“Whatever has happened, whatever is going to happen in the world,
it is the living moment that contains the sum of the excitement,
this moment in which we touch life and all the energy of the past and future.”
— Muriel Rukeyser
I did get more rest than the night before, and when I ventured out of my tent the feeding frenzy started immediately – except that I was safe inside my bug armor. Hordes of whiny little bloodsuckers descended on my camp from the trees, hoping for an O positive breakfast. But they didn’t get any! Many a probing proboscis stabbed through the nylon mesh of my hood, and drew back in frustration. I had my own meal on top of White Bear Rock as usual, and the insects went hungry. It was early, and only one of the new campers was stirring. The wind picked up again, which at least kept the bugs from pestering me. The great wall of Altamira rose slowly into the dazzling summer sunshine, revealing all of its charms the way a floodlit set rises on a stage. Hiroshi joined me at the top, and we had a nice chat. He’s from Mountain View, visiting friends over in Shasta, and they’ll be staying just the one night. Already I could see the quiet women beginning to break camp and pack, and it wasn’t even 8 am yet! They briskly loaded up like seasoned explorers, and left me alone in nirvana. Oh darn.
It was time for an extended visit to the Beater Cedar, anyway. I had checked in on my old friend on the way in, just to make sure it was okay, because a few trees up at the lakes had been blown down from winter storms. On the way, I passed a rotted fir trunk that had leaned over onto a slimmer hemlock, bending the little tree like a bow. The smaller one was holding the bigger one up at a 45-degree angle, right next to the outlet creek where the Queen Rattlesnake lives. One of my neighbors had seen her there that day before – the description was unmistakable – so she was still getting fat on stupid chipmunks that came down to drink. On the bluff where I had considered camping, I found a large, unnecessary fire ring, and dismantled it. Judging by the sheer number of campfire remains, it seemed that more and more people were discovering my sacred spot. The way down to the Beater was a charming gallery of wildflowers, all of whom had their portraits taken. Sadly, I discovered the “Cheerleader Cedar” had also been blown over in a gale. She had grown since I first discovered her, but was still less than 8 feet tall when she fell. Apparently, she had been getting top heavy, and her shallow root burl was torn away from the meager crevice where it had gained purchase. She still appeared fresh and green, but was truly done for. 90% of her roots had been torn from the crevice to which they clung, at the edge of the same vein of bluish granite that bisects the sanctuary above. I wondered if perhaps she could no longer tolerate the intense energy of the seam! I respectfully took a seat on her horizontal trunk – the only other cedar tree of any size up at the lakes.
Somehow, this humble being made me think of Joy’s mom, Lily, who had passed away several years before. She was always so cheerful and full of social enthusiasm, I supposed she’d have appreciated the comparison with this exuberantly gregarious tree. Quick to smile and say a kind word, she stood tall through life’s struggles and never let them get her down. I loved her as a “co-madre,” and said a prayer for her – and for this diminutive, fallen sapling. In that moment I could feel the love returning to me through my fingertips as I traced the lines of its bark, and I wondered if the feeling came from Lily, or the tree, or perhaps the collective network of affection to which they had returned. I resumed my reflections on why it had always been hard for me to feel loved, and wondered if that was due to some subtle disconnection with the cohesive field of unceasing adoration that surrounds us like a nurturing atmosphere. In that instant, communing affectionately with my surroundings, I found that I had no past and no future. There was only the eternal now; in which I was subsumed by a vast and unrelenting benevolence. By being fully in the present moment, I was able to access the antidote for my lonely dissociation. Could I also find a way to tap into this stream of consciousness on a regular basis? I placed my hand reverently on the leathery bark of the young, doomed cedar, and made a wish that her life force would serve to nourish other life. I got up slowly, reluctantly; suddenly very sad about the demise of this one, insignificant tree that tried to reach its way into the heart of the mountain, and failed. It reminded me of me.
In contrast, the Beater Cedar was hale and hearty, and I gratefully set up my stare-chair in its shadow, where I could gaze far down the valley and see if any crowds of campers were approaching. With my field glasses I located the Twin Towers far below. I don’t mean any disrespect for old friends, but there are much taller and fuller conifers down there! They are located in a dense pocket of large, healthy specimens, where the creek slows down and drops its nutrients. I regretted not spending more time in that magic dell yesterday, but the attraction of the lakes and determination to get there was a powerful allurement! Roving with my glasses, I found many impressive trees distributed throughout the valley. Some could be found further up the slopes, where avalanches had provided more exposure to the sun. Over to my left was the jagged bulk of Sawtooth, with multiple dry waterfalls staining its face like the tracks of tears.
Suddenly I heard distant voices, and spied a couple of hikers approaching the brushy traverse across the ravine. Inexplicably, they turned back from the easy path just before crossing, and sought more difficult routes around the jumbled boulders. Later, I heard them still trying to find a way down to Wee Bear from the cliffs above. Soon they were noisily clambering down to where I sat beneath the regal tree on my throne, as if to receive an audience. I saw a tall man consulting his cell phone for directions from Google Maps. Or perhaps he was searching for the nearest hotel – it was hard to tell. A muscular woman appeared, red-faced and sweaty, her features gripped in an exasperated scowl that revealed she’d had quite enough of rock-hopping alpine adventures! She checked her smart watch to see how many calories she had burned. Absorbed in their technical interaction, they were suddenly surprised to see me, and blithely asked if this was the way down to Wee Bear. Apparently, they’d mistaken the tiny tarn for Little Bear Lake, and were searching for its smaller companion! I welcomed them kindly, warned them of snakes, and set them off in the right direction. I never saw them again, and they may be wandering those mountains still.
