DO BEARS %&!^@ IN THE WOODS?

This is a piece I published in early February that didn't get a lot of readership.  I liked writing it.

Do Bears point in the woods?

There are things to be learned when addressing bears. Certain notions they have of manners. Bears insist that politeness matters and they're big enough to enforce their concerns.

These lessons were learned many years ago while backpacking in Yosemite National Park up the Grand Canyon of the Tuolomne River. This was when walking with 50 pounds strapped to my back for several days still seemed like a good idea.

Months of planning went into this trip. Maps, permits, food, etc. Every purchase weighed an item's weight versus its need. My wife and I were intelligent yuppies before the term became the norm. We studied books, read all the helpful hints we could find. Especially the ones concerning bears. Losing your food to the bears is a terrible sin according to all the handbooks, not to mention, a major inconvenience when the nearest store is a day's hike away.

Such a noble endeavor it was. Some of the details of the complete circuitous route seem fuzzy now. Probably, because the circuit was never completed.

Six days were planned, three completed. But it was the first that memory encapsulated in my mind for all time.

We started out early that morning from White Wolf campgrounds where we left the car. Though it was late in June, there were still piles of snow in the shadows of rocks and trees. It had been a heavy snowfall in the Sierra Nevada that year.

The trail wound through the woods, passing small mountain lakes until it reached the crest of the canyon with our day's destination, Pate Valley, far below. Switchback trails were in order for most of the remaining journey that day. Covering a drop in elevation of nearly 5,000 feet.

It was early afternoon by the time we reached the canyon floor. Tired, but relieved that we were on the way. It was then that things began to go wrong.

I had been through Pate Valley a few years prior and thought I knew the ropes. It was a large, but primitive, campsite for backpackers with a huge stone bridge crossing the Tuolumne River. (Probably built in the thirties by the WPA). It also had metal poles built with a "Y" at the top so that a rope could be used to hoist your food bag up away from the nightly visits of the bears. I didn't have any rope that time though and had and looked longingly at those poles. Knowing what safety they assured. Ah, but more of that later.

As I said, when we reached the valley floor, we learned that plans do not always meet reality. There was a hand-painted crude sign allegedly placed by the Park Service. "Bridge over Tuolomne River at Pate Valley washed away by Spring thaw. Ford the river here and go east to Pate Valley."

It seemed simple enough. We'd read the books. Knew to keep our shoes on for footing on slippery rocks. Knew to unfasten our packs so they wouldn't waterlog and cause us to drown.

We looked across the river and saw about a 150-foot wide river to a finger of land and another 150 feet stretch of water to the shore on the other side. No problem.

The water was extremely cold and eventually reached our stomachs. The force of the rushing water was much more than we had imagined. We both lost our balance several times and ended thoroughly soaked but not drowned. We laid in the sun on some rocks on the far side and collected our senses as we congratulated ourselves on our vast knowledge.

According to our maps, we only had about one ½ miles to go before we would reach camp and would have a nice afternoon before nightfall. Two hours of walking, though, told us that something was wrong. We knew we were proceeding slowly, without a trail, through densely, overgrown forest. But this was wrong. We had long ago lost sight of the river and now could not even hear its rushing water.

We finally STUDIED the map and realized much to our embarrassment, discovered that we had crossed not just ONE river, but had, in fact, gone it one better and had crossed two. Now we were a two hours journey up the far side of an intersecting river or stream.

Suddenly headlines began crossing our minds about a Southern California couple lost in the Yosemite wilderness. Then it dawned on us that it would be over a week before we were even missed. We had ignored that part of the handbooks. We were still somewhat wet, caked with mud, scratched and scraped from wedging ourselves between young trees in the overgrowth.

We decided that the first thing to do was to find the second river because we definitely had to cross that again in order to get on the right patch of earth. We struggled east through the trees for what seemed nearly an hour until we heard the faint rushing of water on rock. There we came to the precipice overlooking the river rushing below over a series of waterfalls. A hundred feet upstream was a huge tree that had fallen across making a bridge to the other side. It looked as scary as it was to cross but it seemed the only way.

We weren't daredevils in the least. Though we could probably walk across without falling, we knew that falling could not be an option. So we took off our packs and straddled the log as we crawled across.

Once across, we felt we were safe. Our biggest concern was the approaching darkness by this time. Gone were the hopes of a well-made camp. Gone were the hopes of catching a trout for a scrumptious meal. We felt we needed to find the camp soon or not at all that night.

As we crested a small hill, we saw before us a meadow and beyond that PEOPLE. The faint wisp of woodsmoke told us that it wasn't an illusion.

We got to camp, chose a likely spot, pitched our little tent and started preparing dinner with the hopes of getting this all done before all light was gone. While my wife worked on the food, I took the remaining food and got my rope to hoist up the pack away from the bears. No metal poles. I looked all around but nothing. I walked across to the other campers who were already settling in for the night. They looked at me like I was nuts. Metal poles? In the wilderness?

I later surmised that the repugnancy of metal poles in the wilderness had led to their removal, not as I first thought that the spring thaw had washed them away, along with the bridge.

Finally, I saw a chain strung between two trees but the pack was only six feet off the ground when hung from it. Would that be enough? I doubted it, but fatigue and darkness told me it would suffice.

All night, I kept peeking out of the tent to shine my flashlight at the pack to make sure it was still there. There is no darkness like that beneath the canopy of a forest far from civilization. You literally cannot see your hand in front of your face.

Sometime in the middle of the night we heard what sounded like the braying of baby lambs. Having never heard a baby bear, that seemed strange. Still, the pack remained safe. Finally my tiredness outweighed my concern for the pack and I drifted to sleep.

When I awoke at the first hint of light, I shined my light at the pack. It was gone!

I scrambled to my feet and threw my pants on and took off on a quest to find our food. About two-hundred yards away, nearly hidden by a fallen tree, was the top of my pack slightly protruding above the log. I thanked God and prayed that some food remained. I jogged toward it and when I got about 25 feet away, suddenly a huge bear and her two cubs jumped up in surprise. I thanked God again that I had already peed. She was caught in the act. Her two cubs ran off about 100 feet and scrambled up two trees while Mama placed herself behind a tree stump between them. And there she remained while she watched me.

So there we were, all frozen in our surprise and in our places. I looked at her, then at the cubs about 25 feet up trees on either side of her. They were all staring at me. This felt like an audience.

So I commenced. I talked about getting lost. I talked about nearly dying and not having my metal poles. I talked about the unfairness of a world where bears steal food. I pointed at the river and talked about the trout in the river. I pointed at the berries in bushes all around. Why had she gone after my poor pack when her natural food was all around. I was slapping my palm with my fist as point after point was made. She listened intently to all that I had to say. Perhaps she agreed but couldn't help herself. Maybe it was for the cubs. A mother's devotion to her cubs. It was when I pointed at her that her lesson began. Evidently, in the bear world, one NEVER points.

She stood up on her hind legs, and with tremendous force and a loud grunt, slammed her shoulder into the tree stump like a linesman into a blocking sled. The tree stump gave six inches to her weight. On a hunch, I took that as she had heard enough and it was time for me to collect my lousy pack and go home. I did, quickly, and was very happy with whatever food she had left me. Though I didn't appreciate the slimy quality of bear saliva on all of the packages. I wore with pride for years, the pack with four large claw marks on the metal frame.

So remember, it is not polite to point, no matter how forceful your argument.