Martha Cooney

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I planned a solo camping trip in Shenandoah National Park over Memorial Day weekend because Eat Pray Love; the weather forecast wasn’t great, but what am I going to do, not go? I can wait out a heavy rain, light rain won’t ruin a hike, and overcast is the best woods weather. Come frolic, gnomes!

 

I couldn’t find my old sleeping bag – it was probably carried off by a strong raccoon shopping in my open hatchback the last time I moved – so I borrowed from my woodsman friend Pete, who I knew from working together at outdoor education camp. He had The Mummy. You zip yourself in, pull the head cover on, make T-Rex arms to tighten the drawstring, and leave nothing exposed except nose, mouth and eyes, like a creepy armless worm unable to fight any creatures when they bust through the tent flap like Kramer coming into Jerry’s apartment. 

 

Pete also gave me a little butane stove; on past camping trips I’d relied on others for making morning coffee and this time I would need to boil water for my old friend instant Folgers. Foodwise, ready-to-eat stuff always feels easier. I’m not trying to worry about dropping a plant-based weenie in the fire. 

 

I knew the risk of ending up at a park cafe getting price-gouged by a man in a hat who knows you have no other options so I checked off the camping food bingo board: oats, peanut butter, bananas, easy-open tuna to feel like a cowboy clinking a fork against a tin can under the stars. Make it an event! I threw in packets of salsa and guacamole. I’d enjoy my cold woods meals like Tony Soprano happily dancing his fork around the antipasto. 

 

Pete reminded me about one of his trips with the campers, when each kid was assigned a food to carry and on the first night a bear stole one of the bags off the high branch where they hung them. That kid’s bag had all the oatmeal and for breakfast all week everyone had to ration granola bars and individual trail mix packs. 

 

Shenandoah was black bear territory. I was excited to see some wildlife at a safe distance; in South Philly I only had squirrels and birds, and they were hardened to city living. Our rowhouse has a little back patio and the animals used it for a hub. 

 

One squirrel had started showing up a lot last summer, rustling in the potted lavender like a common spy. At first when he saw me he would freeze, lock eyes and start a staring contest. After a few meetings he got more confident no matter how much I banged on the screen door. We put cherry tomato plants in raised garden beds and the squirrel started a morning gymnastics routine where he leapt from one planter to the other and bushwhacked through the vines to pick a perfect fat little red globe with a bead of rainwater clinging to the bottom. Then he’d take one bite, drop it on the cement and run away. If you’re going to steal, eat the whole thing.

 

Jeff put some sprinkly chemical around the perimeter that was supposed to keep squirrels away. The squirrel showed up loyal as ever and ate my bike seat. In the fall we put mums in the planters. Every morning I ate breakfast outside while the squirrel used the mum bush as a ball pit, diving in as if he were at a harvest colors-themed birthday party. Jeff put an ultrasonic radar repellent thing in the planter. The squirrel stood in front of it and bathed in the vibration like he was front row at a concert and held my gaze the whole time. 

 

I wrote end-of-December intentions for the new year. Accept what you cannot change. “Can we name him?” I asked Jeff.

 

“No,” he said. “I don’t want him to feel that he’s welcome here.”

 

Winter melted and I washed dishes with the back window open above the sink. The squirrel supervised from the other side of the screen where he clung spread-eagle. I named him Mister Weatherby. 

 

Spring sprung and I trusted Mister Weatherby to the level that he wouldn’t rearrange my face with his little claws but never to the level where I would leave my coffee mug out back in case he slipped something into it. It warmed up and we coexisted along with the birds. They were mostly sparrows and nested somewhere near the roof, using the second floor air-conditioning unit as a stoop to sit out and talk shit. The birds hung around the patio all year, but in spring the noise level in the early morning was nuts. 

