I asked my supervisor at Yellowstone Park her opinion about
solo hiking. She said that she did it regularly, and called it a “calculated
risk.” The next day, I was out alone, hiking stick in hand, wide-brimmed hat on
head, in a lodgepole pine thicket, after a meadow. I had my canister of
bear-spray clipped to my hip. I had sent my friend Lesley a last minute text
message about where I was going, which I consider as passing with a “D” when it
comes to notifying an outside party of one's travel plans. I had hiked solo in black bear country countless times, but Yellowstone is also home for the larger and less predictable grizzly.
As I went, I spoke “Yo whazup bears, I be passin' through.” (They normally walk away at the sound of a human voice.) It felt odd, talking to myself, and the one-sided conversation was hard to
maintain. I passed a wetland where the chorus frogs sang their continuous “Creek-eek.” There were many
patches of snow among the fallen timber.
In the forest, it was scarier. I glanced about, wondering
what lurked in the shadows under the trunks. My senses heightened halfway to
the level of a deer, the ever-vigilant prey. My imagination turned a small
branch breaking in the wind into the footfall of a massive animal; a crunch of
rocks under boot became a bruin's grunt; a boulder into a hairy beast. Then I
came to an indisputable sign of the grizzly bear—tracks in the mud, with long claws
prominent.
I splashed through some muddy trail to Cascade Lake, my
destination. I turned around and headed back.
I strode faster on the way back, my confidence increased.
Still I periodically checked for my canister of spray, and made my voice
quietly heard to the trail ahead.
The next morning, in the shower, I felt a little bump
somewhere on my buttocks. After out-ruling potential scabs or zits, I knew what
I had to do. I grasped the tick with my fingernails at the front of the head,
and ripped it out forcefully, some skin along with it. With abdomen full of
blood, the critter slipped out of my hand and down the drain of the sink. With
its little legs waving, I failed to identify the type of tick, but regarded it
as certainly larger than a deer tick. Now, a week later and with no symptoms, I
am in the clear.
However, the irony was not lost on me. While I was
distracted by the thought of large and fearful mammals, a silent but deadly
beast, the miniature septic tank, easily crawled up my pants leg. A tick check
the same day as my woods walk would have saved me some blood and concern.
Precautions for bears and sharks are
important. However, the deadliest animal in the world is the mosquito, for its spread of disease. Ticks rank second as disease spreaders. Bees are another force to be reckoned with, as 53 people per year in the US die from allergic reaction to their stings. We can share the wilds with all these creatures, with the right precautions. Enjoy the woods, my friends, but be wary of animals large and small!
