“To encounter the sacred is to be alive to the deepest center of human existence. Sacred places are the truest definitions of the earth. They stand for the earth immediately and forever; they are its flags and its shields. If you would know the earth for what it really is, learn it through its sacred places.”
— N. Scott Momaday
Exhaustion helped me sleep a little, and the long night seemed to go on forever, but I didn’t have any dreams. I didn’t get up at first light, either. Naturally, I wanted to get an early start to Little Bear Lake so I could enjoy a full day there, but my sleeping bag was so warm, and the air was so cold, I laid there a bit longer and massaged my aching hips. They stiffened from the hard ground during the night, and the flimsy backpacking air mattress did little to help. After almost 50 years of use, my down sleeping bag afforded very little cushioning effect, but was still a great insulator against the chilly mountain air.
It was interesting to think that, except for the other campers, their dogs, and the sundry little mammals scurrying around in the bushes, I was the only source of heat for miles. In truth, I was surrounded by a cold and indifferent world, upon which I reposed comfortably, nestled in my warm sleeping bag; burning stores of captured energy from the sun. The last few stars in the morning sky could not reach me with their heat; only their feeble, distant light. The “star” that now provided heat to make me all warm and cozy was stored in the calories of the food I ate. This borrowed energy from a yellow-orange celestial inferno blazed in the metabolism of my body to emit the heat of a 100-watt light bulb. Poking my nose out through the opening in my mummy bag, I could sense that the alpine atmosphere was still hostile to my puny flame, so I bade my time, warmed by a fire that was millions of years old. The small, rustling sounds tinkled within the profound stillness as embers in a bed of coals. The entire basin was immolated in a conflagration of silence that permeated all reality.
It was 36 degrees by the time I left my tent, even though the day had already warmed up a little. All my stuff was dusted with a fine layer of frost, as if the mountains were claiming it for their own. I took my coffee up high where there were some sunbeams warming the rocks. Sawtooth was etched in in a high relief of amber, jutting out at cubist angles that reached for the sun and seemed to defy gravity. I wanted to pack up and go right away, but my gear was heavy with frost, and waiting for the sun to dry it out would be the most sensible thing. So I found a seat on a gigantic fallen tree at the edge of Big Bear Lake, and positioned my eyes as close to the surface of the water as I could – the better to bathe my weary soul with soothing reflections. The glistening silence received me the way the night sky receives the smoke of a campfire.
I am observing that which is beautiful.
I AM, observing all that I am, which is beautiful.
In evolutionary terms, the human brain evolved with astonishing rapidity and ability. Until humans came along, all life on earth evolved merely to be self-sufficient; to become the most successful adaptation for the environment in which it lived. Humans and their ridiculously oversized brains evolved first in compensation for a lack of self-sufficiency, and then suddenly increased in awareness far beyond that which was necessary to merely adapt to its surroundings. Why did this happen?
So the universe could observe itself.
As the human body and its physical tools became less and less central to survival, our brains increased in capacity for self-awareness; not self-sufficiency. That was a quantum leap in evolution for life on earth. As humans became more self-aware, our new tools were employed not only to survive in our environment, but to shape it for our purposes. Previously unknown expressions of life energy such as art, music, and communication flourished in a new realm beyond mere subsistence. For the first time in our little corner of the universe, life evolved in purely non-physical ways.
Over time, the complexity increased exponentially.
The drive for pure understanding found expression in the Industrial Age, and exploded in science and technology, until the available facts far exceeded any person’s ability to know them all. In our quest to discover all we could, we created trillions of bits of information that overwhelmed the intellect. Our days became filled with endless factoids, fantasies, and fiction, until the reasoning brain crashed like a hard disk that got full.
Perhaps now, we might be able to reboot and start fresh…
The sun finally reached my camp, and steam was rising from my tent and backpack. The evaporated moisture would be less weight to carry. Soon I’d pack up and head for Little Bear Lake. I could see the reduced level of Big Bear had exposed a convenient path around most of the lake. As usual, I fantasized about hiking to the western shore, up the beautifully landscaped pass, and over the saddle to Little Bear. As usual, I dismissed that as folly, for I’d have to gain twice as much elevation before hiking down another half mile to the lake. Plus, I’d miss the awesome views of Mt. Shasta, the grand entrance of the portal on the north shore of Wee Bear, greeting the Altar, and the memorable promenade up to Little Bear Lake. So I decided to take the shortest and most spectacular route. It was time to stand up, stretch, and prepare for the arduous trek over the jumbled ridge, all the way across the bridge to paradise. I heard a gunshot from over that way last night. It was deer season already, and I recalled passing a hunter riding his little motorcycle on the highway, with his rifle stowed crossways on the handlebars. Hopefully, I didn’t look too much like a deer. My head would be a very disappointing trophy for the wall of someone’s bar.
