A Mauling

It was the summer of 1997.  I was 14 years old and about to become the latest bear mauling statistic in the Sierra Nevada mountain range somewhere in California.  How did I know this?  Well, the growling was a pretty good indicator, I thought.  Low, guttural, slightly rhythmic for some reason, and coming from god knows where.  I was sure hoping he knew, anyway, because I didn’t have a clue.  I was completely alone in pitch- black wilderness, unable to see my own hand in front of my face, close enough to my family’s tent trailer for them to hear my screams and maybe even the crunch of my bones, but too far for them to do anything about it.  I should have paid more attention to those nature documentaries, I thought.  Is a rhythmic, repetitive growl just a warning, or does it mean he’s about to pounce?  Oh my god is it getting closer?  What would Jeff Corwin do in this situation?

I grew up in a camping family.  As much as my mother would tolerate it, anyway.  My parents did their best to cling to a middle- class lifestyle that we probably didn’t belong in, looking back.  We lived in a custom 3- bed, 2 bath home in a quiet central California neighborhood that was often a payment or 2 behind, we drove a 1989 Ford Aerostar we bought brand new that stayed in the family a solid decade after the repairs started to cost more than the vehicle itself, and we enjoyed a landscaped yard with a sparkling pool my dad taught himself to care for in a neighborhood mostly serviced by pool and landscaping professionals. 

Being on such a consistently tight budget, vacationing was simply not a thing our family did, until my dad came home one day with a dusty old used Jayco tent trailer- the kind that folded down neatly for travel, and then popped up to reveal a tiny kitchen and enough beds for the 5 of us plus the family dog, a white and black spotty lab mix named Chrissy.  “Popped” is a misleading word.  It definitely required some force, some sweat, and some profanity.  Also the service of my great- uncle’s Suburban that we borrowed for a few summers in a row.  That Aerostar certainly wasn’t hauling anything at that point in its life. 

I don’t remember exactly where we were this particular summer.  Probably some heavily- wooded campground in Northern California, probably near a lake.  We would toss river rocks into the water and Chrissy would spend an unnervingly long period of time, head completely submerged, searching for that exact rock among the thousands down there.  She was a perfect family dog.  Gentle with all kids, friendly to new people, a bark just loud enough to let someone know she could throw hands if she needed to, and almost never leashed. 

I remember being 14 and absolutely indignant when the forest ranger stopped by our camp site to ask us to put the dog on a leash.  This was not some dog.  This was Chrissy.  And if anyone needed to be on a leash, it was my two younger brothers, not the dog.  But I was a quiet rule- follower, so leashed she stayed for the remainder of the trip.

The ranger also took the opportunity to warn the family about bears.  Keep your food locked up, use the bear- proof trash receptacles, carry bear spray, and remember that the bears in that area are more like overgrown raccoons.  If you accidentally happen upon one, get big and get loud.  Chances are, they’ll run away.  It’s not very likely you’ll see one, he assured us, but it’s important to stay cautious and be prepared.

Later that afternoon, while my mother unpacked dinner, dad channeled his inner caveman and put entirely too much effort into lighting kindling on fire, and the boys threw dirt clods at each other, I decided to take Chrissy on a walk around the campground.  It was a hot day, even in the shade of the massive redwoods, and the camp ground was dusty.  We walked past other families, some in expensive tents and Eddie Bauer gear, some sleeping in the bed of a beat- up pickup with their food packed in an old dented ice chest.  We walked past groups of college- age kids with loud music and cases of Bud Light, and serious hikers clearly preparing for whatever major trail was nearby.  

I was in no hurry to get back to my obnoxious little brothers and bossy, embarrassing parents.  When you’re 14, the last thing you want is to spend time with your family.  You yearn for freedom and independence, and nothing bad can happen to you.  Especially in the middle of the afternoon, in a busy campground, with Chrissy by your side.  Until you have to pee.  

The restrooms in this particular campground, if you could call them that, were little more than plastic stools mounted over holes in the ground inside of a tiny shed.  Because of the regularly replenished source of organic matter, an entire ecosystem flourished inside these tiny buildings.  Flies hung out for the all- you- can- eat poop buffet.  Spiders of all varieties set up entire communities because of the ever- present population of flies.  Even lizards, typically quick to retreat to the nearest hiding spot, were content to wait patiently in a corner for you to finish your business and get out so they could continue their meal.  And Chrissy would have nothing to do with it.

