— William Blake
I spent another night tossing and turning, and never really sleeping. It was as if a part of me always had to be aware of my surroundings in the wild. I suppose that’s a product of natural selection, as the sound sleepers were culled from the gene pool over the millennia. Those who weren’t always aware of their environment on some level got recycled back into it sooner than they expected. Nowadays, there are a great many who are unaware. The time for the great recycling is coming…
I put my tent fly out in a clearing before going to bed, with the plan of moving my bag out there and stargazing on a relatively clear night. I could be sleeping alone, out in the open, with only a thin nylon lining between me and infinity. Unfortunately, it got hazier as the gossamer evening was overcome by the veil of night, and I didn’t feel like leaving my tent to peer at shrouded stars… even though I couldn’t sleep. Instead, I dozed, and dreamed, and slipped in and out of the peculiar stream of consciousness that only comes in the wilderness when no one else is around for miles. As the dawn brightened into morning, Altamira emerged from her slumber: clothed in a cheap, fuzzy, cotton-candy bathrobe of alpenglow, instead of the usual sparkling citron. When I first peeked out of my tent, there were clouds again to the southeast above Dat Butte. Uh oh, I grumbled to myself, those rascals are back, and they’re trying to block my view! I love-beamed them away before I even had my coffee. I finished the rest of my breakfast and morning routine, and commuted down to the Altar to watch the eclipse. I didn’t know the exact time it would occur at my location, so I got there by 8:15, estimating it would begin around 9:00. The sky was much smokier than the previous day; almost as bad as Saturday.
When I arrived at the Altar, the star of the show was just rising above Sphinx Rock. Rays of light were beaming in a rainbow halo, as our Sol gleamed through the trees on the ridgeline. It would rise higher in the sky by the time the moon intercepted its path. I applied a liberal coating of sunscreen to my reddened skin, and placed my lumpy old body on the Altar as an offering to the sun. I basked in its glory on top of that absurdly flat rock; perched on the edge of a glacial cliff and ready for rapture. Apparently, I wasn’t acceptable as a sacrifice, and just got roasted, so I retreated to the shady side until the show actually started. I planned to check the sun every 5-10 minutes with my ISO-approved solar filter sunglasses – the cheap kind made out of cardboard. I bought them online for only $2.50 because they were ridiculous and nobody wanted them. They were garishly decorated, with a cartoon of the earth taking a selfie… with the moon and sun behind it. I’m not making this up! As a cartoonist, I was ashamed that someone else actually thought of this, but at least it wasn’t me. Still, I was lucky to have certified eye protection. They were hard to come by 10 days before the event, and by today, scalpers were probably selling them for 20 bucks a pair up in Oregon… along with $10 bottles of water, $5 rolls of toilet paper, and jacked-up prices on everything else!
I wondered how I should experience this celestial event. Did I need a plan, or should I experience it extemporaneously, like the amazing sunset last year? I decided on a combination. I planned to watch the first part of it through the safety glasses, and have the camera already set to take video. When it reached its climax, I would start shooting video at the sun, and pan around 360 degrees to capture the effects on the landscape around me, and end up back at the sun. At that point it would be past its climax, and it would be wise to switch back to the safety glasses. The goal would be to hold the camera in such a way that I could frame the shot on the LCD display while still witnessing the spectacle with my own eyes. Most times when I looked at the sun, I would be wearing my safety glasses, except at the beginning and end of the shot. It would be ideal to have a pair of those flip-down baseball sunglasses, modified with proper filters for viewing an eclipse. I never saw such a thing online before the event. Too bad, I lamented, I coulda done that and made some money that would allow me to visit the Alps more often. I recalled what my camp neighbors said about backpacking to different locations. For me, the Bear Lakes were like a lover to whom I wished to be true; much like my relationship with Joy, who is the only woman… well, you get the idea! I didn’t get much action in high school, being a misfit and all.
