travel – Pain In The Bud

Big Buddy And The Black Bear: A True Story Of Suspense And Stupidity!

My first real camping trip ended in disaster, though thankfully without any injury besides wounded pride, after an encounter with a ravenous bear.

The bear was outside my tent.

Its moans cut through the night above the cricket song and I could see its distorted shadow cast against the fabric by the dying fire as it circled our camp.

Something ripped — the canvas of one of our packs, I later learned when daylight revealed the carnage outside — and there was a loud crunch of ursine teeth against plastic packaging and the styrofoam of an egg container.

Then my friend Larry did what he’d been doing all night: he raised a ruckus by banging pots and pans, scaring the 500-pound animal away. Temporarily.

The bear’s breathy vocalizations faded into the distance. After a few minutes I breathed a sigh of relief. I had to pee so badly, worse than I’d ever had to go in my life, but there was no way in hell I was stepping out of my tent. Then I heard the air horn from the campsite a mile or two away.

The bear was making its circuit again. I was still too scared to leave my tent.

An adult male American black bear, the species I encountered in New York’s Adirondack Mountains. Credit: Wikimedia Commons

How we blundered into a bear

Larry was a family friend and outdoorsman. Since my brother and I were kids of a single mom it had become something of a tradition for Larry to take us and others on annual camping trips every summer. Without Larry, who was the closest thing to a father I’ve had, we would have never known what it was like to tell scary stories by a fire, hook a fish from a river or navigate rapids while whitewater rafting.

That year we headed upstate to the Adirondacks with the aim of climbing Mount Marcy, the highest peak in New York.

Most people think of New York City when they think of our state, and the city and its environs were what I was familiar with. But New York is a big state and once you get north of the suburbs it’s almost entirely rural. If randomly blindfolded and dropped in the middle of the Adirondack mountains, few people would guess they were in New York.

We arrived at the ranger station, registered our destination and set off. Why we didn’t know about the bear I cannot say, but we found out later he was notorious. The rangers were well aware of him, and he was the reason why, after hiking for some 15 miles to Marcy Dam, we saw dozens of packs hanging from the dam itself, fastened to the metal safety railings.

That was our second opportunity to learn about the bear, but when we saw the packs we just shrugged and made our way further in to find a good spot for camp.

After the day-long hike we hurried to set up our tents and got a fire going before sundown, then made dinner. When you’re camping — real camping, not the drive-up KOA camping that’s really an excuse to get drunk with your buddies — you do two things to keep critters out of your camp: you hang your packs from a tree with a sturdy branch, and you dump any leftovers several hundred feet away.

So when my brother and my friend Richie went to go dump the leftover mac and cheese, they came back white-faced.

“Larry! Larry!” they shouted. “There’s a bear!”

Larry shook his head.

“You didn’t see a bear,” he said, laughing.

“But we did!”

Larry didn’t believe them, and I didn’t either. Until I was ripped out of sleep by the sound of a prime specimen of ursus americanus tearing through our camp, helping himself to our food.

Black bears aren’t aggressive in the same way their ursine brethren can be, but they can still be exceptionally dangerous. Credit: Wikimedia Commons

I cannot tell you how many times the bear came back that night, or how many return trips it took him to consume every last morsel of food we brought with us.

What I can say for certain is that he spent the majority of the night making a loop between our camp and two others, including the camp with the air horn.

I was already a bit freaked out even before the bear invited himself into our camp. I had never been in true wilderness before. I never knew night could be so dark, nor had I ever been to a place where there wasn’t even a hint of the ambient glow of a city on the horizon.

I tried to convince myself that the thin fabric of my tent somehow afforded protection the same way a child terrified of ghosts or monsters convinces himself his blanket can shield him from the supernatural. Every kid knows the monsters can’t get you if you’re under your blanket.

By the time the bear came around for the second time that night, I had to piss like a racehorse. I toyed with the idea of slipping out ninja-like for a stealth draining, but who was I kidding? I was too terrified to move.

I thought of urinating every few seconds. I dreamed about it. In the video game The Legend of Zelda, which I played a lot as a kid, there are hidden lakes on the map where fairies restore your health. Your character, Link, says “Ah! Refreshing!” as you’re healed.

I dreamed I was Link stepping to the edge of a lake, where a fairy kindly invited me to urinate.

“Ah!” I said as I emptied my bladder. “Refreshing!”

For a few glorious moments, it was real. It was so good.

Then I woke up and I was back in the tent with a full bladder and the bear outside, tearing his way through our gear in search of every last bag of peanuts and stick of beef jerky.

