“Tree qualities, after long communion, come to reside in man.
As stillness enhances silence, so through little things the joy of living expands.
One is aware, lying under trees, of the roots and directions of one’s whole being.
Perceptions drift in from earth and sky.
A vast healing begins.”
— Cedric Wright
I slept in later than usual, but the sun rises much earlier this time of year. Usually I get up to see the sun kiss the tops of Altamira, but the light had already advanced all the way down to the lakeshore. The great wall of Cubist trees and rocks were illuminated like a stained glass window. There was no sign of tiny terrorists outside my tent, but I knew they were lurking in the shadows; waiting in the cool eaves of the branches for their chance. It would take the heat of midmorning to effectively drive the loathsome ghouls back into their lairs. I was faced with having to plan another rapid deployment mission… this time the objective was breakfast and coffee! I was glad I had thought to bring a bug mask, because it weighs next to nothing, and it provided a little sanity amidst the chaos. A ‘bug mask’ is basically a mosquito net that goes over your hat, with elastic straps that go under the arms to hold it down tight. On that particular morning, I was thinking benevolent thoughts about the inventor – probably some poor slob in north Ontario who had to deal with black flies. I hear those bloodsuckers make mosquitoes seem as gentle as butterflies! I had also brought a pair of gloves for rough jobs – they were meant to protect my hands, but as I found out yesterday, the unspeakable fiends can drill right through them.
Zip! I popped out of the tent like a chipmunk from a backpack pocket, and scurried around the campsite with my tail held high. The entire forest was still in shade, and swarming with hungry bugs looking for their breakfasts. The ravening hoard noticed me immediately, and the chase was on. I grabbed the gloves and mask from my pack where it was hanging from a tree, and made a mental note to bring them inside the tent with me next time. As soon as they were donned, I thumbed my nose at the mob, and they were not very happy about the situation, no sir! I deliberately stood still just to torment them, but they were not intimidated. Several acrobatic bugs landed menacingly on my mask, right in front of my nose. The arms of my long-sleeved shirt were covered with prospecting marauders, moving and drilling, moving and drilling, looking for a thin spot through which they could gain access to my tasty capillaries. I soon felt them probing through my gloves again, and it was time to abandon the camp for a safer environment. Calmly, I gathered the implements and supplies for breakfast and constitutional, and strode confidently up to the top of the rock to enjoy brunch on the terrace.
When it got warm enough to drive off most of the airborne menace, I returned to camp and re-provisioned for a morning visit down Wee Bear way. I had touched the Beater Cedar briefly in gratitude on the way up, and now was a good chance to get fully reacquainted. I dodged the last few determined mosquitoes in the forest, and ambled down the pleasant little trail that had all the charm of a nature walk through fairyland. The spring that fed the tiny lake was full of pooling water, and flush with a jubilant, verdant overgrowth of Sierra Laurel, corn lilies, and other plants. This place was a bad bug neighborhood too, so I quickly picked my way across the lush meadow grass, taking care not to tramp it down. Entrancing views surrounded me as I wandered slowly down to my favorite spots, and my head was on a swivel again. Those backpacking trips sure did loosen up the neck muscles!
The forecast for today was spot shade surrounded by hot sun. That was the best way to avoid the mosquitoes and still be in the shade enjoying the cool alpine breezes. The Beater Cedar offered just such a shelter, on the cusp of a sunbaked granite bluff. I sat on the rock throne, wrote in my notebook for a while, and munched contentedly on some snacks. Every once in a while, I simply had to put my pen down and do nothing but look. The surroundings were very distracting, and also conducive to writing deep thoughts. My legs still weren’t speaking to me, and my shoulders felt like they were six inches lower, but I was happy.
From time to time I used my field glasses to scan what I could see of the trail, far down in the valley below, to see if there were any hikers. I also checked the most popular route up from Big Bear, across the white-hot granite face of Dis Butte. A distant voice signaled that my curiosity would be rewarded. Some unseen hikers were approaching. It was fun to scan the many paths to try and locate them, as they weren’t likely to see me in my shady spot next to the brush. A speck of color appeared much closer than I expected — it was the two people who had passed me near the Twin Towers the day before. They emerged from their traverse on the top of the wall above Wee Bear, and appeared to be searching for a way down. They had only one small daypack between them, so they must be camping with the crowd down at the bigger lake. Good! They had probably come up here just to see what the other lakes looked like.
Disturbed from my reverie, I went back to my abode at Little Bear, leaving them to enjoy Wee Bear alone. I performed a few camp chores to “work my claim,” and firmly establish ownership of my campsite, just in case… but I never saw the two of them again. While working, I kept stopping more and more to write new thoughts in my notebook. Finally, I gave in completely to the urge to resume the contemplative frame of mind which I had enjoyed before I was disturbed. Grabbing a few items so I could sit for a while, I relocated to spot shade elevated above the shoreline, from where I could be alone and yet easily watch both approaches to the basin. I had almost 20 minutes of peace before more hikers appeared, coming up from Wee Bear: a couple with two dogs and heavy packs loaded with gear. Those two looked like they planned to stay a while, for sure! I was about 150 yards away in the shade, and 50 years up the slope above them, so not even the dogs could detect my presence. I could see them debating what to do, what with my obvious claim on the best campsite. They apparently decided to scout for a site on the south shore where Bumblebee Springs fed the lake, and they walked right past my position, just below me. I was deep into my writing, and wanted to finish a key paragraph before properly greeting them. Besides, I knew they would be back when they saw the bushwhacking obstacle course that blocked the most direct path. Sure enough, they came back in a few minutes, and I hailed them in a friendly way.
