Searching for Summit

This story is dedicated to our many "mountain friendships".  God brought lots of special relationships into our lives from the years we lived on the mountain.  We have been blessed!  While we left the mountain in 2002, the impact of those years is still felt.  Enjoy. 

Searching for Summit

It was crunch time.

The wedding was seven weeks away.  And, Lisa and I still had one huge decision to make.

Where in all of southern California were we going to live? 

More than needing housing, we were also grappling with finding a community that we could settle in and call home.  We wanted God to direct us to “the right place”.

For our June wedding, the beginning of the month was just three weeks away.  Procuring a place to live had crept to the top of our “to do list”.   It was time to rent something – somewhere – and soon.

It was a Saturday morning – May 1987.  The skies were clear.  The sun was out.  The day was gorgeous.  The air in the mountains looked to be crisp and fresh.  It was a great day to explore.  And, it was a perfect day for a motorcycle ride.   

Over the previous weeks, Lisa and I had talked a lot about where we could live.  Because my job was in San Bernardino, it became our “stake in the ground”.   Our choices revolved around it.  While we were used to driving a bit to get to work, we really didn’t want me to commute more than thirty minutes.  So we narrowed our search to one area on the map.  

Now it was time for some serious reconnaissance.   

The San Gabriel Mountains rise above Pasadena and the Los Angeles Basin.  Exploring the mountain roads on my motorcycle had been an easy date for Lisa and me.  We would ride and hike.  Or, we would ride and have a picnic.  We did this through three years of friendship, and a year of dating.   The mountains were special to us, and coupled with the motorcycle, were becoming part of our story. 

While we were content to explore the San Gabriel Mountains, my perspective got stretched in the nine months prior to our wedding.  I started teaching English to international students at a university 60 miles directly east of Pasadena.  It was located at the base of the San Bernardino Mountains.

The “draw” of the location upon me was strong.

Five days a week, I drove east on the freeway to the university in San Bernardino.  Five days a week, I stared at the San Bernardino Mountains - which were literally in front of me when I parked.  There was nothing subtle about their presence.  At the back edge of the campus, the mountains rose dramatically for 5,000 feet.  The towering view was unobstructed.  There were no foothills.  It just went up and up.

On a clear and breezy day, you could stand in the university parking lot and watch hang gliders launch.  You could see them catch the thermals and fly in lazy circles until they eventually landed in a designated area next to the university.  It was intriguing to watch. 

I wondered.  Could we live anywhere near where those hang gliders are launched?

On wintery days, the mountains would be shrouded in clouds.  The only evidence of the snowy conditions in the mountains above was the occasional pickup truck that had just arrived in the campus parking lot.  Its bed piled high with snow – encouraging impromptu snowball fights, and talk of skiing.  Once the clouds cleared, the blanket of snow that covered the mountain was spectacular.   The forest green contrasted by the snowy white was breath-taking.

Neither of us knew much about this mountain range, nor the communities that were there.  We had no idea if it could be a place to live, but we began to be curious.  All of our exploring had been in the mountain range above Pasadena, not this one.  Yet, with my job being in San Bernardino, it made sense to explore the area nearby, and see what we could discover.

As we began to look at maps to see what was “over there” in the San Bernardino Mountains, we discovered that our favorite mountain road dropped down out of the San Gabriel Mountains, crossed the Cajon pass, and continued right into the San Bernardino Mountains.  It cut through the heart of the two ranges.  As we pondered the map, I knew that I had found our target destination - the potential first community we could settle and call home.  The name got my attention!

The tiny little dot on the map simply said “Summit”. 

I figured with a name like Summit the town had to be at the top of a mountain and if so, it must have gorgeous views.   We both loved mountain peaks and their vistas.  Lisa had gone to college just outside the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee.  Two years earlier, my pump had gotten primed when I was able to wander through Tibet, and experience the Himalayas first hand.   So, once we talked it over, a plan was formed.  

We fired up the motorcycle and off we went to search for Summit.

