“I am who I am because the tears of my past have watered the magnificence of my present.”
— Steve Maraboli
I dozed off a bit before dawn, and was out of that rattle-trap of a tent as soon as I could see. I had planned for a quick, cold breakfast, and made fast work of packing up my gear and choosing a route over the Lego ledge. I discovered the theft of my chocolate-covered espresso beans from the pocket where I had forgotten to secure them with the other food. The thought of a chipmunk overdosing on caffeine produced a variety of amusing cartoon images for my entertainment. My shoulders protested feebly when I lashed the beast to my back once again, but it was only about 35 lbs. so they had nothing to complain about. They had it soft back home, anyway, where the most they had to do was shrug when I watched the news. I lived a sheltered life of software design, but out here everything was hard, and had to be won with physical labor.
Once on top of the bluff, I began to feel woozy. It wasn’t dehydration, mind you, because I drank lots of water with electrolytes, so it must have been hypoxia, combined with the unaccustomed activity. Whatever it was, it stopped me in my tracks, and I laid back on a slanted rock for a good 20 minutes. I knew I’d recover with deep breathing and rest, so I wasn’t worried, but I fantasized (or hallucinated) about what it would be like to just die right there, propped up on a random piece of granite away from the trail. It wouldn’t be good for my family, but I could think of far worse ways to go. Besides, the local chipmunks would appreciate all the snacks I brought for them! Eventually, I regained my equilibrium and resumed my deliberate trek up to the granite portal that opened on Wee Bear Lake. I picked my way slowly and carefully along the route I normally chose across that massive, sloped face of granite, and made good progress while monitoring my breathing and oxygen saturation.
At last, I stepped through the granite portals into the enchanted diorama. The tiny tarn was just as beautiful and welcoming as I had remembered! The water level was near full, and there was more vegetation. The shoreline grasses were tall and green in the sun. Insects buzzed everywhere on their obsessive agendas. When you think about it, an insect is just an algorithm with the hardware to carry out its programming. In nature, the software doesn’t have bugs – it’s the other way around! At first I encountered a few mosquitoes who were very glad to see me, but they had a very malicious program, so I left my stuff at the exposed campsite on Dat Butte, in case the woods at the big lake were infested with a larger welcoming committee. I floated up to Little Bear Lake and found nobody there… once again, I had it all to myself! Better yet, the snow and marshy spots were all dried up, and only a few bloodsuckers made an appearance. I knew the woods were full of them, and they would come out at night, but I preferred making camp at the bigger lake for many reasons. It was less windy for one, and there were more things to see and do. I fetched my gear and made camp, then washed my trail clothes for the trip home – staggering down to the lakeshore and snacking on jerky as I sponge-bathed my tired legs and body; wisely pumping a gallon of water before I ran out of energy. I deliberately hadn’t brought much food on this trip; nothing that could be considered a full meal. I was tired of returning with uneaten food I had carried 3,000 feet up the side of a mountain for nothing!
Once again, I was struck by how the silence of the wilderness had a presence to it, like the combined beat of billions of ancient drums blended into a single, unceasing, vibratory rhythm. The movement of the wind through the branches, and an occasional soft slap of water on stone, were the only distinct sounds. In the background was an aural tapestry of air, rock, trees, and water, all resounding with their primary existence. I knew the chances of being alone throughout the entire holiday weekend were slim indeed, so I breathed in the silence and absorbed the solitude through my skin while I still had the chance. There was a harmonious and pervasive sense of affection permeating the atmosphere, and I grabbed onto it the way a toddler clutches a mother’s hand crossing a busy street. I recognized this fondness intuitively, but found it hard to actually feel it. Hold it right there, I told myself, why is it so difficult for me to feel loved, especially in the presence of such majestic benevolence? I could love other people, places, and things, but rarely in my life did I ever have the sense of being the object of affection. Central to this deficiency was the impression that I did not deserve to be loved. The lake was clearly showing me that I was surrounded by a great and powerful tenderness all the time; so why couldn’t I experience the comforting awareness of being enfolded by it? If this omniscient goodness could appreciate me just as I am; with all my faults, surely, I could do the same! I needed to truly love myself before I could appreciate any love from others, I concluded wistfully, and gathered my gear for the short walk back to camp.