I took a few steps toward the unintentional testament toward California’s biodiversity and immediately felt Chrissy pull at her leash.  She looked up at me, her brown eyes wide with confusion.  “C’mon, Chrissy, we’re going in.”  I really had to go.  I pulled gently on the leash.  She dug her claws into the dirt and would not budge.  Like a stubborn mule, but one whose sense of smell was thousands of times stronger than my own and could probably identify what the last depositor ate for lunch.

This stupid dog.  I have to pee.  It’ll take 30 seconds.  She dug her claws in and leaned away from the the putrid building.  I dug the toes of my tennis shoes in and pulled her closer.  “Chrissy, come!”  I yanked on the leash.  She dug in harder, her front paws buried half an inch into the dirt, hind end in the air.  I would not lose to a 60 lb dog.  And the more we struggled, the more of an emergency my bathroom visit was becoming.  Hoping I could just get her close enough to tether her to something while I was inside, I gave one last big tug.  Pop!  Out she slipped from her nylon collar, and was 40 feet down the road in an instant.

I panicked.  Yes, she was usually very well- behaved and stayed close off- leash, but she wanted to get as far away as possible from this reeking place, and I couldn’t blame her.  What if she decided to dart off into the woods?  Plus, I could tell she was holding a little bit of a grudge after our fight.  She shot one last look of betrayal back in my direction before she followed the road straight back to the family camp site.  I trailed behind just to make sure she got back safely, and then bolted back to the glorified hole- in- the- ground, just in time.  Mostly.

Late that night, I woke up inside the tent trailer.  Everyone was asleep.  Chrissy had forgiven me and was curled up between me and the fiberglass wall.  I didn’t know what time it was.  There were no clocks in the trailer, and I didn’t bring a watch.  What I did know is that it was dark, and I had to pee again.  I shouldn’t drink so much water before bed, I thought, annoyed at myself.  I squirmed.  I could hear the deep, rhythmic breathing of the rest of the family, all sleeping soundly on their 4” foam mattresses.  Chrissy snored softly.  My dad snored like a choking walrus.  

I closed my eyes tightly and prayed for it to go away.  No such luck.  A few minutes passed.  It had to be close to dawn.  Maybe I could wait it out.  A few more minutes proved that indeed, I could not wait until dawn.  I sat up and peered out of the frosted slat glass window.  Outside it was pitch black and silent.  Even the college kids had passed out.  Sitting up on my little platform bed, I considered one last time waiting it out.  

Nope.  I have to go now.

Gingerly, I pulled the heavy wool blanket off and set my bare feet on the linoleum floor.  Chrissy grunted, making known her displeasure at being disturbed.  I considered for a moment grabbing her leash and taking her with me, but the events of the afternoon echoed in my head.  Absolutely not.  I did not want to risk her to slipping out of her collar again and tearing through the pitch black woods to get away from the stinky toilets.

I pulled the latch to the trailer door and peeked outside.  I should just pee by a tree, I thought, as a cool cedar- scented breeze hit my face.  But this was just the first night at this camp site, and I couldn’t remember how close our neighbors were.  It was so dark out, if I popped a squat somewhere, I genuinely did not know if I was going to be safe behind a tree somewhere or right on top of a neighboring campsite’s Eddie Bauer polycro ground cloth.  Right at that moment, face stuck out of the door of the family tent trailer into the pitch black Sierra Nevada night, absolutely nothing was more terrifying to me than the possibility of someone walking up on me behind a tree with my pants around my ankles.  

I looked back at Chrissy, who was already sound asleep again, now stretched perpendicularly across the bed.  “Dumb dog,” I whispered as I slipped on my sandals and took a step outside.  Pine needles and gravel crunched under my feet.  I silently closed the door behind me and looked around.  Maybe it was a moonless night.  Maybe clouds had rolled in.  Maybe the tree cover was too dense.  Whatever the reason, outside was a darkness I had not experienced before.  

Again I contemplated handling business right there.  Take a few steps away, do my thing, immediately go back into the safety of the dusty tent trailer with my snoring family and useless dog.  But it was so absolutely dark that wild things started to fly through my head.  What if I squatted onto a splintery stump?  What if I stepped on an unfortunate nocturnal creature?  What if I back into a bear?  Oddly, never once did it occur to me to wake somebody up and ask for a flashlight.  Truly, who can decipher the confounding corners of the mind of a 14- year- old.