As we got to the eastern edge of the San Gabriel Mountains, we began to leave the fresh alpine air filled with the heavy scent of pine to make our descent to the Cajon Pass.  In losing 3000 feet of elevation, the vegetation began to change.  The scrub-like features of the mesquite and manzanita began to emerge.  Here and there you could see Yucca plants in bloom.  In the distance, there was also the occasional Joshua tree with its distinctive shape.  As we neared the Cajon pass the landscape was still mountainous, but the land began to feel more arid and desert-like.  Almost inhospitable. 

Just before we reached the Cajon pass, we passed Mormon Rocks.  These massive rocks jut out of the ground.  They look like massive stone slabs of various sizes that have been stacked together.  One is haphazardly on top of the other – with the entire stack tilted skyward at a steep angle.  The strata of the earth are clearly visible.  What was once hidden is now on full display.  It is very surreal.  By just looking at Mormon Rocks, you can “see” evidence that the San Andreas Fault lurks beneath. 

As we crossed the Cajon pass, we were doing what we loved - exploring brand new territory.  We were excited to consider the mountains as a place we could call home.  As we drove east the road twisted and turned.  It went in and around dry arroyos, and washes. 

But, the land seemed more like a haven for roadrunners and rattlesnakes.  It was not a mountain paradise.   Sage brush and tumbleweeds dotted the landscape.  Not much else. 

After seven miles, the road went straight and the land opened up into a low valley.  A mountain ridge was off in the distance.   Intermittently, there were horse ranches along the way.  But, the road was straight for as far as you could see.   The view was flat and empty.  There was the occasional dip in the road that made your stomach drop when you went through it, but there was no elevation gain.

It sure didn’t look like there could be a “summit” nearby.

Up head, and about where I thought the town should be, I spied a lone store with two gas pumps and a large dirt parking area.  There were several trucks and campers in the lot.  The rigs were hauling trailers filled with an assortment of watercraft – ranging from ski boats to fishing boats – with jet skis stuffed in between.  People milled around.  Checked on equipment.  Cinched down loads.  Filled up gas cans.

Oddly, it felt more like a pit stop - than a destination.   

Now, if you have ridden a motorcycle, you know that it is nearly impossible to have any sustained meaningful conversation at 65 mph.   Also, before handheld GPS devices, you also know that a folded paper map can only be consulted when the motorcycle is stopped.  So, we pulled in to get our bearings; ask where the town of Summit was; and figure out what to do.

As we went inside, it felt like a general store.   There was organized clutter everywhere.  It seemed like there was a quick remedy for any emergency that a boater or a camper would require.  There was a snack bar of sorts, which specialized in quick fixes for the hungry traveler.   Gas was available for the vehicles.  “Facilities” were “around back” for those who needed them.

As we walked up to the counter, I felt a bit discombobulated.   “We are looking for the town of Summit?” I asked a guy with a scraggly beard.  The response was, “Summit?  I don’t know nothing about a town called Summit.”  Then, I countered, “Well, what’s this place called?”  The response was, “This here area is called Summit Valley.  It’s the only Summit that I know of.”

Lisa and I were momentarily taken aback.  Obviously, even if this was the town of Summit, it was not the kind of “summit” that we were hoping for.

But we quickly regrouped.  The urge to explore took over.  One of us said, “Well, while we’re here, let’s go a bit farther.”

While looking at the map we realized that there was a good-sized lake nearby.  It seemed to be the draw for all the boats and recreational equipment.    It was called Lake Silverwood.

Then, we spotted “the sign”.  It was green with white block lettering.  It read - Crestline 10.  Being a sucker for a name, I pointed to the sign and yelled to Lisa, “Let’s go there.”   She tapped me on the shoulder in agreement, and immediately Plan B was born.