As a warmup to the main event, I studied the well-lit landscape to the north and west through my binoculars, wondering why it was so much clearer with magnification than viewing with the naked eye. To my sight it was hazy and indistinct, but seen through the binoculars the formations were much clearer. How could this be? There were the same number of smoke particles between me and the mountain whether I looked through the binoculars or not, and they should be magnified, too. Perhaps I needed another kind of “spectacles” after all these years of excellent vision. I was particularly enthralled by a remarkably round boulder, shaped like a giant millstone, and as big as a house. It was perched on the summit of Sawtooth’s western peak, and appeared as if it could break loose and roll down the switchback ramps of the great mountain like a pinball game for giants.
IT STARTED… now I’m switching to the present tense so you can be there, too…
9:06 am, the black disc of the moon touches the rim of the sun at the 1:00 (or 30 degrees) position.
It’s so amazing that I’m the only one up here right now, at this sacred spot, experiencing this astronomical phenomenon. I feel lonely for the same reason; because I have nobody with whom to share the moment. Quite rightly, when I’m alone I can experience rapture more deeply because it’s just me at the center of the universe.
I love the pace of the eclipse. It’s proceeding very slowly, and will last over an hour. This allows me to observe other things from time to time, then just change the channel and check on its progress, as if I have a remote control.
By 9:20 the moon has advanced its leading edge about 25% into the eye of Sol.
This is awesome, baby!! It’s like the 49ers winning the Super Bowl, the Giants taking the World Series, and the Warriors claiming the NBA Championship, all at the same time! But infinitely more profound than any sporting event!
Seen from the Altar, this event is appropriately taking place right above the heads of the Pharaohs of Sphinx Rock. How cool is that?! I’m part of honoring an ancient culture to whom a solar eclipse was an event of auspicious portent and great religious significance.
During the eclipse I see Shasta for the first time on this trip, emerging from the material haze of smoke into the ethereal climax of the moment. Her timing is astonishing, like a dramatic actress taking the stage right on cue.
By 9:45 am the moon has encroached upon 36% of the sun’s disc, with its leading edge at the halfway point. I mock the part of my brain that thinks that way, and turn my face back to the star of the show, mouth open and gulping sunlight the way a hot Labrador laps up water.
Technical interlude – I discover I can take pictures by holding the safety glasses over the lens of the camera. I have to use manual instead of auto-focus, because the sensor is confused by the covering. My brain is confused by empirical science, and retreats back to emotions.
By 10:00 the leading edge of the moon is about 75% in place, and the sun is just a big orange grin in the sky. I’m starting to notice the dimming of sunlight all around me, the fading intensity of shadows, and it’s getting cooler. I’m feeling out of focus. Shadows are now becoming softer. Where before the edges were precise, now they diffuse into a penumbra.
Climax at 10:21 (!) The tips of the sun’s crescent are rotating counter-clockwise as the moon passes downward from 1:00 to 7:00 (thinking of the sun as the face of a clock). At the moment these tips align in the moon’s direction of travel, that’s the fullest eclipse in this location. After that, the eclipse wanes as the moon passes the midpoint, and begins exiting the sun’s path.
Somewhere up in Oregon, the shadow of the moon is racing through the state at 2,300 miles per hour. Folks who are now in its shadow are experiencing the total eclipse. I’ll take 90% of the totality alone, in paradise, over smack-dab in the middle of the “apoc-eclipse” any day.
Who knows how long the actual climax lasts? At some precise cosmic moment, the midpoints of the sun and moon are perfectly aligned for the observer. No matter how minutely time is measured – even at the subatomic scale – there is still only one point of singularity at which this happens. Right at what I discern to be the climax, I sing an encore of the Gayatri Mantra. (It seems like a good idea at the time.)
Some fool yells behind me, from way down in the valley somewhere off to the north. Perhaps he’s still on the trail and didn’t quite make it up to the prime viewing areas. Or possibly he was leaving early, trying to beat the traffic on the highways. He reminds me of people who come late to church, or leave mass right after communion.
