“Wildness is an energy which blows through one’s being,
causing the self to shift in new patterns,
opening up alternative perceptions of life.”
— Samuel Coleridge
While most of the country was celebrating its birthday by charring animal flesh and blowing things up, I was relaxing in the shade, cooled by a snowy breeze, and watching the ice melt on a pristine alpine lake… all by myself! The naked people left early this morning, and right now, it’s just me, myself, and I… the wholly Trinity. I was expecting more people to show up on this major camping holiday, but I enjoyed the solitude while I could get it. I took the opportunity to move my camp up to Little Bear Lake, packing everything for the fourth time, but making it easier by rolling my tent up with sleeping bag, mattress, and pads still inside, like a giant burrito lashed to my pack. The few chipmunks that were awake must have had a heart attack, as they saw me coming with such a huge load of gifts for them! I hobbled carefully up the snow drifts, which I found easier to walk on than the rocky ground. There was a dry spot where I had camped before, many years ago, the night my father died in Reno. I snorted in recognition of the irony. Hey, at least I’m still alive!
In my deep, sheltered cirque, the lake was surrounded by snow drifts. It was much cooler up there than it was at Wee Bear, exposed on the rocks like that; with just three ragged little Ponderosas for shade. Once again, it was probably over 100 in the valley. Up here, the abundance of slushy ice and snow everywhere kept it a comfortable 75 degrees, although the sun was fierce and high in the sky. I placed my Stare Chair in a perfect shady gully, where soothing breezes were funneled up from the lake’s frosted surface. There were a lot fewer insects here, too, although they seemed to be the only creatures that were active. Birds were scarce, and most of the chipmunks hadn’t emerged from their winter dens yet. There weren’t so many bumblebees, either, which was a relief. Those annoying little piss-lickers were getting into everything down at Wee Bear, even though I’d made a point of peeing far from camp. I found four of them in my water filter bag! They were ubiquitous, curious, ridiculously entitled, and ultimately harmless. All they wanted was to lick some piss, sweat, or water. But there were dozens of them in my camp, and it was very annoying… and a little bit creepy, too. In contrast, I hadn’t seen a single mosquito at any of the lakes yet. Thank God for small miracles!
Before noon, I heard voices approaching. I stood up, and counted eight people emerging from the forest snow drifts. They had no packs, but some were carrying plastic trash bags, which seemed odd. Then I noticed they were very young – perhaps Jordan’s age – and their clothes were fresh and clean, as if they had just gotten off a school bus. Those were not the sort of campers I expected on a holiday! They saw me, and we exchanged the usual backcountry information. They told me they had come from Big Bear (which made sense), after they had hiked over Sawtooth’s ridge from Log Lake the day before (which made no sense at all). It turned out those young folks were from a summer camp up near Scott Mountain, which was 2-3 ridges away to the north. I was embarrassed to think that it took me 3 days to get up here, during which time these young whipper-snappers had scrambled over half the county! They were accompanied by two “counselors,” who were barely older than their sprightly charges. Apparently, the campers were officially counselors-in-training. They were all extremely polite and respectful of my space, which made it pleasant to communicate whenever they walked by.
And they were everywhere, with the bustling thoroughness of ants at a picnic, exploring the features of the lakeshore. They scampered up on White Bear Rock (naturally) and talked about jumping in (not a good idea). One skinny guy hopped out on the ice floes, and walked across them in front of the lake shore, where he could have easily broken through… but he didn’t. It was fun to watch them experience that magical place for the first time. One friendly lad in particular was interested in my story, since I’d already made it clear I was here on my 50th anniversary, and that this was my “spiritual home.” I wanted them to give me some space, but he was so agreeably curious, I told him about my mishap the day before – as a way of advising about the dangers of these mountains, and the need to watch out for others. When I told him I could have died, he astutely surmised, “That must be why you consider this place so spiritual.” His youthful wisdom stunned me, and for once I didn’t know what to say, but we shared a knowing smile.
“Anyway, happy Independence Day,” I offered, with a playful amount of sarcasm.
“Oh yeah, I forgot what day it was,” he replied in head-scratching bemusement.
“That’s one of the best skills to learn in the mountains,” I advised, with no sarcasm at all.
