Camping | Camino Bay Books

Sounds in Silence

Dr. Brestrup — Thu, 21 Oct 2021 13:00:54 +0000

9-11: We walked again today, this time west until we crossed the bridge and turned east and eventually found a fallen pine a hundred yards from the River where we sat in silence for a while. Twig seems an unusual dog in that she can sit still as long as I am observing and appreciating her surroundings. We were in the midst mostly of black oak, ponderosa pine, and incense cedar; a fire, probably prescribed, had been through a few years ago and trunks were scorched fifteen or so feet up. Grass, forbs, and bushes along with other dead woody debris cover the land. Soughing of the River made for completion. Sounds probably don’t get nearly the credit they deserve as sources of delight; this beautiful landscape would be diminished without River’s patter. (I read once that the supposed taste of celery was actually mostly its crunch synesthetically merged with its intrinsic flavor—this is like that.) Sitting as I am, I always close my eyes for several minutes to better notice unobtrusive sounds: the few birds calling, breeze and leaf, insects when they’re speaking, and in this place the River. The trees, especially as I have come to know more about their relationships, above and below ground, with one another and with fungi and microbes, become an ashram of sadhus permanently meditating while surreptitiously managing their needs for moisture, nutriment, protection of self and community. They are admirable in so many ways and easy to love. No creature on this Earth is for use only.

Photo by Thomas Haas on Unsplash

August in Kings Canyon

Dr. Brestrup — Tue, 19 Oct 2021 13:00:42 +0000

8-31: If it were possible to believe that gods created the Universe, the next belief might be that they had decided to use Earth for the indulgence of their artistic talents. To see just how much beauty they could create in, from their perspective, a limited space. When the god of Genesis stepped back from day to day and pronounced that “it was good,” this might be what he meant. From my own more limited perspective, I don’t see how they could have done better. It really was a work of art. In today’s parlance, I guess we’d have to call it performance art since it doesn’t just sit still; its parts all interact in ways that replenish itself as needed, dispose of detritus, maintain, and heal and renew. It really is quite a place. Of necessity, it had also to be useful, meaning that it provided the conditions and nutriment for rebirth and evolution, always changing, always restoring, always beautiful. Since beauty is imbued with spirit, it is also a spiritual place where love, identification, entanglement abide and enrich. But a flaw inevitably revealed itself—for a particular species usefulness begat exploitation and unrestraint and forgetting. That species, ours, severed its spiritual connection and has been flailing in opulently appointed misdirection ever since. We are now destructive, incessantly conflicted with ourselves and each other, unhappy, and seemingly willing to take down the Earth, for a long time to come, rather than return to full consciousness. It’s as if a relentlessly addictive drug dropped an opaque veil between our present selves and what we might be. A sad story.

It sort of rained last evening and during the night. I’ve not been in the presence of rain for close to a year, and I truly miss it. This one didn’t amount to much moisture but was invaluable as sensation; it woke forest smells that only rain can do, and the rolling thunder may have been composed by Beethoven. The wind cleansed the trees of dead leaves and needles, pinecones fell, the canopy rustled vigorously and was privileged with unimpeded views of the night sky. Rain fell only in spurts but enough to drive me into the camper where the sound of it on the roof is its own pleasure. This morning Twig and I walked. South Fork Kings River by my estimate is only about 5-10% of spring flow (hard to guess; could be slightly more); not so exciting as the tumult of snow melt but still satisfying to sit beside and go with its flow (which is more, I think, than the Merced yesterday, which seemed even lower). To my surprise, one of the streams we crossed that comes out of the mountains to the south still flowed. The expectation of dryness is taking over my mind, so any exceptions reassure a bit and, as flowing water always does, excite my imagination.

