“In this waking dream the slope is steep, and I must wear my heavy boots. But reality is growing soft and melting – mingling with relevance and merging with reverie as the mountains grow within me, lifting me upward. It seems fanciful, crazy, or capricious, but when I reach the lofty summit, I will leave my pack on the highest pinnacle and keep on walking. Below me a body will sit, panting for breath, while something unseen takes flight and ascends, to blissfully soar through spirit and sky.”
— Sparrow Hart
I felt good most of the way to the lakes. Kevin took a picture of me at the beginning of the trail, and showed me on his phone. I saw a potbellied gnome with skinny ankles, a gnarled crooked staff, and a lumpy sofa on his back. The familiar trail passed by like a slide show of forest favorites. My knees held up okay; it was mostly my quads and feet that got sore. We started on the trail at 7:25 and made it to Big Bear Lake by 11. That was about a mile an hour, and more than half a mile of elevation gain. Not bad at all for an old guy! We left our packs on the granite tarmac where the trail crossed the Bear Creek outlet, and went up to Big Bear Lake to check the water level and take some pics. It was about a foot down due to the severe drought in California, but it looked spectacular anyway.
From then on, it got hard for me. On the trek up to Little Bear Lake my body started to shut down from fatigue, over-exertion, and dehydration. Mostly it was the altitude that affected me – that, and being out of shape. There may have been some after-effects of that pseudo heart attack I had pantomimed earlier in the summer, but I simply had nothing left in the tank. I took many rests, trying in vain to catch my breath. Even my diaphragm got sore! Kevin was very patient, although he could have made it there in about 45 minutes. With me lurching along like a zombie pack mule, it took us closer to 2 hours. When we finally arrived at the portal to paradise, I was so glad to see Wee Bear’s shimmering postcard view, even if it did remind me of my computer’s screensaver back home.
I wasn’t sure how I made it, or why I had kept going. Sometimes it seems so hard climbing, because there are always mountains beyond mountains. I have learned to say, get used to it! Those who make progress are those who simply become accustomed to climbing mountains. The tremulous souls that aren’t good at overcoming obstacles will stay in the valleys. Evolution ascends on the road less traveled, where advancement is measured by the bare, rocky heights that are conquered. Everything in the valley is sedimentary compost, by comparison.
Kevin offered to take my pack up to the campsite like a gentleman, but I was determined with the last vestiges of my will power to wrangle that beast up to where she belonged. It turned out there was one other guy at Little Bear Lake, and it appeared he had just arrived. He may have passed us while we were lounging at Big Bear. He had his shirt and pack off, and was sitting dumbly in the best campsite when we came up the trail from Wee Bear. Strangely, he moved away before we got there, and set up a very temporary camp nearby. It looked as if he wanted to be alone, and in reply to our friendly attempts at conversation, he explained to us with thinly veiled annoyance that he had arrived about 2 hours before. We had dropped our packs deferentially in the secondary campsite, but when he moved out of the prime spot, we took it. I loathed dragging my pack up those last 50 yards to claim our final resting spot, but it was indeed a very nice campsite, and worth the effort.
The remainder of the afternoon, I rested and rehydrated. My body felt like it had been tenderized with a mallet. Kevin offered some pretzels he had brought, and I washed them down greedily with plenty of water, craving the salt. I still had to do a few chores: fill water jugs, set up my mosquito net “tent,” and unpack, but I did it all very slowly like a hundred-year-old man. Kevin got tired, too, as soon as he stopped moving. We mostly lazed around the campsite all afternoon, immobile with the stiff torpor of corpses. In the evening I felt better, but still shuffled around slowly, deliberately savoring each little moment in the ritual of setting up camp. When everything was in place, and all I would have to do was to fall into my sleeping bag, I got foolishly ambitious. Not wanting to waste a chance for which I had labored all day, I ambled down to Wee Bear to get some twilight pics.
The sky to the north was hazy from a big fire somewhere in the Marble Mountains. To the east, gray clouds reflected the last rays of light near Mt. Shasta. The eternally watchful eyes of Sphinx Rock gazed solemnly at the flat planes of Sawtooth across the valley. The air was sullen and warm, with the used-up scent of late summer. I got some good pics of the light effects on the water, and the hazy softness of the white granite ridges. I was home again!
