“Ordinarily, I go into the woods alone, with not a single friend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore unsuitable. I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my way of praying, as you no doubt have yours. Besides, when I am alone I can be invisible. I can sit on top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds, until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost unbearable sound of the roses singing.
If you have ever gone into the woods with me, I must love you very much.”
— Mary Oliver
That evening, the boys each caught a small fish with the damaged pole. Neither was big enough to keep, and we had plenty of food, so we gently returned them to the lake after making them pose for pictures with the boys. They probably swam home, quickly, to tell their mommies of their harrowing experience! Tomorrow we would be going home ourselves. Those of us returning to mommies would simply shrug when asked about the trip and say “It was all right.” Moms always like to know how your life is going. How sad that so few of us share with our mothers the depth and wonder of the life they brought into this world! My mom never made it up to Big Bear Lake, much less Little Bear, and if she hadn’t been so pissed at my dad on that day more than 37 years ago, I’m sure she would have enjoyed it tremendously. She was over 60 now, and her health was poor from a long, hard campaign of self-punishment.
I reflected on the many friends and family who have made it up here, and those who haven’t. I realized I had now been up here with more than 20 different people in my life; on 10 different occasions. Eight different dogs had made it, too. The only hikers I knew who tried but didn’t make it were my Mom and little sister, Debbie. Both had suffered greatly in their lives from not finding what they thought they needed from life. I wondered if there might be a connection.
Dinnertime was peaceful and satisfying, as the boys had settled into camp routine and knew what to expect from boiling water to rehydrate food. We had a nice campfire going from some of that amazing Trinity Alps firewood that comes abundantly to hand, like harvesting grapes. The lake hadn’t seen many visitors this year, judging by the profusion of easy pickings. The boys were competing with each other to see who would be in control of the fire. They thrust their poker sticks into the inferno and quickly snatched them back from the intense heat. The evening light was thickening with dusk, and the fire became our world. It was time to break out my surprise.
I went to my backpack, which was lashed up against the tree, and got out a special little tin I had prepared before we left. It was sealed with way too much duct tape, because it’s always handy to have some of that when backpacking. Duct tape is the highest technical achievement of our generation. If you don’t think so, just imagine how much the Indians could have done with it! I examined the seal, and it appeared intact, although there were a few predictable teeth marks from some intrepid rodent. I peeled it off and saved it, and checked the contents. Every ingredient was carefully packaged and arranged tightly, like an astronaut’s lunch box. I turned around and held up two Hershey’s bars. “Anybody want s’mores?”
“No way!” Kevin bellowed. He could communicate so much with so little. I knew this was his way of saying, “It is amazing to me that you carried the ingredients for s’mores all the way up here! I am so impressed and grateful!”
“You brought s’mores?” Logan was rendered incapable of communication, and was in danger of having his mandible fall off.
“I hope the marshmallows aren’t melted,” Judy observed, no doubt jealous of my coup de grace. I remembered one year when Greg had brought graham crackers, chocolate chips, and marshmallows in a Ziploc bag. It wound up as an incoherent mass of goop, and he had to tear it apart and chew on the plastic to partake of it, but it was oh so delicious!
Jesse and James were riveted intently on the packages in my hands, sensing from our reactions that this was something very special. I strutted proudly to the flat hearth rock next to the fire ring, and it was too hot, so I used the kitchen rock instead. I admired again how our campsite had a perfect, natural arrangement of useful flat rocks that broke the space up into “rooms” – like a house without walls. My companions huddled around, as if I was a nomadic Tinker from a faraway land, opening his pack to display his exotic wares to an isolated village. First, I opened the graham crackers, which were already broken into squares and wrapped in foil. Underneath that was a layer of plastic wrap, and two cardboard squares to protect the crackers. Next, I tested the Hershey bars and they were predictably soft, but not fully melted. It would be best to open these at the moment they were needed. Then I pulled out eight plastic-wrapped pods, each containing a white marshmallow “embryo.” I checked on one and it had melted as I knew it would, but I had a plan. “Get your marshmallow sticks ready,” I said with dramatic anticipation.
