“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.”
“There has to be a lake up here somewhere,” I squeaked to Judy between short gasps on the trail, trying unsuccessfully to suppress the now-insistent whine in my voice.
“Dad’s up there,” she pointed to a group of boulders overlooking the trail. True to selfish form, he had gone all the way to the lake alone, shed his pack, and was now imperiously surveying the lesser beings still struggling up the trail he had already conquered. It was not in his nature to come back and help us with our loads. We each had to carry our own burdens – “to build character” – whatever that meant. The trail writhed and twisted among the last of the brush and boulders, and was showing promising signs of easing up a bit. The stupendous view was 360 degrees now, with Mt. Shasta dominating the eastern horizon. All to the south, west, and north were jagged peaks like the broken rim of a massive, bombed out stadium. Through the center of the panorama and below, Bear Creek rushed through great cracks in enormous loaves of granite, which had probably been wedged apart over the millennia by winter ice. To the southwest was what appeared to be a colossal construction scaffold of granite ramps and ledges leading up, up, and up to merge with the hazy gray blue of the distant ridge. Where the trail crawled off to the west, a vast empty space behind some trees seemed to whisper of our ultimate destination: Big Bear Lake. By this time I had resigned myself to the fact that there would be no bears, and would settle for a refreshing dip in a mountain lake. We were now about a mile high in elevation, and feeling dizzy from the thin air, exertion, and constant exposure to the elements.
Slowly, like awestruck ants crawling through a gigantic cathedral, we sought to find a reference point in the empty spaces. Rock, trees, and sky seemed to merge into one fantastic tapestry, interlaced with the gold threads of our dreams. Our reverie was shattered by the voice of G.O.D. “Where’s your mother?” he asked with pointed disinterest when we got within easy speaking range, already knowing the answer. My parents’ relationship had been dead for years, and by now had decomposed to the point where they referred to each other by their relationship to us kids, who were often their only way to communicate.
“She’s with Debbie back at that big tree. She says they’ll wait for us.” I said hopefully, always trying to put a positive spin on bad news, hoping the messenger wouldn’t be dishonorably discharged.
G.O.D. looked vaguely down the valley for a while, as if not caring, or perhaps wondering if he should go back, then he just said, “You can leave your pack here with Judy’s. The lake’s not far.”
Judy, owing to the privilege of the eldest child and the sassiness of a teenager, blurted out sarcastically, “Yeah, that’s what you’ve been saying all day.” She looked immediately regretful of her impudence, but he seemed not to hear, and led us to the last of the trail.
Suddenly the path abruptly ended at what seemed to be a field of granite, or a parking lot for the stadium we were about to enter. There were rock cairns at opportune spots, marking the way to where the trail resumed on the other side in a large grove of trees that screened the huge empty space behind them where the lake must be. We were so close! Walking out onto this considerable, nearly unbroken granite field was made stranger by the sensation that I was being lifted up by invisible hands and dangling like a marionette; my feet barely touching the rock. With the dead weight of the pack left behind, I felt free and rejuvenated, and my heart pounded in my ears. It was only later that I reflected on the obscene folly of hauling all that junk up the side of a mountain for absolutely no reason at all. We were supposed to have a picnic at the lake, but had consumed all the tear-stained sandwiches and warm potato salad with grubby, hot fingers at various rest stops along the trail.
On this portion of the “trail,” our constant companion Bear Creek rolled over the flat granite surface playfully like a puppy. It slid down flat chutes that resembled water slides, veered off into cracks, split into channels, and rejoined further down, collecting in shallow pools before spilling over to the next level. The sun sparkled on the sheets of water and looked very inviting, but with our determined captain at the helm again, we didn’t stop for so much as the poke of a stick or a pebble tossed in a puddle. We entered the final forest, and immediately the breezes carried the smell of water. The wind was constantly in motion around the lake, gently rustling the tips of the undergrowth, dodging among the tree trunks, and swaying the needled branches with a soft, rustling, filtered sound. Here and there were true giants of Noble Fir, wisely set back from the shore to avoid the storms that blew off the lake in frigid winter. Among these were the less sturdy leaners and long-gone deadfalls, with thin young hemlocks everywhere in between; their tips drooping demurely like fairy tale Christmas trees. We finally crossed the outlet creek again for the first time since the bridge, far below in the depths of the valley. The last few yards gave the impression of a movie set, meandering between perfectly placed trees, staged boulders, and attractive foliage, to reveal a picture-book campsite. And finally, the full breadth of the shining, shimmering water struck my vision as a thunderclap to the ears. At last, the lake!!
