My love for nature was of parental design. I was raised in a household with a strict proscription of classic children’s entertainment; even saying the word SpongeBob was taboo. My parents had convinced me that all our TV had to offer were BBC nature programs and the show Vikings. By age six, I had developed an emotional attachment to David Attenborough, refusing to watch anything nature-related without his soothing narration and iconic British idiolect. Unlike David’s fascination with monkeys, I was enthralled with bears. In third grade, I was gifted a comically large binder containing a wide array of predatory mammals. Each page listed the given animal’s hunting methods, habitats, food sources, and had a short summary at the bottom. One page had been moved to the very front:
“The North American black bear (Ursus americanus) is a medium-sized omnivorous mammal native to forests across North America, known especially for its adaptability. Human encroachment on bear habitat has encouraged bears to eat human trash and food. Do NOT approach bears, as they can become unpredictable and dangerous when threatened or cornered.”
***
It was my ninth birthday, and my dad was taking me and my best friend Aiden to Lassen National Forest for a backpacking trip.
“Get outta my jerky!” my dad barked from the driver’s seat.
Aiden had stealthily snatched a packet of alligator jerky from his backpack and was rationing it between the three of us, Lorna the dog completing the trio. Aiden was, as my dad called him, “a little shit,” and my parents rarely humored my requests to bring him anywhere, but my birthday was an exception. I always thought of my dad as the definition of level-headed, but when Aiden was around, he could lose his cool ten times in five minutes. Aiden didn’t like to poke the bear; he liked to stab it with a burning hot stick.
“I swear, if I notice any more missing food when we’re on the trail, you guys will be cooking for yourselves.”
This struck fear into Aiden. The last time he had access to a stove, he spilled a pot of boiling water on his groin while trying to make Jell-O. We took our first bite of jerky and realized that cranberry garlic alligator flavor was definitely an acquired taste. We both regurgitated it and hucked it at Lorna, who caught both pieces in one swift motion. The GPS display showed two more hours of driving, so I rested my head on my pillow and drifted into sleep.
I woke the next morning to Lorna’s slimy tongue attempting to part my lips, searching for lingering bits of jerky. I was hesitant to leave the warmth of my sleeping bag, but the thought of steel-cut oats with more than enough maple syrup gave me the motivation I needed. I had a ritual of leaving my bear-themed onesie at the bottom of my sleeping bag to help with morning transitions such as these. I slipped on my preheated suit and rolled out of the loft into the van’s cabin. Outside, my dad’s prized travel stove sat on a stump, a pot of oats bubbling over its flame. Aiden climbed down after me, making sure to keep his distance from the kitchenware as my dad prepared our food. Once we got our bowls, we hopped out of the van and sat on the pine duff. In a rare moment of 9-year-old tranquility, we noticed our hot breath blending with the steam rising from the oats, and we sat in enchantment as the mixture waltzed around in the crisp morning air. After breakfast, we changed into our hiking clothes, threw on our packs, and with that, the adventure began.
The pace was painstakingly slow. My dad glanced at his Garmin watch.
“A whopping one mile an hour,” he said, glaring at the little boy dragging his feet behind us.
“How close are we?” Aiden whined.
My dad replied with his signature line: “Closer than we’ve ever been.”
After three lunch breaks and innumerable snack breaks, we finally made it to Emerald Lake. Dinner came and went, and then my dad tasked Aiden and me with putting up the bear bag. He handed us a rock, a string, an almost-dead headlamp, and three bags of food.
“We should just climb the tree and put the bags up there,” Aiden suggested.
I stared at him, bewildered. How could he not know that North American black bears can climb trees at remarkable speed? I had watched my dad hang bear bags before; the first step was tying the string to the rock. As simple as it sounded, it took thirty minutes of intense focus to form a knot-like amalgamation around the rock, and another fifteen to get it over a branch. We clipped the bags to the string and began hoisting them up. Aiden held the line as I tried to tie it around a tree. Thinking it would be funny, he let go. The string whipped out of my hands, and the three bags crashed to the ground.
“Why would you do something like that!” I screamed.
Aiden smirked. I bent down and discovered a wet, oily patch on the bottom of the bags. I ran my finger through the liquid and gave it a taste.
“Sardine juice,” I resolved.
It would’ve been a good thing to tell my dad, but my sleeping bag was calling me. We restrung the bags and went to bed.
“Theo. Theo! Wake up!”