The dogs barked in surprise, and the man looked a little nonplussed that he hadn’t seen me on their first pass. The woman gushed about the beauty, and said it was their first time here, and they were both so clearly awestruck by the scenery, that I offered them my campsite on a whim. I was moved to let them enjoy the “full experience” of Little Bear. I had been thinking of moving my camp anyway, and I warned them about the mosquitoes. I knew I could find lots of places to bivouac, but there was only one really nice campsite by the lake that would accommodate their party of four. They politely declined, informing me they had already ruled out the bug-infested forest. It was clear this was not their first rodeo, and they probably thought I was some kind of greenhorn, pitching my tent in a ring of trees in deep shade; right next to a marshy puddle left by melting snow… a veritable mosquito factory. They waved and smiled as they went back down the way they had come, and were soon screened by the trees. It seemed as though my privacy might be restored… but what was that? I heard voices raised in excitement but could not make out the words. Perhaps there was a difference of opinion about my offer, and they were arguing about it when they thought they were out of earshot. Soon they were gone entirely, and I hoped they would settle for one of the many open, flat spots around Wee Bear, but a shady spot would be hard to come by. Come to think of it, lack of cover for insect marauders wasn’t such a bad idea! Duh.
After they left, I figured I was likely to have even more company on this holiday weekend, for it was early afternoon and about the time that other folks would arrive. To savor the last of my solitude, I moseyed through the delightful, elfish forest I called Lothlórien, frequently alternating between shade and hot sun to foil the local bloodthirsty beasties. At the edge of the glade where the terrain changed to scrub manzanita and rugged rocks, I came across a newly fashioned campsite I hadn’t seen before. It was notable for its ample, flat tent spots that could have easily housed a group of 10 or more. (I shuddered at the thought… 10 elf-like humans would be delightful, but most humans behave like trolls.) It had a tasteful fire ring that blended in with its surroundings, and plenty of firewood was stacked neatly next to it. I silently blessed the thoughtfulness of the architect, even though there were enough fire rings up there already. This one was discreet, and crafted with good intent, and I approved.
On the way back to my camp I experienced an utter contrast of wicked thoughtlessness. A cloud of flies first alerted me to a disgusting pile of fresh, unburied human feces… right in the trail! Thank goodness my natural tendency to watch where I placed my feet prevented me from actually stepping on it! The angry buzzing noise as I crashed the fly party made me think of a rattlesnake at first. This evidence of extreme callousness could only have been left by the unfriendly guy with the day pack and fishing pole, and I cursed him for defiling the temple in the most sacrilegious way possible. It was located on a minor pathway in an out-of-the way spot, but there’s never any excuse for not burying your shit or at least covering it with a rock! There are plenty of goddamn rocks! In my anger and disgust, I decided that hikers who defile the temple should be crucified. Or better yet, stake them out naked next to the mosquito factory! Caring not at all to pick up that sort of litter, I made a mental note to avoid the area forever, like a nuclear waste dump.
Despite my shocking fecal encounter, I found I was finally settling back into the low-tech rhythms of the natural world, after too many hours of computer work back home. I came up here partly to get away from technology of any kind, and I was kind of surprised that I brought my iPhone. Not because I was going to call anyone of course, or play video games, but it was such a lightweight, multipurpose tool that I couldn’t deny its utility. It was kind of like a high-tech Swiss Army device: it had a compass, watch, GPS, altimeter, and of course a camera and video. There were no toothpicks or scissors yet, and in between admiring the lake from different vantage points, I dreamed up a sort of phone case with foldable attachments that would serve multiple uses. In this way, I was still transitioning from my artificial world to the real one all around me.
On this trip, owing to the accumulated mental debris from many years of toil needed to pay for our home, it was taking me longer than usual to detoxify and let go of the feeling that I had to handle every situation efficiently in “multitasking mode.” Before drifting off completely into the bliss of letting go, I made an executive decision without consulting the committee, and moved my camp after lunch when it was nice and hot. This allowed me to work without being attacked by hungry pests. The place I chose was out in the open where I could stargaze – if only through the tent screen. Actually, it was the exact spot where aliens had abducted me (or so I had dreamt) when my father died 20 years before. However, this time I was not just laid out in my sleeping bag like hors d’oeuvres at a buffet. I had a full 0.25 mm of colorful rip-stop nylon fabric to protect me from harm!
