Mixed Bag

July 11, 2022

One evening in Delaware a couple weeks ago, Ma and I couldn’t quite agree on where north was. I pointed that-a-way, while she was sure it was over there. “I’ve lived in this town all my life. I know where north is.” I get that, but my phone’s compass didn’t see it her way. “Something must be wrong with your phone.”

Nonetheless, last week I put my faith in the very same phone to guide me in a direction it alleged to be north. I was equally confident in the roadworthiness of my Subaru Impreza, with its $1200 tuneup under its belt. My trust was well placed, for a little over four hours later I reached Lassen Volcanic National Park without incident.

There’s only one thing I can’t stand about my wee car, aside from its very wee-ness which requires me to have advanced spatial reasoning skills in order to cram in all my camping junk: it has literally only four inches of ground clearance when loaded. Even when backing out of my driveway on a regular day it hits bottom. No $1200 tuneup can help with that. But it’s reliable (so far) and fuel-efficient, so I can’t complain.

When I arrived at Site 9 at Summit Lake South I did my usual thing of backing in, almost as though I were a guy. I may have had a reason—easier to unload, perhaps?—or maybe it just seemed like a good idea at the time. I’ve never believed in back-up cameras so I glanced over my shoulder as I powered in. As is typical for places like this, the parking slot was minuscule, and flanked by…

Sssscraaaape. 

Now, honestly: why does every single campground position its sites’ driveways right next to the only boulders in the vicinity? The side of my car still bears the evidence of my last granitic mishap. This particular slab was so low I didn’t see it, but high enough that I was temporarily moored, and it took some throttle to grind back off it again.

And then I heard it: an ominous growl accompanied by a metallic vibration. While I didn’t manage to knock the damned muffler clear off, I worried that was imminent. At best, I figured the noise was disruptive enough that those nearby might gripe. Or maybe I’d cracked the metal  fittings and would soon be poisoned by carbon monoxide as I bee-bopped around the park.

And immediately that familiar soundtrack blared in my head, even louder than my car: “Great way to start your trip, you stupid idiot. You spent all that money getting your car fixed and now look what you’ve done…” Inside my brain is an ugly place sometimes. I would never in a million years talk to anyone else the way I talk to Tinna. One problem is that I have finite stores of patience and acceptance, which I dole out freely to others so there’s little left over for me. I’m working on that.

The closest mechanic would have been over two hours away in any direction. Nothing to be done until I made it home. If I made it home. Two things about my future became clear:

1. The next four days I’d be awash with anxiety every time I turned on the engine, which would be often. Except for a burned-out route on the other side of Summit Lake, all trails were miles away, and no way I was gonna hang around my tent the whole time.
   
2. I am never, ever going to put my Subaru in reverse again.

All I could do was set up camp and hope for the best. That process is always interminable, and I soon faced unanticipated challenges. My site was one of several wedged in side-by-side: fifteen-foot-wide rectangles with no space between them and no spot level enough for a tent. After much surveying I realized the only possible location for mine was a few yards from one neighbor and five feet into the site on the other side. I worried about the eventual arrival of its occupant who might demand I undo two hours of work and relocate elsewhere, but there was nowhere else to go. Fortunately, the young woman who showed up with her two Ember-aged daughters a couple hours later was lovely, and never uttered a word of complaint as she erected their home close to mine.

It’s heartbreaking to see the widespread devastation wrought by the Dixie Fire which, as you’ll remember, kept me away from my scheduled trip up here with Em last summer. (And the year before I had to cancel because of the rise of Covid. Third time’s the charm.) A stunning 69 percent of the park was destroyed, including right up to the edge of the two Summit Lake campgrounds. Here’s the view behind my tent.

I must say, I don’t care for this campground, and it’s not because of the evidence of fire. The management seriously needs to hire a landscape designer with a clue. For one thing, the setting is meh. There’s the lake somewhere over there, but out of view. Most sites are as sardined together as mine, and for no good reason, since there’s no shortage of land to spread out in. And why did they plunk my picnic table inches from a four-foot by four-foot boulder that I collide with every time I try to squeeze by and sit down? Likewise, what’s the logic in placing said table not three feet from the fire ring? It’s unsafe, especially with my screened bug-tent popped up around it.