Photo by James Lee on Unsplash

Entangled Life – Part III

Dr. Brestrup — Thu, 14 Oct 2021 13:30:33 +0000

(A few days later) For many years one of my favorite places to camp has been Warner Valley, a remote area in the southeast corner of Lassen Volcanic N.P. The Pacific Crest Trail runs through, as does a permanent stream, and I’ve hiked both north and south on the PCT as well as on other trails, mostly ones that connected to areas active with volcanic remnants such as mud pots, steam vents, and Sulphur ponds and others that looped off and back to the PCT. It’s a beautiful area not even badly disturbed by a rustic guest ranch situated on the west end of the Valley. This summer of 2021 is seeing the end of unburned places I’ve spent time in or traveled through in the north and east parts of the state. Warner Valley is now one of those according to a piece I read a couple days ago and that fire maps, even with lack of detail, confirm. Considering the direction of the fire it would have entered through the east end after burning through 15 miles of forest and occasional houses. When people are allowed back in, I’ll want to visit and recall its history and experience the losses directly. From the trajectory of the fire’s movement, I will probably need to repeat the ritual at Butte Lake, which is northeast of Warner and another of my favored places. I have predicted for several years that California would eventually burn almost completely across its forests and mountains, and it’s happening sooner than I expected. Future camping and hiking in unburned areas may need to be approached as I would an elder not expected to live much longer, with deeper than normal appreciation for what has been shared and loved and anticipation that it may not be there next year. When I worked with dying people years ago as a therapist, I considered the experience of anticipatory grief important (when one was fortunate enough to have time left for it), an occasion that allowed a period to honor the past and prepare for a future without the beloved. I can’t know which places will go and when but in the sureness that time will likely take them all eventually, I can’t help thinking (already I do this) that every visit could be my last to an intact locale. Of course, I could die before it does, but that comes to the same thing.

“The Dixie Fire has made a significant impact on park viewsheds and the visitor experience. However, fire is an integral part of the ecosystems in this resilient, volcanic landscape. A forest leveled by Lassen Peak eruptions more than 100 years ago and another affected by the 2012 Reading Fire tell the story of nature’s continuous cycle of regeneration and renewal.” ~ Lassen Volcanic National Park https://www.nps.gov/lavo/planyourvisit/upload/2021-LAVO-Guide-Post-Fire-1Oct2021.pdf

At Butte Lake

Dr. Brestrup — Tue, 05 Oct 2021 13:30:35 +0000

Two days at Butte Lake now; three weeks ago, when I started my trip I mentioned signs that eras were closing, and here they are again. The first: Spontaneous camping trips to long favored locales will require planning, contradictory as that obviously is. Most of the former First Come-First Served campsites have been converted to the reservation system; my good fortune is that my favorite site here is not one of them and I was able to move right in. But the number of such sites has shrunk so that care will need to be taken as to time of day and day of week to arrive as time goes on. I realize that a bit of research would show me areas of national forests and BLM land where people can just show up and pretty much camp wherever they please. But my habits and the places that require frequent visits because I love them so have become sufficiently fixed that I lack the motivation to change. I think I’ve learned enough about the ways of these places that in the remaining years I’ll be camping I’ll do fine as long as I plan well. Nonetheless, I don’t like the feel of what this era’s ending means. I still remember my first visit to an NPS camp 30+ years ago and being stunned to discover the need for reservations and the existence of check-in and check-out times; now I find it’s become nearly universal. I will adapt but I don’t doubt that a fully scheduled world will be an inferior one. The second passing era, which I may talk about too much, is climatic and I wouldn’t mention it now except that it too has manifested here at Butte Lake. In the 8-10 years I’ve been coming the Lake has always been at a constant level; snowmelt and perhaps springs bring water in and Butte Creek in the northeast corner of the Lake drains it out. When balanced, as I‘ve always known it, it makes for both a lovely little lake nestled among forest and lava flows and a lovely little stream flowing merrily away. Now the level is down about 4’ vertically and the Creek outlet is 50’ beyond the water. So early in the year—what will it be like at summer’s end? I don’t think I’ll come to find out. Lastly, the era of depending on my feet and legs to take me wherever I wanted to go in mountain or desert seems also to be approaching its terminus. Forty-five years of taking them for granted, piling up miles, have taken a toll and they and the heart that fuels them want rest, or so they seem to be saying. I always knew I’d die but think I assumed I could hike to the funeral. So, it goes. Eras pass, but I wonder that they seem mostly to pass into inferior new states. Those that break this rule are mostly material—horse-and-buggy replaced by car and airplane, for instance, assuming that all things considered these constitute a net gain. New eras of racial harmony, economic justice, or other societal ethical improvements never quite arrive or survive the opposition’s hostility and avoidant maneuvers. Enough. I sound gloomy and am not. The smell of warming pine trees and the surrounding duff is one of my favorites and it’s in the air. I’ll be here till tomorrow and glad for it.