 

Pete – a living Farmer’s Almanac – told me the early morning spring gatherings were for mating season. All the birds in the neighborhood used our power lines in front and back to meet up at 4 a.m. and talk about who was available and where the party was at. In the daylight I saw two of them get in a fistfight on top of the cinderblock wall – I assume over who was going to mate with who – and one knocked the other to the ground. Around the clock the birds didn’t shut up. I didn’t mind but I did wish I knew what they were saying. 

 

My spitting-distance relationship with Mister Weatherby and the birds wouldn’t do for backwoods animals. I polled around and the consensus was that for black bears in Shenandoah pepper spray would be good enough if I needed it. I polled around again for a good pepper spray and a friend recommended Bling Sting. It came in hard plastic packaging and had a super-cute bedazzled pastel rainbow canister on a gold keychain. I’d seen black bears in the mountains before, full families loping along with cute cubs, and it’s magical, but I had to be prepared in case there was any miscommunication. Don’t take it the wrong way. I’d love to be friends at a safe distance. 

 

The thing is that bears radiate a neutral comfort, especially when they plod silently and browse berry options. I read a true story about an anonymous New Yorker who you could book to show up at your apartment and take away mementos after a breakup – your boyfriend’s college crewneck sweatshirt or a kissy photobooth strip. The guy was called the Breakup Bear and showed up at your door in a seven-foot-tall bear suit. He put your items in a black duffel bag and left without ever saying a word. It wouldn’t feel right if it were an ostrich; a bear seems like the type to bring you over to the table and nod while you cry into the tea they pour you (served with wooden honey dipper.) 

 

Don’t be overly charmed. I packed the Bling Sting along with The Mummy and Tin Can Tuna into Frankie, my red Honda Fit hatchback. I had an improv teacher once tell me, “Yeah, you seem like someone who would name your car.” His tone was so neutral that it never sat right with me. But like with Mister Weatherby, I’d already established the relationship with the car by naming it; there was no going back. 

 

I drove into Shenandoah late in the day, crossing into an otherworld of trees lush and green in the mist and everything dripping wet magic. I crawled slow on winding roads into fat fog until a wooden sign for the first visitor center popped out of nowhere like in a paperback novel right before you meet someone you can’t quite trust. There was a lone ranger (ha! ha!) behind the counter. He handed me a park map and visitor guide, called Oh, Ranger! (exclamation point theirs.) I looked it over in the car. 

 

Oh, Ranger! reminded me that the park was “home to one of the largest concentrations of black bears in the U.S.” If you saw a bear, “Stay calm and slowly leave the area without turning your back.” Okay, I understood that one. Sit with your back to the wall to keep eyes on the whole restaurant in case someone whacks you while you eat your clams and spaghett (the “i” is left off on purpose.) 

 

“If you do come upon a bear,” it continued, “do not move abruptly, which may startle him or her.” Him or her? 

 

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NATIONAL PARK SERVICE TEAM MEETING

 

STAFF WRITER 1: If we use “it,” it dehumanizes the bear.

 

EDITOR: Talk to me about that word “humanize.” 

 

STAFF WRITER 2: Should we consult AP guidelines?

 

STAFF WRITER 1: We wouldn’t need to have this conversation if you had read the dissertation I gave you six months ago. (Drops heavy tome on table titled How Human Language Impacts Self-Image and Identity in Bears.)

 

STAFF WRITER 2: Is this about the “it” thing or about gender? Aren’t most bears mamas?

 

INTERN (from corner): What about Smokey and Yogi?

 

EDITOR: It reads cleaner if it says “it.”

 

STAFF WRITER 1 breaks pencil with frustration. Two tears drip into Nalgene water bottle. 

 

—

 

“Keep your gear clean and free of food odor,” Oh, Ranger! went on. Then, “Animals may seem tame, but they are wild and can injure you. When you feed wildlife, they lose their fear of humans.” I thought of Mister Weatherby chewing on cherry tomatoes all summer and hope all winter, then suddenly realized it was an assumption that he was a “he.” Better reflect on that. 

 

“Do not leave food or other scented items unattended, even for a few minutes,” Oh, Ranger! lectured. “Store your food, candles, soap, toothpaste etc. in your locked vehicle at all times.”

