“As the crickets’ soft autumn hum is to us, so are we to the trees,
as they are to the rocks and the hills.”
— Gary Snyder
Saturday dawned clear and bright: the most beautiful morning of the trip so far. I was up as soon as I could see. The temperature was so pleasant, with only about 5% of the smoke left, and no clouds. I roamed around the lakeshore to capture pictures of the delightful scenery from all angles, but my legs were feeling the effects of two backpacking trips in less than two months, and were too tired to wander down to Wee Bear for the sunrise. I saw a lone chipmunk back at camp, frantically gobbling the many crumbs that Miles had spilled all over the place. I reflected on the relative lack of wildlife we had experienced on our visit. There were few insects, except for the pesky mosquitoes that greeted us as soon as we stepped out of our tents. Hardly any chipmunks could be heard, and only distant blue jays represented the avian population. I hypothesized that the rattlesnake population exploded during the drought, when all the rodents stayed closer to water, and that they soon depleted their food sources, resulting in lower populations of both prey and predator. Also, the conifers were a couple months behind due to the long winter, and were slow to produce the seeds on which the chipmunks survive. Fewer fish were jumping, too. I sincerely hoped that wasn’t a trend!
Perhaps today our expedition will be well rested enough to do some exploring. Dimari got up later, and we held council about our plans. He told me Jordan had to start classes on Monday morning, and if we got back late on Sunday, he may not have enough sleep. All of us wanted him to have a very good start to his second college experience, since he had tried a semester down in L.A. and didn’t like it much. It became plain that we’d have to leave today, get home late, and give him enough time to get ready for that important chapter in his life. Good thing I had already been up here just six weeks before, to get my wilderness fix!
I decided to visit Bumblebee Springs in the little time I had left, while the Epps Men went swimming. The snow had receded a bit in the two days we’d been here, but it still covered most of the tiny pocket meadows on both the upper and lower levels. The drifts must have been 50 feet deep or more in this spot during a very wet winter, and now only the upper crust remained unmelted. All around the snow pack was a riot of flowers, mostly purple asters and yellow hawksbeard. I glimpsed an odd texture on the cliffs above the upper springs, but had forgotten my binoculars, which made it hard to tell what it was. I decided to take a closer look. It could be a rare type of flower, or a weird fungus! The upper meadow was still mostly covered in remnants of those huge snowdrifts I’d seen in June, but I got across and climbed up where I could see what caused those white blotches. It was just some bare patches in the black lichen that covered the base of the cliffs, shaped by something I cared not to exert the effort to find out. While I was up in that elevated spot, I carefully turned and gazed around the whole lake basin. I saw Altamira rising sharply to my left, because I was up against the rim. I saw the blazing blue sky, framing the sharp edges of the cliffs. I admired the beautiful, jade-colored hemlocks marching up the slope, their tips bent demurely against the background, and all at once I experienced what Schröedinger described:
“According to our usual way of looking at it, everything you are seeing has, apart from small changes, been there for thousands of years before you. After a while – not long – you will no longer exist,
and the woods and rocks and sky will continue, unchanged, for thousands of years after.
What is it that has called you so suddenly out of nothingness to enjoy for a brief while
a spectacle which remains quite indifferent to you?”
This somewhat detached observation was punctuated by the shrill cries of the boys across the lake, enjoying their morning swim in the clear, cold water, and I was so grateful to be there that I almost fell off my perch. As George Harrison sang, “It’s all too much for me to take, this love that’s shining all around me.” My legs were still sore from the ascent just two days ago, but they were holding me up well enough, and keeping me safe. I carefully descended from my aerie, bid my farewell to the Elf King’s throne, and returned to start packing for the long trek home.
While we were gathering our gear together, we saw a couple of bow hunters in full camouflage, across the cove from our camp, on their way to the upper lake basin. Both of them carried racks of arrows, and sported all the latest high-tech backpacking gear. They were friendly enough, but I wondered what Robin Hood and Little John expected to shoot, up here. I presumed they might bag nothing bigger than that skinny chipmunk I saw at our campsite! They wandered around the west shore for a while, settling in the shady cracks, and scanning the basin with their binoculars. It appeared they had found a campsite up there, or at least a place for a pack-off rest. Oh well, they could have the lake all to themselves… we had to get going, to have any hope of making it home before midnight.
