Mum, do bears like whiskey?

Part 2

edited by Konrad McCarthy

Bears, for me had always been a creature of fables and fairy tales; cartoonish animals that occasionally had the ability of speech, liked to eat honey and could be friends with a piglet, a rabbit and a tiger… for example. They were just a cuddly character of the past that used to entertain under-nourished children in Russian circuses or humorously terrorise vacationers in the holidays-gone-wacky films of the 1980s.

As if, as if they were real – yet alone a real risk in the Californian woods. California was barely real. 

But, as I came to realise, bears are real. They’re very real.

***

I had decided, in a fit of Sarah-infused wisdom and financial panic after over-spending on Mermaid repellent, treasure chests and pirate eye patches in San Francisco, that I would camp my way up the coast. I was throwing caution (and free HBO) to the wind.

Honestly, I didn’t even think twice about whether it would be dangerous or not. I was Australian, I was made of hard yakka (and other Australian clichés). We have poisonous snakes, spiders, crocodile-hunter-killing sting rays, shit Bear Grylls couldn’t make it out of Australia alive. I was made of tougher stuff and thus the American wilderness with its manicured grasses and well-kept campsites, would pose no threat to the likes of me.

I was born camping. Actually, I was born in a hospital but I don’t remember a time when our family holidays weren’t spent camping. My childhood summer holidays were filled with goannas, black cockatoos, and kangaroos. With the fresh smell of eucalyptus and sea salt, I’d wake with the sun and sleep by the sound of waves crashing on the beach.

Up until I was about 12 years of age, my family would make the 6 hour drive to Cape Conran in the hot January sun; the drive broken only with a chicken sandwich and chocolate milkshake at a small country milk bar along the way. Dad driving, Mum in the front, my sister, an unimpressed teenager in the back next to me. The pop-up campervan was hooked up to the back, loaded with food, bikes and our weight in marshmellows for toasting on the camp fire.

I have no idea how long we'd stay in Cape Conran. A week, maybe two. These were my primary school years, and at this age a weekend felt like a holiday and holidays felt like an eternity. We could have been there for two months for all the handle I had on the concept of time.

With matted hair and a dorky hat, I would ride my bike down the corrugated dirt roads of the campgrounds, letting my mouth drop open to hear the funny way the bumps effected my voice. And I would scatter lazy goannas, who, in a cloud of dried leaves and dust, would disappear up the closest gum tree. I would stop, stunned by the manic action, then shrug and keep on peddling.

Ticks, potential drowning and sun burn aside, it was freedom.

In more recent times, my dad and I have been taking annual hiking trips to the Snowy Mountains. We scaled Mount Jagungle, powered up ridges carrying a 25 kg pack, dodged black snakes, built fires, gathered water from mountain streams and ate dehydrated bush walking food for five days straight.

Powering up the saddle...
I don't really know what a saddle is in hiking terms but people who hike seem to like to use it.

I pretty much forced Dad to help me build a fire each night...
'we have to, we're camping' obviously it was difficult to argue with this logic.

I am (as my Dad will attest because according to him, I am a chip of the old block) made from pretty tough stuff.

***

So it was natural that I was quite self-assured when buying my tent and sleeping equipment. But I was happy to be helped by John, a shop assistant with the physique of a teddy bear at the outdoor mega store Sports Co, to find what I needed. He was enthusiastic for my trip and was fatherly in his advice about the cold May nights and the possible national park camping grounds along the northern Californian coast.

He and his family were campers and hikers too and he started regaling me with tales of his own adventures.

“You wanna be careful of bears. They’re out this time of year.”

“Ha”, I smirked, still unconvinced that bears were ever going to be an actual thing, “I’ll keep my honey well protected.”

I don’t think John got the reference. “Well… that might be a good idea” he said as we made our way to the tent section.

Interspersed with suggestions on tent materials and potential weather conditions, John also began reeling off a number of stories about bear sightings.

“So…” I was starting to wonder… “Bears, are like, real?” I couldn’t have sounded more like an ill-informed tourist if I’d tried.

“Oh yeah.”

He said casually without being patronising - for which I was grateful for. As I watched him move to the sleeping bags, I became a little concerned about what this information implied. 

Bears + Woods + Me = certain death.

While I poked and proded sleeping bags pretending to know what I was looking for, John told a story about a hiking trip he and his wife took one summer, not long after they were married. They had been walking all day in Yosemite, but they hadn’t reached their target camping area. Light had all but faded and as it was summer the couple decided to bunk down for a couple of hours sleep and set off early the next morning to avoid getting lost in the dark.

It was a hot Californian summer and the need for a tent seemed like a superfluous effort for only a couple of hours sleep. So they lay out their sleeping bags on the ground and slept under the northern sky stars.

It was the dead of night, and both John and his wife (I’m going to call her Judy), had managed to drift off to sleep, when Judy was woken by a wet, snuffling nose. Stirring slightly, Judy’s initial assumption was probably (and I should be point out that I am taking a little creative license with the details of Judy’s thought processes here) that it was only John snuggling up. But when the wetness of the nose was unmistakably not John’s, she blinked open her eyes…

… only to be met with the beady gaze of a black bear.