I felt a gentle push of energy from the spirits of the lake, and was inspired to show these admirable youngsters the cave at Baggins End. They were duly excited that it was so close, and followed me up a steep snow drift to reach the bench above the entrance. Once inside, they were absolutely blown away, and their reactions made me very satisfied, indeed. It seemed that the lake spirits wanted this knowledge to be passed on to a new generation. I had now shown it to at least a dozen young people in recent years, so its legend will live on after I am gone. They excitedly pointed out the natural features to each other: the miraculous fireplace, well-apportioned kitchen area, ample storage, sunlights, etc. They scrambled all over the nearby rocks, looking for other entrances or surprises, and were very appreciative that I shared this natural miracle with them. When we returned to camp, chattering excitedly, the counselors asked where we had gone, and the campers played it cool, as if they were just checking out some rock formations. I grinned inwardly, watching them keep a secret from the authority figures (who were only slightly older, but bosses nonetheless).
I struck up a conversation with the counselors to find out more about the summer camp. As it turned out, the non-profit “Unalayee,” had been introducing kids to the wilderness for 73 years, but I never knew about it! I asked about all the particulars, so I could look it up for my grandkids when I got home. We traded tales about our routes, the wildlife, local legends, and stories. When I mentioned the helicopter rescue that had happened about ten years before, they perked up immediately, and corroborated the story with some details that astonished me. When that doctor broke his leg, and his friends went down to the trail to find help, they were highly fortunate to meet a group from Unalayee! One of the counselors had a short-wave radio, and called for help. That alone was a miracle. When the helicopter landed, and its blades gravely injured the first responder who jumped out, it was that counselor who rode along to the hospital, literally holding the poor man’s skull in place while the doctor (the one with the broken leg), administered life-saving trauma intervention. How splendid to be given a confirmation of that story, and I was able to tell them something they didn’t know: the would-be rescuer survived, but the poor man was a vegetable thereafter. That was intimated to me by some other EMTs I had met up at this very spot, 7 years before. Great tales of awe and wonder were exchanged all around. The counselors and their charges were all good people, and we got along well. But it was time for me to go explore the woods, get in some solitary bonding with nature, and let them finish their counselors-in-training agenda.
I gathered some supplies, and scaled another snow drift to access the small but personable forest that thrives in the lee of the ridge behind the lake. I noted that the cozy “elf camp” was dry, and available if needed, but old, melting snow fields still occupied all the shady spots. As usual, the tree trunks made little holes and clearings in the drifts, and some places in the sun were clear and dry. The half-melted look added to the natural charm of the forest. I saw several young trees still bent downslope, from the weight of snow that was no longer there. I captured many artistic photos, and had fun skiing down some short, soft slopes with my boots and poles. My route took me down Mama Bear’s charming little gully, still deeply covered in firm snow. Somewhere underneath my boots, everything was melting at a rapid pace, but from the bottom up. When I got to the cave’s front yard, I was stunned to see smoke billowing out of the openings. I watched as some of the campers hurried inside with handfuls of snow, and staggered out again, coughing. They saw me, and waved as if to say they had everything under control. Right.
“We lit a fire in the chute to see how it drafts,” the ice-hopping skinny boy explained, wiping his hands on his camp T-shirt. “It doesn’t go up, it just comes out.” He tried not to look worried about the copious clouds of smoke, as other campers went inside with more snow. “We’re putting it out,” he explained unnecessarily.
“I’ll check it later, to make sure it’s out,” I reassured him, because I knew they planned to leave soon. They needed to take care of this on their own, and learn from their mistakes. With all the snow around, the prospects for a forest fire were exceedingly low. I didn’t tell him that I had also lit a small test fire when I first discovered that remarkable rock formation, but back then, it had drafted superbly. Perhaps now it was clogged with snow.
Returning to camp, I saw the other young woods-folk were gathering their trash bags full of stuff, and scouring their picnic spots for any trash. The counselors lightly warned me that a second group of campers was headed this way, and they would be spending the night. Then the would-be firefighters returned, sheepishly rubbing handfuls of snow in their hair to get the smoke smell out. Soon they all waved goodbye, as they filed down through the woods towards Wee Bear. I was happy that the lakes would be in the good hands of those fine, conscientious soon-to-be-counselors, and prayed for their safe return. Then I checked to make sure their silly little fire was stone dead.