Kevin already had his at hand, while Logan had to scramble to find one. I put the plastic-wrapped marshmallow on my thigh, and peeled down the sides like a banana. I had dusted each one liberally with powdered sugar before wrapping, but they had melted fast to the plastic. By stretching the wrapping tautly on my thigh, the spread-out gooey mass could be coaxed into a sticky lump and affixed to the end of a stick like a huge white booger. Yummy! But I knew it was going to be awesome! I gave Logan the next one, then Judy, and myself. By that time, Kevin’s lump was on fire, and be blew it out. He hadn’t much patience, and decided that s’mores du flambeau was good enough. “Where’s the other stuff?” I helped him peel open a chocolate bar and get a fair portion (we had enough for 2 helpings each). He hastily assembled his treat, and stuffed the entire thing in his mouth at once. His manner reminded me of a boy who wasn’t sure if the world was going to end at that moment, and wanted to make sure he got to enjoy his delicacy. “Glog” he tried to speak, but his cheeks were distended like a chipmunk at harvest time. He staggered away, massaging his cheeks to try and gain enough space in his mouth to chew.
Logan took a more artistic approach, as was his wont. He had found a perfect marshmallow roasting spot in the hellish embers, in which his carefully tended, misshapen booger was slowly turning golden brown, in some weird, alien rotisserie. Judy had a good spot too, but I waited for Logan so I could help him enjoy his treat. Kevin came back to the fire, still chewing; looking for the water bottle. He guzzled a long, sloppy drink. “Aaaaah!” he burped loudly, with sincere magnanimity, “This is living!”
We all laughed. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard someone say that up here,” I joked.
“Why not, is it a secret?” Kevin picked at the melted marshmallow stains around his lips.
“No, it’s rhetoric.” That was Logan, flexing his prodigious vocabulary.
“What’s that?”
“Something so obvious that it sounds like a secret,” I whispered conspiratorially and winked.
Kevin was thoroughly confused. “You guys are crazy,” he announced with guarded affection, “Where’s my other marshmallow?” He was extremely sensitive to criticism or being the butt of any joke, and he sulked over by the kitchen rock, noisily wrestling his last melted glob onto the stick.
We consumed all the goodies; then I wadded up the gooey plastic and folded it inside the sticky chocolate wrappers, and placed it between the two cardboard squares that smelled richly of graham crackers. “Anybody want one more?” I offered in jest, and I could see it was tempting. I covered it with the aluminum foil and put it back in its tin, and taped it up. Mission accomplished.
We settled into our places and stared at the fire. I remembered from reading many Louis L’Amour novels that staring into a fire in the wilderness could get you killed by rustlers or Injuns, and it was a sign of our contentment that nobody cared. We could have been anywhere on the planet in that moment; even thousands of miles from home. The consumptive fire fascinated us all. How can sticks and logs and entire trees be reduced to ashes by something that didn’t even exist until we started it? Humans have lived with fire our entire history, and we know so little about it. Even with our indefatigable, stunning advancements in other areas of science, we still don’t fully understand combustion.
The campfire, like any fire, has no existence prior to its genesis. All it has is potential. A fire is an organizing structure that interacts with its surroundings. In this way, it is similar to “us.” What a person thinks of as “me” does not exist. Our bodies are just an ephemeral organization of matter in space and time, on a scale so fantastically frequent that we cannot perceive it. In every infinitesimal trillionth of a second, all of the electrons and neutrons that make up our bodies are replaced by subatomic particles that appear from, and then disappear back into, a mysterious void. It’s no wonder that we, with our physical identities, feel empty and unfulfilled most of the time. Our physical bodies are 99.9% empty space. Like the fire, all that’s left are ashes when the vital force is removed.
