At the end of my last blog, I had backpacked 18 miles into Yosemite Valley to resupply the food the bears had consumed— and alcohol. (I would have loved to witness the reaction of the bear that bit into my plastic bottle of 151 proof rum.)

My intention was to stay in the Valley that night, but it was a zoo, absolutely crawling with tourists. So I shouldered my pack and hiked back into Little Yosemite Valley. My body was not happy. The hike added a 2000 foot climb plus another five miles to an already-long day. 

The area’s proximity to the Valley means that it is a popular camping area for backpackers, either as a first-night stop or destination. I found a small, one-person site with a convenient log in the middle for sitting against and used my pack and Thermarest mattress to make a comfy chair. I whipped up a quick dinner, topped it off with a cup of wine, and prepared for bed. (My 151 proof rum was not available in the Valley.)

The popularity of the area for backpackers also means it is a popular area for bears— a dine in or take out restaurant. Given my experience of the night before, I was a tad paranoid. I carefully stuffed my food, and anything the bear might find tasty (wine, toothpaste, etc.) into my food bag and used a cable the park provided to hang food beyond a bear’s imagination. 

I also made sure that every pocket in my pack was open, including the top. Although the food was out of the pack, there might have been lingering smells to attract a bear. Closed pockets can lead to bears opening them. It’s rather hard on backpacks. And even if the bear doesn’t stop by for a snack, lots of other woodland creatures, mice for example, are happy to chew holes to get at food— especially in popular camping areas. I’ve had that happen several times over the years.

It should be noted here that several bear/rodent-proof containers are available for today’s backpackers. They weren’t in the 70s. I nodded off that night listening to backpackers yelling and beating on pans as bears worked their campsites, wondering when my turn would come.

I woke up around 11 when I heard a noise on the other side of the log where I had placed my pack, about five feet away. Heart pounding, I sat up to look. A bear was methodically emptying the pack, checking to see if there was any food. I watched with clinical interest as it shoved his head into the pack, pulled out an item, dropped it on the ground and then stuck his head back in the pack. By then I had enough, and suggested rather loudly that the bear go elsewhere. After one more foray, it did. The only damage I suffered was bear slobber, all over everything. My old Basset Hound, Socrates, the world champion of slobberers, would have been jealous.

The next night I was leaving my camp for an evening walk when I met a bear coming to visit. I bent over and picked up a rock. He took off like a dog: It was my kind of bear. And thus my summer went. By the time I had led two back-to-back hundred-mile trips into Yosemite, I had my fill of bears. Each time a bear visited in the night, I’d hear a scream, “Curtis!” I considered myself an expert bear chaser.

It was almost my demise.

At the end of the second Trek, my friend Jean, her sister Mary and her husband Tim joined me at Tuolumne Meadows to hike the John Muir Trail. We spent the night at the Tuolumne RV/car campground. I had eaten backpacking meals for 18 days. It was time to celebrate. We grilled up steaks, broke out a fifth of Jack Daniels, and threw in several cans of beer.

As the night progressed, I was feeling no pain. So it wasn’t surprising when a bear came to visit our neighbors from Iowa, I was prepared to do battle. They had left their cooler out on the picnic table and the bear was leisurely opening it. The Iowans were hiding out in their camper, making nary a peep.

“Hey bear,” I yelled as I strode across the road, “Get out of here!”

Well, Mr. Bear had found himself a cache of fresh food and wasn’t about to leave. He turned around, stood up on his hind legs, raised his front legs over his head and said “GRRRROWL!” He was one big fellow, towering above me. Stone cold sobriety was instantaneous.

“OK bear, it’s all yours,” I mumbled as I scurried back across the road to my own camp and safety. “Eat all of the Iowan food you want. Heck, eat the Iowans.”

By this time though, 20 flashlights were shining down on the bear. Campers are packed into Tuolumne Meadows like tenement housing in a barrio, and all of the neighbors were checking out the action, worrying. Thus disturbed, Mr. Bear went grumbling off over the hill, more than a little pissed to have his fine feast disturbed. You could almost make out in his growling, “I’ll be back.”

Of course the Iowans left their cooler out on the table. No way were they budging from their camper. I pictured them driving nonstop back to Des Moines the next day.

Finally things settled down. After another beer, or two, we crawled into our sleeping bags. Tim and Mary disappeared into the security of their truck while Jean and I crashed on the ground.

Not surprising, there came a time when Jean had to visit the restroom. Beer will do that. Equally unsurprising, the bourbon helped me sleep right through her getting up. But I did hear her come back. Except it wasn’t Jean I heard through my alcohol-induced grogginess. It was the bear— coming back for revenge.

“GET OUT OF HERE!” I screamed with all of the passion I had used when I had awakened with the bear standing on me. Jean, not knowing what to do, grabbed me by the head and said, “Curt, it’s all right, it’s only me!” This was undoubtedly the right thing for her to do, except now the bear had me by the head. As you might imagine, my yells increased in volume. By 10.

Picture 20 flashlights shining down on this happy little domestic scene. 

That was my last bear encounter of the season. There would be many more in the Sierras, but my next post will discuss encounters with grizzlies and the giant, brown bears of Alaska. If you find encounters with black bears scary…