That’s when I remembered that the bathrooms were located in the opposite direction.  I’d have to go around to the other side of the trailer to even find out if I could see them.  Taking very high, deliberate steps, and keeping my right hand on the trailer for support, I walked around to the other side, breathing slowly and deliberately, trying to remember all the tips the ranger had left us with about bear encounters.  He didn’t mention anything about rabid raccoons or the restless spirits from all of those ghost stories we always told each other.

Rounding the corner, I finally saw them.  In all their glory, lit up like a beacon of love and light, hope and relief.  Oh, this will be easy.  They’re not that far away.  The fluorescent flood light mounted to the roof of one of the decrepit outhouses displayed a broad, clear path directly to the toilets.  Well, about eight feet of that path, but I could make it that far with my theatrically high steps in worn- out rubber flip flops.  Easy.

I tiptoed like a bank robber in a silent film until I found myself awash in that glorious fluorescent glow, and also spitting out gnats.  Surprisingly, the toilets were even more of an ecological hotspot at night, the floodlights drawing all manner of mountain- dwelling flying insect from miles away like gaudy Las Vegas lights luring diners to a tacky self- serve buffet.  I didn’t care.  I swatted the clouds away from my face, opened the door, and sprinted to that glorified hole- in- the- ground in no more than two steps.  I’ve never been so happy to sit on a cracking plastic horseshoe- shaped seat mounted precariously over mass quantities of human refuse, awash in the sickly goldenrod glow of a light fixture installed by the National Park Service some time in the 1960’s.  

While I was tempted to bask for a while in the sheer delight of relief, I quickly was yanked back to reality by two things making their way concurrently up my nose:  a gnat, and the stink.  Pants pulled up, I muttered a word of gratitude to the deplorable building, and stepped outside to take a big breath of cool nighttime mountain air.  Right at that moment, two more things hit me at the same time.  First, the beautiful fresh air, even more enjoyable now that my bladder wasn’t screaming at me.  A2nd then at the same time, a sinking realization that I had no idea how to get back to the tent trailer in the absolute pitch black.  There was no light on the trailer to guide me back.  I was so focused on the elation of seeing the light on the restrooms that I hadn’t considered how I’d find my way back.  Shit.  What direction did I come from?  How many paces had I taken to get from the trailer to the toilets?  And why in god’s name is it still so dark??

I stood there for a moment, swatting gnats away from my face in the glow of the fluorescent floodlight brainstorming ideas on how to make it through this ridiculous predicament.  One:  I can stand here until I begin to see any tiny sliver of morning light, and make my way back.  I had sat in my bed for so long willing the sensation away that it had to be close to dawn at this point.  I thought it through.  No way.  I’d rather get eaten by a bear than hang out by the toilets in a cloud of gnats for an indefinite period of time.  Two:  I can call for help.  Also, immediately no.  As terrible as a night in the company of gnats with no sense of personal boundary sounded, being embarrassed like that sounded infinitely worse.  Again, I’ll take the bear.  Three:  I walk blindly through the pitch- black, apex predator- inhabited Sierra Nevada wilderness in a direction that may or may not be towards my sleeping family and hope for the best.  Obviously, I went for the third option.  A gentle reminder to the reader at this point, I was 14.

I took a breath.  I am strong.  I am smart.  I can do this.  Precisely three gingerly- taken steps onto the crunchy gravel and out of the safety of the fluorescent glow plunged me startlingly quickly into utter darkness.  Something brushed my face.  I instinctively put my forearms over my head and froze.  An animal?  An insect?  No, just a tree.  Ok, two steps into the abyss.  That’s progress.  I waved my hand in front of my face.  I saw nothing.  I could be walking directly into a tree and not have a clue.  I kept one forearm up and the other hand a few inches away from my face.  I continued.  Cedars brushed my arms and the occasional twig dragged along my scalp like so many witch’s fingers.  Unnerving as the sensations were, what began to concern me most was the fact that I did not remember having walked through such dense foliage to get to the toilets.  I bet I am headed directly into a neighbor’s tent, I thought.  That would be completely mortifying.  My absolute biggest fear.  I stopped again, assessing the situation.  It was certainly too late to go back.  Deep breath.  I began to take very intentional steps.  Feet high enough that I didn’t trip on a rock or a root or a neighbor’s tent tie, low enough so I didn’t step on… whatever else was lurking out there, creeping along the forest floor.

