May 30, 2016 Michael has disappeared by the time we awake, his only trace a small rectangular patch of pressed dirt in the dusty campground. We start the morning with a climb, the first real climb since San Jacinto. Switchbacks cut through thick oaky bushes and trees. A silver rockslide slices a narrow scar down the olive slope, and as I look out across the basin, I can see two dogs playing in the bed of the dry lake, their owners walking out toward them nearby. I marvel at the enormity of it, and at the insignificance of the animals—both canine and human—in contrast. Even the mansions scattered along the shoreline are toy houses in this fantastic landscape. What are the great works of man against this expansive canvas? How meaningless are our furies and thrashings against the rivers of time? A few morning hikers greet us on our way to the top, but after we crest, there is nobody. An open, gently sloping forest leads us slowly downhill for miles. We talk occasionally, but mostly we are hiking inside our own thoughts. I spend half of my morning practicing my walking meditation, and half of it distracted by thoughts about returning to school. I have to go back tomorrow, for the final two weeks of class. I love my students, and I love my subject matter, but I have grown to hate teaching. I’ve always been ambivalent, but this year has been particularly difficult, and I’m not sure why. I try to figure it out as I walk. I think part of it has to do with particular challenges my students have faced: there was a lot of loss and grieving. Some of it has to do with this particular district’s culture, particularly the authoritarian style of the district administration. And a lot of it has to do with me. I was diagnosed with ADHD over the summer and started medication. While there is no doubt the medication helped me to focus, there were many side effects. I wasn’t sleeping as well. I stopped being as aware of my students’ emotional needs. I had so many good ideas that I was changing the classroom too quickly for my students to adapt. And I became more aggressive in dealing with behavior issues, to the point of becoming controlling. Eventually I realized the medication was causing problems and I stopped taking it, but much of the damage had already been done, and my relationship with my students suffered. For the past two months, I have dreaded going in to work every day. I know that it’s time for me to leave, but I’m not sure what else I can do. I start to talk to Lindsey about other options. We rest at a small island of volcanic rock surrounded by flat dirt and sparse trees. I check the maps. We are making great time, and we both feel strong. We’re supposed to meet Brian, Suzie and Jon at a dirt road at 2pm, but at this rate we’ll be there by 12:30. I have cell service, so I text Brian to tell him that we’re going to take a side trail, the Cougar Crest trail, down to the Big Bear rim road. That will allow us to hike a little longer, and will save them a couple miles of driving dirt roads. The trail, which has been following the northeast side of the crest, crosses over to the southwest side, and now we have a view of the real Big Bear Lake—the part of the lake with water in it. A hiker tells us about a shortcut down a dirt road, but it sounds like there's no view, and it’s not part of the PCT, so we decline. The trail all but disappears along some white rocky cliffs, and we have to scramble to the other side, but soon enough the trail is back and we have come to the junction with the Cougar Crest trail. About twenty people are milling about the junction, taking pictures and panting in the shade. We start a steep, eroded downhill, and the crowd doesn’t thin. I’m not ready to be around this many people again. I can feel their presence pressing in on me, like a headache but intangible. We hurry down the hill as fast as we can, but several times each minute we have to step off the trail to let the infestation of bright colors and loud conversations proceed uphill. When one group passes with music blaring from their backpack, I’m not sure whether I’m ready to explode or to withdraw into a cave forever. To me, blasting bad music on hissing, static-spewing speakers into the peace and mystery of the wild is one of the highest affronts of man against nature, short only of littering and deliberate desecration.
When we reach the bottom, the trail splits toward two parking lots, and we aren’t sure which one to follow. I call Brian, and we have some trouble figuring out which lot they are at, so we just take a chance. It turns out to be the correct choice, and all five of us pile into Brian’s Jeep and drive to the town of Big Bear to eat some pizza and beer.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
June 2020
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