I followed them down to Wee Bear a short time later, so I could revisit the Altar and check the traffic report for the holiday. It was starting to feel like a national park around here, with groups coming and going! Imagining the future, I shivered to think of fences, roads, interpretive nature trails, and ski lifts. God only knows what would happen to this place when I’m long gone. It will be hard for anyone — much less the government — to protect our remaining wild places, after the economy and developed areas become ravaged by climate changes.
I couldn’t see anyone approaching, and it was acutely hot next to the Altar. Then I noticed the Beater Cedar was providing shade for its Stone Throne. I moseyed down that way, and sat down for a long, cool draught of beauty from the scenery. It seemed to be 20 degrees cooler in the shade. The “Wee Pee” outlet from the lakes above was making a racket in the ravine below my feet, in its mad rush to tumble down the cliffs and join Bear Creek nearly 2,000 feet below. I reasoned that the Fairy Falls was full, because it’s the final release of water, before it slides down the faces and angles of sheer granite. I spent a blissfully unmeasured length of time, just enjoying the sights and sounds of the day.
When I got hungry, I moseyed back to camp by way of the Cheerleader Cedar, who had fallen over years before, but was still green and in good health. She had apparently adapted to her new position, and would slowly adjust the direction of her branches. That will be interesting in another 50 years! Along the way, I met another couple with a dog, searching for a place to camp. I cheerfully explained that the accommodations were limited, and another group was said to be headed this way. They understood that they had better claim a spot quickly, and I mentioned the elf camp in the upper forest, in case they wanted privacy. I felt like the concierge of the Little Bear Lake resort!
Things were quiet and serene back at the lake, with no trace of the octet of young campers who’d recently been there. I settled down in my air-conditioned chair to cool off, and enjoy whatever remnants of solitude remained for me that afternoon. The sun was reflecting brightly off the surface of the ice, which was noticeably receding – ever so slowly – in the warming atmosphere. The snow patches were ebbing away from the campsites around this part of the lake, but they remained cold, blue and solid on the southern shore. An invisible choir of rivulets from melting ice was singing a Bach chorale in the great wall behind the lake, as it slowly yielded to purple shadows. Birds and insects were few, but an ambitious woodpecker was checking every tree, anyway. Bumblebees buzzed lazily through the bushes, for reasons known only to them.
It was about time for the sun to make its final descent for the day, when I heard youthful voices pitched in excitement as they arrived at their destination. I stood up and moved around my camp, if only to let them know where I was, because the only available campsite was right next to mine. I counted eight more young campers in this group, and they all had backpacks! One of them waved, and asked, “Are you Don?” It seemed my role as the local tour guide had been posted online, already. I was disappointed to have my solitude interrupted, of course, but they were so full of good cheer and sincerity, it was easy to welcome them all to experience the alpine delights of the evening. The counselors were a little older than the group before, which made sense, because these campers appeared to be middle-school age. There was no barking of orders (the kids knew what to do) and they settled down right away to get ready for night.
With the subdued – and oddly comforting – sounds of kids enjoying a wilderness camping experience drifting gently in the late afternoon air, I began reading the book I had brought with me: The Human Age, by Diane Ackerman. I shifted my weight in the chair a few times to ease a pain or two in my legs, but overall, they had held up splendidly so far on this trip. Much better than I had expected, judging from the number of braces, ace bandages, and rolls of sports tape I had in my pack. Today had gifted me with rare scenes of transitional beauty in this spectacular setting, as the last remnants of winter were slowly releasing their icy grip on the landscape; returning it to the warm embrace of summer. When the sun set behind the ridge, I decided to stretch out and get the weight off my legs and butt. I relocated inside my tent to read some more, write in my journal, and give my tired muscles the rest they deserved. The campers were only about 50 feet away, chatting excitedly in the still, cool air of the basin’s long, slow slide into darkness, but their voices were appropriately subdued in such a holy place. I had met 20 other pilgrims today, but somehow they didn’t seem to be an intrusion, just companions on a shared journey.
