Chasing Bears

“I hate cross-country skiing. It is stupid, you just come out here and slide around for no point.”

Oakley is ranting again. It is understandable. Not only is he a 17-year-old boy forced to adventure weekly with his mom, but he is also wearing skis that require wax and it keeps wearing off, making him slip one way and then another. Every way but forward, really. “Let’s just go up to the top of that hill and then we can call it a day. There will be some good views.”

“I don’t care about views. You do. I am going back to the truck.”

“No, you are not. We have driven more than an hour to get here and we are going to have fun.”

“No, we are not!”

We are cross-country skiing at Quarry Road in Waterville, Maine. It is beautiful. There are eight miles of groomed trails that loop through the forest and the snow is perfect; an all-natural, corduroy, roller coaster. I will be damned if Oakley ruins it. “We are going up that hill,” I say with firm resolution. He knows that to fight me when I use this tone would be futile. It would get ugly.

So, up we go. I am as determined to enjoy myself as Oakley is to squawk. I do my best to tune him out, and he follows angrily, cursing under his breath and thrashing around like an ice-skating giraffe. When we finally reach the top, we find ourselves overlooking an old, downhill ski run. It is a straight shot to the bottom, fairly overgrown with small shrubs and grasses poking up out of the snow. He instantly brightens. “Let’s go down that!” His eyes flash with dare and bravado. His bad mood swept away in his surge of excitement. It is far too steep for me on my cross-country skis, in fact, it looks far too steep for anybody.

“No, I will break my leg.”

“Yeah, but I won’t! I will meet you at the bottom! This will be fun.” It is true, he will have fun, and escaping his caterwauling sounds like a slice of heaven.

“Okay, I will meet you at the bottom in 20 minutes.” With a whoop and a grin, Oakley takes off down the hill. He really is a stimulation junkie. I, on the other hand, pick my way along the ridge on what appears to be a snowshoe trail. I am sure it will descend eventually, but I am in no rush. The woods are quiet and still and I lose myself in the serenity found there.

For a while, I follow blue blazes that mark the snowshoe trail, but then on a whim, I decide to go off the route and follow what looks like a gently sloping ski run. There are dog prints on this track, so I know someone else has traveled this way. Deeper and deeper I go, the quiet of the woods calling me, the snow muffling all sound. I am lulled into a meditative state. I continue to follow the dog tracks, occasionally wondering when they might begin to descend, but not really caring one way or another. Oakley can wait. Suddenly, I hear a loud snort. The small hairs in my ears stand at attention, straining to feel any vibration of sound. What the heck was that? That was not the sound of a dog. I look at the tracks again.

They are bigger than I first noticed and have heavy claw marks poking deep into the snow. They also seem to be surrounded by a larger imprint, of maybe, fur? Tingles ride up my spine. My brain turns on. What would a dog be doing up here without any human prints beside it? What exactly am I following?

I hear the snort again, it is quite close, and I realize, I am chasing a bear. It sounds like a warning, full of power and hot breath. I heed it.

Quickly, I turn on my skis, legs all akimbo, and trace my tracks back in the direction of the trail. I have gone farther than intended and can find no way down so, I begin crashing through Beech trees and Maples, swinging from one to the next like a skiing orangutan using them to try to slow down. There is nothing graceful about this, branches lash my face and my skis frequently become tangled in the shrubbery. But. I feel giddy, triumphant.

It takes me nearly an hour to make my way to the truck. There Oakley is waiting. I thought he would be annoyed that I took so long, but no, he is smiling. His cheeks are ruddy and his hat is pushed back on his head, airing out a sweaty forehead. “Aw mom, I wrecked my knees! You should see them. I wiped out so bad. It was awesome!”

“Well, I chased a bear!” As we share stories and load our skis into the truck, I am struck by the fact that this really what we do on all adventures. Chase bears. Both of us in different ways. Our expeditions aren’t complete without those moments when we reach for whatever it is that fills us up. For him, it is physical intensity, for me, it is a story, a tale of adventure, and a connection to something that feels bigger.

What is your bear?