Troop 34 Boy Scouts
It was a big moment when my parents said that I could spend a few days in Yosemite’s backcountry without adult supervision. My dad, who had spent summers tending sheep alone in Oregon’s backcountry as a teenager, figured I was ready for the trip.
Kevin and I were only twelve, but I had lots of experience in the outdoors. As a boy, I loved camping with the Cub Scouts, even though it usually rained. By the time I was in the Boy Scouts I had backpacked in the Sierras and Trinity Alps with my troop and scoutmasters.
I knew the basics of safe backpacking: hike in pairs, carry enough water, and hang your food at night over a tree limb safe from hungry bears.
My dad dropped us off at the trailhead in Yosemite, and Kevin and I hiked up the beautiful Little Yosemite Valley. We had enough food for about four days. Our plan was to catch some fish in the clear, cold water of the Merced River and Merced Lake.
All went well on the hike. We even caught and cooked some fish the first night out. We dutifully hung our food from a high branch, keeping it out of reach of the bears. The stars were out in full force. We warmed our hands around the campfire, before bedding down for the night in our two-person tent.
In the wee hours of the night I was awoken by a grunting sound. In the doorway of the tent an enormous brown bear diligently rooted through Kevin’s pack.
Only a few feet away, a wide-eyed Kevin stared in astonishment. We both froze. The bear took one huge paw and sliced through the pack, delicately picking out a package of M&M’s. He proceeded to slice open the bag, curling his long tongue around the chocolate treats. Then he turned, lumbering off into the night.
When we were sure the intruder was gone, we ran out of the tent and stoked the fire, arming ourselves with pots and pans. There was no sleep that night and little the nights after.
Although we met a bear with a sweet tooth, our first solo trip to the backcountry was a success. As I recall, I was much older before I told my parents the story of how we were almost eaten.
This was not my only moment of terror bargaining with bears. On a hitchhiking trip during my college years, Jim and I thumbed our way to Glacier National Park. We backpacked in the beautiful Montana Rockies. The first day on the trail we spied a moose, munching grass in a marsh, framed by a spectacular granite peak. We camped at Loon Lake, listening to the eerie calls of the birds the lake was named after. No bears in sight.
Throughout the back packing trip Jim and I nervously joked about dangers posed by grizzly bears. We had both read about the two women mauled to death one night in Glacier Park, in separate grizzly attacks.
“No worries, run downhill” Jim suggested, “since bears can’t run as fast on their shorter front legs.”
One evening, as we made dinner at the campfire, it appeared we would have to test Jim’s theory. The ground shook, branches snapped, as loud sounds came from the nearby trees. We didn’t wait to see our pursuer. We ran pell-mell into the lake, forgetting bears could not only out run us, but out swim us, too. At that moment, two horses broke through the forest glade, their riders staring quizzically at the two of us waste deep in the glacial lake.
We stared back, freezing idiots.
I had survived two bears, one real, the other imaginary.