I know what you’re thinking because I thought it too. I reached a hand down just to be sure. I was dry. In a way I wished I had peed myself. At least it would be over.

Larry was banging the pots and pans again, and a few minutes later the familiar air horn cut through the night, giving us a temporary reprieve. The bear was someone else’s problem for the next 20 or 30 minutes as he made his rounds to raid the other campsites.

The post apocalypse

The long night finally relented. Birds began tweeting, the sun came over the horizon, and our ordeal was over.

I poked my head out of the tent, then ran to the nearest tree and recreated Niagara Falls in miniature for what felt like an eternity. Sweet relief!

Then I noticed the carnage.

It was actually even more of a mess than this!

Every pack we’d left hanging from a nearby tree had been shredded. The torn fabric and zipper remnants swayed in the breeze, still attached to the ropes around the tree branch. Potato chip bags had been popped with bear teeth and crunched along with their contents, then spat back out. The ground was strewn with egg shells, and all that was left of the bacon was half a plastic wrapper.

The entire area was dusted with powdered milk. Remnants of graham crackers, chocolate and marshmallows were scattered in the dirt. In a horrifying display of casual strength, the bear had split a Coleman cooler in half to get at the raw hot dogs and hamburgers inside . There were the barely recognizable remnants of a box of Lucky Charms. And one pack was left intact except for the smallest zipper pouch, which had been clawed open for the handful of granola bars inside.

I stared at it, amazed that an animal could smell food in sealed plastic wrappers inside a canvas rucksack.

We broke camp quickly because we had to go back to civilization. There was no other option: we had no food left.

When we returned to the ranger station, Larry spoke to one of the rangers, who said the other campers were hanging their packs from the dam because the notorious bear had learned how to cut down packs hanging from trees. Just like it did to our gear. Then he reminded Larry why it’s a good idea to have those conversations before you venture into the woods.

It was the most terrifying night of my life, but as an adult I just shake my head and smile whenever I think about it. And all these years later, when I wake up in the middle of the night and stumble to the bathroom, Bud in tow, I still shake off the last drops, sigh, and whisper “Ah, refreshing!”

Note: Every damn word of this is true, or at least as accurate as it can be when experienced through the eyes of a 10-year-old and recalled all these years later. It eventually occurred to me that Larry must have been terrified, if not for himself, then for the fact that he had someone else’s kids with him. I know I’d be crapping bricks if I’d taken my brother’s kids camping and an unreasonably clever bear wouldn’t leave us alone. I told this story to my nieces one night, and instead of having a bit of sympathy, they think it’s absolutely hilarious that their dad and uncle were terrorized by a black bear during a camping trip. Their favorite part is my dream of being Link from The Legend of Zelda and joyfully peeing into a lake. Apparently my misfortunes are rich comedic material for them.

Header image via Wikimedia Commons

Blast From The Past: Tokyo’s Nude Trump

On this day in 2019 I stumbled upon a shop in Tokyo’s Shibuya district whose name conjures some disturbing images!

NUDE TRUMP: WTF Is This?!

Airline Introduces ‘Fat Tax’: Why Pet Parents Should Care

Credited to an “activist investor,” one airline has redoubled efforts to squeeze money out of travelers — and people traveling with pets could be next.

Travelers are calling it a “fat tax.”

The anecdotes, which have been popping up all over social media platforms this week, are similar: flyers show up to the airport, a counter person looks them up and down, then declares the flyer will have to purchase a second seat or give up their spot on the plane.

That this is happening on Southwest Airlines, long praised as the most considerate toward “passengers of size,” is even more surprising. SF Gate attributes the dramatic shift in policy, which is apparently just one of many, to an “activist investor.”

It doesn’t say who that “activist investor” is, but it’s difficult to imagine a person wealthy enough to own a significant portion of an airline developing a personal vendetta after bad experiences in crowded coach. This is something different, driven by the desire to extract more money from travelers with rent-seeking behavior. That sort of thing, an “activist investor” certainly would do. Boosting profits without creating any value has become the calling card of America’s financial ruling class.

Which is why it’s likely this problem was created by the airlines in the first place, and why pet caretakers should be wary. (And no, not because felines like my Bud are a little too fond of the yums.)

Airlines are always looking for ways to add new seats, and every year brings new “innovations” to reclaim space centimeter by centimeter so the airlines can sell extra tickets.

Credit: Anthony Baratier/Wikimedia Commons

We’ve long since become cattle. I’m 5’10” and I’ve been on flights in which my knees barely fit between the seat in front of me and my own. I always wonder: what would I do if I were taller? How the heck does someone, say, 6’2″ sit in one of these seats?

