Backpacking bearanoia

By JUNE SEVERSON
Guest Columnist

“Scaramouch” columnist Scott Saalman is in such awe of this column written by June Severson that he decided to step aside to give Reporter readers a fresher perspective (and better writing) this week. June is a college student studying English and creative writing.

It was a summer spent waiting for a bear attack. My oldest friend and I lounged on our Indiana deck in rocking chairs, between us sprawled pages of notes, maps, plans. Through the window behind us, a dining table overflowed with backpacks, first aid kits, sleeping bags, water tablets. Our hearts were set on Yellowstone’s backcountry, 1,600 miles away. And every night, wrapped in blankets and watching fireflies, our conversations returned to the same subject: the bear.

In our planning, we’d discovered a few warnings in the event of an unlikely encounter with a grizzly bear. We watched clips of grizzly-bear victim testimonials and read some grizzly-bear horror stories; we even watched the horrifying scene of Leonardo DiCaprio getting clobbered by a grizzly bear in The Revenant. All of this led us to conclude that not only would we surely encounter a grizzly bear on our expedition, but we would also surely engage in hand-to-hand combat with said bear.

Photo provided by June Severson

In the weeks leading up to our departure, the bear was an everyday conversation – not a bear, not some bear; it was the bear, the single, specific, clandestine bear that waited for us in Yellowstone’s woods. We watched bear safety videos, bought several cans of bear spray and matching holsters, picked up a just-in-case bear knife at the local Dick’s. All we could do was prepare.

It was a 29-hour drive to Montana, split up into three sweltering days with a broken A/C unit and three frigid parking-lot nights cramped in our half-reclined car seats. The first half of the journey was underwhelming – all I could do was watch the transition from Indiana cornfields to Illinois cornfields to Iowa cornfields. But with Nebraska came endless slopes of yellow-brown hills, and Wyoming with faraway mountains, huge outcroppings of rock, and pronghorns bowing in the fields. What could fill those long and blurry hours on the road better than talk of that impending bear, of our fear of the bear, our awe of the bear, our play-by-play schemes of how to heroically survive the bear?

And then we were standing at the trailhead, packs on and boots laced, staring at the red and white sign before us: WARNING: BEAR FREQUENTING AREA. THERE IS NO GUARANTEE OF YOUR SAFETY WHILE HIKING IN BEAR COUNTRY. Bear spray fixed to our waists, we walked into the woods.

Photo provided by June Severson

The hike was hard – 14 miles over rough and uneven terrain, fallen logs, bogs of thick mud, and slopes of shifting sand. Our backpacks – 30 pounds at least – wrenched against our shoulders and strained our backs. And we were scared. In our research we’d discovered the best way to avoid a bear: noise. The metal pots and spoons we’d rigged to our packs banged and clanged as intended, and our shouts of “HEY BEAR!” – recommended every few minutes instead occurred every few seconds. And at every turn and clearing, our gazes swiveled through the trees, searching for that dreaded brown coat.

The journey was only mildly disastrous. The tough hike caused us to pause every half mile to catch our breath, to wish aloud for powers of teleportation, and to look and listen and wait for the bear. When we finally arrived at our isolated campsite, miles into the sprawling woods, the rain came almost immediately and stamped out any attempt at making a fire. The rope we used to rig our food pole shredded our palms (no one mentioned anything to us about wearing gloves); water seeped into the floor of our tent; my only knife slipped loose and plunged into the nearby stream.

We huddled in our tent that night, wrapped in layers and shivering, bear spray at the ready, holding our breath in the dark. But there was no bear that night, and no bear the next morning, and no bear on the long hike back to the trailhead. The only animal we ever saw was a chipmunk.

Photo provided by June Severson

On the long drive home, I found it funny: we’d been afraid – we’d made ourselves afraid – there was a bear in the woods even when there wasn’t. But that wasn’t right, of course; there were bears, hundreds of them in that park. And beyond that bear – the bear, the great and inevitable and easily avoidable bear – there were the vivid blue springs, the dreamy pinkish visions in the geyser steam, the bottomless lake and the soft, cold, blue-black heart that hummed at its center.

There was a bear in those woods. There will always be a bear in the woods. So what?

Email June at JuneVseverson@gmail.com.