I opened my eyes to see my dad crouched in the tent, concern etched on his face.
“There’s something outside our tent. You stay with Lorna. I’m gonna check it out.”
Still half-asleep, I nodded and slumped back onto my pillow. Then it hit me.
“Aiden, get up! Aiden, it’s a bear! The juice attracted a bear!”
Aiden opened his eyes and instantly freaked out.
“I have a Z-bar in my pillow, and a bag of chocolate almonds in my bag!”
This was bad news for our nine-year-old brains. The thought of a hungry bear mauling Aiden over a Z-bar flashed instantly in both our minds. Outside, the sound of clanging pots echoed through the forest.
“Go away, bear! Go bear!” my dad’s voice rang out through the silent forest.
My suspicions were confirmed. I opened the flap of the tent, using my free hand to keep Lorna from darting out. I turned around and caught a glimpse of a sizable black bear scaling the tree we had tied the rope to, unfazed by the human banging silverware below.
But as I watched, my fear dissolved into fascination. The bear balanced on the small sapling, located the string, and sliced it with a single, graceful swing of its paw. The bags dropped to the forest floor. It ambled down and began clawing at the bags with a strange, furless paw.
“That’s our cue to get out of here,” my dad said, turning back toward the tent.
He beckoned Aiden to pack his things, but I stayed and watched. Maybe it was my youthful imagination, but as the bear sat back on its haunches and devoured a package of dried mango, our gazes met. It was a gaze so incredibly inhuman, yet so equal to mine in every way.
The moment was broken by Lorna’s deep bark. The bear seemed to realize that three humans and a dog might be a little more of a threat than it had previously thought. It gently pushed all three bags together with its paws, grasped them with its mouth, and sauntered calmly back into the forest.
“Theo, get moving. Your buddy might be next if we’re still here by the time it’s done eating,” my dad called, smirking as Aiden’s legs began to shake.
I packed my bag, and we hiked out. The rangers’ station was full of bear-themed décor, a life-size model greeting us at the door.
“So, what did it look like? Any traits that stood out?”
“Um… one of its paws didn’t have fur,” I answered.
The ranger scribbled something on a clipboard.
“Yeah, we’ve been tracking that bear for a while. Seems she’s pretty habituated to human interaction at this point. Think it’s time to put her down.”
My heart sank. The sculpture of Smokey the Bear glared at me from across the room, disapproval radiating from his glossy eyes. In an attempt to reason with the ranger, I began regurgitating bear facts: “Bears are opportunistic feeders. It was in her nature!”
She let out a little chuckle, amused by my expertise. “I know it’s not fair, but visitor safety is our top priority. We need to keep you guys safe out there,” she said with a friendly smile. I imagine she thought this would cheer me up. Instead, it sent me into a hot rage.
“You crazy lady, you don’t deserve to be a ranger. I hate you!” I burst through the doors of the station and ran, wiping tears from my eyes.
Aiden tried to cheer me up on the drive home, but I ignored him. All I could do was contemplate how disappointed David Attenborough would be with me, and rub my tearful eyes. Thoughts of the bear encounter swirled in my head, but as the drive continued, my thoughts evolved into dreams, and I drifted into sleep.
***
After the trip, I resumed my nine-year-old life, and over time, this experience took a back seat in my mind. Aiden moved away in the summer of fifth grade, and Lorna grew old, passing away just a few months later. Two summers ago, my dad and I decided to take another trip to Lassen. This time around, there was no Aiden to steal my dad’s food, and no Lorna to catch unwanted strips of jerky. The trek took half as long, but the forest’s enchantment was as strong as when I had first felt it. We found the same little spot right on the lake and set up camp. I gazed out at the forest and closed my eyes. I imagined her as she walked away into the trees, and I followed. A few hundred yards from our camp lay the buried relics of our past trip, the brightly colored food bags almost invisible under the layers of pine and earth. I dug through the artifacts and found something more than trash: a sardine can, covered in dirt and scarred with claw marks.
I still have that can; it sits on my shelf collecting dust. I keep it as a tribute to the gaze that I met in the forest that day. Honest eyes, ruled by nature alone, that roamed the earth with an untamed grace. It serves me as a beacon, guiding me back to a holistic place that lives behind the veil of our manufactured world. When I look in the mirror and meet my own gaze, I remind myself that we humans too easily lose ourselves in these concrete jungles. Our vision is clouded and suffocating, unworthy of the world we claim to rule.