In the late afternoon, I shuffled back down to Wee Bear to see what became of my new neighbors. My sore feet and ankles were not very happy with being asked to convey my body weight over rugged terrain again. I met up immediately with Dave and Jen, who had fashioned a pert campsite next to the playful little trail around Wee Bear. Their dogs were big, white German Shepherd types. Typical of the other canine companions I have observed after climbing that trail, they were too tired to hear me coming. It pleased me that I walked so quietly, and in such harmony with my surroundings, that the dogs didn’t hear me until I was a few yards away. They barked over-loudly when I said “Hi,” obviously vexed because I had slipped past their guard. I could tell instantly Dave and Jen were down-to-earth kinds of folks, because they fit in so well with their surrounding terrain. They told me they were farmers from rural Oregon, getting away from their own sort of daily grind. Their manner of speech struck me as very intelligent – especially Dave, who lectured with the erudition of a loquacious college professor. I guessed they were around 30-35, and were exactly the type of super-aware people who needed to be up in the mountains. The best and brightest of our species need to visit the wilderness often to fill up on the insights and values that drive us forward as a species. As I got to know them better, my opinion of them only rose higher. These are just the sort of humans who are needed to save this planet, I thought, and was glad to get to know them. Not that I was lonely, but I couldn’t pass up the chance to share love of the wilderness and deep concern for the earth with some like-minded people.
They told me that when they left after our first meeting yesterday, they had seen a massive rattlesnake near my camp. It was right where I had just crossed the outlet stream that runs down from Little Bear Lake to Wee Bear. (So that was all the commotion… not arguing about a campsite as I had surmised.) I was impressed but not too worried. Bigger means wiser when it comes to snakes, and I expected she would stay out of our way, especially with the dogs around. Dave said she was at least 2 ½ inches in diameter, and probably over 5 feet long. On his phone, he showed me a dark, sinister image of a coiled viper under a rock at the base of a tree. I made a mental note: Beat bushes with sticks when walking! We talked for some time about all the things wrong with the world and how to fix them, keeping one eye on the thuggish clouds that were loitering over to the east by Mt. Shasta, as if they were up to no good. They were slowly creeping our way, but the warm air was breaking them up into pleasant shapes that were really not all that threatening. Jen remarked it must have been unbearably hot back in the Highway 5 corridor. As much as I appreciated their company, it was time to get back to my personal wilderness experience, and let them have theirs.
As I wrote this in my notebook, I was back inside my tent, which drifted as a little boat on the calm seas of the developing evening as it passed into night. I had spent some time alone, watching the clouds as they broke up into smaller shapes, and meandered through the trees with their shadows. The sun had long since hidden its blazing face behind Altamira. Birds were singing plaintively, puffy, friendly shapes were drifting by, and all was right with the world. I saw one cloud in the distinct shape of a skull; probably a remnant of those ruffians off to the east. I focused on it with laser-like intent, and tore it slowly in half. I have always possessed a very minor psychic talent for cloud-busting, which is a source of endless entertainment. It only works when I’m alone, so it’s tough to tell if it’s a talent or a delusion. I guided the pieces into the face of a Sleeping Buddha, and then it broke apart and dissipated into nothingness. I reflected on the intricate conversation I’d had that afternoon.
Dave and Jen told me they owned a wholesale tree nursery. It was hard to imagine a more vital profession. They grew the trees on the land where he was born; the place where his ancestors became some of the first white settlers in the Oregon Territory. The sounds of the Old West drifted through my mind: the jingling of harness chains, telling campfire tales of a time before the white man came, and reminding me that we are newcomers on the scene. Dave had an encyclopedic knowledge of the plants, animals, and geology of the entire region, and he’s one of those gifted people who can impart details without guile or pretense. I got quite a natural history lesson, and felt like I was in back in school. He opined that everything south to the Scott Mountains was part of Southern Oregon – geologically speaking – and we were barely 10 miles from that distinct border. I agreed, and described to him the very different geological characteristics of Kangaroo Lake, just a few dozen miles to the northeast and at almost the same altitude.
I wished I could be more like Dave and Jen: self-reliant farmers participating in the husbandry of the earth. However, I’m getting too old and set in my ways for that much of a change! As the light got almost too dim to read, I cracked open the Bible to see what random passage might speak to the moment. It was Corinthians 5:1-6, which teaches about worldly needs vs. heavenly needs, and how the former can overshadow the latter. When I thought about losing everything for which I had worked hard all my life, I thought of it with a sense of great relief, as if I could finally live in my heavenly “home” …and without paying a mortgage!
I remembered my phone was left outside, and quickly unzipped the tent to retrieve it. In the five to ten seconds it took me to grab it and pop back in, three mosquito Ninjas slipped inside. One of them sucked on my little toe while I hunted down the others behind me. It was as if they had planned their moves in advance to distract me so that one lone assassin might succeed. When I finally smashed the toe sucker against the wall of the tent, she left a small blood smear… my blood! There are few things that elicit more panic than being trapped in an enclosed space with hungry mosquitoes. Their high-pitched whine is uniquely annoying. They are the oldest and deadliest enemy of our species, and it’s probably embedded in our genetic code to be unduly alarmed by their presence… especially when they can’t easily be seen.
— Christine Todd Whitman