Close Encounters of the Furry Kind~A Bear Tale

~The Beauty of Yosemite~

Plans for spending three days in Yosemite were two-fold, hiking the dramatic natural vistas and, hopefully getting a glimpse of a bear. After a very real and natural encounter with a dysfunctional family of bears the night before, we were satisfied that our Yosemite bear experience was complete and we set out for a full day of hiking.

Early in the afternoon we returned to our campsite sweaty and ready for some warm food. Still high from our hike to Vernal Falls and chattering away as we meandered down the path, we were completely tuned into our storytelling until the group of girls in front of us started chattering even louder about bears. I sped up on the path to ask them more about their knowledge, and they shared that the ranger had told them about a mother bear and her two cubs who lived in the trees off in the distance. One of the girls gestured in the direction where the ranger had suggested, pointing towards a grassy area with fallen trees that was just 50 yards from our campsite.

~On our way up to Vernal Falls~

Walking on tiptoe and filled with anticipation, we scanned the area for a splotch of black amongst the green. That’s when we spotted them. First, the cub. Then, the mother, followed by another cub. We froze and watched their lazy movements, as they clambered over the logs into the safety of the dense underbrush. What was once excitement, dropped like a pit of dread into my stomach as I realized my own children had been balancing on those same logs the day before. If I hadn’t already been reminded of the wild possibilities of camping with bears, I remembered now.  Whether or not I was the dominant species didn’t matter. We were on their turf.

Realizing that it would be impossible to keep the safe 100 yards distance from the bears if I wanted to get back to my tent, I kept one eye peeled on the forest for the rest of the afternoon. Even as I was cooking dinner, I kept glancing over my shoulder. Just as I was finishing up the washing and the last of the late fall late light was fading, we heard a gunshot in the bushes. I jumped as much as my startled heart, but then quickly remembered that guns loaded with rubber bullets were common to deter bears from interacting with human food.  Before I could really register the initial noise, a ranger came shooting out of the bushes, running at full speed.

Only after clearing the outer edge of our campsite did the ranger slow down her gait. While I stood agape, the Mister gathered his thoughts and steadied his voice to ask “What’s going on?”

Without even making eye contact the ranger tossed a quick answer over her shoulder: “We’re just trying to chase off a male bear that likes human food.”

The blasé way with which she offered the explanation as if it was a daily occurrence was designed to put us at ease, but it made us feel even more uncertain.

With dark completely enveloping the campsite, the forest where we had peered with such excitement during the day became an inky cave of insecurity by night. There was no way to pretend that bears weren’t in the darkness. Their presence was confirmed, and not just their passive presence, but an active history of stealing into camp at night. There was no denying that we were the first camp to encounter should a bear get snacky.

We took extra care to police our campsite for any residual food, never really taking our eyes off surrounding blackness, lingered late around the perceived safety of the campfire until only orange illuminate coals simmered at the bottom. Procrastination was a comfortable companion, but bedtime was inevitable.

With the kids tucked into the safety of the campervan and its metal walls, the Mister and I settled into our flimsy tent. Never before had nylon seemed so thin and unfortified. While logical minds would insist that the bears out there had no interest in breeching our sleeping quarters, it was undeniable that we were in the middle of one of those horror movie moments that keep people from camping at all.

There was the requisite swishing of vinyl and shimming of bodies as we tucked ourselves into our sleeping bags. Then, quiet settled around us. I exhaled slowly and deliberately to see if the air was cold enough to make a breathy steam, while my eyes darted back and forth over the dome of the tent above.

The Mister settled into a peaceful rhythmic breathing within a few minutes, while I continued to toss and turn. Sleep came in fitful bursts, with every rustle of the bushes startling me awake. With every startle, I woke the supposed protector sleeping next to me and was met with an oh-so-loving sleepy admonish to relax, go to sleep, and stop worrying about nothing.

After the third false alarm, and just as I was drifting off to restless sleep again, I heard a rustling in the bushes that could only be described as mighty. Once again, I woke my husband. We were in this together. Although I expected the verbal brush-off I had gotten before, this time the evidence was too damning.

“Something is out there and it is something big,” I insisted.  The Mister agreed that it was far too weighty a sound to be leaves blowing or the wind through the trees. Before my imagination could get the best of me, a mass lumbered past our tent, making a visible breeze against the nylon as it passed. In quick succession, the glow of a spotlight and the quick-time sound of heavy boots passed along the same pathway, again making a breeze along our tent.

With eyes wide and sleep not soon to follow, we agreed that we had definitely had a close enough encounter with the rulers of Yosemite to never need that experience again. We also agreed that among the many gratitudes that we had learned from that moment, that the biggest, by far, was that our career choices didn’t involve running around in the dark chasing hungry bears.