It's been over six years since I've made my way back to the island that I wrote the following story, but this coming Sunday I will be traveling back there, this time I will have company though---Julie. This time it's May so the bears are probably just getting out and about after the winter. The weather looks about the same as it was the last time I visited, and I'm looking forward to getting away from the city.
A Tale
of a Paranoid Existentialist trying to be a Mountain Man
Well, the start of my trip was doubtful: I
needed new tires on my Jeep and it began raining— not a very safe situation on
the interstate. I finally arrive at Madeline
Island after a long, wet journey. I set
up my tent at Big Bay Town Park; there were only two other campers there. I ran into one of the campers on the beach,
and he told me that bears normally stay in the bog area... call me stupid, but
my tent is right next to the "bog area," and besides, winter is
approaching and bears are scurrying for what could be their last meal until the
following year.
That night I decided to check out Tom's Burn-down
Cafe. Talk about character and
characters, that place was like a circus— a limbo between hell and some
burned-out head gathering— great Celtic music though. After a beer I headed back to my tent;
incidentally seeing two owls cross my path.
Owls in Native America tradition are signs of sickness or death—great I
thought!
I made it through the night on that cold ground of stone and awoke the next morning with some oatmeal and hot tea. The day was going great; I went for a hike, but then it started raining and got very wet—on the verge of sick. The other campers left, and I was all alone up there. I went down to the beach and climbed a pine to just watch the waves crashing in: very calming. At one point I thought I might fall out of the tree and break my back, leaving me to die of hypothermia or just bear food. I headed back to my tent. Night fell. I started a fire and got in my tent, weary of any noises that I heard. Then, it began raining—pouring heavens like you see on some horror movie— and my fire was extinguished, so I wasn’t able to make out if anything was walking up on me. I remembered earlier in the day I had read a little comic strip from the local Gazette, which had a bear in someone's house watching their TV and eating their food: "please lock your doors, you don't want any unwelcome visitors.” Well, I didn't have a TV and the only food was me. I decided I needed a smoke so I went to my Jeep, and this is what I wrote:
I'm sitting in my Jeep— petrified gut bear
massacre feeling— it is raining and has been since I've arrived on this
island. Existentialism, more like
executionism, all the pieces are in place except me in my tent. I'm not sure what I'm more afraid of, my
uncertainty or some bear lurking around in the dark void of noises. I feel like a child trying to sleep after
seeing their first horror movie. I was
alone, scared, cold, almost out of gas, wet, and had a jar of peanut butter in
the back of my Jeep sure enough to entice those cold, alone, instinct driven
meat chompers, to go "French style" before having their manly filet.
It's
not that I'm safer in this tent on wheels, it's just soothing to this manic
conscience of mine. If only I could
sleep this nightmare thru to the end, I'd read a book on bears, learn their
habits, and for the ones that don't fit the profile, retire my AK-47 bayonet
knife with the purchase of a Winchester, and a light source that needs more
than two AA Duracell. I'm going crazy.
I was willing to give it the benefit over my trepidation; but, fifteen minutes later, still in my Jeep, preparing to go to my tent, I was listening outside and there, 20 yards from me, I heard something knock the trash can. Immediately I turned my flashlight on to see, and there in the darkness, glowing-devil-eye-level-eyes peering back at me. My heart became in rhythm with the rain drops. I didn't run though. I wanted to get a picture, but my camera was in the tent—shit! I waited around, but all I could think was that the bear was making its way around— subterfuge like—to hit me from behind. I got the hell outta there, hoping I wouldn't run out of gas on my way back into the only open bar in town— vodka and PBR to calm my nerves. "Better safe than sorry," the bartender said. Better drunk than dead I think.
