— John Steinbeck
Well, it didn’t rain anymore last night, but I still woke to drips inside the tent. I had stretched the rain fly over the tent itself, on top of the ropes I strung, so there wouldn’t be any contact points, but the wretched piece of crap was totally useless. The ground itself was soaked, of course, and it seemed that my body heat had condensed a lot of that moisture on the underside of the fly, and instead of rolling off the duck’s back, as it were, it soaked in like a towel, and dripped… dripped… dripped all over the inside of the tent again. How annoying…
Anyway, I laid all my stuff out to dry where it would get morning sun, when it rose above Cheops in an hour or so. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, so things would dry quickly, but it would be hot for my entire trek home. Somehow, the moon had gotten left behind in the southwestern sky, just above the rim, and was now slinking sheepishly over to hide behind Altamira. On the surface of the lake, I noticed that the rain had really melted a lot of ice. During the night, however, the near-freezing water had tried to patch the damage. More of those feathery crystals of thin, dark ice had formed in the clear spots; blocking out reflections and giving the surface the dull, textured appearance of cast iron. Despite the continuous whispering of the hidden waterfalls, the joyous calls of the birds, and the incessant droning of the indefatigable bumblebees, there was a pervasive background of silence, as everything else was thoroughly damp and absorbent.
When my gear was dry enough, I planned to pack up and return down the trail – all the way to the car – and make the long drive home. The sun was just coming up over the ridge, and I shifted a few things to dry faster. Meanwhile, I took a survey of how the landscape had changed in the time since I arrived, four days ago. The lake surface had gone from 99 percent down to about 80 percent ice. It still needed a couple of weeks to be clear, but those big drifts on the southern shore would remain for a while. The main campsite was half-emerged from the snow; maybe in a week it could be used. Mama Bear Springs down by Wee Bear would need at least a month to be clear of snow and residual mud. The small, blooming patch of meadow at the crossing probably wouldn’t be ideal until mid-August. That’s crazy! Most of all, Bumblebee Springs on the south shore of Little Bear Lake was still buried in 25-30 feet of hard-packed snow, and wouldn’t fully bloom until September. What an amazing winter we had in Northern California!
The sun was climbing higher, the moon was nearly hidden, and all around me I could see things drying out. Branches of bushes lifted back in place, and blades of grass shed their diamond drops of water to stand tall in the light. The freshly-washed needles of the trees glowed, as if they had just returned from the manicurist, while the bark steamed in the sun. Of course, the exposed rocks were already dry, but the little tanks, pools, and puddles would remain for a while. I took a deep breath of contentment in the moment, happy with the way the trip turned out, and gearing myself up for the long, controlled descent to the car. The key word was control. I didn’t want any more rock tumbling, thank you very much! Only excellent steps once again: each footfall placed with precision in a pre-planned location. It seems easy to go downhill, but it takes intense concentration to stay ahead of gravity, and maintain discipline.
I checked my gear again, and began fitting things into their places on my backpack. It was still a little damp, but it’d have to do. Soon, everything was packed, strapped, and loaded, and there was nothing left but say farewell to the lake, and the ever-present spirits. I thanked them all for the blissful days I enjoyed in the mountains. I also said goodbye to the annoying insects: the bumbling piss-lickers, crazy gnats that frolicked in front of my face and dive-bombed my eyeballs, and even the creepy flies that wanted to explore my ears. I saluted the ubiquitous, restless ants that crawled over every square inch of every single thing up here, because ultimately, they own the place. I prayed they would all go back to whatever it was they do when there is no convenient sack of protein lying around.
The morning was getting warmer now, and it would surely get much hotter as I descended from Wee Bear Lake across the massive, exposed granite bluffs. It was time to load that infernal pack onto the only beast of burden available (me). Turning away from the majestic reality, I took my first steps toward reclaiming my place in the land of delusion. My mind was already casting itself down to the pools below Big Bear Lake, then descending the trail through the magical forests, racing with the water that flows from the lakes down Bear Creek, until I reached the Trinity River confluence, where (hopefully) the Epps’ car was still parked. (Yes, I had the keys. It was of dire importance to securely attach the keyring to its clip in my belly bag, as soon as I had locked the car.) Let’s try not to fall off any cliffs today, I teased myself, and began stepping carefully down the deteriorating snow drifts.
Crossing from Wee Bear Lake down to the pools was treacherous, difficult, and mostly uneventful, with just a few missteps and minor course corrections. I passed above the waterfall where I had fallen on the way up, and cursed it, with feeling. “Fool’s Falls, indeed,” I snorted to no one in particular. The irony of the double meaning was quite intentional. When I reached the normally-placid pools that flowed from Big Bear Lake, they were still noisy and raucous from continuous snow melt. I began to see people again: a couple playing cards (?) in the shade, and a pair of hikers just emerging into the open from the brushy part of the trail. They had the familiar look of relief and triumph that is so common after that uncommonly difficult stretch of trail I now called Aldersnarl. The jumbled branches were a little easier to squeeze through on the way down, but not much. In that hottest, most tangle-fucked part of the trail, I met a large party of large people on their way up. There were 7 burly men – Native or Latino by the look of them, led by a husky matron with a large feather in her hiking hat. Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. The large, un-dwarflike men were working hard, and paid little mind to my greeting, but the sweet lady turned with a twinkle in her eye, and whispered as if telling a secret, “It’s so beautiful up here!” What could I do but agree?