Coming back up the small hill to Little Bear Lake was ridiculously hard, with progress aided by pulling on branches. All I wanted was to eat and lie down. Perhaps I would get up later, and check out the gibbous Super Moon. I laughed at how the term prompted a cartoonish thought of a Burning Man variety of superhero, but that’s what it was. The moon was at the apogee of an orbit that brings it to its closest point to earth about once every 30 years. Last night, when we camped at the trailhead, it was so bright that it cast sharp moon shadows in the dusty parking area like cracks on a hot sidewalk. I realized that I might not see too many stars while that moon was in the sky, but I wanted to try and stay up late (or get up early after it has set) to see the “super” effects while I was there.
I concluded my day, and my notebook entry, with one unnecessary phrase: “That’s all for now, I’m really pooped!!” Somehow I made it to my sleeping bag, but left the mosquito net wide open. I didn’t get bitten all night, owing either to the scarcity of bloodsucking insects at that time of year, or the high levels of lactic acid in my blood, which made me smell like a leaky car battery.
I spent about 12 hours in my tent from dusk till dawn. I didn’t sleep deeply, from having to change position often due to sore muscles. I was definitely out of shape at the very core of my physical body, but I loathed exercising. Is all the sweat and repetitive activity worth it, so I could continue to come up here? Back home, I did nothing more strenuous than strolling on the golf course, or taking the dog for a walk. Maybe if I made an “exercise video” of scenes from the Bear Lakes; that would motivate me. Then again, maybe not…
Most people think it’s the body that needs exercise, but it’s the mind that ultimately requires conditioning and discipline. The soul does not advance because of sculpted abs. Of course, for many, exercise is a form of meditation and development of the mind and willpower, and that is surely a good thing. But for thousands of years we have tried in vain to tame and domesticate the flesh, and where has that gotten us? The body needs to be fit enough to provide the best vehicle for the soul’s advancement; that is all.
I can feel my age now, not so much as a loss of energy or decrease of strength, but an increase in pain. Gravity is slowly alluring the parts of my body back to the heart of the earth. Nowadays when I consider my body, it’s from the perspective of a longtime resident of a dilapidated house, watching it fall gradually to pieces and being unable to make any repairs. Eventually the walls will crumble, the roof will have gaping holes, and the entire structure will return to the dust whence it came. If I am ‘lucky’ enough to grow old, and cannot come up to visit the lakes any more, what will I do? Who will take care of me? The days of seeking inspiration from the outer wild places are dwindling. I need to develop my capacity for evolving as a soul through my inner wilderness.
Look at how animals grow old and die. If any number of natural hazards doesn’t do them in, they live to be old enough where they can no longer take care of themselves. Then, if a predator doesn’t pick them off, they just go away somewhere and die, and the others leave them be. There are very few instances in the world of non-human biology where one being takes care of another when it gets old. It’s pretty much every living thing for itself out there. And yet astonishingly, among my people, there are many individuals who take care of others; even ones not in their own family. This benevolence extends to other species as well, when human beings care for other animals, comforting them even unto death. There is something so biologically unique about this behavior. In a universe where it’s dog eat dog, every living entity for itself, and survival of the fittest, some human beings can be found actually giving away some of their own life energy for the benefit of others. This is surely one of the more obscure reasons why it is said, ‘God ‘made man in His image.’
I’ve been all over this magical place a couple of times today; slowly, and with great depth of feeling. It was extremely rehabilitative to the spirit to revisit so many familiar, inspirational vistas. In other words, my leaky old batteries were getting recharged! From the macro down to the micro, there was so much for the mind to experience. Perhaps one is unshackled here from the chains of material obfuscation, and one’s mind is finally opened so that it can experience.
