discovered dozens of concealed mosquitoes, lined up in formation like a squadron of miniature, shrouded vampire bats on the deck of an aircraft carrier. That was truly creepy. Somebody ought to call the pest control company! Despite this unsettling pestilence, we all agreed that Baggins End was beyond the purview of natural phenomena. There is simply no rational geological explanation for its incredible arrangement, and one must seriously consider the presence of the paranormal to even conceive of its formation. Add the fact that several other inexplicable formations exist throughout the local basin, and the realms of gnomes, elves, nymphs, and brownies don’t seem like such a fairy tale, after all.
We agreed with great sincerity and practical intent that if the apocalypse should strike, we’d all meet right there, where the magic would last longest. There was much animated discussion about how a small group might survive up at the lakes, and Dave got all worked up trying to remember the plants and food sources of the seasons, until he just sat down slack-jawed on the sloping butt rest, took off his cap, and said with great sincerity, “This place is fucking awesome.” Words often uttered in California to be sure, but rarely with such aptness outside of Yosemite Valley. In all honesty, living in a granite cave at such an altitude would be no Disney movie, or My Side of the Mountain, but it could be done. Especially if the rest of the world had gone to hell and there was no backup plan. It would be damn cold in the early winter, before enough snow had built up to insulate the rocks. But drifting away here would be better than dying in a decaying society! As we were leaving, keeping our heads low to avoid the sharp ceiling that guards the entrance, Jen summed it up succinctly, “This cave rocks!”
In gratitude for being shown the magic of Baggins End, Dave and Jen invited me down to Wee Bear for dinner, like good neighbors should. They admitted their ulterior motive was to have me eat up some of their extra food so they wouldn’t have to carry it back to the truck. I did my part to reduce the weight of the liquid refreshments, too! They had found a good campsite under the circumstances, with the considerable distraction of continuous 360-degree views of Mt. Shasta, Sawtooth, Sphinx Rock, and Altamira, in a head-spinning panorama of spectacular vistas. Like Jen said while trying to prepare the meal, “It’s hard to get anything done anything up here, all I can do is look.” Another factor that added to the attraction of their neighborhood was that there were far fewer mosquitoes down at Wee Bear during the day. There was wide-open stargazing available, but they had been retreating into their tent at night, because the despicable fiends ventured out over the rocks at night when it was cooler. So they admired the heavens through a nylon mesh filter like I did. We talked some more about backpacking, and the other beautiful places they had seen, and somehow the conversation shifted to family. It turned out they had been raised in challenging households, too. Dave even had a little sister who was homeless and alcoholic, like mine! I was struck, in a clear tone like a bell, by how well the two of them had turned out despite their upbringing. Maybe having a “good” family isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Meeting Dave and Jen gave me new hope that their generation – the same as my children’s – would somehow find the courage and innovation to right the wrongs of their recent ancestors.
At my request, Dave identified a host of plants for me, and it was enchanting to hear the real names of so many familiar friends… sometimes even in Latin. Foxtail Pine, Heather, Yew, and even some of the wondrous wildflowers (whose names I have already forgotten). I wanted to write them down before they left, and to exchange emails so we could at least to keep in touch. Those who know the Truth need to stick together. Dave searched for a pen, but his addled brain wouldn’t cooperate. Alas, the good whiskey made a sieve of my brain, too, and most of the science escaped me. Only the art remained.
Back in my tent, as I drifted off to what I hoped would be a refreshing sleep, I reflected on the developing theme of this trip. To be a friend so you can have friends. To be aware of your surroundings and make the right choices in each moment as it presents itself. To live simply; that others may simply live. As these noble thoughts passed through the firmament of my head like shooting stars, the bugs peering inside my tent had no such high motives in their small minds. They just wanted to suck my blood!
“Be master of your petty annoyances and conserve your energies for the big, worthwhile things.
It isn’t the mountain ahead that wears you out – it’s the grain of sand in your shoe.”
— Robert Service