All that time, Queen Shasta had been observing us majestically, adorned with her usual crown of cumulus. The mountains have been in their places long before people needed cell phones to find them, and will be here for eons after the last silicon chip has disintegrated to dust. I used my phone chiefly as a tool to measure altitude. I had no interest in receiving text messages, email, or phone calls up here, and never wore a watch. Even after Elon Musk surrounds the planet with Starlink satellites, making it possible to check my email from anywhere in the world, I will happily turn that stupid thing OFF. My decidedly low-tech plan today was to enjoy a leisurely lunch over at Bumblebee Springs, where I could get out of the wind and shelter in the lush growth and solitude… and where I didn’t need a power outlet! All the energy I required came from my highly charged surroundings. Besides, I loved the contrast of shifting from the grand macro of panoramic scenery to the charming micro views of a refreshing spring.
I turned and bid Old Man Beater a good day, and heard more whooping from the approach to Wee Bear… it seemed as though it would be a busy weekend! I looked up to see four fit, young backpackers with way too much gear, sitting triumphantly upon the Altar and Pyre stones above me. I didn’t feel intruded upon at all, or that they were somehow defiling a shrine (which they were), because whenever I meet people up at the lakes, I first see potential friends. Anyone who’d bust their ass to carry a heavy pack up here deserves respect! I greeted them and exchanged pleasantries, and found they intended to stay the night. None of them had been here before, so I regaled them with hyperbolic exaltations about the place they had chosen to visit. For starters, I shared with them my amazement about the unlikely placement of the boulders on which they lounged, and they immediately understood. I was pleased to learn they were the type of righteous dudes who could appreciate the beauty and sanctity of the wilderness. Quinn, Jesse, Devin, and Dane brought a menagerie of fishing gear, along with nearly everything else they might need for a month, just as I used to do when I was young. It was plain they intended to ply the modest depths of Wee Bear before schlepping their stuff up to the larger lake to claim a campsite, and I wished them luck before returning to my own camp, where I gathered a few odds & ends for my afternoon sojourn at the springs.
As I was arranging my belly bag and camera, another pair of day-hikers come thrashing through the bushes next to my camp. I saw their individuality as humans immediately, and much more clearly than I would back home in “civilization,” where I might have been vexed by the intrusion. I waved at them cheerfully in greeting, and headed for my quiet little niche where I could observe the placid lake undisturbed. At the springs, the Elf Prince’s throne was upholstered with lovely little ferns and plants, and I could not bear to sit in my usual spot and crush them! I retired to a nearby shady crevice – sort of an anteroom to the throne – and munched on trail mix while contemplating the stunning variety of gorgeous scenery and tiny little flower arrangements all around me. I love to just sit and stare for a long while at the natural world, emptying my mind of unnatural thoughts. I purposely didn’t bring my new stare-chair over to the springs, instead opting for the trusty old foam pads I use to make my butt (and backpack) more comfortable. I spent a lot of time low to the ground, appreciating and capturing photographs of the minute textures that adorned the little cup the way brushstrokes decorate an artist’s canvas.
Later, I could see the fisher dudes arriving to claim their campsites – probably because they saw the following group coming up the trail. The four new campers were two men and two preteen boys. They tromped around in confusion for a while (as all the good spots were now taken), until the dad came over to where I was, looking for an alternate campsite. I sent him and the noisy boys up to the Forest Camp in Lothlórien, where there was plenty of room… and trees to muffle their boisterous shouting and boasting. Then I went back to my own camp to rest my feet and scarf a few handfuls of popcorn. Soon appeared two more hikers – young rock climber types carrying ropes and helmets. They boldly ascended the entire 15 feet of White Bear Rock without any pitons or safety lines, and took off their packs to survey the climbing prospects for about a half an hour before returning to Big Bear Lake. A few minutes later, I spied three young nerds in t-shirts and shorts, carrying only water bottles, clambering down from the rocky bluff next to my tent as if they had just finished gym class. It was getting positively crowded up here! But I had the best campsite, and everybody knew it.
When the sun angled past its zenith, I sauntered reverently down to Wee Bear, savoring the vitality of the alpine forest. I decided to do something I had never done before, and circumnavigated the wee tarn along its rugged west shore, snapping some cool pics from the crumbling cliffs. Shasta still wore her wreath of clouds to the east, and I watched as the three day-hikers were startled by a rattlesnake on their way back down the trail. The snakes definitely preferred hanging out near the coolness of the outlet creeks that drain from the lakes, where they could weave their way through the bushes unnoticed. I seated myself back on the Altar, atop my trusty old butt pads, and reflected on the take-home lessons of this trip so far. It seemed to be all about the people. So many folks want to get out of the confines of their stay-at-home prisons, and away from the coronavirus… and who can blame them? When the artificial world we’ve made no longer satisfies, and the falsehoods of society become too much to bear, we instinctively seek the wild places to remind us of what’s real.
I briefly considered a walking meditation by moonlight, but decided to wait for the full moon to rise tomorrow night, which might include a partial eclipse! My old legs were holding up surprisingly well, but the tendons were making their irritation known in no uncertain terms. The prudent thing was to repose with another early retreat into my tent just after sunset. Upon the softness of a down sleeping bag, and the extravagant luxury of my compact air mattress, I could rest my weary bones, take the weight off my feet and ankles, and thumb my nose at the thirsty vampire bugs clinging hopefully to the outside of my tent.
“We are of the soil and the soil is of us. We love the birds and the beasts that grew with us on this soil. They drank the same water we did and breathed the same air. We are all one in nature. Believing so, there was in our hearts a great peace and a welling kindness for all living, growing things.”
— Luther Standing Bear