the bear story (part four)

The first fifteen minutes of my purpose circle had a kind of schizophrenic quality, with me switching back and forth between episodes of Deep Appreciation (“Look at those stars! Wow! And the moon! Where would we be without that incredible rock?!) and Extreme Boredom (“99 Bottles of Beer on the wall, 99 Bottles of beer….” ). I’ve always been secretly rather fond of that song, and I felt a little surge of glee at being free to sing it over and over to my heart’s content, hitting the rattles against my knees to keep the tempo.

Now, the next development in things is not something I’m proud of, but then again, we’ve already established that I’m no Black Elk. Using my limited math skills, I attempted to calculate how long it took me to get through one verse, or pass the proverbial bottle around. 15 seconds. That equaled a quarter of a minute, and so, if I rounded up to a hundred verses a song, we were looking at roughly 25 minutes total per round. (I’m still not sure if the math is right, by the way.)

Next, I tossed in an extra five minutes for the time in between each round which I might spend stretching my jaw, swatting mosquitos, or being appreciative, and I was up to 30 minutes a pop. Suddenly, things didn’t look so bleak; all I had to do was sing 14 rounds of “99 Bottles of Beer On the Wall” and my vision quest would be over!

It was nearing three am beer bottle time when I first heard the great crashing noises on the eastern shore.

“Hmmm, local wildlife!!” My Appreciative Voice said eagerly, “What a treat! Think of all those poor saps back in civilization right now, watching their TV’s, while we’re out here really getting to Experience Nature.”

The Appreciative Self and I listened as the noises got louder and louder to the point where whole trees seemed to be coming down.

“Moose!” AV went on. “What a fascinating animal! Think of how LARGE they must be to be making noises like that! Why….”

The moose were in the water now, and moving on a northerly route, judging from the increasingly thunderous bouts of splashes and chomping.

“We’ve never gotten to see a moose UP CLOSE before!” Appreciation crowed, enjoying one last hurrah before Panic and Hypochondria tag-teamed it into submission.

“What in the hell are you doing out here on the BEACH?!” One yelled, while the other accelerated my heart-rate tenfold. “A freaking moose family is headed this way and you’re sitting out in the open with nothing to protect yourself but a hunting knife?! At least get between a couple of trees!”

“I’m waiting for my vision!!” I countered. “I can’t just leave my purpose circle! It would defeat the point of my entire quest. Besides….”

I halted my inner debate for a moment when I realized that the noises had stopped right at the area where I estimated Len’s camp to be.

“Uh oh….” I muttered. “I hope they weren’t too hungry.”

“Len?” I half-whispered, half-called over the lake. “Lennnnn??”

Silence.

“Oh, Jesus God,” Hypochondria growled.

the bear story (part five)

I waited, heart pounding, for what seemed like an eternity before the noises finally picked up again. For a while, it was unclear as to which direction they were going, and, after one particularly long pause, I almost breathed a sigh of relief, thinking the worst was over.

But then I heard a breaking of branches from very close indeed, followed by the unmistakable sound of entrance into the water.

They were coming through the bog.

A million voices went through my head at once, all shouting conflicting directions, and I found myself running toward the noises, into the woods where my tarp was located.

I scrambled to create shelter for myself; after all, Sparrow had told us a story about a dim-witted moose almost walking over him in the darkness. I didn’t want to chance a whole family of them coming upon me, only to startle them at the last second.

So I took a low stance beneath my tarp, crouching with bated breath, but as the noises came closer still I decided to stand between three neighboring trees, pulling my sleeping bag around me for extra protection.

Now all I could do was wait- wait as the noises got louder and louder, came closer and closer… chomping, chewing, loud breathing…

now they had reached the beaver ponds, were bathing themselves from the sound of it… chomp, chew, splash, slurp…

I couldn’t believe that this was actually happening, that I was here, out in the woods, at the farthest possible point away from everyone else on the quest, with my one path to safety being blocked by hungry and rapidly approaching wild animals.

By now they were almost on top of me. I didn’t know what to do.

Make noise? Jump around, flash my light in their eyes? Scream? Pray? Play dead?

I realized I was only 50% sure that they were moose, but right now I didn’t want to consider the other possibilities.

I decided to enact what I felt might be a kind of all-encompassing warding off tactic: I turned on my flashlight, shined it at my feet, and said in a low but firm voice; “I’m right here. Don’t come any closer!”

The chewing stopped for a moment, and I seized the opportunity to be a little more frank, “In fact, please just go away.”

I’d said it. They knew where I stood. For a second I envisioned the environment, the animals and I being in perfect symbiosis; them somehow understanding that I, a sister animal, was temporarily dwelling in this sacred spot, and I needed to be left alone to complete my rite of passage. They had paid me a visit, and now they would respectfully, and swiftly, retreat. Right?

Of course not. The chewing started up again, and moved closer, into the clearing where I had held so many of my half-hearted rituals over the past four days.

That’s about the time that I realized that if it were moose, they would be taller than the bushes that separated me from the clearing. Therefore, I would be able to see their outline in front of the moon.

But I didn’t, which led me to draw several conclusions very quickly. Whatever these things were, they were smaller than a moose, bigger than a beaver, and made as much noise as a Very Large Animal. They were nocturnal. They were feeding on berries. And they weren’t scared of my voice.

I decided to get the hell out of there.