The plan was to creep stealthily through the forest and make a run for it once I reached the swamp, but I tripped over one of the tarp strings and crashed into a tree within the first five seconds of my getaway. Startled, the “things” scampered- SCAMPERED!- back toward the beaver ponds.
“Moose don’t scamper!!!!!” My internal voice bellowed.
I was already high-tailing it through the tall grasses toward the beach, subtlety and sleeping bag abandoned. All that remained for my protection were the hunting knife and rattles, and I was starting to doubt the effectiveness of either in fending off two bears with a case of the munchies.
Shaking, I stood on the beach, brandishing my weapons in either hand while I formulated a loose plan of defense. If it came to it, I could exchange the knife for one of the larger rocks in my purpose circle, but I had no idea whether either one would be effective.
Of course, this was PRECISELY the kind of thing I had asked about in our pre-quest meetings, only to be laughed at by everyone.
“You’ve got less of a chance of being attacked by a bear than being struck by lightning,” had been Sparrow Hart’s response. Typical!
I had a feeling we had already passed the “back away slowly, avoiding eye contact, talking in a low murmur” stage, and that if they came back, they would find me in the fetal position, with hands wrapped tightly around the head. After all, they had heard my voice, seen my light, and knew I was about twice the size of them. What kind of self-respecting bear would come back for more?
“An angry mama bear protecting her cub,” I said to myself, just as a group of branches broke anew. Oh my god. One of them really was coming back. Was this seriously happening to me?
On auto-pilot now, I began making my way along the edge of the shoreline, moving as silently and quickly as I could toward the stepping stones. I was hoping that as the bear went deeper into the tall grasses toward the beach, I could circumvent it and have a clear path to safety.
But it seemed to sense my course of direction, and doubled back into a position midway between me and my intended destination.
I took a tentative step. It rustled forward. I stopped. It stopped.
“This is ridiculous,” I tried to tell myself, not wanting to believe that any moment now I would be forced to deal with Whatever it Was, “There is not seriously a bear in front of me right now. Why, everything sounds larger in the woods! It could be just a chipmunk… or a beaver! Why yes, a cute little buck-toothed beaver, taking a break from his hard work building dams all day, and….”
Just then, from about five feet behind me, came an incredibly well timed SLAP! from a helpful beaver. The thing in front of me snorted.
“BEAVERS DON’T SNORT!!!!!!”
Was the last thing to run screaming through my mind before I turned and leapt into the bog.
It was about seven feet deeper than I had anticipated, and roughly 100 degrees colder. However, the dangers of swimming through a swamp at midnight in the only clothes I had (and after four days without food) seemed insignificant next to the fate that would surely befall me if I stayed put.
Still clutching the hunting knife and rattles for dear life, I flailed, flopped, and floundered over submerged roots and rocks, taking the occasional face-plant when the ground disappeared from under me. I would come up spluttering and gasping for air, then, with a brief whimper, would press on, until at last my knees and belly met with sand.
Using my elbows to hoist myself upwards, I wriggled over dirt and branches and, in a grand finale, crashed heavily into a thicket.
I lay for a moment listening to the sound of my heart approaching the stages of cardiac arrest, and the increasingly faint breaking of branches as whatever-it-was fled into the underbrush.
I had a brief and overwhelming sensation of the Universe doubled over in hysterical laughter, followed by the suspicion that my sole purpose in life was to serve as entertainment for the rest of the cosmos.
Why, this was the most like myself I had felt all week!
“Thanks for my vision, Universe.” I muttered as I squelched up out of the mud. “Very funny.”
Len greatly enjoys telling his version of the story from this point on. His was a saga that began when the two moose who had been frequent guests of his sacred spot stopped by for a good-bye visit. One, exhausted by all the foraging, plunked down directly on the other side of Len’s tent, not more than a foot from where Len was trying to sleep.
(“Fucking moose. I could feel it breathing.” Len said.)
He spent the next hour frozen under his covers and silently pleading that his bedside companion would not roll over, until finally, at about 1:30 am, the moose, with a great sigh, heaved itself onto its feet and rumbled away into the underbrush.
For a while, there was calm. Len cocooned himself under every layer of blanket and clothing available and prayed for dawn. For the story’s sake, however, he maintains that he was praying for a vision, continuing to do his purpose circle within the confines of his sleeping bag.
“Now is the time, Great Spirit,” he mentally intoned, “Show me my purpose, tell me what it is you need from me!”
He did not hear the splash, nor the breaking of bushes, but suddenly, as if from a great distance, he heard a woman’s voice appeal,
“Len….. Len!”
“Yes? Spirit?” He sat up, arms outstretched. “What is my vision?!”
And then he saw it. It had sticks in its hair, rattles in its hand, and was covered from head to toe in mud from the bog.
“Lennnnnn…….” it hyperventilated, teeth chattering violently…. “Hhhhhhelp! Bbuuh-bbuuuh-buh-bear, theres a bear, I fell in muh-mud, Len, help!”
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