“Man is the most insane species. He worships an invisible God and destroys a visible Nature.
Unaware that this Nature he’s destroying is this God he’s worshiping.”
— Hubert Reeves
I slept well, in between getting up and peeing three more times. There were two welcome developments to greet me when I awoke: the Boomers were packing up early, and leaving to go back to their lives, and about 80% of the smoke had blown away. It was still a bit hazy, but was almost as good as when I first arrived two days ago. My new friends left hastily, adopting a civilized hurry and urging me to join their online group when I got home. But first, I had some significant enjoyment of splendor planned. No sooner were they well out of sight, than I headed back down to the Altar; confident in the promise of a view. Sawtooth was obligingly magnificent in the morning sunlight as usual, but Shasta was still not visible – the ridgelines to the east were waves of shadows fading to gray.
I got as comfortable as I could in the shade of the Altar stones, and appreciated the view as one who admires the paintings in a familiar museum. In the direction the sun was shining, the mountains were about 90% clear. Looking towards the sun to the southeast, however, Sphinx Rock was hidden in a hazy veil of deep, blue muslin shadows. I could faintly hear the voices of the Boomers as they picked their way over Dis Butte and back to the trail, but I couldn’t locate them with my field glasses. Instead, I traced my way all along the alligator-toothed ridge in magnification, as if I was an old prospector and his mule, wandering like ghosts among the crags and hoodoos. My gaze settled on an awesome rock formation on the ridge between Sawtooth and the Indian Face. The sheer, cracked granite resembled the craggy ramparts of Sauron’s castle in Mordor, as depicted in Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings trilogy. The atmosphere seemed to be getting clearer by the minute. Grateful for the restoration of beauty, all the positive thoughts and feelings of over 45 years visiting this area flooded my senses, and it felt so wonderful to be in this place, alone again… naturally.
But not for very long. A tumbling rock the size of a bowling ball announced the arrival of a clumsy solo hiker dude, on the high route above Wee Bear. He had no poles or sleeping bag, so I hoped that perhaps he was a day hiker, although his pack was large enough to hold overnight gear. I waved, but I wasn’t sure if he saw me. Oh well, I thought, let him experience Little Bear Lake alone, in case it’s his first time. I was just rooted contentedly on my rock, munching on pretzels and enjoying the hell out of my GPS location, whatever the hell it was (41.192053-122.701146 for the geeks in the room). Meanwhile the big-eyed, hyperactive flies were being particularly annoying… I was past due for another sponge bath! A Monarch butterfly wafted overhead, and veered away in disgust. I could distinctly hear the fluttering of its wings against the sonic background of Bear Creek rushing through the valley far below. Further down the bluff, I heard the persistent rattle-clack-clack of an ambitious grasshopper. My butt was getting sore from being a root, so it was time to leave the insects a peace offering of fresh minerals and stretch my legs.
I soon met the solo hiker at the shore of Wee Bear. He was open and sociable, but I noticed immediately the gun in a holster strapped to his backpack belt. It’s funny how in civilization one judges a person by their appearance, but in the wilderness, one assesses their gear. He was as fit and alert as a soldier, but also extremely relaxed and forthright, and I didn’t get a vibe of aggression at all. In fact, le loved to talk! He spoke to me with mild desperation, like a man who had been alone for many years, and had so much to say. We exchanged outdoorsy stories, and he won the obsessive hiker trophy, hands down. He had climbed Shasta twice, and visited most of the lakes in the Trinity Alps. Without sounding boastful at all, he informed me he once visited the Alps 30 times in one year! His fascinating accomplishments were exceeded only by his loquaciousness in describing them. Somewhere amid the torrent of words, I learned he was just a day hiker, and was camped at Big Bear with his “honey.” That gave me an excellent chance – as it was Sunday – to have the rest of the day to myself! I cheerily bid him farewell, and moved on up the bluff, but it was getting rather hot on the exposed granite. The unfiltered sun was fierce and angry, as if it was trying to make up for being blocked by the smoke for two days. I wandered back to camp through the insufficient shade, and found it bleak and sun-blasted. Knowing where it would be cool and beautiful, I grabbed some gear and my lunch, and relocated to the air-conditioned lounge at Bumblebee Springs. It was 15-20 degrees cooler at the base of Keystone Rock, and the happy ferns were glad to see me again. They caressed my arms and legs with their soft fronds, evoking the gentleness of kittens, as I wrote about my day from my Elf Throne. There were no clouds, only a hint of grayness off to the east, and the entire lake basin was baking like rice in a stone bowl… except me!
