2024 (3) – Lost Beside Myself

“Landscape has long offered us keen ways of figuring ourselves to ourselves,
strong means of shaping memories and giving form to thought.”

— Robert Macfarlane

Today is supposed to be the hottest day of the year… so far. 2024 has been the hottest year in recorded history to this point, wresting that distinction from the year before. Temperatures in the valley containing the North Fork of the Trinity River could reach 110 degrees. Redding might get up to 120, and even up here at the lakes – at over 6,000 feet – it could be triple digits, Time to switch to the Celsius scale of measuring temperature, if only that the numbers won’t be so scary. Despite the heat, I have a more ambitious plan today than I have attempted in the recent past; something I’ve always wanted to do, but for 40 years has eluded my scrapbook of achievements. I intend to hike up to the top of the nameless peak I call “Cheops,” by ascending the slopes known as “Dat Butte.” (At just over 7,000 feet, it’s the highest peak around Little Bear Lake.) I might even sit on a Pharaoh’s head!

I wisely decided to get an early start, and avoid the hottest part of the day. I started crunching my way through the dry needles of Lothlórien right after breakfast. The air was predictably dry and prickly already. I gained altitude wherever I could, circling around the back of the forest and ramping my way up the side of Dat Butte. It’s very wild, rugged country up there, where the rim has crumbled away, leaving a jaw full of jagged granite teeth, and tangled manzanita “gums” in-between. I zig-zagged my way through the widely spaced trees, and finally topped the ridge, where I could see a wide expanse of rugged mountains to the south and southeast. I was surveying the area that had severely burned two years before, in the Haypress fire, but it didn’t appear to be charred from so far away. Just waves of ash-gray mountains upon mountains, with the sultry glaze of Trinity Lake off in the distance. To the southwest, the higher peaks of the Trinity Alps were still capped with snow, even in the midst of a heat wave. To my left, I was surprised to see Mt. Lassen for the first time, jutting stubbornly above the dark ridges, far to the southeast. From that vantage point, Queen Shasta was obscured by the forested, pyramid-shaped peak of the mountain I intended to bag that day.

I angled over to the top of the exposed granite bluff to visit a prominent, disfigured dead tree I had been observing for many years. From Wee Bear below, it gave one the impression of a totem pole, or “Tiki Man,” keeping watch over the basin. He was a Ponderosa Pine of once significant girth; long dead now, with most of his top missing, save for about 15 feet of gnarled trunk, and a few twisted limbs. Behind him were the large, jumbled granite boulders I had last visited about 40 years before, and adorned with the typically hyperbolic name of “Standing Stones.” They more closely resembled a massive cairn, assembled by giants, to mark a path they must have found significant in ancient times. There are many odd-shaped blocks and boulders that must have been pushed up when the mountain was formed, long since split and tumbled together to form a maze of niches and crevices.

There are even more deadfalls. debris, and dry branches on the saddle of the ridge, which crackle and crunch when stepped on. The southern slope of Cheops tilts steeply down towards Highway 3, with deep ravines and forested ridges. Noble Fir appears to be the dominant species near the top, with a few Ponderosa, and the ubiquitous Mountain Hemlock mixed in. Whatever grows up there is gnarled, weathered, and covered in bright, neon green lichen. The northern side of Cheops has been sheared away by an ancient glacier, creating a ragged escarpment that forms the cliffs and heads of the Pharaohs that gaze out across the Bear Creek valley. It was along the edge of this great drop-off that I made my way carefully, to try and locate a safe vantage point for a lunch break. That was wild, lonely, broken terrain, where few had ever ventured. I was trying to keep a relaxed, sauntering pace, with no anxiety about making it to the very top. Still, I found it increasingly difficult to find a clear path… one that would be prudent to traverse alone, in such an isolated spot. Nobody in the world knew I was up there at the time, and I rather liked it that way. A serious injury, however, could prove fatal.