Early in the morning before Kevin got up, the sunrise kissed the tops of Altamira, that multi-pointed peak that dominates the western wall of Little Bear Lake. This living, multifaceted mass of granite soared almost 1,000 feet from the water level, and spread out over half a mile wide, as it plunged straight down into the deepest part of the lake. I wanted to get some pics with the morning light, and walked all the way down to God’s Parlor in front of Wee Bear, where Sawtooth still hid its sleepy eyes in slanted shadows, and I could reflect upon the reflections.
These three lakes definitely put the “Trinity” in the Trinity Alps. I had named everything else, so why not the lakes themselves? Perhaps the Sun, Earth, and Moon lakes would be fitting, in order of size. Or the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit… but those would never be adopted by the U.S. Forest Service. Big Bear, Little Bear, and Wee Bear was about the limit of their imagination, making one feel about as welcome as Goldilocks when considering a visit. There must be hundreds of Bear Lakes in the world; why should these exquisite bodies of water be named so commonly?
A flash of color tugged at the corner of my eye. Mr. Personality was on the move again, coming down the trail with his pack on. I guess he, too, was an early riser; and he half-waved in a desultory sort of way as he climbed straight up the steep granite shoulder of Dis Butte. Apparently, he was headed back to Big Bear Lake where he might find solitude. There were several easier routes, and I was compelled to tell him, but he had been such poor company I waved him off with disinterest. Then I said a silent prayer for his safety and enlightenment, all too aware of my own latent hostility and antisocial tendencies.
I came back up the hill and spent some time near the cove, reveling in its stillness and glassy surface. I dropped a few tiny pebbles on the surface, and watched how they broke the complex images of reflected granite into fractal patterns. On a much lower aesthetic scale, I discovered a large pile of bear shit, perfectly camouflaged, right in the midst of the stones where we first dumped our packs yesterday. It looked to be about a week old, but was definitely composed of local foodstuffs. Bear shit was breaking news around here, like getting a text from Mother Nature. Fecal tweets are okay with me, as long as there are no bits of aluminum foil or sleeping bags in the media. I came back to camp when Kevin was up, and told him. He had been debating whether to bring a gun (because he is a veteran and owns one), and his mother (my sister Judy), had been urging him to bring it in case of meeting a bear. As a bear would be wholly unimpressed with a strange chunk of metal unless it got shot, I presumed that Judy intended her son to actually shoot a bear in the wilderness. This astonished me on so many levels. True to the spirit of the wilderness, Kevin had left his gun at home.
After breakfast and the morning news, without any trace of the pressing agenda of civilization, we meandered over to the south shore and Bumblebee Springs. The spring itself was pretty dry due to the drought, but still showed signs of faded magic. Here, there were several levels to the shoreline. Twenty yards above the lakeshore level, at the base of the great keystone head of the springs, we saw lush growth and a hint of seepage, even after four years of little rain. It must be from melting ice somewhere deep within the cracks of the parched rock. A sign at the trailhead said there had been only 10% of normal snowfall the previous winter, and campfires were banned until further notice.
The wind picked up a bit, but it died down again around noon. When the water settled down, I saw the incredible refractions of light in the water again. They seem to only happen on this southern shore around noon, and close to the Autumnal Equinox, when the sun is directly casting the observer’s shadow over a deep, emerald abyss. Looking straight down into the depths on a direct line with the sun’s rays, the light refracts and blazes off the crown of one’s shadow like an underwater Aurora Borealis. I tried to get some video, to see if it showed any hint of the phenomenon. When I got home and viewed it on a big screen, it lost its dimension and richness of color.
The whole south to southwest end of the lake was violently wild. There were lots of broken off trees, cracked rocks laying around like huge, gray nutshells, and other signs of severe cold and wind. It was definitely a hazardous place to make a living as a tree. The most successful species on that shore are Mountain Hemlock, and they displayed remarkable resilience. The sprouted up slowly, agonizingly from the broken places, sprawling their twisted branches in the lee of some great crack; discreetly spreading their hardy seeds for a new generation. Most of my life has been spent trying to grow from the broken places, so I could empathize intimately with those amazingly determined life forms. Their indomitable will to contribute to the unfolding of the universe, even in such an anonymous and insignificant manner, was a deep inspiration.
