Monday morning.
As usual, I was out of my tent as soon as there was enough light to see. The wind had died during the night, and all the clouds were attending its funeral. The citron clarity of the atmosphere was tinged with aquamarine from the ice on the lake, which had made a bit of a comeback while the sun was away. But there it is again! Golden fire lighting up the crests of all the mountains! I grabbed my camera and hiked down to where I could capture our nearest star in a digital image. The other campers weren’t stirring yet. I had this spectacular morning all to myself, watching the sunbeams sparkle and gleam off the snow banks. The low angle of the sun threw the shadows of trees impossibly far, and every branch and needle stood out brightly as stained glass. Returning to camp, I noticed my ground cover was soaked underneath. Blocking the earth’s natural water vapor is a good use of plastic sometimes. As much as I admired its utility, I felt ashamed that its vinyl particles will likely exist for thousands of years after I finally throw it away.
I emptied and rolled up my tent, staking out the tarp to dry in the increasing sunlight. It was dry after making breakfast and packing everything else, so I tucked it under the top flap of my pack and took a last look around at this place I had known for 50 years. Nobody else was up yet, so it was easy to imagine I was 11 again; seeing this remarkable ridgeline for the first time. Big Bear Lake has such a wide and open presence; establishing its rightful place in the landscape to inspire awe and wonder in receptive hearts. It is a place for broad reflection… in more ways than one.
I resolutely shouldered my pack, knowing that there is an even better lake less than a mile away… as the crow flies. It has become a hopeless ritual to wish that I could fly up to Little Bear Lake every time I come up here. It’s always a bit of a scramble for beasts of burden like yours truly. From my elevated campsite, I tried to give as little elevation away as possible, as I angled across the outflow of granite that pours from this remarkable cirque: a remnant of the massive lava flows and glaciers that shaped the land. I could see the preferred line of ascent up the jumble of giant Legos, and the dead tree was still there as a marker. It worked out well to stay a little higher, and soon I reached the familiar, flat “staging area” for the final assault on the higher realms. I was still taking a lot of short rests along the way, to catch my breath. Now into my third day, I still wasn’t accustomed to the mile-high altitude.
I crossed the bushwhacking part easily, and was making good time. The morning was warming up, and many streams of water slid across the smooth rocks and danced in the crevices. I crossed the little gulch in the usual place, and could clearly see the familiar route leading to Wee Bear. Then I noticed an attractive waterfall about 50 feet down the slope. I debated the relative benefits of deviating from my path and causing more work, but I felt pretty good, and besides – that gushing spout was only temporary, and I wanted to get a picture of it. I stepped carefully on my way down, and rested next to the noisy waterfall pouring from a little chute. I was feeling light-headed all the sudden, and leaned my pack back on a handy rock to regain my wits. Time for a sugary snack! I had a chocolate chip granola bar ready for just such a moment, and chewed on it with gulps of water. Something didn’t feel right… my jaw wasn’t working properly, and the dizziness got worse…
That was the last thing I remembered.
I woke up with my face against the rocks. Bewildered, and emerging from an impertinent dream about chocolate, I realized I was up in the mountains. I was backpacking! Yes, that was it! That weight pressing down on my back was my pack, of course. I couldn’t lift my head, but why was I kissing a boulder? Stunned and disoriented, I had the blessed instinct not to move before I figured out exactly what was going on. I reached my arm out for a quick tactile reconnaissance, because I needed to roll over and assess the situation. I felt more rocks, so it was safe to shift my weight and take a look. I realized I was over 20 feet lower than I had been before. I fell down here! That was it! I must have passed out, and tumbled downslope from the little waterfall. I could see some of my gear scattered along the slope where I had apparently rolled over and over, coming to a stop on this lumpy rock. Ouch! My shirt was torn and a little bloody, and my chest hurt. All my limbs were working, so I unbuckled, knelt as if in prayer, and got a good sense of my predicament.
