“If what a tree or bush does is lost on you, you are surely lost.
Stand still.
The forest knows where you are.
You must let it find you.”
— David Wagoner
I left early in Dimari’s car, stopping only once to pee, and once again for gas. It made me laugh to realize how desperate I was to escape reality. I made it to the trailhead by 11:30, and saw one car leaving, another arriving, and eight other cars already parked! And it was only midweek… not really the holiday weekend yet! When I stepped out of the car, the oxygen-rich forest air surrounded me; embracing my body in a warm hug of recognition. I was so incredibly grateful in that moment, to breathe at the Bear Lakes trailhead once again, with the promise of regaining admission to the Temple of the Gods. Other acolytes had gone before me, and were likely occupying the choice spots already. The athletic young woman who just arrived was assembling her gear for an assault on the natural elements. With one last look over my shoulder at civilization, I cinched up my pack and crossed over into an authentic state of living. Almost immediately, I came upon an electric orange butterfly, frolicking in a trailside cluster of corn lilies. I hadn’t gone a hundred yards, and already I had to get out my camera and compose several nature shots! After that brief technical distraction, the first part of the trail went quickly, while I adjusted my pack and marveled at how light it felt. I understood in that instant, just as I had brought with me only the essential items I needed, so could I also purge my mind of unnecessary clutter, and retain only the important stuff. The trail-runner lady caught up to me at the bridge, waved, and soon disappeared up the switchbacks. I felt no envy of her swift, efficient pace. I’d spent too many years conquering this trail, and now aimed to appreciate it instead!
As I sauntered ever upwards, I frequently encountered hikers on their way down. Altogether, I met 13 people leaving, and that probably accounted for several cars! A kind mountaineer about my age with a German accent advised me there were still 3 tents up at Big Bear Lake, and lots of mosquitoes! Oh well, a holiday weekend in the middle of a pandemic was sure to attract a lot of folks who were going stir crazy at home. What could be better than to get out in the wide-open spaces, where wearing a mask is ridiculous, and the coronavirus is an irrelevant speck on the edge of the ecosystem? For me, hiking through the beautiful forest was the best medicine of all, and I breathed deeply of the chemical immune system boosters.
When I reached the Magic Forest at the heart of the trail, I slowed my pace way down. I had been dreaming about this area for two years, and preparing for its ambience during the entire hike so far. Here, the trophy specimens of trees were placed closer together, and lush, green ferns grew in the sheltered spaces between them. Large tracts had been cleared of trees by avalanches, where tougher, fluorescent ferns unfurled into the bright sunlight above my head. Dramatic views of the surrounding peaks and outcrops of silver granite were framed by thick, healthy needles of large Mountain Hemlock, Incense Cedar, and Ponderosa Pine. The trees were reaching out for photons the way a crowd of happy children begs for candy. I stopped at the Twin Towers for a long pack-off rest as planned; in order to assess the condition of my legs and feet. I passed between the massive, matching pair of Ponderosas reverently, as usual, feeling the transition from a trail-marked world to a natural ecosystem that existed independent of human anxiety. I wanted to spend some time in the magnificent forest, and receive its glad tidings. My contingency plan was to spend the night here – halfway up the trail – if I needed to recuperate. It didn’t feel as if I would need to convalesce, although my shirt was soaked with perspiration. I shucked off my pack like a caterpillar shedding its chrysalis, and felt as light as a butterfly. My shirt came off slick as the skin of a grape, and I wrung out about a pint of sweat before draping it in the sun to dry. My hiking shorts were stiff, and sagged around my hips, but my mind was loose and unencumbered.
Now wearing little more than boots, I was fully prepared for my forest bathing experience. First, I paid my respects to Bear Creek, which chuckled merrily just 20 yards from the Twin Towers. This was the main circulation system of the enchanted glade: supplying water and minerals, but also carrying them away from the many springs and aquifers that trickled out of the surrounding ramparts. Huge, gnarled stumps lined its banks – the remnants of ancient trees and root systems that still lived, intertwined in networks with the great ones still standing. I found an exposed boulder the size of an ice chest: once it was buried deep in the forest soil, but now it nestled in a latticework of twisted roots, the way an infant is cradled by its mother. The banks were about five feet high, but the water that flowed by was only a few inches deep at this season. Upstream were deeper pools, and a string quartet of small waterfalls played a sonata that would have made Mozart laugh with delight.
An early summer feature of this exuberant creek bed were the spectacular, redolent mountain azaleas in full bloom, with a supporting cast of colorful wildflowers scattered like jewels in secluded spots. I approached one luscious cluster of azalea blossoms, inside which was a delirious rave of small insects, drunk out of their miniscule minds by the copious nectar. The fragrance was rich, intoxicating; like an expensive moisturizing lotion in the air. The flowers were as big as my hand, with cream-white petals tinged with gold in places, and long, slender pistils that reached out four inches. They grew thick along this stretch, as if I had stumbled into a queen’s royal greenhouse of exotic blooms. I navigated the logs and boulders a bit, and found some pretty little waterfalls that were heard before they were seen. All throughout the forest, the creek flowed in appealing arrangements, as if a major landscaping project had been constructed as public art. The entire dell of the Twin Towers is an idyllic spot, where shinrin-yoku (forest bathing) is rich and cleansing; enhanced by the energy of those massive Ponderosas growing right next to each other. They each must be 700 years old, if not 1,000 or more! Their bark plates were as big as tea saucers. Considerably less durable were the pallid, spindly implements of locomotion below my waist, which actually felt pretty good after such a blissful rest. I felt myself relaxing into the moment; reflecting with gratitude on all that the natural world has to give.