Everything is still. It’s so quiet I can hear my own heart beating, counting the seconds as the moon passes out of the sun’s path. The smoke must be clearing, too, as Shasta is becoming more visible as she advances through the mist. There are no more clouds at all.
At 11:36 am, the moon slides completely out of the way. The last edge of its dark fingernail holds on to the edge of the sun for what seems like a long moment; then lets it go. The wind blows directly from the sun and caresses my face as it releases. The sun is back to full brightness, as if nothing ever happened.
Taken all together, my last full day at the lakes is off to a damn good start! Gratefully, I place my hand on the crack running through the obelisk, and offer a prayer for both of us: “May this day heal your brokenness.”
The sun rebooted and restored itself to full power. It was getting hot out there on the white granite sanctuary, so I headed back to camp for a picnic lunch in the shade. I might also get a closer look at the upper Bumblebee Springs while enjoying the cooler side of the lake.
When I left my camp earlier in the morning, those same two baby birds were still sitting on their rotten log, looking dazed and confused. Their destiny was to wait and see if they would get breakfast from somebody, or be somebody else’s breakfast. When I returned from the Altar there was only one left, and it was huddling in the meager shade of Sierra Laurel while still trying to remain on the log. Something may have gotten it while it was dark during the eclipse. I supposed it was a baby bird’s natural instinct to stay put and not wander. It surely wasn’t my place to help it. Heaven forbid that I should intervene in the plans of gods!
I grabbed some supplies and visited a few special places in Lothlórien. The sun was angry after being eclipsed by the Moon, and glared down from a jealous, brassy sky. I moved through harsh sunlight from shade to shade, under fir boughs, up against boulders, or cracks in the rocks. The air between the trees snapped and buzzed as an electric current. Tumbled-down piles of boulders littered the forest floor like great blocks of stone shaken loose from a castle in a catastrophic earthquake. From those shattered ramparts, the trees reached towards the sky as if the crumbling boulders were trying to regain their lofty heights. The forest is a living reminder that every molecule, every speck of matter, is returned to the whole. Our bodies are composed of Earth’s molecules when we grow in the womb, and decomposed when we die, returning to the ecosystem one way or another. Matter is always conserved; it is never wasted. But what about spirit? A tree’s existence is just as unequivocal as our own. As the forest is more than the sum of its parts, we, too are more than the cells that make up our bodies. There is a purposeful aura that projects from a collection of organized matter, the way that energy radiates from heat. Does this disappear when the particles release their focal bonds and go their separate ways? Or is spirit, too, recycled and reborn in a different form? Does it retain its self-awareness if there is no longer a physical manifestation of which to be aware? Humans can be self-aware regardless of the body, as proven in meditation or dreams. Is this true for all sentient beings? The forest is also aware of its environment, adjusts its metabolism, and communicates between species. One could say that the trees practice meditation nearly all the time, so do they have a soul? What is a soul, if not a manifest consciousness of the whole? Just like the trees, our souls grow away from the material world and reach for the heavens.
Not surprisingly, I eventually wound up in the cooler confines of Bumblebee Springs. It was easy this time to find a graceful way to the upper level. The spring pools, moss, and flowers were basking in the hot sun, grateful that the diminished light of the eclipse was only temporary. The nook at the lower springs that I had been calling the ‘Elf Throne’ turned out to be the ‘Elf Prince Throne,’ because I found the King’s Throne above: tucked right up against the base of Keystone Rock in the deep shade. It had a perfect seat for the royal buttocks, and a footrest fit for a monarch; nestled in among the ferns and flowers as if it had always been there. The majestic breezes blew up from the lake, and the king was very blessed, indeed. I planned to stay there in the deep shade to recharge my batteries, then return to camp and take it easy so I had some energy left in my legs for tomorrow, when I intended to cross the great granite tsunami again – using only excellent steps on the trail – and drive safely all the way home… from lakeside to bedside. It was certainly another memorable trip despite all the disappointments. And how incredibly apt that Shasta waited until the eclipse was in progress to make her appearance! Such a drama queen! I hoped it would remain clear enough for some stargazing on my final night. I can sleep when I get home!
