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I walked down the trail talking to bears. It seemed the only
thing to do. I tried singing, but after a while I ran out of songs.
Or rather, song. I can only think of one song when I sing to bears,
a song from a musical called Crosstown Bus written by a dear
friend. The song, to wonderful music, has a line it that goes
“Heading east, heading east in the morning, heading east, heading
east all day.” I have to wonder whether there is something in the
thought of grizzly bears that makes me think I should head east. New
York City, for instance. Paris. Vienna. Somewhere without grizzly
bears.
Yet, the reason I live in Montana is precisely because of
grizzlies. Once, in the ‘80s, thinking I should be sure I really
wanted to stay in Montana, I went to Innsbruck for a month (I’d
lived there years earlier), and then to Paris for a month (I’d
always loved it). In the end, I opted for Montana because I missed
its wildness. In wild country you must be aware at every moment.
Awareness matters more to me than the perfect trails of the Alps,
more than the streets of Paris. Is it an odd choice for someone who
loves Civilization? Perhaps I finally realized there is more to life
than Civilization.
I was talking to bears in Glacier National Park where I’d
accompanied David on a photography workshop. I go with him when his
workshops are in places I like to hike. While he is out with
photographers, I hike. I love hiking by myself . . . the silence,
.the connection with the world around me. Connection doesn’t happen
the same way when someone else is there. Still, hiking alone in
grizzly country may not be the smartest thing one can do.
Years ago, when I was still working in Yellowstone, the outfitter
I worked with, an educator, was asked by U.S. Fish & Wildlife to put
together a bear course for outfitters on a nearby national forest
because they, or their clients, were having too many encounters
resulting in dead bears. I attended the course, part of which
consisted of shooting bear spray at a large cardboard cutout of a
bear being pulled toward one by a truck. (Bear spray deters bears,
while keeping them alive.) I knew it was a cardboard bear. But as it
began coming toward me, as it got into shooting range, my adrenalin
was so racing I could hardly remove the safety from the canister of
bear spray and let go the stream of spray. If my adrenalin was that
high facing a cardboard bear, what would it be with a real bear? I
suppose it is possible that, knowing what to expect, I might
exercise some degree of control. Maybe.
The day before my Glacier hike, I went to an informal class at
the St. Mary Visitor Center on using bear spray. The ranger giving
the class was new, in her first year in the Park. She came from
Maryland, where there are no grizzlies. The other people were
families with young children. We all got a chance to try an inert
canister, but the message she really wanted to get across was that
the best deterrent is the human voice. Of course that makes sense.
Bears want to encounter us probably even less than we want to
encounter them. She was trying to encourage all those families to
keep talking so the bears would stay away.
Fine. Except I was hiking by myself. I took the boats across
Swiftcurrent and Josephine Lakes, then walked to Grinnell Lake. On
this section of trail, there were many people, all of them talking.
At the lake, people sprawled across any relatively dry spot they
could find along the lake shore. (It was a long, wet winter here.
When we arrived a few days earlier, people were skiing and
snowboarding at Logan Pass.) Snow had only recently gone from the
lake shore and the day was grey, raw, cold. “I’ve never before worn
long johns on July 20th,” a photographer working near me said.
I’d intended hiking back to Many Glacier Lodge on the north side
of Josephine Lake, the more popular trail, but missing my turn, I
continued instead on the south side. Once I passed the turn-off for
the boat across Josephine Lake, most people’s destination, there was
no one else on the trail. Just me and the forest. And the thirty
thousand grizzly bears I knew were hidden in high foliage along my
route. At first, I sang to them, but then decided I could not keep
repeating the same words over and over while walking the three miles
or so still ahead of me. So I began to talk. That’s what this piece
is. What I said to the bears . . . .
O.K. bears, let’s work out a deal. I’ll stay on the path and you
stay in the forest. Make sure all your babies are with you, so we
don’t have babies on one side, Mamas on the other. I really don’t
want to walk between you. Anyway, you’ll like it better, having the
kids with you, where you can see them, where they can learn about
digging for roots. But you must be pretty happy here when the
thimbleberries ripen. This trail seems to cut through all the
thimbleberry in the world. I hate thimbleberry myself. There they
are, looking for all the world like raspberries, which are the best
food there is, but then you put them in your mouth and they taste
like . . . thimbleberries. I’ve never seen so much
thimbleberry. You must be really happy when they’re ripe. But,
they’re not ripe yet, so you don’t really need to hang out around
them. You can eat them later. I won’t come by then. So, as for our
deal, you stay back there in the woods, because there aren’t any
thimbleberries yet, and you’ll find some really delicious roots back
there, some beargrass maybe, and who knows what else, but, in any
case, good stuff. The kind of food you like. And I’ll stay out here
and keep talking to you so you know I’m here, and then everything
will work out really well. I have this bear spray with me, but I
have no interest in using it. It stings your eyes and your nose, and
you don’t need that. I tested it once, in a class, and using it
didn’t really feel too natural to me. Maybe self-defense never does.
Maybe I should take some sort of martial arts class, although I
really don’t imagine using that sort of combat with you. It’s not as
if I were some sort of gladiator. Besides, that really isn’t my
style, although it might be good for building confidence. Enough
maybe to use bear spray if I had to. I hope I never have to. I find
you beautiful. And necessary. You are what make a place wild. You’re
natural in this place, and fierce and magnificent and belong here.
I’m natural, too, but I’m not fierce and I have to question whether,
frightened, I belong here. Do any of us belong where we’re scared?
Or is that exactly where we do belong? I’ve been frightened climbing
some hard mountains, but in doing it I’ve moved through my fear. So,
if I’m frightened of you, and walk here anyway, and just talk to
you, I’ll get back to Many Glacier and feel triumphant. And you
won’t have to deal with me. It probably isn’t irrational to be
afraid of things that can kill you. Fear makes you aware. That’s
what I missed in the Alps. Not the fear. The awareness. It is why I
came back to Montana. I guess it’s good to keep talking to you, even
if it makes me feel a little crazy, walking down a trail, talking to
bears I don’t see. I imagine you back there among the trees,
wondering why this woman is talking to herself. Or, do you know I’m
talking to you? I may be frightened of walking between you and your
cubs, but I’m happy to be walking through the beauty of your world,
of your wilderness. There are people who have no word for wilderness
because wilderness is home. I guess that is the word for
wilderness. Home. So here’s the deal . . . you stay hidden at home,
and I’ll just walk down this trail, knowing I am also home.
Copyright © 2011 Ruth
Rudner |
