I’ve seen a lot of bears on our hiking trips. Sometimes as many as two or three in one trip. They’re usually hanging out in the lower-elevation forests. Which makes sense; that’s where the berries are. They’ve been every shade of brown to gray to sleek black.
While I’ve “seen” many bears, most of them are not real. The majority end up being tree stumps or chunks of a log. My favorite is the Boulder Bear I saw in the Indian Peaks Wilderness who posed so nicely for my photo. (Please tell me you see him, too. The picture is quite impressive, don’t you think?)
There have been other stone apparitions, but mostly they turn out to be Smokey the Stump or Yogi the Log bears. I think I can still count on just two hands the number of real, live, breathing bears that I have seen out in the wild; none threatening. And that’s over thousands of miles and countless nights in the backcountry.
Yet despite reality, I insist on being irrationally afraid of a creature I rarely see. Which makes it even more absurd that a complete bear-phobe like me also learned to run the trails by myself. Only with all the necessary precautions, of course! I tell Alan where I’m going and when to expect me back. I carry bear spray. My phone can send satellite messages when I’m out of cell range. I don’t do this for him; it is my own sanity I am protecting. If I am packing a gut full of fear, I need a vest full of ammo to match it.
I decided to run the trail behind our house the other day. It’s a nice steady incline through the Ponderosa pines and lots of scrub oaks that leads to a ridge overlooking a nearby reservoir and the high mountains. I grabbed my running vest with the bear spray in the left front pocket, so I can easily grab it with my right hand and be ready to aim and fire. (I think about these things.)
There are plenty of bears in our area, and in fact, one sauntered through our yard last week. (A real one, I swear.) So, I was on high alert as I headed up the trail, looking around as much as possible without tripping, scanning for any movement, especially in the sections where the scrub oaks are thick. About a mile and a half in, I saw her. A black mass sticking out amongst the green leaves and flaxen pine needles covering the ground. My muscles twitched, and my jaw clenched. I stopped and peered through the trees at the unmoving creature.
Then…I laughed out loud.
This is the same bear I’ve seen for years. She’s always there. And yet, this charred tree stump startles me every time.
You’re so silly, I told myself.
I took a sip of water, patted my bear spray can, and laughed again.
After all these times of seeing her…maybe I should just give her a name.
As I jogged away, Charcoal was the first thing that came to mind. She has the same color as a charcoal briquet with some hot spots of gray.
Up I went, huffing and puffing in the 90-degree heat, still looking up and around as much as possible, watching and listening. The trail made a slight bend, and I lifted my head up, and saw another black creature. A little smaller than Charcoal, with dark, shiny black fur. He was a shorter, skinnier burned-out tree stump.
Charcoal’s cub, I bet. I’ll call him Blackie.
Not a very original name, but there wasn’t much blood going to my brain at that point; my legs and lungs were consuming all my energy. So simple Blackie had to do.
I made it to the top of the ridge and took in the views. It is a beautiful perch with the La Plata Mountains to the west, the majestic San Juan Mountains and the Weminuche Wilderness to the north and Sleeping Ute and the wide-open mesas to the south.
Ahh…my happy place.
I took a little break before turning back down the trail. I usually try to make lots of noise on the way down. Since I’m moving faster, I do not want to scare anything up. I make myself cough, try to whistle (very badly), and if I’m really feeling anxious, I’ll even clap my hands. That day I was content with a couple attempts at whistling. I knew where the bears were.
I was cruising down the switchbacks, enjoying the smooth stretch of trail and gentle slope. I noted the usual landmarks and found a nice rhythm, letting gravity carry me along. As I made the last sharp corner before the trail straightened out, I looked up and saw a big brown tuft of matted fur on the side of the trail. My chest tightened for a second, until my eyes focused and I saw the thick Ponderosa pine lying on its side, and its big fuzzy root ball staring back at me. If you have my imagination skills, it looks like the hump and bristled coat of a grizzly. (Mind you, there are no grizzlies in Colorado, other than this overturned pine tree, but my imagination skills are exceptional.)
It’s funny how I never saw him on the way up. After I passed him, I turned around and looked up, and he was clearly just a fallen tree. Coming down, he’s a hulk of a bear.
Ben. Yes, that’s what I shall name him. I loved watching Grizzly Adams as a child, and I just adored Gentle Ben. Which, you would think, would mean I believe all bears are as sweet as my favorite Ben. Yet I’m a complete phobe. Go figure.
I laughed some more and continued trotting down the hill, scanning the forest for real or pretend bears. I gave a little nod to Blackie and smiled at Charcoal as I cruised by. I hop-scotched across the rocky sections down to the road, still laughing at myself and cursing the heat. And wondering, Why do I do this to myself?
I’m not sure if I meant the physical effort or the mental torture I go through just to do the thing I love—which is being in the great outdoors. Wild friends, real or imaginary, come with the territory.