As soon as my body had cooled down, I arose from my throne to inspect my emerald green kingdom in the fullness of the sun. The large bees were still busy bumbling through the blossoms. Oddly, I also saw some reformed yellow jackets who seemed determined to become useful members of society by pollinating the flowers. On closer inspection, it turned out they were only interested in what was in it for them, as usual. Their faces were bearded in golden pollen as they used their razor jaws to carve into the centers of the daisies. I snagged a few artsy pics until I could feel my head cooking like a soft-boiled egg, and it was time to head back to my cool throne. Although the Elf King’s Throne is more comfortable, and 20 degrees cooler than the rest of the basin at the moment, the royal buttocks were getting rather tired of granite – even padded granite. There is no give to the confounded igneous material! So, I shall return to camp where at least there’s coffee. And soon after that, I shall return home where there are pillows… and mattresses… and soap… and deodorants… all the myriad material comforts we use to insulate ourselves from the undeniable reality that we are smelly animals with soft skin that bruises easily.
There were thick clusters of hemlocks at the upper springs, lending a festive atmosphere of Christmas window decorations. I could see an adorable little family of them right in front of the throne. Their needles were so soft and yielding; unlike so many other bushes and shrubs that poked and scratched… but watch out for those dead hemlock branches, they’re like talons! On a smaller scale, an infant Bonsai hemlock was placed next to an artfully sculpted rock, with the serenity of a miniature Zen garden. Little things… it would have been a perfect spot to leave a couple of plastic toy dinosaurs to amuse the king with their incongruity. Focusing my regal eye on yet a smaller field of vision, I recognized that creeping heather Dave pointed out to me last year. It was just past its bloom, with lots of dry, lavender flowers shaped like tiny bells. I saw a few straggling blossoms, but didn’t get any pictures of them. Yew had to be there!
The king looked up and was angry. “There are so many fucking airplanes today,” he complained irritably, if the reader will excuse his French after so much prose about pretty little trees. The planes were small props, and mostly headed south – no doubt pilots and their families who had flown up to Oregon to watch the total eclipse. Come to think of it, that was definitely the best way to do it – fly in with your own stuff, catch the eclipse, then fly back, laughing at the apoc-eclipsic traffic below. The problem was the noisy planes were cruising over a Wilderness Area when the flight paths were supposed to be farther east, over Highway 3. These flyboys were buzzing right over the lake, disturbing the peace and tranquility with their selfish mechanical hurries.
To compensate, it appeared that the royal entourage – me, myself, and I – might have this entire day to ourselves at Little Bear Lake! I hadn’t seen anyone arrive (they always come down to look at the lake), and it was getting late for day hikers. There could possibly be some late arrivals who hiked over from Big Bear Lake, but I doubted it. No matter – I was grateful for the solitude on this very special day in the cosmology of our planet. To celebrate my solitary connection to the universe, I added some of my salts and minerals to the ecosystem by peeing in a discreet spot. Once relieved of my donation, I settled back in the throne and watched the ripples of wind chase each other across the surface of the lake. The wind swirled and eddied as it blew into the cirque, and the breezes seemed to become disoriented. Or perhaps the wind came to play, just like I did, before going back to its job pushing clouds around. What’s that? One of the king’s subjects doth protest? A nearby chipmunk is having a conniption fit; barking in short, perturbed chirps. So I barked back at him, then thought, I can’t believe I’m actually having an argument with a chipmunk! He was sassing non-stop at me, as if he wanted to assert dominance over his territory. Or perhaps he was pissed because I ate all the trail mix! I squeaked some more, with tightly pursed lips, basically telling him in rodent language to piss off. Meanwhile, the invasion force of air traffic continued its incessant droning in the sky, as if God was mowing His lawn; going back and forth… If that turned out to be the only downside of being in paradise on such a momentous day, I was okay with that. I enjoyed long periods of sublime mountain tranquility, but rudely interrupted by reminders of humanity’s insanity for mechanization every few minutes, like an unwanted word from the sponsor.
