They say that if you see a bear, you should speak these words: “Hey, Bear.”
Speak, not shout, in an even tone. A greeting with a message on its back: I’m human. Avoid Me. You already know that.
They say that if a bear is thirty feet away, it’s already too late. Better to keep your distance, sixty feet or greater. Once a bear starts coming, you won’t outrun it. You won’t climb a tree — or, you might, but a bear will just climb right up after you. You don’t want to hear the sound a bear’s claws make cutting into rough brown bark.
They say, What are you doing in the forest, alone, in bear country? They say, Don’t you know it’s mating season? Go ahead and ignore the first part. You’re already there, among the damp curling fingers of ferns and the odor of fallen leaves becoming dirt between trees. You didn’t have a choice when it came to that. As for the second, you could point out that they say mating season is the most dangerous time, when a bear is extremely territorial, but they also say that the period just before hibernation presents the strongest possibility for violence. A bear has to fatten itself before dropping its heart rate to only twenty beats per minute, or it may never wake up. You could say all of this, could note the contradicting theories, the size of what’s unknown. But a bear doesn’t quibble.
They say you could punch a bear in the nose, to stun it. A bear’s nose is wet and very sensitive, soft like a rose petal. They say you could spray it with peppery bear repellant, though you might wind up temporarily blind in the process. You could play dead. You could shoot it, but — maybe not. They say guns are expensive and making bullets requires cooperation. They say, Personal responsibility. There is quite a bit of complexity to confront when facing a bear.
They say a bear is mostly an issue in other parts of the world. They say, Why is it our problem?, though they can see a bear up the path as clearly as you can. Can smell it, even. Musky shoulder blades rising and falling as it pads. Huffed exhalations of sweet-scented sedges and starchy glacier lily bulbs.
They say a bear often feels closer than it actually is, though there’s danger at any distance. They say a bear isn’t charging as fast as you think. They say, let a bear have a human meal or two or maybe more. They say most people will hardly notice.
They say a bear isn’t even real. Or, at least, they don’t all agree that it is. Or, at least, they don’t think it was their fault, you stumbling between a hulking mother and her cubs. You wandering a game trail mistaken for a hiking path. You stepping into the dry pine needle carpeted den, the pile of half-chewed salmon heads, silvery scales glinting against the dusk. They say a bear is most active at dusk and dawn, and the sun always seems to be rising or setting these days.
The words themselves aren’t special, no curse to conjure. But the words are simple, easy to remember under stress. They say to back away slowly and at an angle, to keep your eyes on a bear. They say to prepare your children for a future with a bear that’s always near. They say the words might help, or maybe the words are only to keep you calm. They say that’s a kind of help. They say a bear isn’t here yet. But you can smell it. You can see the dark stains on its pointed teeth. You can feel the humid lap of its tongue.
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