I continued shuffling through the brush and foliage like some kind of blind village outcast when I heard something.  I froze and listened.  Silence.  I took a step.  There it was again.  What could that be?  Was it close?  There it was again.  A rumble.  No, a growl.  Oh dear god, a bear.  I’ve stumbled upon a bear.  It’s somewhere close and it’s warning me.  I regretted ever suggesting that being seen squatting with my pants around my ankles behind a tree was my biggest fear… kind of.  I froze again, fully preparing to be mauled at any second.  What would I feel first, teeth or claws?  Bristly fur?  What would he smell like?  With any luck I’d get immediately knocked out and he could finish the job with me out cold.  What did that ranger say?  Get big and loud.  I couldn’t bring myself to yell.  I was paralyzed.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that the light from the toilets could guide me directly to safety, but they were some paces away.  I knew I couldn’t outrun a bear.  And it was still pitch black.  I could knock myself out on a tree limb before I even got close!  Breathe.  Don’t panic.  Sing?  I could sing.  I didn’t know if that would scare him away or somehow communicate that I meant no harm, but standing frozen in a pitch black forest listening to a bear growl for hours seemed like an impossibility.

I took a breath and began to croak out the first thing that came to mind, an old hymn from church.  “When peace like a river attendeth my way…”  Brace for impact.  Breathe.  Listen.  Rumble.  He’s still there.  “When sorrows like sea billows roll…” A little louder this time.  Breathe.  Listen.  Rumble.  “Whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say…”  Breathe.  Listen.  Rumble.  “It is well…”  Rumble.  “It is well with my soul.”  Rumble.  Maybe he didn’t like that song, but he definitely wasn’t getting any closer and he didn’t sound any more agitated.  I began to reflect on my life.  If 14 years was all I got, it was a good 14 years.  Maybe he’d drag me away so my family and the other campers wouldn’t have to see the carnage when they woke up in the morning.  And then, I began to get annoyed.  Impatient.  If he’s going to pounce, what’s taking him so long?

With gusto, I launched into the chorus, taking high steps over the brush with my hands in front of my face blocking the trees.  

“It is well (it is well)

With my soul (with my soul)

It is well, it is well with my soul!”

The growl continued exactly as it had for the previous few minutes.  Impatience slowly replaced sheer terror and as the adrenaline was replaced with general teenage irritability, I began to consider the possibility that this rumbling noise was not, in fact, coming from a bear.  So what was this?  Definitely not a raccoon, rabid or not.  A wolverine?  Do we even have wolverines in the Sierra Nevadas?  Opossums are quiet, I think… What it really sounded like was a choking walrus.

A choking walrus.  My dad.

I dropped my hands to my sides and stood up straight in the blackness.  “Are you kidding me?” I said out loud, to no one in particular.  I stilled my breath to listen intently.  There it continued, low, rumbling, rhythmic.  My father snoring and absolutely nothing else.  No breeze blowing through the trees, no rustling of nocturnal creatures, no footsteps of restless woodland spooks coming to exact some kind of revenge, and thankfully, no neighboring campers coming out to see what idiot was singing hymns at midnight in the woods.  Just Dad.

Experiencing a most uncomfortable combination of being relieved, embarrassed, and wildly annoyed, the rhythmic, rumbling growl now became my guide home.  Fifteen degrees to the right, two steps in total blackness, I was out of the touchy- feely cedars and bony witch fingers and onto a clear path.  I continued to follow the rumble for not more than twenty paces, and found myself running quite literally into the army green canvas of my family’s tent trailer, choking walrus father snoring away inside.

I walked around the trailer, felt blindly for the door latch and burst inside to realize that not a single person in my sleeping family cared how close I had just come to being mauled by a bear.  Least of which, Chrissy, who grunted at being awoken for a second time that night.

“Shut up, you dumb dog,” I told her.  “And move over.”  I settled back into bed and pulled the heavy wool blanket up over my shoulders just as the pre- dawn light began to seep in through the window.