Still, come evening I built a small campfire, because that’s the thing one does, and hovered to make sure flames and sparks (“little orangey dots,” according to three-year-old Molly back in the day) didn’t make contact with anything flammable.

Before I go on, I’ll show you a Lassen map. The pink represents last year’s burn. You’ll see I also marked the various hikes I took, which I’ll tell you about in a bit. Tricky to find routes that weren’t decimated by the blaze.

After a dinner of ocean trout, I tried without success to take pictures of the full moon, and then zipped into my tent for the night. I could hear low murmurs of conversation from near neighbors, and also a nocturnal toot or two from them. But I fell soundly asleep within minutes and stayed that way all night—a camping first for me. I’m guessing my snoring soon after didn’t bring others great pleasure.

To pack next time: earplugs, with extras to share.

July 12

I rose with the sun and was about to drink my gallons of caffeine and grab a bite when I had a sudden inspiration: if I leave for the trailhead now, I might avoid some crowds. This morning’s destination is probably the park’s most popular trail: the geothermal area called “Bumpass Hell.” Of course it’s pronounced “BUMP-uss” but saying it with an “ASS” is much more fun, so that’s what I’ve always done.

By 7:30 I had wound my way down the park road to the trailhead ten miles south. I hardly have to tell you that during the whole ride my level of car-anxiety was at a steady high, where it remained throughout the trip whenever I drove, so I won’t mention it anymore. Just picture me at the wheel with perpetually furrowed brow and grimly pinched wormlips.

Leaving my car parked in a huge empty lot that’s usually full, I began to scramble over rocks and slide down slippery stretches, wishing I’d remembered to grab my trekking poles out of the back. I’ll do it next time. I came across nary a soul until I got to the boardwalk area. It’s usually mobbed but there was only one group of four there, and they soon wandered off so I had the entire place to myself. Amazing.

An interpretive sign informed me that one bubbling pot (name of “Big Boiler”) is 322°F, the hottest around. We’re not allowed off the boardwalk here. Numerous people have regretted disobeying those instructions. The rock crust is thin, and breaking through into scalding mud and water doesn’t end well. In fact, Mr. Bump-ASS himself, who was wandering around here in the 1880’s looking for mining and tourist opportunities, suffered a similar fate, sinking deep into 240°F mud that permanently disabled his leg and his dreams.

I returned via a spur trail, passing increasing numbers of hikers before reaching a panoramic vista where someone offered to take my picture. I declined at first, but changed my mind a minute later.

Then I merrily got back underway, eager to reach the road and escape from the hordes. Every time I saw people approach I’d step off the trail out of courtesy and Covid caution. Time after time clusters of folks clomped by without a word of acknowledgement as I waited patiently for them to move along.

Half a mile later I came to an overlook of… Bumpass Hell???

Oh, man. I’m getting really tired of being me. After that woman took my photo, I’d gotten back on the trail fine, but just in the wrong direction, retracing my steps. My AllTrails app, which keeps me from getting lost, hadn’t alerted me that I was off the trail, because I wasn’t.

But eventually, after a four-mile round-trip (it should have been three), I reached my vehicle and rattled back toward my campsite by 10:00. En route, the vision in my left eye was suddenly obscured as I veered around a sharp curve with a cliff drop-off: something on the lens of my glasses. Keeping one eye on the road I tore them off to discover a giant furry spider. How the hell… ? I bashed my spectacles out the open window, hoping the disgusting creature had landed outside the car, and returned my attention to refraining from hurtling off the roadway.

Back at the site I enjoyed belated gallons of tea and coffee with breakfast and some reading, but it wasn’t long before I was itching to blast out of there and find somewhere else to explore. 

This time I headed north toward the Paradise Meadow trail, which I correctly guessed wasn’t fire-damaged. I even remembered to bring my walking sticks. At the start of the hike, as I meandered along Kings Creek, I kept thinking, “What a lovely, gentle path this is. I should have left the poles in the car.” By the middle, it was, “Hmmm, this is a bit of a climb. Glad I’ve got ‘em.” 