Like everyone’s nightmare, Judy was unable to scream, her voice was lodged in her throat, unable to make its way to her mouth to produce even the tiniest of squeaks.

The bear sniffed her face.  

This is when Judy tried to nudge her husband who lay snoring beside her. But confined to the strictures of a sleeping bag her efforts were futile.

The bear snuffled again, wondering, no doubt what the hell two large pink sausages were doing lying in the open air. Then…

… he shuffled away.

Leaving Judy with a heightened sense of hearing, a racing heart and begrudging her husband’s ability to sleep through what may have been her untimely death.

***

John was now picking out a suitably inexpensive sleeping mat from the shelf and had his back to me as he finished his story. He assured me, with a laugh, that he was still married.

Meanwhile, I stood wide-eyed and gripping my suitably inexpensive tent and sleeping bag with white knuckles. The blood had drained from my face as I realised that in Australia we might have the yellow bellied black snake, white tail spiders and birds with poisonous spurs that swoop at school children, but these American wildlife animals are big and muscly and have teeth, sharp claws and could, according to John, “crush the frame of your car in order to open its doors if they smell food inside.” These animals can’t be dealt with by a swift flick and a squeal which, if I am to be honest, is my usual style of defense.  

I thanked John and bid him farewell after paying for my goods.

I left the store.

Outside in the car lot, I made my way to my white Kia Rio carrying my newly purchased tent, sleeping bag and sleeping mat. I was all set for an American camping trip (except for maybe the pansy-arse car I was driving). There’d be no 18 year olds falling over in the hallways like there had been at the hostel I had stayed in in LA, no strange stains on the linen like there had been at the hotel I stayed in in San Francisco and no free HBO… only fresh air, babbling brooks and Bears – godless killing machines that could rip my innards from me while I slept in a flimsy, inexpensive tent.

And no one would hear me scream.

But, despite this all encompassing fear that chilled my blood and made me feel a little sick, I heard my dad’s words ring in my ears.

“She’ll be right darl’.”

So I started my car and began to make my way into the depths of the American wilderness…

To be continued…

Then I realised this is what a cloud feels like...

November, 2012 Mexico. 

Still learning how to use my camera...

I had returned to Mexico. And it somehow felt like coming to a strange home, where no one speaks your language but at least they get your jokes.


By coincidence and circumstance, to Oaxaca City for Day of the Dead and it felt like a small death of my own and my soul had returned. 

But it was over now and I was headed for the beach town of Muzunte on the Pacific Coast of Oaxaca state. The last time I had been there it had been a hippie laden, completely renewing despite my skepticism, experience. And I was looking forward to falling asleep to the sound of the sea.

San Jose del Pacifico is a small town in mountains, half way between Oaxaca City and Muzunte.

I had met Ben, an American filmmaker, at St Augustine. Ben had recently returned from a couple of days in San Jose del Pacifico and described the weird damp, drizzle like weather there. Did he need a rain coat? Or not? He hadn't been sure.

"Then I realised 'this is what a cloud feels like' " I told him he should make that the title of his next album. My Mexican chaperone laughed. Ben just told me he was filmmaker, not a musician.

I arrived in San del Pacifico, too late for the decent of the cloud.

 But I took some photos anyway...

Sun rise

The view from my cabin

Just some mountains...

And sometimes Mexico is just everything you expect it to be.

 

Mum, do bears like whiskey?

Part 1

It’s hard travelling alone: facing the long stretches of road that lie in front of you with nothing but a syrupy, non-fat vanilla chai frappe by your side.

Heading upwards (north I think they call it) from San Francisco, the wilderness along Highway 1 is maiden and rugged. As you drive the twisted precipice of beaten coastline, the ocean on your left violently thunders. On your right, mountains rise, omnipotent; the scrappy cliffs scarred with jagged rocks and sprinkled with flushes of wildflowers.

These (and the syrupy, non-fat vanilla chai frappe) were my only companions from San Francisco to Portland. They were difficult to navigate - twisting, turning and volatile, but with a beauty that can only be described as breathtaking. Qualities not dissimilar to that of my most beloved friends.

***

“You’re taking the 1 all the way to Seattle?” Jed said with an edge of disconcerting surprise. Then, adjusting his tone to correlate with his Californian jaw line and adventure/surfer dude disposition, he said “Fun”.

Jed was just some guy I met in Port ReyesStation, California. We’d both stopped for coffee at a cafe that sold real espresso and we were enjoying the sun in the local park. He was headed south and me… well I was heading upwards.

“Enjoy your trip”, he said with a smile full of confident teeth. And with a self-assured wave, he left.

“I will” …

I meant it. Because I had nothing better to do. I was coming out of a long winter of discontent and a luxurious middle class depression. I had no future, no past, all I had was the road - and an excellent coffee to start the day.

Aside from the pimply attendant at Starbucks, Jed was the last person I spoke to until Portland.

***

If spending 10 hours a day holed up in a tin can of a Rio Kia wasn’t isolating enough, I decided to camp, by myself, along the coast, mainly because I had spent $60 on pirate goods in San Francisco and wanted to save money**.