Even though I was angry at my father for dragging us up here, and abandoning us, and not having a picnic, and the stupid, lumpy, sweaty pack I had to carry, the resonant beauty radiated by this exquisite body of water immediately enraptured my imagination. My breathing and heartbeat seemed to be stopped, and the endless loop tape of self-criticisms and grumblings in my mind was put on pause. My childish sense of time evaporated in the thin, refreshing air. I forgot my hellish hunger and aching legs, the scratches and bruises, and my sweaty clothes. Gratefully, I gulped down the cool, measured magnificence of the alpine lake heaven. The caressing, soothing breeze off the water made my young soul smile with satisfaction. The moment was forever tattooed on my brain.
“Releasing the separate one is a difficult task.
Finding yourself is something only you can do.
Imagine yourself coming back ten years from today
Through time, to help you where you must be now.”
— Jim Cohn
“We should probably be going,” Scree-ee-ee-ee-eech! Like a phonograph needle scratching across an LP, my father’s voice shattered the crystal dream. He sounded far away and unfamiliar to me for a change, as if his opinion of what we should be doing didn’t matter anymore. For some reason at that instant, I wondered if he ever felt bad about the thousands of Japanese women and children he had helped to annihilate by working at Oak Ridge. He never talked about it, or offered any information about his experiences building the bomb. It was as if that period was a missing page in the book of his life. After graduating with a Master’s in Chemistry, and learning German during the prelude to war, he had been recruited right out of college. It wasn’t until he died that we discovered he had been married while in Tennessee. My mom didn’t even know about it. There were layers upon layers in the secretive sediments of my father’s soul. “It’s getting late,” he emphasized, quite unnecessarily.
“We just got here,” retorted Judy in the incredulous, exasperated tone teenagers get when an adult says something idiotic. As if to avoid any possible fallout from her impudence, she reflexively grabbed my arm and pulled towards the shoreline. “C’mon Donny, let’s explore the lake.” She said this not for my benefit, but to inform Good Ol’ Dad that we weren’t ready to leave just yet. I took the opportunity to quickly dash off to the lake with my mutinous sister. I was at least going to get my fishing line wet – of all the pointless implements I had dragged up that trail, I was determined to use one of them. I’m ashamed to say now that I had even brought a stove on our day hike. Many lifetime obsessions are born in childhood.
Before he could issue countermanding orders, we were off in a flash of brilliant, exuberant exploration as only children can do, splashing and poking and hopping from rock to log. Every landing and conveyance seemed to be placed especially for our pleasure, as we feasted our way through the scenery, gaping and gawking at the unbelievable views from every vantage point. Eventually, we found a perfect flat rock in the shade, and sat dangling our legs in the chilly water. With the afternoon waves slapping and the sun angling down and to the west, I assembled the parts of my cheap fishing pole, baited the hook, and casted a salmon egg out as far as my equipment would allow: about 20 feet. I wedged the handle of the pole in a crack, and shaded my eyes against the afternoon glare and mentally charted the lake’s topography as if to write it indelibly on my mind. Judy also sat and stared, and the glory of the wilderness was etched in the awareness of a new generation.
Looking behind me to complete the view, it seemed as though the only flat place next to the lake was the camping site where we had arrived. There were a few scattered, weather beaten trees on the flat, and more of them huddled together like birds trying to get out of the wind. All to our right and north, the mountainside poured down a thick tangle of undergrowth, poised over the lake’s surface like waves about to break on a beach. Forget about going that way!
To our left and south past the camp site, I glimpsed signs of the trail as it continued to follow the shore of the lake as best it could. I could see it emerge from some bushes about a quarter of the way around the lake, disappearing where an impressive rock ledge began. It was evident that one could walk around the south side of the lake to the rear, where another small forest assembled and marched upward through what looked to be a pass. I remembered Good Ol’ Dad had told us that there was another lake up there somewhere. All around our Big Bear Lake basin, the stark, jutting bulwarks of granite rimmed the sky, and I imagined how amazing it would be to crawl along the rim; the way a bug might navigate the edge of a swimming pool. It seemed as if the far, unseen side of the ridge dropped straight down into nothingness, or had no back to it at all, with the falsity of scenery for a play.