I located the apex, or “summit” of the great pyramid, but chose not to ascend the last 20 feet or so, due to an immense tangle of scratchy, overgrown manzanita bushes piled up on themselves to a depth of over six feet. I focused my explorations on the northeast side of the mountain, looking for that distinct, round-topped rock on which Judy, Chris, and I sat more than 40 years ago. I could see it from the side through gaps in the dense forest, but didn’t see any sense in scaling it alone. I clearly identified the tree right next to it that forms the Pharaoh’s beard, and it was getting tall enough that it nearly blocked the entire regal countenance. I finally settled for a shady spot with a great view, to consume the trail lunch I’d brought with me, and left a generous offering for the local ants and chipmunks. Later, after having my fill of dry food and lofty views, I carefully navigated the most direct descent back to camp, right down the face of Dat Butte; angling for a return through Lothlórien.

On the way down, I rediscovered a prominent, flat escarpment with a sandy bottom, on which 20 people could easily have camped. This outlook featured full, 360-degree views of the entire basin, with some larger boulders providing shade. Shasta remained hidden behind the flank of Cheops, but a wide panorama of splendor captured my attention for another hour or so. I closely examined the queer rocks that crumbled and collected in that space, and the “sand” was actually wind-blown or eroded bits of granite – six inches deep in some places. A prominent, teetering rock the size of a refrigerator balanced on one edge, just waiting for the last phases of erosion (or drunken backpackers) to send it toppling over the edge, and bounding down to the floor of the valley far below. The wind was cooling down some, but I was running low on water, and wanted to remain hydrated. It was time to leave the wild to its own, unobserved rhythms, and seek the sustenance of my provisions.

My campsite was HOT when I returned, and I busied myself with doing laundry in the shady part of the shoreline. I noticed that another group of campers had arrived – a young couple and their dog were over on the far side of the lake, near Bumblebee Springs. I had planned to visit that spot during this, the hottest part of the day, because it’s much cooler under the melting snowpack, and I anticipated that the little meadow below it would be bursting with life by now. But first, my pants had to dry! At least the heat was keeping the vampire bugs at bay. They came out at night, of course, avoiding the intense sun and warmer temperature. I saw dozens of them outside my tent in the late evening and early morning hours, but they couldn’t get in (ha ha). The prickly heat makes the flies crazy, and aggressive, and I do my best to ignore their obsessive need to land on me. Anyway, they moved so fast, it just wasn’t worth the energy to swat them, and shooing them away just agitated them more. With so many insects around, naturally there was a corresponding bloom of spiders, which could be found everywhere, hunting on branches and spinning their web-strand parachutes from the tips. I saw one little wolf spider jump 20 times its body length when it ventured out onto a sizzling rock! Meanwhile, the ants never slept, and they laid claim to everything eventually. The arthropods ran the resort – I was just a guest.

It was 92 in the shade by mid-afternoon, with a hot, dry wind that gathered just a little coolness as it crossed the lake. I thought of Dimari and crew, and hoped for the hundredth time that they reached their car before it got too hot. If all went as planned, they should be getting home by that time, but there would be no way to confirm that until I reentered the zone of cell service later in the week. I hoped I wouldn’t be finding colorful little puddles of melted backpackers on the trail, by the time I left later in the week! I moved my chair with the shade, as the sun was reaching the climax of its fury, until my pants were dry, and it was time to pack some supplies for the big move to Bumblebee Springs.

When I got there, the other campers were nowhere to be seen. They had probably (and sensibly) retreated to the deepest shade. I was disappointed to find that the little meadow below the spring was still in its early, formative stages of seasonal development. Parts of it were still muddy, and it appeared that the snow pack had only recently receded. Nothing was blooming, and the lush grasses and plants had not yet assumed their usual verdant stages of growth. There were no ferns, very few flowers, and a decided lack of bumblebees! After poking around the unsatisfying mud and rocks for ten minutes, I headed back to camp. I had brought The Return of the Bird Tribes with me on this trip, which would certainly keep me entertained until it got cooler.

