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I had it all: a view of the sunset, my hot chocolate, and a spliff I had rolled earlier in the afternoon.
There I was chillaxing, taking in the immensity, when I heard from the woods behind me the unmistakable sound of a large mammal—a sort of cough-grunt.
I know the etiquette: Introduce yourself. I turned around the trunk, and in a voice equal parts firm and gentle said, “Hello, bear. Are you in there somewhere? Bear?” There was no answer. I held my breath. Nothing.
I turned back to the sunset. I decided it would be prudent to make some noise.
And so I started to sing. The first thing that came to mind was the lullaby we sang to our daughter almost every night for her first 3 years of life. It’s a rendition of Pete Singer’s folk tune, “Inch by Inch,” a lilting pastoral tune. I know every word, and the verses and choruses flowed out of me.
There all alone, I sang the song passionately, knee keeping the rhythm, trying to gauge melody from the vibration in my chest. I made it a little jazzy. “Pullin’ weeds and pluckin’ stones/ We are made of dreams and bones / Need a place to call my home / For the time is close at hand.”
But I didn’t belt it out. As I said, I know the etiquette, and I didn’t want to be that guy—the asshole-human making all the ruckus in the woods and annoying the other creatures. As I sang, I watched the light fall across the yellow meadow and turn it gold, and I thought, The birds have their song, and I might as well as add mine. I sang my heart out. (Did I mention there was also a nip of bourbon in the hot chocolate?)
I hit the last notes. Quiet came back over the world. A meadow bird zipped over the grasses with a chirp-chirp-chirp. I took it as a compliment. “Appreciate that. Thanks for coming.”
I snuffed out the spliff. I buried the roach in the duff, and like a good hippy thanked the grand larch for making the space.
Once back at my camp, I started some water for supper. Dusk was falling. Then, in the grey light, I saw a man coming across the meadow toward me. What the fuck?
The guy was dressed in all in gray and green and tan. As he got closer, I could see the rifle across his shoulders.
“What are you gunning for?” I asked when he got close.
“Bear,” he said
I should pause here and make clear that I have no problem with lawful hunting. I’ve been hunting; I’ve carved up an animal in the woods. Some years, I get tags—though I rarely do more than spend the summer and fall romping around scouting and putting up trail cams. In short, I’m cool with it.
The hunter said his name was M—, from near Seattle. He told me he had seen a bear in the timber earlier in the day. But he couldn’t get a clear shot, so he had spent the afternoon and early evening waiting for it to come back.
Where?
“Right there, between that big tree and the outcropping there.” He pointed.
“You mean the big larch?”
Yeah.
“So you heard me singing?”
Oh, yeah, he had heard the whole thing.
No doubt so had any bear that was in the vicinity. If my singing hadn’t scared it away, then certainly my malodorous smoke plume of half tobacco and half cannabis would have. And even if the smoke hadn’t frightened it, then probably me just walking across the meadow and settling down at the base of the tree would have. I mean, I basically walked right into the guy’s scope-view.
I told M— that I was sorry I had fucked it up for him. He took it very well, and was super-chill about it. (Though he didn’t seem as impressed by my singing as I imagined the song birds had been.) He didn’t strike me as one of those high-strung hunter dudes who’s gunning for the trophy. “I just like being out here,” he told me.
It was totally true that I felt bad that I had likely screwed it up. In a way, I wish he had gotten the bear. I had no desire to spoil his trip, especially as he had been so kind and gracious to not spoil mine.
But the next day, hiking out of the mountains, I felt glad about the whole thing. It seemed like a small work of karma, to have saved a bear’s life with a spliff.
Words by Jason Mark. Mark is the author of Satellites in the High Country: Searching for the Wild in the Age of Man. He lives in Bellingham, Washington. Top photo: Geoff Brooks/Unsplash