The earth itself is an organizing structure on both a microscopic and macroscopic scale. In fact, everything in the universe is being organized, all at once, by a system, or intelligence if you want to label it. I believe all religion is an attempt to personify and culturize this astonishing organizational phenomenon that defies explanation in literal terms, but may be understood by a few who “see” differently. Our souls are star fire, and our bodies are the fuel.
With our bellies full, and our bodies burning with the energy of being alive, we stayed up late under a warm blanket of stars, watching the campfire smoke as it sifted through the knowing trees, illuminated by its own light until it disappeared into the darkness.
We slept in the next morning, until James barked at some rodent from inside Judy’s tent. I unzipped my own tent slowly and quietly, hopeful of letting Logan get as much rest as possible before the long hike back to the car. I startled a group of chipmunks near our packs, with little miniature chainsaws and larceny on their minds, trying to get at the last of our food. Okay, I’m kidding about the chainsaws. I started boiling water for coffee, and set out some things to dry that had gotten coated with morning dew. With a steaming cup of coffee strong enough to float a rock, I gently approached the lake shore to say my goodbyes. The light advanced all the way down the west wall to the water as the sun rose over my shoulder. The lake’s surface was still and lucid. In places I could see right down to the bottom, with no sense of transition from air to water. Shafts of sunbeams slanted through the emerald depths like footlights. There was no sound except the faint rustlings of my companions back at camp. The air seemed alive, and permeated with solicitude.
Jesse appeared suddenly, looking guilty for being caught in the act of following my trail. He wagged his tail hopefully, and I put out my hand. He needed no further invitation, and leaned heavily against my side, looking out at the water and shivering with some vague canine anxiety. Slowly he calmed down, his breathing became more regular, and his muscles relaxed. The lake’s enchantment works on all species. We stared out at the opposite shore for many minutes, picking out the many details – Jesse with his ears, and I with my eyes. There was a palpable communion of two beings, fully alive and present in the moment. Kevin called for Jesse from back at the camp, and his ears gave their full attention, but his body never moved. Soon, Kevin came down to the flat rock looking for his dog, and the spell was broken. I always cherish those farewell moments at the lake, and they must always come to an end.
Kevin had deeply benefited from this trip, I could tell. He too was more relaxed; more immersed in the boundless potential of now. He sat close to us and stared out at the water, first making sure that Jesse shifted his weight to him. Now there were three separate points of awareness lending objectivity to the still mountain morning. I wondered if the mornings were appreciated as much when nobody is there to see them. After a while, Kevin offered spontaneously, “It’s hard to believe that a place like this exists.” I thought that was very profound for a ten-year-old, and I told him so. He grinned sheepishly, as if being praised in class. I don’t fancy myself a teacher, but I did have a lesson plan for this trip, and it was nice to see my nephew had taken good notes.
Logan joined us, blinking against the light and looking sour, as if he had to go to school unexpectedly. He seemed surprised to see the three of us sitting together, and he quietly joined our gathering in a spot that was not too close, and not too far. He was used to getting to church late, I reminded myself wryly. I decided to tease him in a gentle way; the better to drive the lessons home.
“So, Logan,” I announced with my best classroom voice, “Tell us what you’ve learned on this trip.”
He looked at me disdainfully, with a mock stare of derision. “I’ve learned not to answer your questions.” Touché.
Judy and James showed up eventually, no doubt feeling like they were missing something important. The six of us sat on that flat rock, at officially 6,520 feet, right at the water level of the lake, for nearly an hour. To an outward observer, we were doing nothing productive – just communing with each other, and with the landscape. I think we all learned quite a bit more in those precious minutes, than in a whole semester of study back home. When the newness of morning had matured into the promise of a new day, we knew we had to prepare for our return to the grand charade. Judy spoke for us all when she said, “I wish we never have to leave.”
Kevin spoke for the minority of minors with his rebuttal, “I can’t wait to get back and watch TV.” I knew he was saying this just to jerk my chain, but it was a chain very sensitive to tweaking.
“Pssh!” I blurted reflexively. “You couldn’t see this on TV without a pledge break.”
