The Bear Incident (fictional story)

 

[NOTE: This story is not true. It is entirely fictional, and beyond that, I made the whole thing up]

The Bear Incident: A Solo Camping Adventure That Went Horribly, Hilariously Wrong

So there I was, channeling my inner Les Stroud (minus the survival skills, physical fitness, and basic common sense), embarking on what I had confidently described to my wife as a "solo wilderness adventure." This is the same woman who once watched me struggle for twenty minutes to open a jar of pickles, so naturally, she responded with the kind of supportive enthusiasm typically reserved for watching someone attempt to juggle flaming chainsaws while riding a unicycle.

"You're going camping," she said. "Alone. In bear country?"

"It's called communing with nature," I replied, loading my SUV with enough gear to supply a small military expedition. Because nothing says "rugged outdoorsman" like seventeen different types of camp chairs and a portable espresso machine.

The first sign that this trip had the potential for legendary disaster status came when I realized I had packed food that was, in retrospect, a gathering of items that might as well have been labeled "BEAR BAIT: PREMIUM SELECTION." We're talking honey-glazed ham, maple syrup pancake mix, and enough bacon to make a vegetarian weep with conflicted desire. It was a delicious menu of items that made my mouth water, and would function similarly for any bear on Earth, especially the super huge and desperately hungry ones.

I set up camp in what the guidebook optimistically called a "pristine wilderness setting," which is outdoor-speak for "the middle of absolutely nowhere, where your cell phone has about as much signal as a mime at a heavy metal concert." My tent – a marvel of modern engineering that claimed to be "bear-resistant" (a term I would later learn is roughly equivalent to calling a paper airplane "missile-resistant") – went up with only moderate cursing and three complete do-overs.

That's when I met Bruno.

Now, I don't actually know if the bear's name was Bruno, but he had the kind of presence that demanded a name, preferably something that sounded like a nightclub bouncer from New Jersey. Bruno emerged from the woods with the casual confidence of someone who had just received an engraved invitation to an all-you-can-eat buffet.

He was enormous. I'm talking Volkswagen Beetle with fur and an attitude problem enormous. And he was staring at my cooler with the kind of focused intensity a teenage boy reserves for pizza.

"Shoo!" I said, because apparently my brain had temporarily reverted to the intellectual capacity of a newel post. "Go away! Bad bear!"

Bruno looked at me with what I can only describe as amused contempt, then proceeded to demonstrate why they don't make coolers with bear-proof locks as a standard feature. Watching a 400-pound bear open a cooler is like watching a toddler open a juice box – there's a lot of fumbling around, some frustrated grunting, and then suddenly everything explodes everywhere.

My beautiful honey-glazed ham went flying through the air like a delicious, spiral-thrown football. The maple syrup bottle exploded against a tree, creating what looked like a crime scene from a pancake murder mystery. Bruno, meanwhile, was having the time of his life, making sounds that I can only describe as "bear laughter."

That's when I made my first tactical error. I decided to defend my territory.

"HEY!" I shouted, waving my arms like an inflatable tube man at a used car lot. —“That is MY bacon!” I finished, with the moral authority of a man who had already lost every possible negotiation.

There was a pause.

Bruno looked at me. I looked at Bruno. Somewhere in the distance, a bird made a noise that sounded suspiciously like, “Oh no.”

Then Bruno did something I will never forget as long as I live, or at least as long as I continue to pay off the therapy bills: he picked up an entire package of bacon, held it delicately between two claws, and sat down.

Not in a threatening way. Not in an aggressive way.

In a picnic way.

He sat.

He looked at me.

And then—this is the part that haunts me—he gestured. Not with menace, but with what can only be described as polite expectation. A small, courteous wave of the paw. The universal sign for: “Well? Are you going to join me or not?”

At this point, I would like to tell you that I stood my ground as a proud representative of the human species. That I asserted dominance. That I deployed sophisticated wilderness survival strategies learned from years of watching television.

What I actually did was sit down.

Because when a 400-pound bear invites you to a bacon-based social gathering, you do not decline. You attend. Promptly.

So there we were: Bruno and I, two mammals from very different walks of life (and sizes), sharing a quiet meal in the woods. He handled the ham. I stuck to the items that had not yet been drooled on, which narrowed my options to approximately one slightly dented granola bar and a deep sense of regret.

We ate in silence for a while.

At one point, Bruno let out a satisfied grunt, lay back slightly, and placed a syrup-coated paw on his stomach in the universal gesture of “that hit the spot.” Then he looked at me again—long, contemplative—and I swear on everything I hold dear, he gave a slow nod. The kind of nod you give someone when you respect them. Or at least their snack choices.

And then he stood up, ambled back toward the woods, and disappeared—taking with him my dignity, my provisions, and approximately $300 worth of artisanal camping cuisine.

I, meanwhile, remained seated, sticky, stunned, and now technically the proud owner of the world’s most expensive, least effective outdoor dining experience.

Later, when I returned home—smelling faintly of maple syrup and poor decisions—my wife asked, “So, how was your ‘wilderness adventure’?”

I considered telling her the truth: that I had bonded with nature, faced my fears, and shared a meal with a creature of immense power and surprisingly good table manners.

Instead, I said, “We’re going to need a new cooler.”

And possibly a pet bear.

Because honestly, he was better company than some people I know.