The south wall was the most complex, with interesting, blocky formations bathed in deep, murky shadow. It may as well have been a giant child’s Lego sculpture climbing up to its pyramid cap. Here and there were tiny groves or individual tree arrangements that would make nice little homes for elves. Granite bulges bulked purple and indigo in the dark indentations, and grayish lavender in the lighter outcroppings. It dawned on me that this was a gigantic painting made by an infinitely creative artist. To the west and beyond the pass that angled southwest, the rim became more dramatic with evenly spaced spires of rock that resembled great cathedrals built on green-swaddled knolls of lawn. The bands of brush swept boldly up the west wall right to the top of the rim, alternating with talus slopes or rocky escarpments. Only the lonely peaks stood out against the sky, the eternally solemn sentinels of that magical, impossibly picturesque mountain wonderland.
“OK that’s enough, let’s go.” My meditation was strangled again by the voice of G.O.D., who had finally come around the screening rock wall. His voice had a tone that made argument irrelevant and pointless. We protested cursorily and without conviction, pulled our feet reluctantly from the brisk, emerald water, and shook dry as best we could. My lower legs felt cold and numb, so that awkwardly tugging on my sticky socks was like dressing someone else’s feet. With slow, desultory motions, I disassembled my fishing pole for the long trek back to the car. I never had so much as a nibble, but had visions of fat, jeweled trout leaping skyward from the lake, like the postcards I had seen at the store. We took as much time as we possibly could without drawing a judgmental comment from our father, who hovered impatiently with hands on hips as if we were keeping him from his tee time. With one last, wistful look over our shoulders at the now-iconic Big Bear Lake, we grudgingly dragged our gray, moist, and stiffened feet back down the Trail of Tears.
When we returned to where Mom and Debbie were waiting, the tension instantly became thicker than the brush. We had to separate into into groups of parents and children to relieve the pressure. The parents went ahead on the trail, and apparently had a blockbuster of a conversation. We could hear snatches of it through the forest like far-off artillery. Judy and I helped the shell-shocked Debbie back down the trail without comment, as if leading a very elderly woman who had gotten lost.
Thankfully, going downhill was much easier, and we make excellent time as the afternoon faded into evening. There were many resulting casualties of this foray, and wounds that would never heal. Mom never saw Big Bear Lake in her life. Debbie probably wouldn’t either, owing to the post-traumatic stress disorder triggered by the sight of a backpack. The long, winding, stumbling hike down to the bus was gray and sullen, with almost no talking. We were completely G.O.D.-forsaken at some point, as he took off on his own after having it out with Mom; rarely looking back and not offering help to anyone until he completely disappeared from sight. My mother’s jaw was clenched hard as the surrounding granite, and the weary soldiers plopped one dusty foot in front of the other, not caring where they fell. I don’t remember much about that part of the trip at all, except for a lonely, desolate feeling that we were completely abandoned to our own wills, and would die without anyone caring if we stopped walking for even a few seconds. Even Debbie was too tired to whine about our plight, and followed the back of my pack obediently like a whipped puppy.
The sight of our trusty VW bus back at the trailhead in the misty forest twilight was even more beautiful to me than the lake. We ignored the glowering visage of the petulant deity who had left us behind on the trail; now fresh from a dip in the creek and exuding silent displeasure at our tardy arrival. Exhausted, we dumped our grimy packs in the bus like stiff nylon corpses, in careless violation of official packing protocol. We meekly folded into our customary positions in the vehicle and roared off into the twilight with nothing more to look forward to than a greasy hamburger at a roadside diner, and the interminable vibrations of the long highway. My father drove relentlessly on into the dark night in a seething, indignant silence, and the rest of us slept dazed and dumb, never to go camping as a whole family again.
All the way home, my dreams were adorned with backdrops of amazing scenery, and decorated with visions of leaping trout at the end of my line, but bitterly haunted by the poisoned Wintun and their families. In my youthful innocence, I wondered if there could be different kinds of poison.
— Kahlil Gibran