After wandering back to the campsite for lunch, we went to revisit the cave, or Baggins End. There was still no sign of recent habitation by man, beast, or Hobbits. I did find a small, rusty tin can that had been there a very long time, and had eluded my gaze on all previous visits. The can could have been 25 years old or it could have been 125; as much as I know about the archaeology of litter. It looked to be the size of tinned meat or tomato paste, but its label was unreadable. The lid had been chiseled off by a hunting knife, and peeled back carelessly. It proved that someone else had found the cave, and even had a meal in it, at some point in the distant past.
We were drawn down the gentle, sloping snowmelt flow to Wee Bear. The channel where the cold water once flowed was distinct, but dry, as if the water had been sucked away a few days ago by a giant straw. Many of the plants were still green, including the stalks of the pitcher plants that depend on an unlimited water supply. As we approached the tiny lake itself, the scenery became so distracting that we spent the entire afternoon finding new vantage points from which to gaze at its many enchantments. We were in a profound nonverbal communication, with few words to break the spell. Finally, I felt the abuse and fatigue of the day before creeping back into my body, and the constant walking around to get a better view reminded me too much of yesterday’s power outage. I wearily but happily returned to camp, where my last act of ambition for the day was to pump all the water jugs full for dinner and breakfast.
As I wrote in my notebook, the sun was disappearing over “The Sentinel,” which is my new name for the highest cathedral spire on the western wall of Altamira. All day long, it posed like a majestic eagle perched at the very top, watching everything that went on below. What had this steadfast sentry seen from its aerie over the millennia, as the earth churned, and grew, and eroded away before its steady gaze?
Before long I shifted to the top of White Bear Rock next to the cove, stitching together the quilt of purple shadows on the western wall behind Little Bear Lake. Now that the sun had retired, the patchwork light and dark places were fading into a uniform contrast of gray. There was still some daylight left, but the sun had forsaken Little Bear Lake for another day. How many sunsets has The Sentinel seen? Behind me, to the east, the tops of the trees and mountains were bathed in an amber glow. Before me, at my feet, the lake laid still, waiting for the night. Young trout plopped clumsily on its surface, drawn by the thousands of damsel flies weaving their dance of procreation: now just above the water; now caressing the surface to lay their eggs in a final spray of contribution to the continuance of life. There was a gentle puff of wind on my face as the light disappeared, as if the lake were exhaling after a hard day at the office. I felt pretty tired from my travels, and I could imagine that being spun around the hot side of the earth for over 12,000 miles is very hard work indeed.
I was deeply tired in the marrow of my bones, but was hoping to return to that spectacular viewing platform later that night – or the next – to watch the stars. Luna was in a peculiar orbit this year, which would take it to its closest point to earth, or what the astronomy geeks call “the perigee-syzygy.” This results in a “Supermoon” which is bigger and brighter than at any other time. We would miss the full moon by a few days, but it would still be bigger and brighter than I had ever seen it up here. I had completely forsaken the light show the previous night due to severe lactic acidosis. I had a feeling that if I was going to see any stars on this trip I’d have to wait until the spotlight faded.
I wish I could convey the overwhelming, numbing sense of peace that permeates this place. It creeps into your consciousness unbidden, the way sand gets into your shoes at the beach. There is a depth of calmness to the present moment; a welcoming reassurance that everything is as it should be. The soul leaves the body for a time, and pleasantly wanders the trails traced by the eyes among the rocks and trees, returning to know its place in the all that is. There is so much quality stuff up here that is not stuff at all – it cannot be brought back to our homes, and won’t fit in a backpack. I have rarely felt this way anywhere else, but up here it’s everywhere at once, like air, and accessed as naturally as breathing.
In the dimming twilight, the surface of the lake was trembling with anticipation after another day of spectacular weather, knowing the Super Moon would soon provide more secondhand solar energy. The evening sang with a voice of silence that came from the stillness and returned to it, with the echo of a perfect tone. The plopping of trout and inquisitive buzzing of insects were the only sounds. It would have been a perfect time to play a Native American flute, or indeed any indigenous wind instrument. I brought some choice music on my cell phone, but the battery had already run out from taking videos. The DSLR camera was still going strong, however, and I probably should have saved the phone’s juice so I could enjoy some peaceful music. Oh well, it would be sort of redundant when I could hear it all in my head anyway.
