It was nearing five o'clock, which is on the late – meaning dusky – side of things in the great outdoors, but my sister and I had been sitting in our cramped blue Saturn for at least seven hours that day and we needed to stretch our legs in a slightly more athletic fashion than is possible lying in a sleeping bag, so after we pitched the tent we took out our free Glacier National Park map and searched desperately for the nearest hiking trail.
We found a short one, about two and a half miles long, that was a walkable distance from our campsite. This was an incredible blessing, as my cynical side cannot fathom anything more ludicrous than driving somewhere so you can walk when you get there and my sister, Evie, doesn’t appreciate cynical insights. I was all for doubletiming our usual pace and doing the whole trail that night, which would have left us finishing just as the stars started to peek through the navy glass of a darkening sky. Evie, however, eying the abundant "Warning: Bears!" signs did not agree. Before we had hiked half a mile she was using every approach but her words to suggest we turn around immediately.
I also had a healthy fear of bears, so I talked incessantly, incessancy not being something I am fond of, much less known for. I noted that we were on a hairpin trail and defined the term explicitly, immediately moving on to extrapolate on the beauty of the trail, trees and river with every combination of “awesome”, “cool” and “gorgeous” I could. Almost every word or idea that passed through my mind also passed through my lips, loudly. I kept waiting for the conversation to become two-sided, but Evie's bear-repulsion method was sulking in the hopes of turning around.
As we came to another turn and I veered left to stay on the path my words suddenly dissolved on my tongue and I immediately began backpedaling, completely forgetting to finish explaining my theory on whether or not a civilization exterior to our own would be capable of accurately understanding the purpose of our highway systems or billboards. A sizable brown mass in the center of the trail sat unmoving approximately twenty feet from us, making my life, before a given, suddenly infinitely more important than alien anthropology.
A sudden guffaw tore out of my throat. It was a dead tree. Nonetheless, heart still racing and face still flushed, I decided to finally acknowledge my sister's persistent nonverbals and another quarter mile up the trail we turned around so we would get back to camp while the sun was still up.
The next morning we repacked and drove through the park, stopping occasionally to enjoy summer snow or a glacial stream, the colors of which were such a stunning turquoise that the only accurate comparison would be to the ocean waters unique to beach resorts known for their fine white sand and tendency to fence themselves off from impoverished locals. One of our first stops was a short, touristy trail to a waterfall.
Evie, being a morning person, tried to keep up a steady stream of words or song, and whenever we lapsed into a silence she would shout "Ay yi yi!" to fend off any nearby bears. I led briskly, excited to see the waterfall and to be on a hike for which there was mutual excitement. Evie had just let out a rather weak "Ay yi yi!" when we rounded a corner and I felt my body turn rigid through no control of my own. My eyes widened, disbelieving, trying unsuccessfully to turn the massive grizzly bear ten feet up the path into a dead tree. Its head turned slightly and two small points of sunlight reflected off its eyes from where they were nestled deep in its thick, ragged fur.
Oblivious, Evie caught up to me and tried to continue walking forward as I began taking unconscious, self-preservationist steps backwards. As we collided I tripped over a rock in the middle of the path and fell to the dirt. I could sense Evie looking up the path as she helped me to my feet and the adrenaline suddenly burst into my veins screaming that this was the time for flight; none of that pansy, ranger-mandated quiet backing away nonsense, either. I had fallen to the ground and proved myself prey to the bear. Now my only choice was to run like the prey it thought I was and win the race for my limbs and unscarred skin.
Luckily, by the time Evie got me to my feet she had me in such a vice grip that I couldn't have run if I tried. She pushed me down the trail in the direction from which we had come and, looking over her shoulder, whispered, “It’s moving up the trail.”
My body seized impulsively, like a runner’s in the moment the starting gun fires, the body ordering the mind to let it run. Evie’s grip tightened and I noted the hill to our right, figuring that if the bear started running, not just walking up the trail, I could throw myself down and roll through the rocks, bushes and small trees, land in that freezing glacial river and doggypaddle my way to safety. Bruises, cuts and hypothermia wouldn’t matter so long as no mauling occurred.
Eventually we got far enough away from the bear that I was able to slowly turn and see the empty trail behind us. The three or four seconds in which I saw the bear and fell to the ground replayed in my mind constantly that day, until, like a movie on an old VHS, the memory almost became fuzzy in its detail, blurred by my constant attention. We were told that grizzlies are marvelous swimmers, so my river plan had been a bad one, and a ranger said we were lucky to have seen a grizzly in real life and close up. I almost disagreed. Never in my life had I been so consumed by fear or certainty of death. Never in my life had I been more aware of each moment of my life as it slipped by, moment by excruciatingly glorious moment.
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