 

—

 

BEAR: I’m going out, want anything?

 

ROOMMATE BEAR: Lemme get a bar of Irish Spring.

 

BEAR: I’ll pick it up if I see it. I’m looking for Dove Watermelon & Guava body wash. Bar soap makes my mouth dry.

 

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Oh, Ranger! also said that this time of year there were a ton of bird species, especially warblers, and like at home but on a whole other orchestra scale, you’d hear all kinds of mating calls. Let’s go!  “Enjoy the park,” Oh, Ranger! concluded, “but be respectful at all times.” The campsite brochure emphasized the point: “Remember that you are sharing this space with plants, animals, and other campers. Consideration and cooperation are important.” Designated quiet hours were 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. 

 

It started raining heavily as I drove into the campground and got stuck behind a guy trying to back up a pickup truck hauling a huge camper on a trailer. His wife stood in a poncho in the mud giving direction while the assembly tried to get into their small campsite and got stuck in the wet dirt pit. We choose to do this for fun. I ate mixed nuts and watched the production while the rain beat on the windshield. 

 

At my site I prepared to eat my dinner in the driver’s seat like a proper American. I ran in and out of the rain to get food from the trunk and apologized to the universe for taking dry skies for granted. I put a paper plate on my lap – if I were truly in the environmental spirit of the park, it would be aluminum, but I’m trying, okay? – laid out a tortilla, and opened a Tin Can Tuna. I angled it to scoop onto the tortilla but my geometry was off and an undesired amount of juice tipped out. You should have gone for the foil packets …Yes, but then you’re not a real cowboy. The tuna juice soaked the plate. Embrace it! I added salsa and guac and rolled it into a burrito. Now the whole establishment was ripping and dripping. We’re messy in the woods! It’s the best! I ate my wet meal in the dry car. Tuna juice got all over my pants.

 

Wait. Maybe I was generalizing again, but wasn’t it a favorite activity of bears to scoop specifically fish out of the river with a floppy yet dexterous paw? Now I was bait. Okay. Tent up first, then think about that. It was the first camp of the season so it took a second to get reoriented with the tent, like when I pull a pilly black sweater out of the winter clothes drawer in October and blink: I know we spent a lot of time together, but frankly I forgot you existed. After thirty seconds in the freezing rain I was a little discouraged. We choose to do this for fun. I forgot to put the rain cover on until the end, so some drips got in. By the time I ran back and forth to get my stuff into it, the tent wasn’t non-damp, but it was up. 

 

I struggled out of the tuna pants. I ran them back to the car. I locked the car. I ran to the bathroom to scrub my tuna hands. I ran back to the tent. 

 

By 8:53 p.m. I was snug as a bug, and unzipped The Mummy. Now that I was settled, the sound of rain on a tent while I was cozy in the middle of the woods was pretty great. Besides the camper parker duo I’d only seen one or two other groups, including a quiet tent on the site behind mine. Not isolated, but in solitude with the woods. Perfect. I shimmied myself into The Mummy, flopped around trying to zip it and threw out my back, and pulled on the drawstring to encase my head. I lay down. The Bling Sting. I had never opened it. 

 

I tried to crack open the plastic casing and couldn’t get it. How hard was I going to try? Really, what bear is coming out in this weather? At this point, if a bear was going to put in that much effort, haven’t they earned it? He or she could have me.

 

I checked the next day’s forecast – rain – and burrowed in. I sleep like a pig on a spit, and it was hard to execute a full flip in The Mummy, so I kept waking myself up as I struggled to arrange my body. With each flop my lower back reminded me I was born in the eighties. The rain lightened, and I heard a long ragged growl, pausing and picking up again. Grrrrr. Grrrrrrr. Bear? I wrestled The Mummy to sit up and it twisted around my hips. I thrashed like a mermaid. Grrrrrrrrr. It was someone snoring from the tent behind me.

