All the Trepidation Without the Mauling

In about 1997 or so I moved back from the Pacific Northwest, where I'd been living since 1986, to Montana. I took a job and was living in Ronan, MT, on the Confederated Salish & Kootenai Reservation, which is about an hour's drive north of where I live now in Missoula. I wasn't particularly well-traveled at the time. I'd been in Seattle countless times, so I'd overcome any trepidation about big cities (or what I thought at the time was "big"), and I'd made a couple trips to the Midwest. When I settled back in Montana, I kind of figured those city days were behind me. I was retired (I thought) from playing rock music, had written a couple of (bad) novels, and was seriously considering taking up writing seriously, I mean really seriously, for the first time. I also had a pretty bad attitude. As much as I loved being back in Montana, I still felt like I'd either failed at everything I'd attempted to that point, and failing at the rest of the things that still had the faintest of heartbeats.

One of the first big projects I worked on in my new job ultimately led to a trio of us being sent to Chicago for National Manufacturing Week at McCormick Place. Imagine a huge trade show full of just about any kind of manufacturing software and apparatus you can imagine, squeezed into arena-sized rooms spanning multiple levels. It was overwhelming, to say the least. As for me and my companions, we were pretty much bumpkins turned loose in the big city . . . but we made the most of it. We happened to be there over a weekend, back in the days when a Saturday stayover made a significant difference in the price of airfare, and it happened to be a weekend when St. Patrick's Day fell on a Saturday. So yeah, things were crazy and it was fun, but it was also stressful and exhausting.

First look at the Mission Mountains over St. Ignatius, from the top of Ravalli Hill, 15 miles or so south of Ronan

Returning home, I needed some serious decompression after the mayhem of Chi-Town. Ronan is bordered on the east by the mighty Mission Mountains Tribal Wilderness. These mountains are truly magnificent, rising out of the valley to about 10,000 feet in their highest peaks. This area is home to all kinds of wildlife; deer, birds of prey, mountain goats . . . and is also a Grizzly Bear Conservation Area. There are many trails that lead to hidden lakes, and I determined that what my state of mind really needed was a hike. So I headed out, alone, giving my wife at the time some vague reference to the trail I thought I'd take.

It was mid-March, and most of the snow in the valley was gone as I headed out. I took a trail we would often hike, heading up to a little lake called Swartz Lake. I headed up into the hills -- these mountains, as I said, rise straight up from the valley floor, so pretty much every hike one attempts is a steep climb -- and through some fairly dense forest. As I got higher I emerged from the trees and was moving up a barren slope. By now I was above the snow line, and as I got higher it got deeper and deeper, about midway up my shins. The trail wasn't clear, but there were footprints in the snow I was following, assuming they were from a previous hiker. I finally reached a point where I felt I'd gasped out the last remnants of the Big City Experience, and decided to turn around.

It was at that point that I got a clear look at the trail I was following. I hadn't paid attention before, but the angle of the prints made it obvious that whomever had made them had made them going downhill. As I looked, I realized no hiker had made them: they were bear prints. BIG bear prints. Very clear, very defined, no mistaking them at all. I put my hand in one of them to compare, and the spread of the toes dwarfed my hand, with the clearly defined claws extending another couple inches on each toe.

A cold chill went down my spine like someone had poured ice water over my head, but somehow under my skin. I'd seen plenty of black bears in my hikes, but never a grizzly. I didn't have bear spray, I was alone, and the only person I'd told where I was going had no clue where it even was or could likely even repeat it to anyone if asked. I knew my car was parked in a place that would ultimately lead to questions, but this isn't a locale where those kinds of questions get raised with any expedience. It was just as likely to be vandalized and ignored if it remained for any length of time. So I was pretty frightened.

I began my descent, carefully, all my senses tuned into my surroundings. As I got into the trees, I was trying to make more noise, but it was stressful because visibility wasn't particularly good. I was tramping along, trying to be cool, when suddenly something exploded out of the scrub to my right.

The Missions in winter, viewed from just outside Ronan

I jumped, turned, and landed in a crouch. I'm pretty sure I shouted, fully expecting to be face-to-face with the mother of all grizzlies. Instead it was a freakin' grouse, or quail, I don't remember for sure, startled out of its resting place by my passage. The little fucker sure made an explosive and noisy exit as it careened its way through the trees, unconcerned that it had about given me a damn heart attack. I stood there several moments, gasping, my heart hammering in my chest.

The rest of my descent was uneventful, despite my being wired tighter than a piano, and I've never been so glad to see my car waiting for me. I thought of all the things I'd done wrong, hiking in grizzly country, and felt lucky to have come away unscathed. Grizzlies aren't necessarily aggressive unless caught unawares, or defending their young, so the risks generally aren't that great. But still there was risk, particularly given the time of year. It's possible I passed the thing on my way up, and it might have even watched from hiding as I passed by. That probably freaks me out even more, as it weighed its options about what kind of a meal I'd make.

Fortunately for me, I don't look that tasty.