“The purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost,
to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experience.”
― Eleanor Roosevelt
Here we go again…
My intent was to experience two separate trips to the Bear Lakes in the same summer, for the first time ever. I took my first trip in July, alone, even though there were often other people up there. The Epps Men were in Cancun that week, so I had use of their car. Now it was August, and we all wanted to hike together, but it was hard to find a few days where all of us were available. Dimari’s work was always demanding, and Jordan was nearly 19, with his internship at the county health department. Miles was 12-and-a-half, and committed to Little League for as long as it lasted. That left us four days in the weekend before the start of the school year. Sheldon was still too small to join us at 7, but the day would soon come when all my grandsons could share the experience as a family. The womenfolk weren’t much interested in primitive exploits devoid of plumbing, so it was up to the men of the family to carve a niche from their busy lives, and stake a claim on satisfaction in the mountains.
The word ‘busy’ has become so overused as to be practically meaningless in our language. It used to mean that one was involved in more events and activities than usual. Nowadays that’s the norm, and adults and children alike experience jam-packed schedules full of undertakings, obligations, and commitments. It’s harder and harder to be spontaneous, and it’s even a challenge just to schedule a little time away from it all! Sadly, escaping the treadmill of life for a little R&R was getting harder, at a time when our society needed it most!
The plan was to leave on Wednesday evening, camp out at the trailhead late that night, and hike up in the morning when it was cooler. The temperatures in the Trinity River valley at 3,000 feet were in triple digits that week! The forecast changed in the last days before we left, and cooler weather was expected, including the likelihood of thunderstorms. Gathering my equipment together again, I couldn’t find my old tent, which had leaked so badly six weeks before. Did I leave it on the trail? Did I throw it away, in a fit of cleaning? I’ll never know. Anyway, it was a perfect excuse to buy a new one, for the first time in over 20 years. I chose an inexpensive model, figuring I’d save up for the ideal one, in case I was still able to return next year. I also purchased little bottles of compressed oxygen, to boost my blood levels along the trail, and avoid passing out again.
The drive up was uneventful, and slower in the dark. On Highway 3 it became smoky from a fire at Stuart’s Fork, and we could see an orange glow on the ridgetops. We arrived at the trailhead at 1:30 am, and set up the tents by the light of headlamps, which signaled all the flying bugs in the area to swarm around our faces. Good thing I brought a standing lamp, which I placed away from us all, where the bugs could have their photon rave without flying in our mouths. Only a few hours remained till dawn, and not much of that time was spent in quality sleep. I was up at first light, wanting to hit the trail as early as possible, before the heat of the afternoon could bring thunderstorms to the mountains. The last part of the trail to Little Bear Lake was the most open and exposed… and dangerous for lightning. But it took a while to get everyone up and moving in our groggy state. Jordan hadn’t slept a wink, and was moving slowly. A light sprinkle reminded us that there were plenty of clouds in the region. We explored the CCC camp a little, while stuffing ourselves with carbs, then it was time to pack up and go. We hit the trail about 8:30, when it was still under 70 degrees, with the intent of making it all the way to the upper lakes in a single day… something I hadn’t done for a few years!
We made excellent time on the lower part of the trail, and crossed the bridge in about an hour. The next part was steep and hot already, so we rested often (for the sake of the elderly). I began taking puffs of oxygen to bring my heart rate down, and provide a little energy. I was feeling some leftover aches and pains from my previous trip that summer, but my pack was much lighter this time, with the strapping young lads carrying some of my stuff for me. We made it to the Twin Towers for a lunch break around 11, and the “magic forest” was back in summer mode. The creek was much lower than six weeks ago, and it babbled instead of roared through its many steps and falls. I searched for flowers – especially the mountain azaleas – but there were few to be found before reaching the wetter parts of the trail.
After our tanks were filled, and shirts had dried, we strapped on the tools of ignorance once again, for the final assault to Big Bear Lake. Fallen log obstacles remained ubiquitous, but it seemed that the worst ones had been cleared away, or improved a little. We saw a multitude of alpine flowers in the wet “aldersnarl” sections of the trail, but there was no remaining snow. We all started feeling the effects of little or no sleep by the time we reached the granite pools around 2 pm. The sky was hazy from the nearby lightning fires, with a gray wash of overcast. This kept the heat down, but spoiled the magnificent views. We shed our packs at the cutoff, and continued up to visit the lake, where only one group was camped. Only a couple small patches of snow remained up on the ridge, which was veiled by smoke. Miles somehow dropped both his Swiss Army knife and flashlight in about 4 feet of water, and had to dive under to retrieve them, much to the amusement of his older brother. Aggressive little mosquitoes made hanging around the lake shore unpleasant, so we returned to our packs and prepared for the last leg of our journey, as distant thunder rumbled off to the east, where Mt. Shasta was nearly invisible in the haze. The sky above us was clear for the moment, but we wanted to make haste and get across the exposed bluff before any weather could threaten us.
