I pulled into Carolina Hemlocks Campground in the early afternoon. The park ranger was eager to help. “Do you know about the bears?” he asked. “A little,” I said. “We’re swarming with ‘em. They’re all over these parts. Everywhere.” He threw his arms around to emphasize the point. “Oh,” I said, waiting for some kind of reassurance. It never came.
“Are there any trails around here that are good for camping?” I asked. “Yep. Got a tent?” “A hammock.” “Ah. A hammock,” he mimicked, his voice inflecting dubiously. “Let’s take a look at my map,” he said.
“This trail—the one here off of Collier’s—is a good one. Pretty difficult. Takes a whole day. Do you have an air horn or anything?” “An air horn?” I asked. “Yeah. Something loud. For the bears.” “Oh. Well, no. Should I get one?” He scratched his head for a moment. “Eh. You’ll probably be fine. Got a pan? Something to bang on?” “I don’t.” “Hm. Don’t worry about it.” “Okay,” I said, but I was starting to feel uneasy. “Now, this is another trail you could take, but I can’t recommend it.” “Why’s that?” “Hasn’t been maintained for a long time.” “Alright.” “You a good whistler?” he asked. “I’m not sure…” “Whistle.” I whistled as loud as I could. He feigned a smile. “Look, if you meet a bear, just make noise, got it? And step loud. Don’t go overboard. You don’t want to challenge him. Just make noise and seem confident. But not too confident. Don’t seem combative.” You could have made a net out of the knots in my stomach. “Anything else?” I said. “Nah. You’re gonna be fine. Oh, can I get your number? We need a way to trace you if you don’t show up at the camp tomorrow…”
I took a few minutes to stretch, clear my head, and gear up for the trail. Unfortunately, since I wouldn’t be on the Appalachian, there wouldn’t be shelters to sleep in. Hopefully I’ll meet people along the way, I thought.
The first hour of the hike was breathtaking. I could feel my heartbeat dancing through my arms. This journey belongs to me, I said inwardly. There is no social order here, no expectation. I am completely mine.
I was several miles into the forest when I stumbled upon the first pile of dung. The size of the deposit was colossal. It’s hard and cracked, I observed. Probably days old. I didn’t let it bother me. A little further up, I discovered two more piles. I could hear the ranger’s voice in my head: “Do you know about the bears? We’re swarming with ‘em.”
I had just put a handful of blueberries in my mouth when a harsh noise broke the quiet commotion of the forest: Ruf, ruf. The force of the barking caught me so off guard that I started to choke on the berries. When the dog came around the corner and closer to me, I could see that he had a collar. He slowly moved in my direction, snarling and barking. I picked up an enormous stick.
A couple minutes later, when the dog ended his instinctual theatrics, I knelt down, hoping to indicate that I wasn’t a threat. He slowly made his way over. I let him sniff my hand. He pissed two feet away from me and meandered on as though I had never happened.
His owners will be around the corner, I predicted. They weren’t. They weren’t around any of the following corners either. Strange, I thought.
When I’m under stress, my brain has a way of turning against me. Instead of finding the silver lining, I begin to see every possible worst case scenario unfolding in front of me like a series of movie trailers. When I met the dog but didn’t meet his owners, the first thing that popped into my mind was: what if the bears got them?
The next mile was relatively serene and uneventful. First, I came upon a stream. Then, I happened upon a wooden step ladder. It sat in the middle of the trail, without a discernible function—three steps to nowhere.
(I tried them out, just in case. Ya know, Narnia.)
And then, just as I was settling down, I saw what appeared to be a very fresh pile of poop.
Keep it in perspective. You’re in the woods. Things poop in the woods. That’s just what happens. You feel powerful, remember? Liberated, self-made…
On the next turn, I noticed three very large stones overturned, so I decided to pay less attention to the ground and more attention to the trees. The trail narrowed. I distracted myself by whistling. Then it happened: I turned one more corner and made direct eye contact with a bear.
How will they find my body? It was my first thought, followed by: My mother is going to kill me. A second time. And Make noise, Corey. Make noise. But what kind of noise? Do I growl? Yell? What if it thinks I’m challenging it? I’m going to die.
In my right hand, I still held the stick that I had picked up when I met the canine a few miles back. Without much thought, I raised the stick above my head (think Rafiki from the Lion King), bounced backed and forth on my feet, and started chanting.
Somehow, after the episode of aboriginal mania, I managed to dance myself backward, around the corner, and out of the bear’s line of vision. For the next ten minutes, I walked at a hurried pace, too afraid to run. After that, I ran the entire way back.
So I didn’t stay overnight in the forest. I did get my first taste of backpacking. And regardless of all the setbacks (thanks, Siri), I hope to go at it again in a few months. Except next time around, I’m bringing an air horn.
Or maybe bear spray.
This is a two-part story. For part one, see A Siri of Unfortunate Events.
