Rock Creek gurgled swiftly by as the snow fell on our camper. Tucked in the forested valley of Beartooth Pass, the day’s rain had quickly turned to evening’s snow, and in the middle of the night we lie wide awake hardly breathing. Just outside the camper walls, a deep, rumbling breath perks our ears.
For the past two nights, this section of Custer National Forest between Red Lodge, Montana, and the northeast entrance to Yellowstone park had hosted our 1979 Trophy Traveler with a postcard backdrop. A weeklong respite before we continued on to Bozeman — but as the cold air rushed up the mountain, most of our fellow campers rushed out, leaving us to appreciate the early September snow.
Back in the camper, we knew nothing of the snow. The fogged windows and moonless night had socked us in without a view to the outside. Instead, we sat frozen and blind, each imagining our own particularly gruesome end that would come if a grizzly bear was cunning enough to operate the doors. A silly thought, but that’s how it goes at two in the morning.
Another huffy groan passes by the window.
“Did you hear it?”
We knew the other person had, of course, because every sound we heard was matched with a muscle jerk or a pause in breathing.
Sitting up in the bed, Emily broke the silence — “Where’s the bear spray?”
“By the door,” I whispered, looking straight ahead.
Moments of silence passed before I peeled back the curtains, wiping the fog with my hand.
I’m puzzled by the white tint of the ground outside. “It’s snowing?”
I scan for the source of the rumbling growl. Nothing. I lay back in bed, eyes open. Boom! – A loud thump smacks the sidewall of the camper by our feet.
Without pause I start pounding the camper walls, yelling. “Get out of here – get out of here, bear!”
My blood pounds. I sound like a lunatic. I scramble out of bed to the front of the camper, where I unholster the bear spray — still yelling at the bear.
Further up the creek, two hundred yards away, a lady and her dog are awoken by the sound of our car horn. The dog is probably sitting up in their tent, staring into the woods in our direction. The lady, most likely, is trying to calm the dog and herself, thinking that all bloody hell has broken out and that people are, at this very moment, being attacked by a grizzly bear.
“I’m going to turn the headlights on,” as I fumble with the keys.
The beams of light reflect back the falling snow. No bear. Emily peers out of the back. No bear.
“Where the hell is it?”
Opening the camper door, it stops half way, jammed against the snow-laden awning. I squeeze myself into the cold. I shine the flashlight onto the ground around the camper – no sign of bear prints. Inspecting the awning, I notice it’s twisted up under the heavy snow. In fact, the support arm nearest our bed has come loose and is now dangling against the camper wall. Damnit. That’s our bear. Relief with a twinge of embarrassment. We lift the snow off the awning and roll it back up hastily while the snow continues to lay down in thick layers.
Through the woods, the lady and her dog haven’t heard a sound for a few minutes – it’s over, they’re dead. Her dog, ears perked, hasn’t relaxed, but she’s hopeful that the bear is either satisfied with its kill, or has been scared in the opposite direction. A few more minutes of silence pass when headlights bounce down the forest road, sending pine shadows across their tent. It’s us, bleary eyed, heading into town on left-over adrenaline. As the camper rumbles by them, the dog’s head follows the sound — We’re all going to lose sleep tonight.