The gabby guy was an accountant, and when I asked him why he hiked so much and visited so many different places, he answered (predictably), “Balance,” followed by several hundred words to explain what he meant in great detail. I quickly learned not to ask him any questions. I figured he had a stressful job, and so did I, for that matter. In fact, I believed all jobs were innately stressful. There’s an unnatural survival tension that comes from trading one’s life for money. Back home, I’m obsessed with what to do next; and then I have to do it as efficiently as possible in order to get to the next thing. That constant pressure of having to DO something at a high level of performance naturally triggers my fight-or-flight response. (Speaking of flight, a peregrine falcon just winged by my throne, on her way into Lothlórien. She surely appeared to remind me that flying is better than fighting.)
The lake surface was dark green and glassy as an old wine bottle. There was no wind evident on the shoreline, but dervishes whirled on the surface of the water, and found their way to me. These curious lake spirits, or devas, graciously welcomed me back to my home. I was hoping that the smoky first days were just a reminder of how incredibly precious it is to be able to see. I could imagine ways that one could engage the other senses in the wild if one was blind, for example, but on that day I was grateful that I could see. Where does vision come from, anyway? The images make their way to our retinas in the form of photons, where “rods and cones” capture and fashion the energy into signals transmitted to the brain, which somehow renders the universe in a three-dimensional structure with us at the center. One wonders: how does a brain know how to do this? Where did the programming of the software come from? Infants acquire spatial recognition at an early age, after spending their entire existence in a dark sack for nine months. They learn to see much faster than they can cognize that of which the brain is informing them. It’s as if the natural enterprise of biology has focused to become that which can contemplate itself.
Watching the eclipse will be awesome, I reminded myself gleefully, rubbing my knees. The loquacious man recited to me the news reports describing horrible traffic all throughout Oregon, with gas stations running dry, hotels and cafes charging double, and people accumulating like litter next to highways everywhere in the Zone of Totality. It sounded downright “apoc-eclipsic” up there right now, and I was so grateful to be here instead! I’d get to see only 90% of the eclipse, but the difference-maker was that I’d observe it from The Altar. Alone. Just me and the universe. It was difficult to imagine the teeming multitudes up north, craning their heads to consume a cosmic spectacle like social media candy. Millions of people were crawling all over Oregon like ants on a birthday cake, and many will probably head back on Monday, as soon as the eclipse is over… if they can find any gas! I shuddered to think of the sheer magnitude of the traffic that would probably be headed south on all roads; all at the same time. (Even city folks find it difficult to leave early from an eclipse.) I hoped by Tuesday evening they will have thinned out on the freeways.