Miles was using my old hiking boots, which were about 20 years old. Dimari bought him a brand new pair the day we left, and we decided it was better for him to use a pair that was already broken in. New boots can be stiff, and encourage blisters before they get broken in. But those old ones were so well-worn that they were falling apart! That was the pair I had repaired with wire on a previous trip, and now the soles were coming completely off! Fortunately, I had some sticky bandages and duct tape in my pack, and used them liberally to wrap the soles in place for the final half mile of rugged terrain. Clouds were now piling up to 60,000 feet above Shasta, and the rumblings were getting closer. We knew we had to hustle to get to Little Bear Lake, and the shelter of the trees, to avoid being exposed in a mountain thunderstorm. We scrambled over the jumbled ridge of granite boulders in record time. My oxygen was helping a lot, and my legs felt stronger than they had in years. We made it to Wee Bear Lake in less than an hour, even after some difficulty in following the established route, because some idiot had knocked over most of the stone cairns. Overall, we made it from the car to the lake in about 5 hours of hiking. Not bad for greenhorns with no sleep, an old guy on oxygen, and a boy with boots held together by duct tape!
The best campsite in the woods was clear of snow, but full of mosquitoes, so we claimed the open spots in the “lobby” of the grand old lake. We set everything up and got dinner ready before the adrenaline of the trail wore off. My old boots were literally falling off of Miles’ feet in pieces, so he switched to camp shoes he had brought. Everyone was tired. The boys argued listlessly about the food, out of sheer habit, and without much enthusiasm. Jordan seemed particularly affected by the lack of sleep and oxygen, and got inside his tent early. Dimari and I enjoyed the developing evening, while Miles prepared a second meal of dehydrated nourishment. He was a bottomless pit at his age, and was always eating at home.
Above us, the sky was relatively clear, but shrouded in a wash of smoke. The lake surface was dull and rippled, and the great wall behind it was slightly blurry, as well. Soon, the clouds began encroaching on all sides, and the rumbles of thunder became more insistent. It appeared that my new tent would be tested on its first night! It was a tube-style design, just big enough for one person, but not tall enough to kneel in. Not ideal for me, but it’d have to do. It was getting prematurely dark, and the clouds had completely sewed up the open patches of sky. When it began sprinkling, we all covered our gear and headed for the tents. No sooner had I adjusted my rain fly, it began raining in earnest, and a bright, far-away flash of lightning lit up my neon green tube. I counted the seconds to hear the thunder, and it had to be 5 miles or more from us. I got comfortable on top of my down sleeping bag, and settled in for the show. Far-off mumbles of thunder were conspiring to invade the lake basin, and intermittent flashes of lightning revealed they were getting closer. Spatters of rain became a steady downpour, and suddenly, the sky sounded as if a metal warehouse was being ripped open by a backhoe! I could feel the waves of thunder break on my cheeks! Discordant sound effects crackled from one side of the basin to the other, accompanied by bright flashes that left an afterimage on my retinas, even through closed eyelids and a tent. Distant, jealous peals of thunder continued to roll around the edges of the mountains, while the cacophony right on top of us crashed and clattered with the sound of rocks rolling down a tin chute. If the giants were playing ninepins in the mountains that night, we were camped right under their bowling alley! I wondered what the kids were thinking, and prayed there would be no lightning strikes of any consequence. The whole Shasta-Trinity basin was filled with electrical energy, but none of it felt dangerous. I hoped the rain was putting out the local fires, and no new ones were starting. At least my new tent was keeping me dry!
After over an hour of raucous grumbling, flashing, and spattering, the storm moved off to the east. I could hear the distant thunder disturbing other campers at other lakes nearby, until it all drifted away. The rain became less frequent, then stopped altogether. It was pitch black, but we were all unaware of the character of the night, as our chainsaw chorus of snoring echoed off the granite walls.
“There is a way of beholding nature which is a form of prayer,
a way of minding something with such clarity and aliveness that the rest of the world recedes.
It gives the brain a small vacation.”
— Diane Ackerman