Refreshed by the beautiful wildflowers and invigorating energy of the creek, I returned to the shelter of the trees. A few mosquitoes had followed my pheromone trail, no doubt tantalized by the new fast-food restaurant that had appeared in their neighborhood. I moved my shirt into a sunny spot to dry out faster, and quickly changed location. Out in the glowing meadows of fuzzy green ferns, the pores of my skin soaked up some rays, and my fingers uncurled with pleasure. The sides of the trees facing the meadow bristled with a gentle, abiding avarice for the life-giving light. The textured patterns made by the ends of their needles reminded me of thick, hand-knitted sweaters. When the pale bacon of my skin began to crisp, I ambled back into the shade, standing between the Two Towers to recharge my batteries. I stretched out my arms as far as I could, but well short of touching either trunk. I gazed upward, mouth open, following the nearly parallel columns as they disappeared into the canopy. The first limbs were 30 feet up, and thicker than my torso. The tips of my outstretched fingers began to vibrate with affinity for the currents of energy flowing upwards inside the trunks; collected from somewhere deep within the heart of the mountain. In that moment, I experienced an intense slowing down of all thought processes, as one might imagine the mind of a tree that lives for hundreds of years. I lingered for centuries in a blissful state of non-time.
I checked my shirt again, and it was almost dry. The mosquitoes had invited their friends for a party, and a little entourage was following me everywhere I went. It was time to make a decision: stay here for the night (and be on the menu), or keep moving, and bivouac up at Bear Lake. The afternoon was waning, and I decided to camp up near the crossover to Little Bear Lake on the open granite next to the shallow pools; the better to avoid the hordes of mosquitoes in the trees. I kept moving away from the vampire bugs, visiting the creek again to top off my water bottle, and fill my sinuses with more of that exquisite azalea fragrance! Sadly, it was time to break the spell and leave the enchanted forest, but I still had so much more to see! I tugged on my sticky shirt, slid under the shoulder straps of my pack, and pointed my boots up the trail.
Hiking is a form of goal-setting, where you follow a trail or pick out a specific route; defining the way you will achieve your objective. If the way you have chosen doesn’t work, step back and pick out an alternative route to your destination. But always keep the goal in mind, for it surely leads to the next goal, and the next. There are always mountains beyond mountains. The trail was obstructed by fallen trees all the way up, including a big Jeffrey Pine at least four feet in diameter. Folks had already altered the trail to go uphill and around its massive root ball; thrust into the air like anguished goblins. At another steep part of the trail, I had to scramble over a horizontal Ponderosa that laid over 3 feet thick, with spiky, broken branches jutting out at odd angles. I scraped my knuckle on one jagged spur, but successfully guided my feet and legs over the obstacle with my trekking poles. Soon I arrived at the gurgling pools, and pitched my tent out in the open for a killer view of Queen Shasta. She still wore her white robes in regal repose, but I had seen no other snow on any of the Alps as I drove up Highway 3. Apparently, all the winter snow had disappeared already – unlike when I had visited on the July 4th weekend three years earlier. When I first arrived at the pools, the sun was nearly behind the rim of Sawtooth. I took my time setting up the tent, favoring my foot where I had stepped on the nails, and monitoring my knees and hips. My muscles were predictably weak from lack of exercise, but I hiked carefully and used my poles strategically, and was thankful to have made it this far with just the one scratch.
The late afternoon weather was spectacular, and not too hot, with a warm, pleasant breeze wafting up from the forest. I was in no hurry to set up camp – I deliberately took many breaks to stretch and just stare at the stultifying scenery. Back at home, I always attacked chores like this with a manic vigor of efficiency, trying to perform every action with as little wasted motion as possible. Up here, there were no wasted motions. Every movement was part of a sensual dance: a courtship of the present moment. By the time my gear was all prepared for sleeping in the last rays of light, the wind had increased sharply, and mercilessly rattled the nylon walls of my tent. Soon after the sun set, the ghastly vampire bugs rose from their crypts, and hungrily sought human blood. I had to retire inside my quivering shelter by about 7 pm. It got dark very slowly, and the constant snapping and rustling of nylon made it nearly impossible to sleep! The tent was taut and noisy, but a nearly full moon rose to illuminate the basin. On every side, the white granite peaks glowed faintly, as walls of a stadium shine under their light towers. I may as well have been at a rock concert with all that noise!
“If you feel lost, disappointed, hesitant, or weak, return yourself to who you are,
here and now and when you get there, you will discover yourself,
like a lotus flower in full bloom, even in a muddy pond, beautiful and strong.”
— Masaru Emoto