As we all know, aloneness can be freeing, liberating, peaceful and highly rewarding. It’s a time to think and reflect, to let thoughts, ideas and preconceived notions about yourself and the world fall out in front of you and unravel with the road.

Loneliness, as we all know, is like a tepid bath. What had once been lovely and hot is now a soggy reminder that you should get out. There’s a little bit of melancholy and nostalgia, and a whole lot of wrinkly-fingered indulgence.

But both loneliness and aloneness take on a different meaning when bears get involved…

To be continued…

** It’s actually not much cheaper at all with some camp sites costing up to $45. On average you can expect to pay about $30 a night for a tent only (unpowered) site, which is about the same price for a dorm bed in a decent hostel. But there’s less 18 year olds falling over themselves in the hallways after jagerbombs.

•         For those of you thinking about camping in the US: you can do it a lot cheaper than designated campgrounds in National Parks. City parks in most towns allow for camping, you just need to ask/inform the local police. I read this in Backpacking in North America a travel guide from 1982, but it was also confirmed by my American host and owner of a hostel in San Jose, Costa Rica
• ·      However: as the number of US vacationers to National Parks for overnight or extended holidays is dwindling, I would also encourage more camping in the National Parks if you can afford it – they are picturesque and overly manicured to point of a Disney film set but there’s hot showers and elk!

elk!

  

And then...

The day had started with a moan: a damp expanse of humph. The clock radio clicked over and I woke to post-war-time favourites – Stormy Weather, The Man I Love, Aren’t You Glad You’re You.

Raspberry to that.

The previous day, I had stood on the beach and felt the “revelation” to write. Ideas about form and structure had blinked their eyes and stretched their arms in my mind.

I had been listening to the fine sand-papered voice of Sean Penn reading Bob Dylan’s 'Chronicles' on audio book. A beat poet without the awkward timing, Dylan was a writer and his rhythm was in my head. The streams of prose that were now bubbling in my brain sounded like I had something to say. And finally, I’d prove to all those who doubted, that I could in fact - write.

And so, I sat down to - write.

And I wrote in the old fashioned pen to paper style.

And the pen on the paper made the shapes of words.

And I was writing. Words. In the very literal sense.

But they were wonky words. They were bumbly and directionless.

‘What’s it about? Where is it going? Why isn’t it good? Why is it, in fact, a bit shit?’

Those babbling brooks were taken over by a sloppy fudge and the scribbles on the paper were not the genius that had been in my mind’s eye when I was swooning in my own self-revelation on the shoreline of San Simeon.

Oh god the parallels with my life were too fucking obvious and clichéd that I was getting on my own nerves.

So instead of persevering with words and facing my own pitfalls as an adult, I watched Gladiator on TV. And as the sandbags of loneliness attached themselves to my feet and the overwrought metaphors bullied themselves to the front of my thoughts, I ate corn chips, drank terrible red wine and got gooey over Joaquin Phoenix ‘do’ evil.

Eventually I found a groggy and salty sleep.

Then, with corn chip crumbs pressed into the side of my face, it was time to get up.

Breakfast happened.

Then, a scolding coffee in an oversized polystyrene cup.

Then, a pause, with nothing to fill it but a feeling of emptiness, before I pushed forward into the day and exited the hotel car park.

And then…

(Beautiful, picturesque photos were meant to follow here. I was going use the awe-inspiring landscapes that belittle any niggly self-doubt to speak for themselves.

But now I realise I only took photos of fat sea lions on this leg of the trip)

Where's the walrus**? 

** or sea lion.

***

Six hours after pressing out of the hotel car park in San Simeon, I arrived in San Francisco. The drive had actually been spectacular.

But it wasn’t until San Francisco, when I charged the little Kia up treacherously steep intersections and made the same right turn about 19 times (another parallel with my life perhaps?), that something changed (aside from finally making the left turn).

From here on my trip would be different and I began to just write. Maybe it was the Haight/Ashbury sign, maybe it was the hippy history of San Fran, or maybe it was pirate socks from Dave Egger’sValencia 826, but from here on in my notebook became filled with literary sketches, ideas for sentences and blotchy memories of moments I found funny. And it didn’t matter if the words were a little wonky. I had no one to write for, no deadlines to disappoint and no expectations to not be a bit shit at it (not even from myself).

There were no big revelations or poetic clichés. Just a doughnut, an open schedule and the freedom to fuck it up.

And who knew, maybe I’d find a perfect coffee along the way.

And yes, that was another parallel for my life.

(Little did I know how much I would rely on this newly inspired catch cry. Three months from this moment, I would fly into Heathrow airport and within 24 hours my well-laid plans would melt from under my feet because I had, in fact, fucked something up. And it resulted in the direction of my life for the next year changing, irrevocably.

But that’s a story for another time - the colour of my eyes have not yet been changed in Mexico, I have not yet been healed by Dudley the basset hound nor have I been won over by the Jalapeno/Cheddar biscuits in Silverlake with friends I can only describe as some of the best.

So for now, it was farewell to northern California and on to Oregon state.)