 

During the night the rain slowed, and it was after 10 p.m when the birds blatantly violated the quiet hours rule and opened the reality-show-level nightclub. I couldn’t tell exactly what they were saying because so many single males – that’s who makes the most noise during mating season, especially the mockingbird – were yelling at once, but the general message was U UP? and I’M TRYNA HOOK UUUUUUUUUP and I GOT A FRESH NEST LET’S GOOOOOOO. I was sorry our birds at home were missing this; they would have loved it. I found out later it was the male whip-poor-will who repeated the same chant all night long without giving up because, like he probably said to a robin buddy over some fresh worms, “Dating is a numbers game, bro.” 

 

I like birds and all, but it was like the friend who brings a lot of energy and at a certain point you just need them to leave. (Guilty!) Remember Oh, Ranger!: “Consideration and cooperation are important.” 

 

—

 

ME: Hello, birds. I understand you have a need to mate. I have a need to sleep. How can we work together to get both our needs met?

 

BIRDS: I’M 23 CENTIMETERS TALL SINCE IT SEEMS LIKE HEIGHT MATTERS OUT HERE! 

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They shifted into their morning playlist and I embraced the day. It started pouring again. I couldn’t keep the butane stove dry to boil coffee water and I was too wet and freezing to troubleshoot. I’d planned different campsites for each night in the park to avoid getting stalked by serial killers or lonely woodspeople, and there was no use waiting for the rain to let up, so I broke camp, shoved the wet gear into the car, and left just as the rain lightened into mist.

 

Driving mountain-edge curves in this weather was not the best way to overcome my fear of heights, but at the same time the thick fog made everything mystical as each new stretch of trees revealed itself. A long fallen branch lay across the road at such an angle that at first it looked like a saucy hitchhiker emulating Kate’s Titanic portrait pose. Some wild turkeys appeared on the side of the road; one ran away from the others and shook himself off like he’d just said something embarrassing. (“Why did I call her the wrong name? We shared an office for five years!”) 

 

The fog rolled up to a lodge full of national-park energy and people in ponchos setting off on trails. The gift shop inside had magnets, keychains, mugs, stickers, hoodies and postcards all featuring bears. A toddler-height stuffed black bear guarded stacks of bear hoodies. Hm. You tell us how to keep the bears away, yet build your whole economy off their likeness? Don’t they feel used? There were hats too. Seeing half a vicious-bear head on top of an idiot human face is always funny. 

 

I flipped through a Campfire Cooking book. Are you serious right now? Porchetta peas? Chickpea and chorizo stew? Chicken stuffed with dates?! I draw the line. The word “stuffed” belongs on a wedding menu card, not near a mossy log. Wouldn’t the scent of a New York Times Cooking-level recipe bring out the most insufferable bears? Who would you rather hang out with, a bear who only uses “very good” butter, or a bear who’s happy to wrestle with factory-wrap plastic to swallow a mass-produced disc of peanut butter tucked inside circular white bread? 

 

The truth is I was bitter and wished I’d cooked a Dutch-oven casserole that was dense and not so drippy that it gave me tuna pants. I brought a bear postcard to the counter.  A woman with a local accent and huge cat-shaped embracing-my-older-years silver post earrings, and a guy with tattoos and smaller earrings, talked with me about the fog. 

 

“I’ve been working here forty-two years,” the woman said, “and one time the fog was so bad I couldn’t find my turn to get here to the store. They say around here, if a drop falls, it’s fog.”

 

Okay. The drive would be like this the whole time. No way out but through!

 

The guy explained, at my request, how weather works. Fog was caused by rain, but we were also in the clouds; the mist was a permanent feature, and this weekend was nothing. “There’s times you can’t see in front of your face,” he said, and added to watch out for deer. I told him I saw some wild turkeys.

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“Pardon my language,” he said, “but turkeys are assholes. They’re ornery. It’s their personality.” Of course. The embarrassed turkey I’d seen was angry at heart, and embarrassment involves anger at yourself. Your intuition for the inner life of wild creatures is still in tune. 