I gently probed my knees for any soft spots, but they were feeling remarkably resilient, which was a blessing. In contrast, my quads and calf muscles were tiring out from all the leveraging up and down rocks. Still, I believed I should be able to carefully explore more shoreline around the southwest, deep into the heart of the multifarious wall behind the lake. I shot some pictures from new angles, but prudently called off my expedition when the going got rough. Being alone demands a strong sense of one’s limitations. Back again at camp, I scouted around and found I was indeed blissfully alone. I performed some light housekeeping chores, and wouldn’t you know – after being so careful on the rugged cliffs, I gouged my shin on a sharp, protruding branch right next to camp! I was doing my best to watch where my feet went, but I forgot that my legs had to follow wherever they went! I had been alert for every potential hazard, but there are so many things in the wilderness that are ready to scratch and poke at soft, tender skin. I gathered my dinner together and hobbled (extra cautiously) down to the Altar. By this time, the field of visibility was reversed: Sawtooth was obscured in the hazy blue shadows, and Sphinx Rock was basking in amber waves of glory. Unfortunately, there were also some worrisome clouds trying to spoil the party. They gathered above the silent heads of the Pharaohs, right where the freakin’ eclipse was going to occur tomorrow morning at 9! I mean, they had the whole goddamn sky to play in; why would they want to mess with my head like that? They weren’t so big I couldn’t just bust ‘em up with my heart rays; and gladly besides. I focused and took a deep breath, exhaling “O-o-om!” and projecting beams of energy outward from my chest. I continued this barrage for a few breaths, and it had an immediate effect as the biggest cloud started to calve in the middle. He looked disagreeably at me, and slowly scuttled off to the east, as I gave him and his buddies a warning not to try and come back tomorrow morning.
I perched loftily on the shady side of the Altar, looking down the Bear Creek valley towards where Shasta still laid hidden in the smoke. If I strained my eyes, I could barely make out a ghostly image of white, snowy slopes. Sitting on the hard rocks was distractingly uncomfortable, even with my blessed butt pads. I was trying a new resting technique where I removed my sneakers and reversed them, putting my heels on top of the toes of the shoes. It felt good to stretch the tendons for a while, but like all sitting positions up here, it didn’t last long. Gravity wins every time, and grinds out your butt like a cigarette. It was time to get up and stretch, and do something else! I placed a shorter obelisk on the north altar stone, and got some cool pics with a hazy Sawtooth in the background. I planned to retake them in the morning light for comparison. Then I took some timer shots of me, sitting on the Altar, looking inspired. Because I was! The sun was still hot, but its power was slowly fading as it sank towards the ridgeline. From there, it would set just a few degrees further south from the spectacular notch in which I witnessed its phenomenon last year (about a month earlier in the year).
I found an interesting sculptured rock in the shape of a frozen white flame, about 10 inches long and 4 inches high with a flat bottom. I placed it in the center of the circular depression in the south altar stone – the one shaped like a signal pyre. I got a few shots of it in front of Sphinx Rock, as if I was paying homage to the Pharaohs; entreating them with white flame to bring clear weather tomorrow. Those pesky clouds I busted up earlier were loitering off to the east, waiting for me to leave so they could sneak back over the basin. Shasta was still trying to make herself seen through the haze, but faded in and out of definition, as if displayed on an old-fashioned television with a bad antenna. On the arm of Cheops closer to me, I noticed a large, vertical white scar – or stain – high up near the top of the ridge. It wasn’t likely to be a waterfall that high up, but it sure looked like one. Maybe there was a deep pocket of snow there in the spring, or perhaps it was the drain spout for an entire section of the ridge. If it truly was a waterfall, it would be a spectacular sight during the snowmelt when it’s gushing. That whole craggy knob needed a name, as it can be seen from the trail, too. I consulted the naming committee, and we decided to call it Bridalveil Point. I checked it out close-up through the field glasses, and it truly resembled the chute of a waterfall. Or perhaps it was merely a large vein of white granite; perhaps even quartz. I could see one very white chip – probably as big as a sofa – far below the cliffs: a reminder that everything falls apart given enough time.
