Guidance from Bears

A creative nonfiction short story from my 2013 bike journey, never before shared or published.

I am close to sleep, but not yet there. I feel a heavy, warm hand weighing on mine. A black bear. It touches my hand. The pressure of its massive paw cupping mine emitting an odd and comforting warmth.

I yearned for guidance. I was hurting. The fantasy of the bear’s gesture provided support at a time of incredible loss, like a harness that strapped me into an otherwise unsafe, old wooden rollercoaster, that not only insisted on carrying me up and down, but shaking me side to side, so that any strength and poise I once demonstrated broke to pieces.

Weeks later, fully in REM sleep, I dream I am a teacher again. While I staple inspirational messages on bulletin boards and arrange desks for the first day of class, I hear distant explosions and slowly turn my head to the massive windows that go from floor to ceiling. Red and white flares light up the classroom as bombs leave the belly of planes dropping to the ground below. I feel fear as my muscles tighten within the comfort of my sheets, but I am dreaming, so the idea of comfort is not comprehensible. Within seconds, the roof of my classroom collapses on me. I grasp for air looking up through the enormous chunks of plaster that were once the walls and ceiling of my classroom. I look up to see the bear reaching his massive paw down the hole of rubble to help. To pull me out.

I am close to sleep, but not yet there.

Every sound prevents me from falling into a deep snore. There is wind, rushing water and unfamiliar noises through the tent walls throughout the night that easily could be a bear rustling through my gear. Is it fate that a bear would attack me while camping, isolated, miles away from another human being? Were totems supposed to save you, just to swallow you? Does your totem dictate your life?

The pattern of beginning to fall asleep and becoming conscious again brings my heart to a thumping beat that becomes louder than the rushing river feet away from where I lay contained in the prison of my sleeping bag. Bears massive frames, strength and power lead to the apprehension that I might be dead, or left for dead.

Even with logic telling my brain that black bears rarely attack humans, I barely sleep. I have hazy visions of my parents coming to a scene in which my belongings are torn apart, only traces of my body left scattered around the campground. 

As the early morning light begins to illuminate my tent, I wake up and grab a nearly frozen water bottle. I briefly look around, seeing tall trees, my bicycle, the river, and no footprints. I zip the tent up and cuddle back into my sleeping bag. I become the bear. The totem I carried, was carrying me. Known for their perseverance to complete tasks and need for control in their daily lives, my totem was appearing to keep me on track, carrying me on that rollercoaster that will always go up and down, as life does, but eliminate the side to side vibrations that throw us off when we are close to sleep but not quite there.