That section of trail, full of alder-snarl, muddy rivulets, and vine-tangles, was worthy of its name… but it held a few precious secrets. Chief among the treasures was the Arkenstone: the Mountain Azaleas – now in full bloom, and saturating the hot, moist air with their intoxicating fragrance. I took many pictures of the clusters I found, and inhaled deeply of their beauty. I stuck a small sprig of blossoms in my hatband, hoping they would last long enough for Joy to experience their heavenly scent when I got home. Certainly, I could smell them all the way down the trail, and just like the Light of Eärendil, they kept me going, even when my strength was nearly gone. My legs held up well, because I still had the discipline to measure my steps carefully. But my socks got squishy with sweat, and all my toes crammed inside like dumplings in a steamer. The pack straps ground into my shoulders, and a ripping headache altered my perspective of the rapid altitude change.
I stopped in the hot manzanita patches to change my socks and shirt, and take one last pack-off rest. I didn’t see any other hikers until the first section of the rail below the bridge. First came two happy, older folks, fit and trim as a natural feature in the forest. Next, in contrast, came a well-fed family of four, giving the impression of inexperienced rich people who’d bought all new equipment, and were hiking for the first time because they’d seen it on Tik-Tok. The women actually wore makeup, which was now streaking from their sweat. Even their well-groomed pets were sporting fashionable doggy packs. “Is this the trail to Big Bear Lake?” they asked as they passed – at about 4pm, for the record.
“Yes,” I answered. “Just the beginning, of course.” I seriously doubted that they’d make it up to the lake in the 4 hours of daylight they had left, but I was too polite to use anything but a cheerful tone of voice. “Have fun trying to get Internet service,” muttered the sarcastic, cartoonist part of my brain. The last hikers I saw were a quiet man and his very unhappy wife. “That’s not going to turn out well,” I murmured under my frustrated breath, trying to knock my heels in the dirt to loosen up my gummy toes. The pain in my legs spread from my hips to my ankles.
The trail was much harder than normal, due to the many fallen branches and tree trunks: casualties from years of historic drought, followed by an equally historic winter. Again, it was a little easier navigating them while going downhill, but not by much. I counted them on the way down, and there were 86 obstacles to solve before reaching the car; not including the ones that didn’t infringe on the trail. “Good luck with those pretty dogs and their packs,” I muttered again, as I carefully stepped over yet another log. It seemed nobody had been up here to clean up this place since I hiked up about a week ago! Hmmph! Those government employees needed to improve their performance, based on all those taxes I pay! I was again falling into the comfortable trap of thinking things should not be as they are. As for the other taxpayers, I saw about 58-60 of them during this trip, although I lost count because of the parade of sweaty faces, backpacks, and dogs. There must have been a dozen dogs.
Crossing Bear Creek below the parking area again, the water was still high enough that I needed to wade through it. I kept my boots on this time, and just trudged across. The chilly water felt so good on my toes! I had an extra pair of shoes in the car, anyway, along with clean clothes. It was “only” 92 degrees at the car, but the black interior was much, much hotter. I fired up the AC right away, while I gratefully unloaded myself, holding onto the door to keep from falling down with relief. I crawled into the driver’s seat and managed to maneuver that rolling solar oven down to a cooler spot at the CCC camp near the river. I was pleased to see they had a truck and a van parked there, fully loaded with gear to clear the trail… but the worker angels were nowhere to be seen. I changed into clean clothes, set up the car for the long drive, and headed home… with only one stop for gas.
I somehow managed to drive all the way home without incident, and made it just after dark. It was a 5-hour drive, and probably 11-12 hours since I’d left the lake, but it seemed like a lifetime. What an epic descent of 6,200 feet! The long, controlled fall from the top of a mountain left me utterly spent, physically, while my mind had received a large investment of capital. It was getting harder and harder to balance the falsity of work by staying in touch with the reality of nature, but it was still worth it!
The Balance
by Graham Edge and the Moody Blues
And his feet were sore,
And he was tired,
He came upon an orange grove.
And he rested,
And he lay in the cool,
And while he rested, he took to himself an orange and tasted it.
And it was good.
And he felt the earth in his spine,
And he asked, and he saw the tree above him, and the stars,
And the veins in the leaf,
And the light, and the balance,
And he saw magnificent perfection,
Whereupon he thought of himself in balance,
And he knew he was.
Just open your eyes, and realize the way it’s always been.
Just open your mind and you will find the way it’s always been.
Just open your heart, and that’s a start.
And he thought of those he angered,
For he was not a violent man.
And he thought of those he hurt,
For he was not a cruel man.
And he thought of those he frightened,
For he was not an evil man.
And he understood.
He understood himself.
Upon this he saw that when he was of anger, or knew hurt, or felt fear,
It was because he was not understanding.
And he learned compassion.
And with his eye of compassion,
He saw his enemies like unto himself.
And he learned love.
Then, he was answered.
Just open your eyes, and realize the way it’s always been.
Just open your mind and you will find the way it’s always been.
Just open your heart, and that’s a start.