The struggles of existence are not unique to men or mountains. Yesterday I witnessed a forest bird near my campsite, peeping in alarm from a branch. Repeatedly, she would dive-bomb the bushes below, making staccato machine-gun noises at something in the brush. I saw a chipmunk flee from that spot with the angry bird close on its tail. I presumed this was a local pastime of harassing rodents, a sport of which I approved heartily. Today I saw it again, and went down for a closer look. Sure enough, another terrified chippy streaked off through the bushes, chased by a pair of birds. Then I spotted two gray baby birds perched on a rotten log at the bottom of the tree. They were too young to fly, and were just getting their adult feathers. This life and death spectacle was just a few yards from my camp, down the trail leading to the creek crossing. One expected to hear David Attenborough pluckily describing the scene as it unfolded. The babies didn’t look worried, and I supposed it was their instinct to be still and unperturbed. Meanwhile, their frantic parents were chasing that bloodthirsty rodent into the next county. I sidled up real close to them and got a close-up picture, and they just looked at me dumbly like, “Are you gonna eat us, or feed us?” Their heads followed my every move, but their bodies were as still as pine cones. When I returned from the Altar, they were in exactly the same spot. I had a feeling it was going to be a long night for those poor fellows, but I wasn’t bringing them in the tent with me, despite my altruistic impulses! They’ll just have to fulfill their destinies on their own.
I ended my day in the shade of White Bear Rock, as part of my habit of always changing locations to see things from a different perspective. The lakeside trees above me were ruggedly handsome – such survivors to endure for centuries in the wild! It was almost time for me to lie down in my tent and rest so I could come out later and marvel at the stars. It wasn’t lost on me that I’d be sleeping up here alone again, with nobody else for miles around. But first I intend to sit on top of this rock and bid a proper good night to the faces in the wall. It’s probably my training as a cartoonist that allows me to see such character in a granite mountainside. There were nuances of line and expression that most people wouldn’t see. It was the little things… the rock that looked like a nose, with the shadowy eyes and hemlocks for sideburns. The small talus slopes that formed a forehead here, a chin there… features that all blended together in a harmonious rendering that caused me to grin from ear to ear with appreciation. It’s been a hard life, I mused, but such a blessing to have a sense of humor! This has been the catalyst to gradually awaken my heart to seek spiritual insight.
The development of spirit is an upward evolution of the soul; reaching all the way to God, or the Great Spirit. All life has a soul, of varying degree of complexity, just as life manifests in physical forms of being from simple to profound. Our lives are fundamentally an attempt by this omnipresence to realize itself in the material universe, as the One Awareness cannot contemplate itself solely in the spiritual. When you become aware that you are thinking, whence comes this awareness? Even if you believe you can think on several levels at once, there must be an objective observer outside the events to validate them. The Mind of God is the observer of all things. The cognition of your own mind thinking your own thoughts must come from a greater Mind. This is the Realm of Spirit. It is your duty to grow, to become aware of your mistakes, and to learn to be as good as you can. Any progress in that direction – however slight – is a step towards the infinite.
There is a reason that God can only be contemplated or worshiped in the present moment. This puts you in the presence of God just as you are now… not as you were in the past, or might be in the future. The goal is to realize this presence also in the present moment, so you might conduct your current affairs with suitable respect for the audience.
Give us hearts to understand;
Never to take from creation’s beauty more than we give;
never to destroy wantonly for the furtherance of greed;
Never to deny to give our hands for the building of earth’s beauty;
never to take from her what we cannot use.
Give us hearts to understand
That to destroy earth’s music is to create confusion;
that to wreck her appearance is to blind us to beauty;
That to callously pollute her fragrance is to make a house of stench;
that as we care for her she will care for us.
We have forgotten who we are.
We have sought only our own security.
We have exploited simply for our own ends.
We have distorted our knowledge.
We have abused our power.
Great Spirit, whose dry lands thirst,
help us to find the way to refresh your lands.
Great Spirit, whose waters are choked with debris and pollution,
help us to find the way to cleanse your waters.
Great Spirit, whose beautiful earth grows ugly with misuse,
help us to find the way to restore beauty to your handiwork.
Great Spirit, whose creatures are being destroyed,
help us to find a way to replenish them.
Great Spirit, whose gifts to us are being lost in selfishness and corruption,
help us to find the way to restore our humanity.
Oh, Great Spirit, whose voice I hear in the wind,
whose breath gives life to the world, hear me;
I need your strength and wisdom. May I walk in Beauty.
— Big Thunder (Bedagi), late 19th century Algonquin