Ten feet below me, I could see the tops of trees behind the edge of a drop. I almost rolled off a cliff when I was unconscious! I had to get out of this dangerous spot, in case I was still dizzy. I crawled up the rocky slope, gathering stuff as I went. My electrolyte tablets. The lens cap for my camera, and then the camera itself. The lens casing was dented, but it seemed okay. The cap wouldn’t attach, however. I found my unfinished granola bar and water bottle next to the falls, where I remembered leaning back for a rest. I must have passed out, pitched forward from the weight of the pack, and pinballed all the way down to where I could now see my pack; near the edge of a cliff! And I didn’t remember any of it! Holy shit! How incredibly lucky I was to have such misfortune and get away with it… I was still a little woozy, and now in shock and distress. First, I checked all over for injuries. My left forearm was sore, but the right arm felt okay. The pain in my chest turned out to be a dried, bloody gash from the boulder that stopped me, and the only other injury appeared to be some rock rash on my left thigh. I saw my poles, where they were still leaning in a crack. Grabbing them for security, I tried to stay steady while I gingerly reassembled the scattered pieces of my confidence.
I had to get out of this place. I took my perfunctory picture of the waterfall, but I hated it, now. Hereafter, it shall be known as “Fool’s Falls,” because it’s not a permanent feature, anyway. Phooey. I couldn’t believe how stupid I was, to take the risks inherent in deviating from the familiar route, just so I could get a picture of a silly little water spout. I waited a long time for my adrenaline to reduce from crisis to risk management. How long I had been passed out, I had no idea. Long enough for the wound on my chest to dry up a little bit, I guessed. Glancing at the sun’s position, it was maybe 10 o’clock. I probably left Big Bear around 8, so I was out for… who cares? I was alive, and still had some work to do. My manager’s mind remained aware of all my gear below, in that hateful pack that was now overturned like a discarded tortoise shell. But the empty gallon water jugs were still attached! I would need that stuff.
Planning every step with care, I maneuvered down to the lumpy bundle, and wrestled it into position for shouldering it back up to the flat rock. I made sure the momentum of hoisting its weight would take me uphill, away from the cliff, and lugged it up the slope. I checked every strap and pocket for damage, then searched all over once more, to be sure I hadn’t lost anything. Sunglasses? I was still wearing my hat and sunglasses! I took them off, and the frame was scratched across the bridge of the nose. I put my hand up to my schnozz, and there was a little blood, but not much. I must have looked a sight, and then I realized with horror how unlikely it would have been if I needed to be found by other hikers, this far off the usual route. I grew more amazed and frightened as I realized what had happened, and how close I came to disaster.
“Come on, Don,” I rallied myself. “You can analyze this later. Right now, only you can get yourself out of here.” Suddenly, I wanted very much to be at Little Bear Lake, communing with the healing spirits. I used that thought to summon whatever strength I had left, and cinched my backpack on tighter. Leaning on my poles, I took a few moments to plan my route back to familiar territory. Then, without a look back at the scene of my folly, I executed each footstep and pole placement to perfection; expertly leveraging myself up and out of danger. Part of me was monitoring the poor beast carrying the backpack, to make sure he wasn’t getting dizzy again, and his heart rate was normal. “All systems go,” I reported, as I finally saw the gap to cross the brush-choked gully leading to Wee Bear.
On the other side, I found a deep, mini-glacier filling the huge cracks in the bluff, the way whipped cream stuffs an éclair. I stayed on solid rock the rest of the way, knowing it offered the best traction. Still, I needed many brief rests to avoid overexertion, and couldn’t enter the basin through the usual portal of granite. Instead, I angled up the side of the Sanctuary to get my first glimpse of Wee Bear. The little half-acre tarn was mostly clear of ice, with just about 20% of the surface sporting some unenthusiastic, lumpy ice floes. I could see large drifts of snow behind the trees, however; completely covering Mama Bear Springs. But I made it! With deep, abiding gratitude, I walked over and placed my hands on the altar, exuding sincere and humble appreciation to all the gods for protecting me, and bringing me back to my earthly paradise.
Meanwhile, an insipid Paul McCartney tune was playing in the cartoon elevator of my mind…
“Don’t go chasing waterfalls, please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to…”