Everyone made quick work of packing all the camping gear, and the sun was high in the sky – already after noon – so it was time to go. I cast a wistful glance over my shoulder at the Sentinel, perched at the highest peak of the rim; wondering when I might get to visit again. Meandering down to Wee Bear, we could see a bunch of clouds gathering around Queen Shasta, which was visible for the first time. The snow was nearly gone from her flanks, and she was surrounded by developing piles of cumulus. It took us only an hour to reach the pools below Big Bear Lake, as we followed a good route: staying above the gullies and brush for the most part. In that time, the clouds had knitted together, and now blocked most of the sky. During our brief rest for lunch, we greeted four young dudes just emerging from the trail: two solo hikers, and a pair of pack bros. One of the lone trekkers was walking the trail in bare feet, and had a truly massive German shepherd plodding alongside. He was such a happy dude, and we shared exclamation points about the magnificent scenery.
Miles prodded us to get going, because it started to sprinkle a bit, and we heard encroaching thunder again. My old pair of boots that he was wearing were a mess of tape and bandages trying in vain to hold them together. They crumbled like little old mummies on his feet, disintegrating after being dug up from their tombs. He and Dimari pushed ahead to give the mosquitoes only a moving target, leaving me and Jordan far behind. I was feeling a bit woozy from the altitude and accumulated exertion of these three days, so I puffed my oxygen frequently, and shared it with Jordan, who was still affected by the lack of quality sleep. I had tweaked my knee a tiny bit up on the ridge, and it was now getting sore, causing me to favor it. As we descended, every step became more and more painful for me, from the hips to the ankles, and I had to be very careful not to misstep and tweak them even more. I wished I’d had longer to rest them before abusing them again. It was the first time in 45 years that I’d made the entire trip up and down in three days!
What happens if I can’t get up here anymore? I pondered this eventuality as I stepped ever-so-carefully down the trail, using selected rocks to stretch my tendons. Sure, I could find a beautiful lake that’s easier to get to, and discover other ways to experience solitude in nature, but that would feel like ending a 50-year marriage. For half a century, I’ve had a monogamous relationship with a lake! My beloved isn’t going anywhere, of course, but I may not be able to visit her. Stephen Stills’ lyrics echoed in my head: “If you can’t be with the one you love… love the one you’re with.”
We met up with Miles and Dimari a few times, where they had waited for us in the shade, and a few sprinkles of rain persisted, punctuated by rumbling clouds. I said a silent prayer for the four dudes who just arrived at the lake, and hoped they’d find good shelter. Eventually Miles’ boots completely fell off his feet, and he switched to his flimsy camp shoes. We made it down to the car by 6 pm, maybe four hours after we’d left our campsite. My leg and ankle tendons were screaming by that time, and I was so glad to shed my pack, change into clean clothes, and sit in an air-conditioned, upholstered car seat! We drove directly into Redding, and laid waste to a very good Mexican restaurant. The platters of tasty food were huge, and Miles polished off nearly two of them by himself! The waiters were careful not to get their hands and arms within his reach! Dimari did all the driving back to Pinole, which we reached just before midnight. The kids were tired, but had all day tomorrow to recuperate, and for the Epps Men (+1) it was mission accomplished!
In the days after our trip, my legs continued to feel painful, and the left knee I tweaked wasn’t too stable. I wore soft braces around the house, just to make sure nothing stupid happened. I never wanted to take such a quick trip again! My goal was never the conquest, but the journey. The longer I stayed up at the lakes, the more I fell into the natural rhythm of the more-than-human world, which was a healing balm for my soul (and my legs). I loved being able to experience the lakes with my grandsons, and hoped they would enjoy backpacking all their lives. Someday, maybe we could spend a week or more in the mountains together, and they’d really learn what it’s like to experience the true, ever-so-present wilderness…
“Everything I encounter permeates me, washes in and out, leaving a tracery,
placing me in that beautiful paradox of being by which I am both
a solitary creature and everyone, everything.”
— Susan Griff