One Woman's Gaping Maw

A Variation on a Bear

Have you ever longed to see a bear in the wild? That ambling gait. The sturdy, soft shape of powerful shoulders. Those pools for eyes. Have you considered what you’d do if you did?

A man who was a client of my then father-in-law’s back when I was married and living in West Virginia kept a bear in a cage. During my first year of marriage, I was a secretary at his—my father-in-law’s, not the man with the bear’s—law firm.

I was about to tell you about the time he, the man with the bear now, pushed into the front office, agitated, to find me alone behind the reception desk, how I eyed him warily and glanced at the clock, trying to remember when my father-in-law’s case at the courthouse across the street was on the docket. But here’s a little tale within a tale, this one about memory: When I closed my eyes, searching for the scene so I could describe it to you, I came up blank. It suddenly hit me; this is not my memory. It was, rather, the other secretary, a kind, small, gray-eyed woman who’d been answering the rotary phone and typing deeds and wills on an olive green typewriter that made a satisfying bing at the end of each line and filing orders and petitions since before I was born, who found herself alone with the man with the bear. It was through her words I envisioned his barely pent frustration.

My father-in-law was the kind of country lawyer you might see in a movie. He swallowed long dregs of moonshine, played poker, pulled catfish from lakes after quiet spells in gently rocking boats. And when my once husband was a kid and accidentally hooked his lip with a wayward cast, he sat still and said something like, “Get the pliers, son. You’ll have to cut it out.”

He had this fantastic smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and a throaty chuckle, delighted no end when, say, a tawny cow with long horns nearly backed me into a lake or, say, one of his grandchildren toddled into his lap. When you’d ask him a question, he’d sit back and think (sometimes for days) before answering, picking up as if you’d just asked no matter how much time had passed.

I could have probably just told you to think of Atticus Finch. Only my father-in-law had a touch of the crass, and prankster DNA ran in his blood. Like Atticus, he took on cases for people who might not otherwise have had representation. And he’d work on trade if need be. I heard tales of a motorcycle and cords of firewood among payments he’d accepted.

Anyhow, in this memory that wasn’t mine, the man with the bear huffed and waited for his lawyer, pacing the small confines of the waiting area, nostrils flared.

Some four years after I’d left my marriage, I went backpacking with a man I was starting to date. The first week, trekking through Yellowstone’s backcountry, was something out of a dream. Memories swirl behind closed lids: The moose gliding (not galumphing) by just on the other side of the grove, us pausing in silent awe mid raising our tent. The cries of a coyote pack, so near my breath caught as we embraced next to a small campfire. The rock against my back by the lazy river deep in the park, where cold flow met hot springs gurgling from earth, the sun on my bare skin, silky from soaking. The heat and wet of the spongy marsh in my nostrils and maybe even the hide of the massive bison in our path as we skirted carefully past.

The second week started out just fine as well. The new man and I took a day apart, each doing our own hikes on our first day in the Tetons. I chose a steep climb with switchbacks, for its promise of a breathtaking vista at the summit and display of wildflowers along the way.

Sunlight draped itself across my shoulders as I climbed steadily. For the past week, we’d left the new man’s truck and traveled with our packs strapped to our backs, coming into the front country only to catch a ride here or there. We’d emerge, tanned and grubby—having woken to dawn near a den where a grizzly sow tended her cub and, according to the ranger, wouldn’t bother us if we didn’t bother her. We’d emerge, damp and dewy—having slid into a frigid crystal lake at the site so teeming with mosquitoes at dusk we broke our rule and piled, grinning into the tent to eat dinner. We’d emerge onto paths where tourists in khakis and clean sports tees trained cameras on land we’d traversed. Our eyes, secret keepers, would meet. Now, with the pack staying in the truck for this day hike, my fanny pack of water and snacks felt like feathers.

Still, the climb was steep. My calves burned as I made my way up through pouring sunlight, past cottonwood and aspen and then pine and spruce, up into the heart of “Les Trois Tetons” (the Three Tits). I felt myself growing stronger, lighter. Felt myself on the path, at last, I was meant to be on.

I hadn’t seen anyone else on this trail since I started, and being on it alone felt right.

Some 45 minutes into the climb, though, I spotted movement high on a switchback above. It’s fine, I told myself. You’re going in opposite directions. You’ll nod. You’ll pass. Solo bliss once more.

What the man with the bear was so upset about that day, I’m not sure I ever learned. What I do remember is another memory not my own—this one my father-in-law’s. He’d arrived, much to the relief of the secretary, and escorted his client into his office. Behind closed doors, the man with the bear stood as he laid out the problem, refusing the client chair, rapping his knuckles on the desk for emphasis, again and again, until they bled, though he didn’t seem to notice. Though I didn’t see it, I can almost picture the blood stains on the edge of the worn walnut desk.

