An anecdote about wilderness kinship
I had been trying to talk my friend, Kim, into backpacking for years. She was an avid hiker who was sufficiently fit to do the Spence Field turnaround in a day or a Leconte route via the Boulevard. I could tell she was developing some curiosity as evidenced by questions such as, “Do you worry about getting hurt or twisting an ankle?” This was the early ’90s and I was spending almost three out of four weekends getting to know the half-million-acre sanctuary that is the Great Smoky Mountains. Sometimes I would just disappear alone, with no itinerary and hitchhike back to my vehicle at different trailheads. In those days, permits were a suggestion and any mention of onerous fees were backcountry blasphemy.
A new trail guide was out in the first edition. This “brown book” would give you an elevation profile, trail facts, and history notes. I would mentally download my intended route and leave this heavy thing in the car. No one cared where you pitched out, be it in a designated spot or hidden in a holler, as long as you left no trace.
Kim was getting closer to commitment on an overnight. I could tell when she finally asked the million dollar question. I think she was trying to not appear concerned by making this the last technical query: “What do you do about those bears when you see them?” In my opinion, bears know they are safe from humans in the park. Every Smokies outing of mine included a great bear anecdote. My attitude was one of kinship. They never bothered me and I certainly returned the favor. In fact, I saw them so often I took it as a positive omen for my weekend. Often I would round a corner and startle one which frightened me, and we would both jump and speed in opposite directions. This apparent mutual kinship appealed to Kim. It aligned with her vision of backcountry bliss. I was living proof that Smokies black bears don’t prey on humans.
It was a postcard fall weekend in 1996. Hardwoods were nearing peak and I suggested a loop starting at Mt. Sterling Gap. We would climb for a mile and turn off on the Long Bunk trail deep down into the splendor of Catalochee. Angled rays of sun bounced off turning leaves and glistened from purring streams as we rounded the corner after eight miles into the Pretty Hollow Gap campsite. I found a good flat spot at the upper end of this site and off shouldered my load. I shook out the tent’s rainfly as Kim staked out the corners. Scarcely had we finished squaring away our gear when I saw a look of horror in her face; she stood frozen.
Ambling down the hill as if to function as camp host was the fattest bear you could imagine. He wasn’t running, just coming in to say hello. Knowing that Kim was unaccustomed to this type of welcome, I walked to the perimeter to intercept this uninvited guest and clang some sticks in his direction, per usual. I didn’t want to admit this to my nascent partner on her first overnight, but I never had bears come into a camp like this. He turned around and disappeared into the brush. I set out stringing a rope between two trees as this was well before the days of cables now hanging at every back country site.
Cooking was a foregone conclusion as we fed a fire into the night with eyes circling our perimeter. We dared not lure him closer. When he finally disappeared we retired into the mesh and nylon separating us from nature. I dozed off into a dream where the bear was pushing against our domicile and woke up yelling. Except it wasn’t a dream. Kim had nudged me aggressively awake with the words, “He’s right outside the tent.” What a magnificent first backpacking trip for her.
This mighty beast had climbed one of the two trees from which I had hung our packs and food. Placing his weight on the rope, he brought down two saplings and devoured the contents. The ground looked like a crime scene with fuel bottles and shredded noodle bags now mixed with leaf litter. Our friend had gotten what he came for and by daybreak retreated to his den somewhat fatter. My pack was shredded and the devastation immense. Not only were we exhausted from this terrifying night but hunger, pushed aside by the evening’s events, now settled prominently within our stomachs. I lashed the remnants of my pack with string from the trees. We had little choice but to finish our intended loop back to the car which involved a significant climb of Pretty Hollow Gap trail to Sterling Ridge. A group on horseback encountered us and provided sustenance in the form of cereal bars. They had no trouble believing our experience down by this beautiful creek in the solitude of the upper valley.
I would return to the wilderness with a renewed sense of awareness and without Kim. Her trauma was real and to my knowledge her first night on the ground in a tent would also be the last. Since then, bear/human interactions have increased in the park, but I see less every time. Perhaps it has something to do with the statistic about dogs which seems to be a common determinant. They are not allowed in the backcountry but people who ignore this rule suffer negative consequences. This should be a warning to folks who bring them: you are inviting bear trouble, according to National Park Service data.
I gained two souvenirs during my trip with Kim: a punctured fuel bottle and bear clawed brown guide book. And my friend? She never quit having nightmares about the grunting or big eyes circling our encampment. So, 28 years later I offer a heartfelt apology to Kim Frazier, wherever she is. I’m hoping she “bearly” remembers it.