On this particular trip I had brought an extravagant luxury item. A spindly contraption weighing in at nearly 2 lbs. (about 5% of my load), that when pulled out of its bag resembled a lawn chair run over by a mower. Elastic cords snapped the awkward aluminum tubes into place, and I soon had a nifty little “stare-chair” to sit on instead of hard granite rocks! I set my portable throne at the top of White Bear Rock, and soon a cold wind really started to blow hard. On a very sunny summer day, I had to wear my long pants and a sweatshirt! It soon became difficult to write in my notebook, with the pages flapping all over the place. Still, it was entertaining to watch the effects on the surface of the lake, and the shyness of a few white clouds peeking over the rim to the west. After a while I decided to visit the Altar, even though it could be much windier on the open bluff. On the way down, I met a skinny solo backpacker next to Wee Bear, who introduced himself as Hiroshi. In an oddly solicitous manner, he indicated three more hikers were following, and they needed room for two tents. He was unaware that a much larger body of water existed just a couple hundred yards farther. I felt like the desk clerk at a mountain resort, but he was extremely cordial, and I directed him to the open spots by the upper lake’s east shore. It was perfectly fine to have neighbors, I reasoned, if they were the quiet, respectful type. Humility is the best thing to bring to the mountains, and it weighs nothing! Who knows? Maybe later I’d play tour guide and show them the sights. But to see the cave, they must be proven worthy.
The Altar was indeed breezy, but spectacularly mind-altering all the same. My obelisk had been knocked down (again), but the stone flame still “burned” white in the granite pyre. I spent a long time in the sanctuary, communing with the intense, majestic energy of the place. This was different than the deep ardor and acceptance that emanated from the shores of Little Bear Lake. Facing east, the Altar serves as a conductor for the vast, electric vitality of creation that radiates from the rising sun. Using my phone, I checked the altitude and GPS for posterity. Old Sol would definitely rise directly behind Queen Shasta this time of year. I rued again the injury from stepping on a nail three weeks before, which had prevented me from visiting during the actual solstice. Still, there would be a full moon on Saturday, with a partial eclipse – not too shabby a consolation prize!
After allowing suitable time for my new neighbors to get settled, and get their oohs and aahs out of their system, I ventured back to camp to see where they wound up. Predictably, they claimed the two obvious campsites out in the open, right where everyone walks down to the lakeshore. I have never camped in those spots, because it’s like sleeping in a hotel lobby. The two couples were subdued and unobtrusive otherwise, which was a pleasure. The wind remained brisk, and many puffy clouds ventured over the rim of Altamira to the west, at times blocking the descending sun. During these shaded moments, the vampire bugs would descend from the trees hungrily, signaling that I had better prepare for the real twilight, when I’d definitely be on the room service menu! I stashed everything I’d need inside my tent, hoping I might get lots of rest that night. I had my protective head net and gloves, and would be all right for a while. The wind had calmed down, and the whipped cream day had settled into a milky twilight. Soon there was no sense in hanging around outside and tantalizing the local wildlife. The human neighbors behaved as if they wanted to be alone, so I removed myself from the food chain, and ruminated on turkey jerky for dinner inside my tent. With a little food in my belly, the rigors of the trail soon crashed my hard drive, and my mind shut down into sleep mode.
“It’s easy to look at the contours of a forest and feel
a bone deep love for nature.
It’s less easy to remember the contours of your own body
represent the exact same nature.
The pathways of your mind.
Your dreams,
Dark and strange as sprouts curling beneath a flat rock.
Your regret,
bitter as the citrus rot of old cut grass.
It’s the same as the nature you make time to love.
That you practice loving.
The forest. The meadow. The sweeping arm of a galaxy.
You are as natural as any postcard landscape
And deserve the same love.”
— Jarod. K. Anderson