Before I’d met him, my then husband had worked as a process server. He’d once served some summons or other to the man with the bear. I envisioned him, still a teen, driving alone to the solitary house. I only think he told me he saw the bear and the cage.

So I’m not sure if the picture in my mind comes from his description or my imagination (I’d put money on the latter): the cage, small and wiry, the bear, neglected and hollow-eyed. The man I did see in person once. His dark hair and beard were wild. His thinness was the kind that’s pure muscle, taut, always loaded, slightly hungry. I was a young woman, too young for marriage really, and I wonder as I write this if my mind conflated man and bear, my feelings, a mix of empathy, fear, and anger. Please understand I had no real knowledge of the condition of the bear or the man.

As I ascended, I caught a glimpse of the person coming toward me down the mountain once more—this time enough to note whoever it was was dressed in black. Odd choice.

To get to this climb, I’d walked through sagebrush valley, where larkspur and Indian paintbrush and skyrocket gilia Moneted the foothills violet, scarlet, and crimson. Here in the forest, it was delicate monkshood, elegant fireweed, and dainty columbine that lined the path. And I was looking forward to the smaller, more delicate blossoms of the subalpine zone.

Who knows what ponderings I was lost in (or maybe I was so blissed out by movement and light I had no thoughts) when I spotted the descending hiker again and, this time, noted, Holy shit, he’s moving fast.

I’d continued on a bit before the thought caught up to me—stopping me short. A tingle shot through me.

That my father-in-law allowed his teenage son to go alone to serve papers on the man with the bear I found slightly disturbing. If I mentioned this to either of them, I can’t remember. But both would have no doubt laughed it off, my father-in-law’s eyes glinting with his raspy chuckle, my then husband’s, with pride. 

I’m not sure I imagined anything specific about this combined threat of the man, likely displeased with the visit, and the bear, who I imagined displeased with the circumstances. Only that my not-yet husband was on his own, far out in a hollow, brimming with bravado and youth. My understanding was less nuanced then, my brain more likely to categorize, my empathy more sympathy.

I was still breathing heavily, mind racing to identify the tingle in my spine when the “hiker” came crashing round the farthest visible zag of the switchback above me. A black bear. Moving fast. Not ambling. Not trotting. Running. Full bore. Straight at me.

By the time I left my marriage, left the state of my father-in-law, the defense attorney; his son, who’d, by that point, joined the practice; and the man with the bear, seven years had passed. I had, in those years, tried to fold myself, piece by piece, into a life I’d “chosen” without ever having seen it.

We’d married on the other side of the country and made our way back to my new groom’s home. There, I learned to play Texas Hold ’Em (well) and draft a fantasy football league (poorly) and drink cheap beer from cans. I even occasionally shot holes into empties placed strategically among firewood stacked as high as I stood on our back porch. I helped build a remote-control car race track in our backyard and went to a NASCAR event.

I tried to let the gorgeousness of the blue hills and thickly treed country roads and twice yearly car camping trips fill my longing for wild spaces. After college, I threw myself into my job reporting for the local newspaper, telling myself, though it wasn’t exactly the MFA I’d had in my sights, it was close enough. Telling myself it could be a step toward the dream of international travel writer / journalist.

Gaze trained on the barreling bear, I moved off the path. By virtue of where I’d stopped short, my move was toward its downhill side. What I mean is, I could only take a step or two before I would plummet, skidding and rolling through an impossibly steep, thick undergrowth-covered drop.

The bear followed. What I mean is, rather than pass me along the trail as I’d expected, the massive creature veered toward the steep plummet—toward me on the edge of the thin shoulder above it. Black fur filled my vision. Heavy musk swirled up my nostrils and stung my eyes. The wind of the animal’s momentum brushed my cheeks. I could have stroked the heaving flank as it blew past me.

And then the flurry of fur was gone. All was silent. I don’t even remember seeing the crash down the sheer hillside. Only searching the forest below and the surprise that the undergrowth had simply swallowed the bear whole.

The Greek goddess Artemis, protector of women and girls, is often represented as a bear. In an ancient ceremony called the Arkteia, girls, ages 5 to 10, dressed as bears. Donning masks and saffron robes called krokotos, they danced and raced, their wildness in full display. 

A part of the ceremony honored Iphigenia, a daughter-come-sacrifice for her father’s errors during the Trojan War. It seems King Agamemnon pissed off Artemis when he hunted and killed her favorite stag. In her rage and grief, Artemis stirred up sea winds, refusing to allow the Greek soldiers to reach Troy. 