The last half-mile or so, as I reached an elevation of 7,000+ feet, my lungs and limbs were in rebellion. During this stretch I acquired a loyal and unwavering companion. It buzzed back and forth millimeters in front of my eyeballs, nonstop over and over and over, undeterred by my profanity and murderous swiping, interrupting its mission only to fly a scenic circle around my head once in a while. I wondered why eye-flies do that. I just looked it up. They’re after lacrimal secretions (tears) and possibly also the warmth of our eyelids. Next time maybe I’ll carry a heated, damp, eye-shaped salt-lick on my back as a decoy.

Paradise Meadow, with its view of Lassen Peak, is beautiful.

I like trails like this that get the up-parts out of the way first. Otherwise I dread the return. This time I didn’t double back on myself once, so it was only a 3.5-mile trip. (Still, my jaunts are always longer than the maps promise, because even when I stay found I always wander a bit, to see what’s over there, and there.) AllTrails kept dinging me to warn that I’d veered off the path, but I hadn’t.

When I returned to my site I told my neighbor with the two daughters about my hike and suggested they try it one day. As we chatted from a distance, she told me something I’ve heard fairly frequently from young people over the last twenty years: that she admires a woman of my age still doing stuff like this on her own. It’s a sweet little backhanded compliment: “Cool that someone as old as you is still doing shite like this.” Well, that’s okay. I’m happy to be an inspiration.

A neighbor on the other side looked over at my digs and called out, “Boy, you’ve got quite the setup there.” It’s true. There’s the tent so big I can stand up in it, my screened area, a clothesline hung with towels to block neighbors from view, a high-backed camp chair… and she didn’t even see the inside of my tent, with cot, comfy air mattress and potty bucket.

Exhausted after 7 miles and 1100+ in elevation gain, I settled in for my evening meal and was sealed into my tent before dark. Once there, my ritual involves a serious scrubbing of filthy feet (I’ll spare you the documentation) with wet wipes (12 per foot) before crawling into my sleeping bag. Keen hiking sandals are great, but boy do they collect the dirt.

July 14

Have you ever woken up so overwhelmingly sad that it’s hard to get out of bed? I don’t know if it was the result of an unremembered dream or what. Only the brilliant sun in my eyes eventually forced me to rise.

I love not having cell service when I’m camping. No horrible news, reminders of obligations or added external worries. I’ve been keeping my phone turned on for navigational purposes, but only that. So I was surprised, during breakfast, to hear the ding of a text when my phone must have briefly connected to a network. Maybe I shouldn’t have looked. The message informed me of a likely close, recent Covid exposure. I worried about the person with the positive test, and wondered if I should return home early, since breaking camp while feeling sick, if that happened, would be awful. But I tabled the idea.

Instead, I drove toward the trail to Terrace, Shadow and Cliff Lakes. Studying the map, I was hesitant about proceeding. The route steeply descends from 8100 to 7300 feet, which can mean only one thing: a nasty return. That, or taking up permanent residence at the bottom. I started down anyway. Half a mile in, I again misplaced the trail for just a moment, but quickly caught my error and returned to the route, climbing up and up. But wait: up? A bit further on I rechecked the GPS map. Why was I getting closer to my car? Stupid technology. Maybe Mom was right and the phone was lying about my position.

You’ve already figured out what it took me ten minutes to get: once again I’d gotten turned around when I rejoined the path. Baffled and cranky, I almost bagged the hike, but did an about-face and soon arrived down at the first lake. I didn’t stop because it seemed wiser to rest at each lake on the way back up. I plowed on down past the second and thence to the last: Cliff Lake. 

It was still quite early so I had the place completely to myself, which was wonderful. It would have made sense to have brought a bathing suit and towel on a hike to three lakes, but oops. In my attempt to keep my pack light and spare my wobbly hip, I’d left them behind. But since it had been two days since my body had gotten a rinse, I was determined to take a dip. I peeled off my layers and waded in, au naturel, raising up watery clouds of mud wherever I stepped. Not ideal for cleansing but better than nothing. With a shriek I sunk under the chilly water, swirled around my flowing locks, and dashed back to shore before anyone could round the corner and arrest me for indecent exposure. 

Grabbing my jacket as a towel, I glanced up and noticed the tree at water’s edge where I was standing.

What on Earth is a camera doing there, and why did I choose to remove my clothing directly in front of it? I half-expected a flock of park police to emerge from the woods and handcuff me. Instead I flashed it my best smile and kept drying and dressing. No point in moving to privacy now, after all those full frontals.