The sun sets early this time of year, I chastised myself, so I’d better get going. My legs and hips weren’t too thrilled with the idea, but I could wait all day in vain for a shuttle bus that would never arrive. All during the daytime, that closest star to earth crept shyly across the southern rim, seemingly hesitant to climb high in the sky the way it does in summer. It probably disappeared even earlier in the Little Bear basin, where the massive granite wall blocked it out well before the daylight was done. So I packed my gear for the scramble, and made it over to paradise without incident. The most familiar route was easy to find, and I navigated it with deliberate care, because I was alone; with no one to help me in case of a mishap. It probably took 1½ to 2 hours to make the half-mile crossing. I saw footprints of recent visitors on the way, and remembered overhearing some of my neighbors last evening at Big Bear, talking about the “upper lake.” I hoped they wouldn’t still be there, as I labored up the final few yards of steeply sloped bedrock. The final entrance through the granite portal to gaze upon Wee Bear was a mystical highlight, as always. There was something so rewarding about passing through the gates of heaven under my own power; bringing only what I needed. The green grass that usually framed the tiny tarn’s shore had turned to cinnamon brown, but otherwise the postcard setting was little changed. There wasn’t as much fall color up this high and away from the creek, but there were enough red and gold accents in the bushes to decorate some pretty photographs.
With great reverence and gratitude, I ambled up towards Little Bear Lake quietly, searching through the trees for signs of company. Once again, it was astonishing to find no trace of other humans – except for a melted campfire grate, and tiny scraps of litter. Incredibly, I had the entire resort all to myself once again! Hasn’t this awesome place been tweeted on Yelp, or yelped on Twitter yet?! I thanked all the gods that it remained my private piece of paradise. It was after noon, and the sun was holding its distance above the rim, as I got myself cleaned up and made camp. It took so much effort to get up here, but was it ever worth it! I realized that the entire trail leading to my special place was a metaphor for the journey of my life, where the trials have been a test to see if I was learning what I needed to know before ascension. All paths lead to God, but some are rough and steep.
Soon I was lounging at the Beater Cedar, once again watching the shadows crawl east down the valley towards Queen Shasta. She displayed a constellation of small clouds above her crown, but the weather was still cool and clear. I spent the afternoon in visual reverie, until the evening shadows crawled slowly up the face of Cheops, where the Pharaohs gazed silently to the north as they had for eons. Wildlife was scarcer this time of year, except for the ubiquitous chipmunks and camp robber jays. Right next to the Beater Cedar, I found old, dried scat that appeared to be from a miniature pony. More likely a goat, but it could have been a large deer. I liked to think they still came up here. Then it started to get cold, and the wind was picking up. It was time to return to domestic duties such as dinner, and perhaps a campfire. My tired feet traced the familiar paths between boulders and hemlocks that led back to camp. I ate my modest provisions on top of White Bear Rock, and didn’t even need a reservation. Little Bear Lake was hushed and still – not at all like the windy bluff where the magical Altar and Beater Cedar looked out over the valley. Inside the basin, it was much more intimate and inviting. The thousand faces welcomed me home, as little trout plopped on the surface of the deep green water. The Sentinel was poised above me as always, watching over the scene. It was beginning to get dark again, but with some forest cover, it was not as cold as Big Bear Lake. I could see across the water to Bumblebee Springs, where the vegetation on the upper level had all turned brown. The red, green, and brown were bleeding into the twilight, as all color was stolen away by the disappearing sun. I felt the cold now, creeping up behind me from the bluff. Soon it would be too dark to write without a flashlight – which when you think about it, is just another bit of captured energy from the sun. Chemical reactions and combustion both give off energy, which the boundless mystery of the universe transforms into light.
There probably hadn’t been any bears up there all year, as evidenced by an old, unchewed plastic bag I found, which still contained an empty sardine can. The busy chipmunks were making queer defensive noises – probably an attempt to frighten rivals away from their food caches. They stayed up here all winter, holed up deep in the rocks inside their snug burrows, with only the body heat they derived from their own stored energy from the nearest star, as they went into semi-hibernation and waited for spring. It must be awesome up here in the winter, I imagined, with drifted snowbanks, ice whorls on the lake, and trees all frosted and bent with snow. My legs were getting stiff again, so it was time to stand up… but I had to plan the maneuver first. I turned around to see Luna just peeking through the trees on top of the ridgeline to the east, behind Cheops. As I stood, transfixed by the new visitor, I watched her climb slowly at an angle, filtering through the trees until she was centered perfectly behind a clump that separated her light into dozens of small, shifting points that twinkled as a cluster of stars, such as the Pleiades. Turning around, I could see the real Seven Sisters in the western sky. Luna continued her slow ascent, until she broke free from the last few branches, and shone in all her glory. Well, almost all – she was still officially three days shy of full – but her light was sheer exuberance, which illuminated Altamira and the western slopes with a pearly glaze of moonbeams. It was time to return and prepare the camp for a long night, then put on all my warm clothes so I could experience the moonlit show for as long as I could remain “comfortable.” (Comfort is definitely a relative concept when backpacking.)