My wish was to spend the afternoon learning (or relearning) how to appreciate the fact that I am connected to everything. As John Denver sang, “Oh, I love the life around me, I feel a part of everything I see,,, and oh, I love the life around me, a part of everything is here in me.” I was especially seeking to lose my sense of annoyance with insects, my dismay about our changing world, and irritation with how others live their lives. The couple on the other side of the lake were jumping in the water, making loud splashes, and exciting their dog to a barking frenzy. Their joy was me. The parents who had brought their baby were trying to teach him how to swim just below my campsite, but he didn’t like it at all, and made a big, noisy fuss about it. I felt compassion for his fear and discomfort. The teenage dudes were across the cove, getting their kicks rolling large rocks into the lake, and laughing loudly. Their sense of fun and curiosity was me. I was one with everyone, and everything (except mosquitoes, which were still a despicable alien menace).

I’d already had my big adventure that day, bagging Cheops (well, almost), and I was content to just relax in the shade near my camp, reading, writing, and reflecting on the new threshold that life had recently presented to me. When I got back home, I would probably need to find a job of some sort, but I would like it to be in alignment with all the good things I had learned in life. Perhaps a non-profit that helps people understand the coming changes, or one that plays a small part to protect the environment. I’d had enough of simply trading my life for money, doing someone else’s idea of what I should be doing. I was also re-examining my monogamous relationship with this “one place” to which I had repeatedly backpacked for over 50 years, and thinking it would be interesting to explore other wilderness destinations… possibly ones that were easier to reach!

So there I sat, moving my stare chair frequently with the spot shade, on the hottest part of the hottest day of the hottest summer so far on record! (The latest in a recent series of “hottest summers.”) I glimpsed some movement, and saw the teenage dudes were scaling the hot, steep sides of Dis Butte, on their way to explore above the lakes. They were dressed in only t-shirts and shorts, and carried nothing …not even water. I wished them the grace to survive their foolishness. Behind them, I could see signs of smoke spreading from the north, and some of it seemed to be headed our way! I decided I had better put my boots on, and climb up on top of the rock pile behind camp to get a better look at the situation. Sure enough, there was a huge plume of wildfire smoke approaching Sawtooth, pointing an ominous finger to the northeast. The smoke leaking into our area was wispy, and higher up. That was most likely from the fire I had seen on my first day, when I was up on the Scott Mountain pass. Tragically, it appeared as if it had spread in a big way! I said a deep prayer for the firefighters toiling in the infernal heat, and reconsidered my own options. The body of the fire was still quite distant, and I judged it to be moving away from my location. Only the overflows and eddies of smoke were spreading my way. I decided if it looked worse tomorrow, it might be prudent to pack up and return to the car before things got out of hand. At the least, it would probably spoil the clarity of the air for the remainder of my planned stay.

When the angry sun finally hid his face behind the rim of the lake, evening fell upon the basin with a sigh of relief. Cool breezes tentatively ventured out from the lake, soothing and cleansing the acrid, blistered air. The teenage dudes made it back alive, but continued their foolhardy ways by lighting another campfire. The couple on the far side of the lake emerged from the shadows, and erected a garish, red, white, and blue tent on a granite ledge… seemingly in honor of the patriotic holiday. The parents with their baby were making happy, domestic noises in their tent. All was right with my little world, except the vampire bugs were hungry, and trying to make up for lost time! They immediately buzzed my camp, forcing me to put on long sleeves and DEET cologne. I ate my simple supper out on a rock, from which I could gaze at the thousand faces in the back wall. They were not pleased with the excessive temperature, or the smoke in the air! I could feel their anguish and sorrow at what humans had done to ruin the natural balance of the Earth. I hoped that the recent birth of a white buffalo calf in Yellowstone was a portent – or even the fulfillment of a prophecy – that we would finally wake up and make the urgent, difficult changes that were necessary in our way of life.

As I enclosed myself in my nylon cocoon for the night, I reflected that every tiny molecule of microplastic that made up my tent would eventually survive me by thousands of years. It would be possible, of course, to assemble a tent made of biodegradable material, but it would be heavier, and not as durable. Throughout my ruminations, the local horde of bloodsuckers didn’t care what the tent was made of. They gathered on the outside of the nylon mesh, and whined anxiously just inches from my face. I began to discern the subtle differences in the vibration of their wings, as they first arrived in eager anticipation of a meal, then flew off in utter frustration. I thought at first that it might be difficult to sleep with all that wailing and gnashing of little teeth outside my tent, but it wasn’t hard at all.

“”The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”

— W. B. Yeats