I woke up later, not realizing I had drifted off to sleep with my headlamp still on. The campers were silent, and it seemed to be well past midnight. I switched it off, but the tent didn’t stop glowing. A lamp-bright moon had risen over the southern rim! It had been waning from full since the night I was at Big Bear Lake, but I’d been too tired to go outside and experience its majesty. Now would be an excellent opportunity, with the lake covered in ice, and snow banks everywhere. I could already discern, even from inside my tent, that it was amplifying the ambience in the entire basin. I put on my morning clothes because it was chilly, with full boots and socks to keep my feet safe. Not wanting to disturb my neighbors, I unzipped the tent flap as slowly as possible, but it wound up ripping the silence with the rattle of an extended fart. Sorry about that, pilgrims!
Exiting the tent was like entering a dream. I had my headlamp off, because the silver orb in the southwestern sky provided ample illumination. It was low over the rim, and would disappear soon. In stunning fashion, the whole basin had become a glowing soup of photons. The sun’s radiance was bouncing off the moon, falling everywhere on snow, ice, and white granite, and rebounding into the air above the lake; now draped with a pearly mist. My eyes opened wide, pupils dilated to catch every nuance possible, and my breath caught in my throat. I didn’t want to spoil the magic spell by exhaling! I held my hand in front of my face, and the skin seemed translucent and ghostly. All around me, the snowbanks stood out like white paint spilled on a dark carpet. The mottled ice on the lake became a tranquil, mother-of-pearl sea. As the mist slowly rose into the warmer night sky, it hung, suspended, and divided the air into fractal dimensions. I just stood next to my tent, awed and transfixed for the longest time, before I realized that my feet could move me to a better viewpoint. From the rocks next to my camp, I could see all 360 degrees around the basin. The exhilaration of taking in the totality of this intimate, luminous phenomenon nearly knocked me off my feet. I regretted having to reserve some of my attention for physical things, like not falling over and breaking my leg.
The night was indeed a bit chilly, and at times I could see my breath, as in wintertime. The low angle of the moon accentuated the illusion, and one expected to see snow draped on the boughs of the trees, or flying reindeer. There wasn’t a sound, except the constant, soft hiss of water whispering in the cracks of the surrounding ridges. After quaffing my fill of the absolutely natural miracle, I thought of my camera, and hesitated. Did I want to spoil the magic of this incredible experience, by fiddling with technology? I spread my arms wide, as if to embrace the whole scene one last time, and decided I had to try and capture these images for later reference, somehow. I used my headlamp for the first time to try different settings, and this instantly stole the life from the night all around me. Despite not knowing the features of my camera, I managed to find a combination that worked! In manual mode, the shutter paused to take in enough light, and afterwards the little screen showed a colorful image with stars! I couldn’t see much detail, so it was probably blurry. I reasoned that when the shutter was open, the camera had to be held completely still, or on a tripod. My hands couldn’t hold it steady enough, having just returned from their dissolution in moonlight. I turned everything off again, and sat on my blessed butt pads, hugging my knees in sheer wonder. Soon, the jarring effects of technology wore off, and the natural rhythm of the night returned. I turned to see my moon shadow, while humming a Cat Stevens song on the 8-track of my mind. I wiggled my indistinct fingers, which reminded me of the nearly-full eclipse I had experienced up here; three years before. The level of energy was just about the same – as if a timeless astronomical spectacle were playing out… right before my eyes. Who needs a camera, anyway? I asked myself for the thousandth time in my life.
I am the camera!
I kept the shutter of my eyes wide open, until the moon disappeared behind the sharp edge of the rim, the way a coin slips inside a slot machine. The cold veil of darkness was drawn in front of my face, with the finality of a curtain at the end of the show. I turned around to watch the line of moonlight ascend the pale rock pile behind camp, as it crawled up the flank of Dat Butte. Soon, only the Pharaohs and the forested pyramidium of Cheops remained, defiantly glowing in the eastern sky. Dawn was coming soon. I released a heartfelt surge of gratitude to the blessed basin all around me, and thanked the lake spirits for putting on a splendid display for my benefit. As the last wisps of mist curled away into the soft night, I slipped inside my tent with the exhilaration of leaving a movie theater after a great film. One zip, and it was gone.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,
what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.
In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.
And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.”
— Rainer Maria Rilke