The effort to squeeze more money from travelers isn’t limited to the new “fat tax” either. From “premium economy” upsells that don’t yield more space to ever-shrinking carry-on limits, airlines continue to find new routes into our wallets, making us pay more for the same product.

And that’s why those of us with pets should be worried. It’s a short leap from a “fat tax” to a “cat tax.”

“You’ll be in coach while I take my place in first class, human.”

Most airlines treat people traveling with pets as a nuisance to begin with, and if they haven’t already, Southwest’s “activist investor” is likely to find new ways to squeeze people traveling with cats and dogs. (In my head, I imagine this “activist investor” as a vaguely Stephen Milleresque figure, with twitchy eyes betraying the rage bubbling below a calm exterior. “Let them sit elbow to elbow as they cradle their animals,” he laughs from his first-class seat. “Muahahaha!”)

The fact that this “fat tax” is arbitrary should scare all of us. If the whim of a counter clerk is what determines whether someone has to buy an extra seat, then who’s to say the same clerks won’t look at a cat, declare “He looks like a pain in the ass,” and demand some additional, ludicrously-titled fee?

“That comes to an additional $276.13 with your companion animal convenience surcharge. Thank you for flying with us!”

It just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it?

Woman Fined $130 After Her Cat Meowed ‘Too Loudly’ On Train To Paris

The Europeans aren’t messing around when it comes to noise on public transportation, and a loud pet can cost you.

Note to self: Never take Buddy on a French train, unless I want to be out a few hundred bucks by the time I reach my destination.

That’s my takeaway after coming across this story about a woman who was fined €110 (about $130 in ‘Merican dollars) by the French National Railway Company after another passenger complained that her cat was causing “acute tensions” by vocalizing.

Naturally, the passenger and the railroad have two different versions of events. Camille, who was identified only by her first name, said she’d purchased a ticket (about $8) for her cat, Monet, and had the feline in a carrier for the trip from Vannes, Brittany, to Paris, per railroad rules.

Monet “meowed a bit at the start” at the beginning of the journey, Camille admitted, but wasn’t excessively loud.

Buddy the Cat, a gray tabby cat, with a synthwave background. — “Loud? I’m merely expressing my displeasure with the level of service around here!”

Railroad operators said there were multiple complaints, not just one, and claimed a conductor asked Camille and her boyfriend, Pierre, to switch to a mostly-empty car as a compromise with other passengers.

A conductor ticketed Camille when she declined the “simple and common sense solution,” according to French broadcaster BFM.

I’ve joked in the past about sedating the Budster before flights so the other passengers won’t toss him out at 40,000 feet, but there’s truth at the heart of it: Buddy is a naturally chatty cat, he’s got strong opinions, and he doesn’t hesitate to share them with anyone.

Of course you don’t want your companion animal to create a scene or make other passengers uncomfortable. I still wince when ai think about the woman who forced fellow passengers to endure the smell, proximity and potential defecation of her “emotional support horse,” and when people began abusing the privilege of going places with emotional support animals (emotional support alligator, anyone?), it was only a matter of time before companies that operate common spaces — be they in a fuselage, a baseball stadium or a grocery store — tightened the rules to avoid conflict.

Still, unless the cat was wailing, or Camille really did refuse to switch seats, a $130 fine is excessive.

Just something to think about for those of us who have plans to travel with our cats.

Header image of a cat cafe train car in Japan, credit: Wikimedia Commons

Wordy Wednesday: Visiting Japan’s Snow Monkeys

Meet the Japanese macaques, also known as snow monkeys, living in an enclosure on the side of Mt. Takao, about an hour from Tokyo.

A note on this series: Although I published some of these photos earlier, the majority have been recovered from an old drive that took a circuitous route of more than five years, three continents and four countries to get back to me. I plan to run them in themed segments on Wednesdays this summer, including Tokyo nightlife, shrines, cityscapes and more. This week’s photos are from the snow monkey exhibit at Mt. Takao.

Japanese macaques are the northernmost-dwelling of any non-human primate species.

They’re built for the cold, with heavier coats than their cousins, the rhesus, long-tailed and bonnet macaques. They also sleep in well-organized groups, rotating so each monkey gets time in the center to soak up body heat, and they’re famous for keeping warm in northern Japan’s hot springs.

But as these photos show, snow monkeys are also adaptable, and they make the best of things during the hot, humid summers at Mt. Takao, about 51 km (30 miles) from Tokyo.

These photos were taken on a hot day in June when I was one of only a handful of visitors.