On my way back up, I paused briefly at the stunning, sparkly Shadow Lake, whose water glowed turquoise in places.

Then on to Terrace Lake, past patches of snow at the side of the trail, stopping for a brief lunch and steering clear of increasing numbers of hikers. 

Just beyond there, group after group started to pour down the narrow, rock-strewn path. Every single time someone approached, I scrambled up the slope to the side, which was awkward and uncomfortable as I tried to keep my balance while waiting.

Again, not one single person offered to let me by first. And despite seeing me perched precariously where I’d paused for them, several even dawdled and stopped to chat with each other before continuing by me at their leisure. Only one couple even nodded to acknowledge my gesture. Yeah, we’ve talked about this before: I know it’s petty to get bitter over something so minor, but this polite Delaware gal can’t help but being baffled and infuriated by stuff like this.

There was one patch of snow on a mountainside that grabbed my attention. Doesn’t it look like a skull?

I panted the rest of the way up to my car. On my drive back to Summit Lake I spotted a pretty vista of Kings Creek running through Upper Meadow in the shadow of Reading Peak. On the other side of the road behind me, though, the woods were blackened. 

A bit further on was one other short trail I was curious about: to Cold Boiling Lake, which is reputed to bubble enthusiastically as carbon dioxide gases burst to the surface. Alas, only a tiny boggy area off to the side fizzed, about as enthusiastically as if a pair of Alka Seltzers had been dumped in. I heard people around me complain, but the surroundings were pretty and it was only a 45-minute round-trip, so quit yer whinin’.

On the way out I passed an elderly (older than me) guy hunching along with his walking sticks. I recognized him from an earlier hike, and greeted him. “Oh, yes. I saw you on the Bumpass Hill trail,” he replied. I thought about correcting him: “It’s ‘Hell,’ man: ‘HELL!’” But I let him be.

Just before I got to my car, I saw a charred stump (some kind of pine?) whose dripping sap looked like blood. I can’t find anything about that online, but it seemed symbolic.

While driving over a pass on the way back to camp I was startled by another text alert. Figuring it might be important, I pulled into a turnout as far off the narrow road as I could without putting my tires over the cliff edge, and read an update on aforementioned Covid situation. Then things got complicated. I had to contact Eleni somehow to find out if she wanted me to keep my AirBnB reservation for Chico on the way home. Best not, she thought, and wisest for me to get a PCR test before bringing Ember to Albany next week. Sensible. But trying to figure out how to cancel an online reservation and book a Covid test and log into my password manager from a windy mountaintop with vanishing reception bars is frustrating and irritating, especially when the whole point of the trip is to get away from aggravating life stuff. Molly knew how to contact the testing people in the Bay Area, so I called her and requested she stop what she was doing and handle everything from there, which she did.

My last task before departing my roadside office was to text Eleni to confirm the new plan and let her know I was heading out of cell phone reach for the duration. Then off I went to my campsite a couple miles further on. Just as I arrived, my phone dinged again with a message from her. I worried it was essential, so out I went again, back up the road to that highway turnout. As it happened, it wasn’t anything I had to handle right away. So I cranked up the engine and headed home again, only to be stopped shortly before my turnoff by a road barrier that hadn’t been there three minutes ago. And there I sat, in scalding sun, for almost 45 minutes until a pilot car finally appeared to guide us on. To add to my fury, between there and my campground there was zero construction anywhere, so why?

At my site I saw that the nice neighbors on one side had departed, replaced by a snippy, haughty guy in a t-shirt that screamed “JESUS” in huge letters across his little chest, with a paragraph below about Jesus being the light and the way and it was my sins that killed him, thus sayeth Book Something of Chapter Whatever of Verse Whocares. His two whiny and over-testosteroned teens kept loudly thwacking innocent tree branches with an axe. Over and over and over for hours. Meanwhile, Godman spent 10 minutes compulsively sweeping out the inside of his newly erected tent, warning his sons to keep it clean. You’re camping, man. You might even get a tiny bit of dirt on you. Jeez.

Five minutes later I was startled by an even higher-pitched whine than that of his boys. Mr. Jesus now wielded a hand-vac and was attacking his tent floor once more. I also noticed he’d pitched his tent on a slope in such a way that all three of them will have rolled into a writhing heap on the downhill side well before dawn. Jesus help him.