The road that swept around Lake Silverwood towards Crestline was a bikers dream.  Sweeping curves, and open straightaways allowed me to “open up the throttle” and “lean into the curves”.   All of this while looking down on an unobstructed view of a shimmering lake, punctuated with the circular wakes of boats and skiers.  We learned later on that Lake Silverwood was the most western of a series of man-made reservoirs in the San Bernardino range.   You may have heard of some of the others: Lake Gregory, Lake Arrowhead, and Big Bear Lake.

As we rode, we stopped at every scenic pull-off along the way.  “Wow! This is great.” Lisa said.

After about five miles, and about a third of the way around the lake, it got even better.  Pines began to reappear.  Desert plants slowly disappeared.    Then, the road took a hard turn to the right.  Switchbacks appeared - along with a sign:  Tractor-Trailers Prohibited.  We began to climb significantly.  Up and up and up.

We were smiling by the time we entered the town of Crestline.  

The forest was dense.  The pungent smell of pine filled the air.   Crestline felt like an alpine village - with Lake Gregory bordering the eastern edge of this town of 10,000.

Once we had driven around a bit, we said to each other.  “Let’s check out a realtor or two and see the price and availability of rentals.”  We loved what we saw.  It was quaint.  It felt like home.

By mid-afternoon, it was time to start the trip back to Pasadena.   We decided to go back a different way.  We wanted to head out of the mountains, and drive past the university where I worked.  On the trek back, we wanted to record and keep track of how long it all took.

On the way out of Crestline, the reason for its name became clear.

The view was dramatic, and breath-taking.  For miles along the length of the crest of the mountain, there was a panoramic view of San Bernardino and the valley 4000 feet below.  The locals call it “The Rim”.  The two-lane road was appropriately called “The Rim-of-the-World Highway”.   (Read more about it in “Looking Back to See Ahead”.)  Much of the road was chiseled out of the mountain.  Other parts of it were perched on the side by a series of bridge overhangs.   The hang gliding launch site I could see from the university was nearby.  On rare crystal-clear days around sunset, the sun could be seen reflecting off the Pacific Ocean 40 miles away.

When we reached the four lane section of the highway, we began our descent “down the hill”.  The plummet down the mountain was quick.  The ride and view were thrilling.  But, I was sold on idea of living in Crestline when we arrived at the university.  The drive was less than twenty-five minutes.   This was twenty minutes shorter than what I was currently doing. 

At that moment, a new commute was conceived.  A decision to move to Crestline got confirmed.

Three weeks later, at the beginning of June, we rented a house.  I moved into it to await our wedding day on June 27th.  The house we rented was perched on the side of the mountain.  A view of Lake Gregory was in the foreground.   A sunset view of the 10,000 foot summit of Mount Baldy was in the background.  It was picturesque.  

In a very real sense, our search for summit was a complete success! 

We got what we were looking for.  While we didn’t actually live on a summit, or in a place called Summit, we still reaped the beauty of one.  We stayed in the house with a “summit view” for our first year of marriage.  We got to watch God’s evening light-show extravaganza – featuring a mountain peak – from the comfort of our own front deck.   

In looking back, that first motorcycle ride through Summit Valley has become a special part of our story.  God used our passion to explore and our bent towards the mountains to introduce us to a mountain community that we didn’t even know existed.

In all, the mountains were our home for 15 years.  We loved living there.  Eventually, we both ended up working at the church there.  The relationships that we made through our church and community during those years were deep.   God used our time in Crestline to mature us and shape our ministry.  The aftershocks of those relationships still ripple – years later.  

There is no doubt.  As we “searched for summit”, God navigated us to the “right place”.

During our years living “on the mountain”, we explored it heavily.  We often used the “back way” through Summit Valley for weekend escapes to the Sierras, and points north.

And, every time we pass through, we chuckle.  We are reminded of that Saturday trip in May, and the multitude of ways that decision has affected our lives.  All from a search - for a place called Summit.

 

Next Time: A Rough Draft

Photo Credits:

Top & Fourth: Image by Markus Pitzer from Pixabay

Second: Amerique - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0

Third: Thaddeus Roan

Fifth: BigEarInc

Sixth: Pinterest

Bottom: Realtor MLS