Logan got up, saying, “Oh no, now you got him started, I’m going to roll up my sleeping bag.”
“There’s no hurry, you can always watch the reruns!” He waved me off like I was a crazy panhandler, and Kevin and Jesse followed him back to camp to find some food.
“Do you think they understand how lucky they are to have this experience?” Judy asked, unnecessarily.
“I think they’ll remember it all their lives, I said with conviction. “In fact, I think when they’re old they will look back on these few days as being some of the times when they were most fully alive.”
Judy ruffled James’ thick coat and gazed out at the lake one last time. “I hope you’re right,” she offered after a long thoughtful pause. “But they just can’t express it now.”
Breakfast was a gluttonous orgy of calorie loading, as we all knew it was better to eat it than carry it back. Judy started to channel Good Ol’ Dad and dictate the proper protocol for packing all the gear, but I deliberately pulled her aside and let the boys figure things out on their own. The tents came crashing down, and were wadded into dusty, lumpy mummies of nylon. Sleeping bags were rolled into lopsided spirals like snail shells. Random junk was stuffed into pockets, dropped in the dirt, and stuffed in again, and everything got packed just fine.
Logan looked proudly at the little pack he had assembled for himself, carefully composed of the lightest objects in camp. I was proud of him for having grown so much, and it seemed like years ago that he was pouting on the dusty rocks near the trailhead, not wanting to carry anything at all. There was a strong indication I might have to carry only one pack down the trail! Hooray!
I mentally said my goodbyes to the lake, the rocks, and the trees. They still seemed reserved and standoffish, as if I somehow didn’t deserve to be there. I still wasn’t fully aware that the subtle currents of bad energy were inside of me, and had nothing to do with the wilderness, which is absolute purity. Little did I know it then, but it would be many years before I returned again to Little Bear Lake, and I would be a very different person.
We took our time navigating back to Big Bear Lake and the trail, being smart enough to get the awkward scrambling out of the way early. There is a deep, brush-choked cleft that must be negotiated sooner or later, and it was definitely more difficult at the lower elevations. So, we pushed the dogs up a short crack in the rocks just below Wee Bear, and helped the boys up on top, and made an easy jaunt across the mile-wide bulge of granite that sloped inexorably downward, like traversing an enormous globe at the latitude where it felt like one might tumble off into nothingness. The austere, stupendous peaks of Sawtooth frowned upon us as we made it look easy.
Logan was holding up well with his little fifteen-pound pack, which was fine with me, because I was exhausted from the strain of trying to make everything perfect. I was grateful that there had been no serious injuries, and everything went pretty well. Even the dogs cooperated more on the way down, staying out from underneath our feet and deferring to our pace. We stopped for a long rest and lunch at the Bear Creek pools, even though all we had left were squashed granola bars and crumbly rice cakes. The rest of the way down the trail was uneventful, and my only sadness came from watching the gradual decompression of our egos, as we left the wide-open spaces of the wilderness and returned to the ordered compartments of society.
And so, the torch had been passed to a new generation, but I guess it had to be picked up and relit a couple of times. My father first introduced me to this area, and now I had proved my own son in the crucible of the wilderness. Good Ol’ Dad never made it up to Little Bear Lake and all its wonders, but Kevin inadvertently left a little something of him up there, as he misplaced the penknife his grandfather had used as an Eagle Scout. When I found out weeks later, I was struck by the sheer rightness of it, as if we had sprinkled some of his ashes up at the lake.
The boys and dogs slept all the way home in the back seat, as the trusty camper weaved in and out of the herds of migrating semi-trailers down Highway 5. When Judy dropped us off, Joy and Fiona were waiting to grill Logan about his experience. “How was it?” they asked, as I unloaded our gear into the garage. “Did you see any bears?”
Logan displayed the casual air of the seasoned outdoorsman, and shrugged modestly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “It was okay,” he replied.
~
“Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.”
— Kahlil Gibran