My campsite was deep in the moon shadows, but I used the headlamp sparingly, preferring to blend with the darkness. It was absolutely silent – the stirring of varmints in the underbrush and arguing over territory had completely stopped. I became one with the night, as sugar dissolves in water. I passed between trees in a wraith-like trance, and wandered out to the open bluffs in front of the lake, not needing a headlamp to find my way. Rocks stood out white and outlined in the dark ground, and bushes hunched in the lumpy shapes of gray towels tossed on the floor. The Stare Master has returned! I gazed long at the moonlit façade of Altamira, where the visages of a thousand shamans cast their dreamtime reflections on the water. The shoreline across the lake had disappeared, as the copy blended with the original… until the water dissolved entirely, and I fell into the depths of the looking glass. In the corner of my eye, a new phenomenon revealed itself above Bumblebee Springs. Our sister Luna had continued her ascent to the south, but at such an oblique angle her light could not reach the great Keystone Rock above the springs. Except in a few magical spots, where moonbeams glinted off faces of white boulders that were situated just right. The effect was that of a twinkling constellation, or a village of fairy homes lit up for the evening, where the resident lake nymphs were having some tea and enjoying company. The fantasy lasted for a very long time, and my heart was warmed through and through, even though the air temperature was very cold – down to 40 again.
The brightness of the moon made it hard to see many stars, but of course they were still up in the sky. It’s hard to know what direction is truly “up” from the vantage point of a round planet spinning and hurtling through mostly empty space. “Outward” would be the more accurate descriptor. As a result of all this traveling, we are subject to impact from random objects; the way a motorcyclist without a helmet is exposed to whatever happens to be flying by. The earth is continually pelted by space debris as it cruises down the highway, and some 100 tons of micro-meteorites fall into our path every day. Most of it gets burned up in the atmosphere, but billions of extraterrestrial specks make it through, to become part of a new world. What subatomic particles and molecules from the origins of the universe are falling on me now, as I gaze out at the road ahead? Analysis of this star-stuff reveals that space debris is exceedingly rich in organic molecules: the building blocks of life. I dare not smile at the sky, for fear of getting quarks stuck between my teeth.
Since the earth gathers tons of organic molecules every day – as she has done for 4.5 billion years – surely all the heavenly bodies collect this junk the way the grill of a car gets covered with bugs. To me, this is the most compelling evidence for life on other planets. It’s easy to argue against this possibility, claiming that the circumstances for life are very limited, and the chances of having the right ingredients present under the proper conditions are extremely unlikely, but it’s impossible to deny that it has happened here on this planet. Indeed, an objective observer of the universe (if that were possible) would conclude that it’s trying to happen everywhere. Why would a system that relies on replication, multiplicity, and creative innovation be restricted to just one occurrence in trillions of opportunities? Every system of life has a plan, from subatomic particles to galaxies; even if one argues that the origins of life are mere happenstance. What if the rise and fall of life on earth – and of human beings in particular – is part of the earth’s plan? And what if things weren’t turning out according to that plan? A mass extinction would certainly be a good way to go back to the drawing board.
All was still and silent, as if I was under the dome of a vaulted terrarium, except for the occasional jet or satellite traversing the night sky. The stars were intimidated by the luminous orb, and only the brightest peeked through the clerestory. I could see bits of Scorpio to the north, and realized that tonight was the transition from my sign, Libra. Alternating between sitting and standing, I tried to endure the cold in my sore joints for as long as I could. Eventually my legs grew tired of complaining, and began to lodge serious grievances with the management. It was time to retire inside my tent where they could rest. I probably wouldn’t sleep much – I rarely did when camping – and before I turned off the light I realized that, once again, I was the only human being for miles. There probably weren’t any people at Big Bear Lake, either, because they were all leaving when I hiked up to Little Bear. I was the sole representative of Homo sapiens in the local ecosystem, and the only superfluous part of it.
“There is only one single, urgent task: to attach oneself someplace to nature, to that which is strong, striving, and bright with unreserved readiness, and then to move forward in one’s efforts without any calculation or guile, even when engrossed in the most trivial and mundane activities. Each time we thus reach out with joy, each time we cast our view towards distances that have not yet been touched, we transform not only the present moment and the one following but also the past within us, weave it into the pattern of our existence, and dissolve the foreign body of pain whose exact composition we ultimately do not know. Just as we do not know how much vital energy this foreign body, once it has been thus dissolved, might impart to our bloodstream!”
— Rainer Maria Rilke