Now I have finished hiking all the unburned trails that have called to me. Should I leave tomorrow, a day early?

July 14

Brilliant sunlight and a chorus of early birds announced dawn at 5:00-something. More vacillation about departure plans. In the end: as long as I’m here, I’ll stick around. 

One of two entertainment options remain:

1. Make the short drive up the highway to the Devastated Area, a quarter-mile paved loop through the remnants of Lassen Peak’s 1915 eruption. Not the most exciting activity, but better than sitting around.
   
2. Hike a mile around Summit Lake and pick up the trailhead to Echo Lake, 1.7 miles further on. But that entire area is fire-decimated and dead, so, nah. 

Option #1 won. At the campground exit I drove up behind a line of cars waiting to be allowed onto the road and through the construction. No way. Pulled a U-y and returned to #9.

Sitting still, especially in a not-particularly-lovely place, is not something I’m capable of. Okay then: how about an easy stroll around Summit Lake?

Leaving my poles behind, I sloshed across marshy ground toward the shore and started my perambulation along the circumference. Halfway through, 20 minutes later, I spotted the Echo Lake turnoff. Sure enough, it was blackened and uninviting, so I kept on going.

And then, curious, I turned back. I felt like Pooh Bear as I pondered what to do next. In case you’re not up on your classic children’s literature, Pooh wondered if his jar of honey was honey all the way through, and the only way to be certain was to keep eating until it was empty. Me, I wondered if the trail was burned all the way through. What might be over that rise or around that corner? I had to climb up beyond the trailhead, and beyond that, to find out for sure.

It was painful to see endless acres of dead and dying trees, yet fascinating to speculate about the wildfire behavior that left these patterns in its wake: from areas where everything was dead—even the ground was scorched to grey ash—to regions where the flames apparently slalomed through, destroying and sparing in equal measure. In other places, some trees were only lightly charred and still alive, while feet away others had holes burned straight through their trunks and were on the verge of toppling.

I didn’t expect to see anyone else back here, but after a while I passed a nice old guy (some years my junior, I’ll bet) who was backpacking out from a remote lake. You’d have to be a hardcore nature-lover to be out in this area, I figured. 

Echo Lake was up 500 feet and back down 400 into a basin. As I made my final descent, I stumbled upon the funkiest guys I’ve ever seen in the wilderness. The air around them was scented with ganja. In their twenties or thirties, one sported wild, tangled hair and crazed eyes, and the other was laughing hysterically with a gaping mouth that revealed only two remaining teeth. Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against toothless people, for I myself am thus deficient. But these fellas made me nervous. Their unleashed, uncollared pit bull dashed up to me in (fortunately) friendly greeting. They laughed as she jumped up on me again and again, wagging. “Ruby, don’t take your love to town,” one ineffectually admonished her with a guffaw. Everywhere in the park there are abundant and prominent signs forbidding dogs on trails but I guess the rules didn’t apply to these dudes. They kept whooping and hollering and making weird sounds. If any wildlife had been in the area, it would have fled by now. After assuring Ruby she was a good girl, I quickly moved along in the devout hope that they were on their way back out to the trailhead. So much for my theory about the type of people I might meet here.

A few minutes later I reached the shore of Echo Lake where I would lay out my towel, eat lunch and take a swim (suited this time).

As I lifted my camera for my first (and only, as it turns out) photo of the lake, I heard more freakish bellows and squawks as humans and pup approached. I guessed they were testing whether or not Echo Lake was aptly named. I tucked myself among some trees at water’s edge, and as soon as they were out of sight, before I’d even had a chance to soak up the beauty of my hard-won surroundings, I started to hightail it back up that trail as though chased by hornets.

The hot sun was high and the trail steep, strewn with rocks and tree roots that kept trying to sabotage my feet, but failed. The high-altitude air left me gasping like a beached large-mouthed bass. I’d dash up from one patch of shade to the next, catch my breath for a few seconds, and charge on, hoping my hip wouldn’t do its thing. It barely did. I reached the top in record time, fairly tore along a half-mile plateau where I was still visible, and then dropped out of sight down the last long slope. 