I find it hard to square with the idea it was Artemis who demanded Iphigenia’s death. It seems more likely a notion of the father. At any rate, in one version of the story, the daughter is killed. In the other, which I prefer, Artemis saves her.

That Artemis could become furious, that part, I wholly understand. Can you imagine dealing with men who hunt and kill majestic creatures for sport and their daughters as payment? Can you imagine being the protector of women and girls in a world like that?

A voice pulled me from my vigil above the maw into which the bear had disappeared. I was surprised to discover a couple was hiking close enough behind me to have caught up during this brief interlude. Their jaws, too, were agape. Maybe one of them said something like, “Whoa,” or, “That was crazy.” Maybe one asked if I was all right. 

I think we sort of stood, gaping at each other and at the silence for a spell before turning to hike again.

If it were today, I’d linger, allowing the couple to get a good way ahead of me before starting back up. Back then, I may have been in good enough shape to put some speed in my legs and race up the next few switchbacks.

However I put the distance between us, I was soon communing once more with sun and forest and flower. Basking.  And then a question popped into my mind: But what was the bear running from?

At one point during the Arkteia, the young she-bears shed their robes. I can just see it—garbs of sunlight sliding into saffron piles on the ground. The shedding was for Iphigenia, who shed her robes before the slaying, or almost slaying.

I took little when I left West Virginia. I’d briefly moved into a 26-foot RV while waiting for my divorce papers to be signed. But even that vessel I shed. Driving west along open roads in my red Ford Escort that carried everything I owned, I felt light and free.

And no, of course it wasn’t the bear that caused the second week camping with the new man to fall apart. But that’s a tale for a different time.

As for the bear on my path that day, today, I’d have little question about the cause of the creature’s flight. Then, a slight wariness, mostly tempered by the beauty that unfolded, accompanied me up that trail.

When I ran into a pair of rangers, I was pretty close to the vista I was aiming for. They were heading down. We briefly exchanged pleasantries before parting ways.

“Oh, by the way,” one of them called. “We startled a juvenile bear earlier, completely took him by surprise.”

Awwww, of course. 

“I saw him,” I told them.

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Photo captions: 1. A lake outside Dawson Creek, BC, Canada. 2. A chicken on a farm in Oregon next to the pig enclosure. 3. A delphinium at a park in Corvallis, Oregon. 4. A sign along the Alcan Highway in British Columbia, Canada. 5. A marsh near Dawson Creek, BC, Canada. All photos by the author.

I’ve been telling you about Caravan Writers Collectives’ events and courses. Well, this piece was conceived in a Caravan planning meeting turned prompt. How long does it take four writers to get through an agenda? Let’s just say there’s a whole lot of wandering—say, along a path where we’re all sharing bear stories, say, along an overgrown side trail where we’re like, What if we shared more wildly? say, at a breathtaking vista where we think, What if we made this a community project?! What I’m saying is we want YOUR variations on a bear.

Better yet, join us for the weekly Caravan Write-In workshop/gathering, starting Saturday, June 7 and see where a prompt, a comment, an idea, an insight, a conversation, a spark of connection, and the interconnectedness of writing in community lead you. Take part in the kind of magic that happens when writers gather and hosts share prompts they’ve seen open up work you wouldn’t come to any other way.

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For the comments, have you seen a bear in the wild? Would you want to? What’s your favorite wildflower? When have you folded yourself into shapes that don’t quite fit you? And what’s your variation on a bear?

Share here and/or make your own post and tag

Caravan Writers Collective

in the post and/or a note to have it included in the collection! I would LOVE to see yours alongside this one by

Marya Hornbacher

on another wild encounter and those coming from my other two Caravan colleagues,

Matt Smythe

and

Paul Corman-Roberts

. (And PS, the bear doesn’t have to be a bear. Think this “grizzly in a story on kindness or the many meanings of bear in this piece. (Oh and shout out to

Tara Penry

and her fantastic community writing projects, which no doubt played a role from my own memory of participation in inspiring this project.)

Thank you! I don’t take your attention, your shares, your likes—you—for granted! You’re like the gorgeous creatures and plants we share this planet with, strong and wild like a young bear rocketing down a trail, delicate and secretive like monkshood, bright and bold like Indian paintbrush, and resilient and wise like the flowers that bloom in subalpine trail.

Please restack this post to help us get more variations on a bear!

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Get lost in lyrical prose. Meet bears careening down trails. Go on the road with the Rolling Desk.