In the stillness, I reflect that everything I see is made up of smaller and smaller particles. What we call ‘subatomic particles’ were unknown to us as little as a hundred years ago. For over 99% of human history on this planet, we were unaware that they existed. We only discovered them because we became clever enough to postulate their existence, and built complex, artificial instruments to observe and measure them. The particles we know about now are very likely composed of ones we haven’t discovered yet – just as the genetic code we think we have cracked is probably also made of miniscule mysteries, like the Russian dolls with an ever-smaller version inside themselves. Chasing constantly diminishing particles is a bit like chasing an inward infinity. The question collapses in on itself and becomes the answer.
We will never fully understand the physical universe, because that is the conception of God, or “Supreme Being.” We are creations of a system greater than ourselves, so how can we ever have the capacity to completely understand that of which we are only a part? The essential creative power is the Cosmic Consciousness behind the physical realms, or what some refer to as “the mind of God.” This is something we humans are able to understand intuitively, and have done so for as long as recorded history; far before we learned to observe and measure things smaller than the eye could see. The Upanishads recorded efforts to intuit the essential reality beyond the visible, physical existence some 5,000 years ago. Sanskrit and other ancient languages speak of causes; not effects. How long was this knowledge passed on orally, before it was recorded in a form that survived so we can see it today?
In our recent history, many have become deluded by the manifest details of material “reality,” and have lost the ability to see with their mind’s eye. As a result, the dominant paradigm ascribes reality only to that which one can experience with one’s physical senses. “I’ll believe it when I see it” is the credo for our physical world. How is it that we are able to “see” this “reality” at all? The physical eye can send images to the brain only because its cells are vibrating at the same frequency of that which it observes. The mind that comprehends and interprets what the physical eye receives has no spectral limitations, and can “see” much more. Some of what the mind’s eye perceives is describable in symbolic form, like the words you are reading now. Most of what it construes can never be conveyed in a didactic pattern; it can only be experienced. Concentrated endeavors of art, music, science, philosophy, and the most advanced souls in recorded history, have all sought to thoroughly and systematically explain what the human mind has “seen,” and still we are blind to the ultimate truth that is beyond seeing.
What is the essential thing we have been trying to see? What is it we have measured, hypothesized, defined, and redefined all this time?
It is only love.
We often say we “see with the heart” as a way to express what the mind cannot describe. Starry-eyed poets for centuries have sung that “love makes the world go around,” which sounds rather trite when expressed in symbolic form like language. For those who have not lost the para-symbolic ability to see with the heart, it comes as no surprise to learn that it is our poets, not our scientists, who have come closest to the ultimate truth. Love is the driving power that stimulates every intentional physical representation of the universe, including making the world go around and other perceivable phenomena of matter, such as gravity. Love is the cause; we are the effect. Love is what we are trying to understand; to re-cognize. It is what we are trying to become.
Tomorrow would be our last full day here. I wasn’t sure what we’d do. Maybe try a more ambitious hike, if my legs were up to it. I’d love to get up on Sphinx Rock again, and reshoot those incredible vistas with a good camera. Even if my cell phone’s batteries were dead, I was intent on recharging my own. I wasn’t sleeping or dreaming much, so I might as well enjoy the waking hours. It was strange to realize that I didn’t remember ever dreaming about the Bear Lakes. Could that be because it is the dream? Does one ever dream about dreaming?
All day long, and yesterday too, I had this odd ringing in my ears. Logic and reason told me it was due to the altitude and the silence. My imagination mused that there was just too much noise in my head already, and back home I didn’t notice it, the way one gets used to an annoying sound a car makes. It would be very interesting to stay up here for a few weeks and see if it goes away. I believe the fewer things one has to think about; the less noise there is between one’s ears.
“The essential things in life are seen not with the eyes, but with the heart.”
Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Little Prince