Cautiously, a few hesitant cumulonimbi were edging their way into the sky from the west, checking to see if I was still barring all clouds from the premises. They tiptoed tentatively across the sky, hoping to escape my attention on their way to Shasta where clouds go to party. You may go in peace, I told them, as long as you’re not around to block any stars tonight! I was considering the merits of just sleeping out in the open, and moving into the tent only if the mood suited me. This plan would involve spraying some mosquito repellant on my hat and slippers to form a defensive perimeter around my head. I did see a few of the unspeakable bloodsuckers on this trip, and displayed a few bites to show for it, but nothing like the feeding frenzy I endured last year, thank God! I decided it was time to go make some coffee and try out an idea I had to record the inside of the cave with my camera. I picked my way around the edge of the lake, dodging laser beams of sunlight. Back at camp, there was still one baby bird left. Mom flew off as I approached, so one of them had a chance, at least. I respected anything that could live up here year-round. If it was me, I’d have to hike down to the store for supplies every couple of weeks!
While brewing my coffee, I admired the little forest surrounding my campsite. The trees have such character when one truly observes them, and I had learned to recognize several of them over the years. They’re like an extended family that I only visit every couple of years during the holidays. There were mother and father trees, nurturing their young in the sheltered spots. Grizzled old loners defiantly thrusted their jagged branches to the sky. Peter Wohlleben’s book revealed how parent trees funnel nutrients to their progeny through their roots, helping them through tough times. While I had been struggling though my life in the lowlands, these trees had always up been at the lake, taking care of each other. I wished I could join their family.
Later, I went down to another throne – this one arranged by Mother Nature at the base of the Beater Cedar. It was part of the whimsical exterior decorating I referred to as the Furniture of the Gods. I stared out into the distance as the lengthening shadows of trees crept across the valley, the way water soaks into a carpet. Visibility was almost back to normal, and most of the smoke was gone. The Pharaohs gazed across the valley towards the North Star as they had done for millennia, except there was a renewed vigor in their stern visage. The eclipse gave them vitality for another couple thousand years, at least. Shasta was as clear as I’d seen her on this trip, as if to say, “See? I was here all the time. You just had to learn to see me with your heart.”
There were a lot of times when I could have said, “I’m bored,” or wished to be somewhere else. But I didn’t. There were a dozen “go to” places up there, and I knew them like my own backyard, so there were few surprises. And yet, I always discovered something new on every trip, and enjoyed spending time in my favorite art gallery. When one travels far to see as many different places as possible, how does one know they are real? One sees them but once in most cases, and never returns to verify their existence, or to discover their hidden meanings. Just as it takes work to be with one partner for a lifetime, it requires much more effort – and provides a greater reward – to get to know one place intimately. I looked forward to when I could bring my grandsons up here, like my past excursion with Logan, Kevin, and Judy. That’s why I’d need Dimari along – to carry all the stuff to keep the boys entertained! Next year Jordan will turn 14 before the autumnal equinox, and he should be able to handle the trail. I wasn’t so sure about Miles – even when in another year he’d be almost 8. He whines and complains on even a short hike, but I notice that despite all the protests he still manages to have a good time! Maybe we’d wait a few more years to introduce him to the wilderness. And now there’s baby Sheldon. By the time he’s 10, I’ll be 65! Wow!! I’ll be a full-blown “Boomer” at that point, and the little whippersnapper will have to carry all of Grampy’s gear… and his rocking chair, too! Maybe by then we’ll be wearing anti-gravity boots, riding hovering sleds, or some other technological marvel that will break down and have to be packed out by a mule.