I’m pretty positive there was no need for my reaction, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Most likely they were just stoners, or maybe tweakers (tweekers?) simply enjoying high times with no evil intent. But nearly two miles back into the wilderness, I wasn’t going to test these assumptions.

It’s not the first time I’ve done an about-face on a solo hike after passing men who gave me the creeps. It makes me furious that women are so vulnerable and thus don’t have the same freedoms as men. No guy would think twice about taking a short hike alone, while we have to be on alert at all times. 

Here’s the thing: hiking in wild-ish country is the one activity I enjoy above all else: the only time I feel deeply peaceful and contented. It inspires and restores me. I refuse to let fear take it from me.

Some concerned people [I’m looking at you, Small] might advise I give it up, to be safe. But that’s no way to live. At my age I expect I don’t even have that many more years of hiking anyway, if my hipbone is any indication. Walking with others can be fun but is rarely feasible logistically. Plus, I like being by myself in nature, making my own decisions about whether or not to explore that little side trail, and not worrying about stuff like holding others up with my slow pace or my constant pausing to take pictures.

So instead, I’m abundantly cautious: no venturing forth in iffy weather, no traveling ill-equipped (except for forgetting bathing suits, towels and trekking poles) or wandering into dangerous terrain or following anything but well-marked trails. And of course always tracking myself with the AllTrails app.

Back at Summit Lake I settled into a grove of trees across from the campgrounds and crowds, and found a nice gravely patch where I could wade in. After a few paces, gravel gave way to sucking mud that greedily embraced my feet and didn’t want to let go. Each splooshy step left the once-clear water murky with swirling mud. Alas, I had to rinse my hair in ickiness yet again, leaving me grainy and grosser than before.

I returned to my site and started pre-packing a bit so tomorrow will be less onerous. All the while, the roar of heavy machinery along the road a quarter mile away provided the soundtrack. Definitely time to leave tomorrow.

I’ll miss that one set of neighbors: the mother and her young girls, who are adorable. The 12-year-old, who speaks so softly I can’t understand her, mumbled, “Is that your only car?” Confused, I allowed as it was. “Well, how are you going to get all of that stuff back IN there?” Excellent question, but worry not, child. I’ve got it down to a science.

The plan for my last supper was fresh pasta with gobs and gobs of parmesan. I searched through the cooler and found the ingredients, only to discover that the cheese, sealed tightly both in a lidded plastic container and a zipper baggie, had sunk into the ice water and turned to mush. Cheese-less pasta is a crime against nature, but I endured. 

With the rest of my gathered wood I built one final campfire, monitoring constantly as usual in case flames tipped toward my screen tent, but they stayed a good, oh, twelve inches away.

July 15

Up at 6:00, packed by 7:30, and on the road minutes later just as the big trucks and other rumbly equipment started roaring into the area. Phew, close one. Blasted my way home listening to an audio book about kids who burst into flame when they’re upset. Rolled into the Bay Area and made an immediate stop at Costco to gas up (at vast expense) in preparation for picking up Ember in Winters (which I’d just driven through an hour earlier) tomorrow. With the car making awful noises my next stop was my wonderful mechanic who immediately raised my car up and banged things back into place without charging me a penny. It’s good as new now.

Home at last around 1:00. A dozen trips from car to house with heavy stuff. Unpacking, laundry, more, and then the drive to Oakland for my PCR test (negative).

In Summary

• I’m sad this is my last camping trip of the season.
• I was lucky wildfire didn’t prevent it.
• I will never stay in this particular campground again.
• It was good for my soul to be in nature and to explore new stuff, though the journey was definitely a mixed bag.

Why I’m Glad I’m Home

1. I am sparkling clean, down to my scrubbed feet. 
2. I filled the pasta pot for dinner right from a faucet right there in the kitchen.
3. I didn’t need a match to light the stove. 
4. The parmesan was easily accessible on the icebox shelf and not waterlogged.
5. The fridge doesn’t have a metal lid that keeps slamming down on my fingers. 
6. I left my dishes in the sink till 10:30 at night without worrying about bear and other wild animals getting into them.
7. Then I put them in the dishwasher.
8. And when I climbed into bed my mattress wasn’t deflated.

Next year I want to go on a road trip to some other national parks around the west.