The sun was still hot on my back, but was nearly setting after an adventurous day. I could see the shadows soaking in all the way down the valley, swallowing each tree in darkness. From where I sat, it was still 20-30 minutes until sunset, as the sun lounged above the ridgeline over my left shoulder. When it finally disappeared I’d wander back to Little Bear for my last night in paradise… for who knows how long? I dreamt about coming back every year, but that’s unrealistic, and I felt like my knees only had so many trips left in them before gravity would finally win, and I could no longer propel my body up the trail to experience the thrill of this magical place.
Back at camp, I deliberately prepared for stargazing: intentionally slowing down my movements to enhance being in the present moment. I used my tent fly as a ground cover on the open spot that is seasonally the mosquito breeding grounds, as if to taunt, “Where you at now, bitches?” It was a soft and level spot, with a wide view of the night sky. I spread out my new Air Mattress of a Thousand Blessings, securing it on the blue foam pad with straps to protect it from punctures. My heirloom sleeping bag went on top of that, and I was all set. I planned to watch the sky grow dark from the top of White Bear Rock, then retire to my specially-prepared viewing spot to watch the stars come out. The wind picked up just then, and ruffled the surface of the lake before moving on to caress the faces in the wall. I tossed a few stones in the cove to watch the ripples spread outward and refract the last custard-colored light reflecting off the surface. The wind was getting stronger and colder now, and this could mean the end of that massive high-pressure system that had been sitting on Northern California like a pressure cooker all weekend. When it showed no sign of letting up, I figured there had to be less wind down by my sleeping bag, and so I descended reluctantly from my favorite perch, and made the final preparations before snuggling inside my dad’s old mummy bag. It was cold enough now that I need to zip it for the first time on this trip. Venus was visible right in front of me: a pearl brooch pinned on the lavender lapel of the sky. I extended my heart rays to Earth’s distant sister planet, and was given a clear vision of both heavenly bodies, hanging in empty space like Christmas ornaments on an invisible tree. Then I saw myself, an insignificant speck on the surface of a huge spinning globe, turning to face the goddess of the night. I could see her floating alluringly across millions of miles of emptiness, and felt her longing. Love is indeed the power that holds the planets in orbit, among the swirling pinwheels of galaxies in the heavens, and expanding outward into the infinite void.
By then a few actual stars appeared, and I could discern their red, yellow, or blue spectra. A pink shooting star streaked towards Venus in the exact spot where I was looking, as if to emphasize the force of attraction. I applauded the opening act in my mind. More and more stars appeared in the wings, winking in and out of my peripheral vision. The wind continued to swirl, mixing the points of light like dandelion seeds. A few oblivious satellites trundled in a straight line across the purple firmament, proscribing their orbits in mindless dedication to technology. There were also many aircraft bisecting the heavens – both large and small. I could see the distant, blinking glimmers of jets at 30,000 feet, mixed in with the carnival lights of the small planes that passed much closer, still droning their migration southward. The Milky Way became visible, and I fiddled distractedly with the camera for a while, trying to capture one of those awesome night sky images I’d seen in documentaries, but the technique was foreign to my skill level and frame of mind, and I put the contraption aside.
The wind completely died down, and soon I was sweating like a pig inside my bag in my underwear. I didn’t want to just unzip it and expose myself to hungry night insects and creepy crawlers like some fleshy buffet steam table, so it was time to go relax inside the tent, and try to rest for the trip home. I planned every movement in my mind, and executed the relocation plan with astonishing alacrity. The spiders wrung their hairy forelegs in dismay, and the mosquitoes gnashed their probosces with disappointment. I slept but fitfully the rest of the night, dreaming of a lost love somewhere in the sky, until the wind died down completely and all was still and silent.
“How should we like it were the stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be
Let the more loving one be me.”
— W.H. Auden