 

“Oh yeah,” the woman chimed in. “The turkeys are all around here. I gotta watch out for Carl.”

 

They explained that Carl was the area’s resident turkey, and loitered in the parking lot starting fights and claiming his territory. I told them about Mister Weatherby. 

 

I got coffee at the cafe and did a hike past dewy spiderwebs and mossy rocks, yellow wildflowers and birds in primary colors who, unlike the night birds, kept their business to themselves. When I got back to my car and was about to leave, a van pulled in next to me and a mom and three young kids got out. Then another kid. Then another kid. I stopped to watch. It was hard to keep track, because they were all blond, but I think it stopped around six. The dad got out with one more. They were prepared in raincoats, like all the rest of us who pretended we didn’t mind the weather and wanted to prove our mountain-man cred. We embrace the rain. We get to see nature wearing a different outfit. We feel exhilarated after getting soaked. We already paid the entrance fee. 

 

I didn’t see Carl as I left the parking lot, but on my drive I thought I saw his cousin, mom’s best friend (he calls her aunt), his best friend (like one of the family; Carl’s mom knit him a Christmas stocking with his name on it), and his uncle’s ex-wife (still comes to family barbecues.) The park’s biggest visitor center was a hub for some good hikes so I stopped there and lurked on the edge of a tour group while a ranger gave a “Wild About Bears” talk to a group. Enough already, Shenandoah! When am I going to see these supposed bears? 

 

—

 

BEAR rolls aside stone at cave entrance and looks out at rain.

 

BEAR: This is worse than I thought. Forget it. I’m staying in. These humans are idiots. Who would go out in this? 

 

ROOMMATE BEAR: Hurry up and put the rock back. Carl got in yesterday morning and wouldn’t shut up for an hour.

 

BEAR: He’s such an asshole. 

 

—

 

I walked the center museum and asked a ranger for recommended hikes. He was eager to share all he knew, the same way I was always proud to rattle off the menu to a restaurant customer and add allergen information before I was asked. He used a yellow highlighter to mark one trail on a paper map and a purple highlighter to mark a different trail. I picked my hike and did a car pit stop to construct an open-faced peanut butter sandwich (no drips.) The light mist wavered and it started to pour. I checked the forecast: heavy rain until infinity. 

 

We choose to do this for fun. I gave up. I got out my phone, booked a motel room outside the park and went back into the visitor center and got another coffee for the road. I’m not defeated. I have nothing to prove. I will enjoy my drive out. 

 

I put on Dolly Parton to stay on theme. The rain level went up and down. I exited the park onto more green Virginia hills past abandoned gift shops with crackled signs, and crystal shops and caverns. A wooden sign in front of a farm read “Teenage Goats.” 

 

I checked into the Comfort Inn in Luray, Virginia and hauled in my stuff. I stacked the contents of my backpack into a neat pile on the bedside table, and stared at the pile: guidebook with info on bears I didn’t see, brochures for campsites I didn’t stay at, maps with highlighted hikes I didn’t go on; rest-stop guides to every outdoor adventure spot in the area; maps of three states; books I was going to read under a wise tree, notebooks I was going to fill next to a grove of mushrooms. I unpacked the cooler and looked at the unopened salsa packs rationed for the next two days. I laid wet socks on the fabric-and-metal chair and looked at the socks. I looked out the curtained window at the cement parking lot.

 

I didn’t have to worry about bears, but when I went into the motel bathroom I missed the nostalgic smell of the bathrooms in the park. I had a nice picnic in my room with my ready-to-eat food. There was coffee in the lobby, in a child-sized paper cup with a houndstooth design that seemed out of place. Don’t underestimate the budget-friendly Comfort Inn in Luray, Virginia, where a touch of class winks from surprising corners. I slept well.

 

I was disappointed I didn’t see any actual bears on the trip, but they don’t owe me anything. I go to such lengths to not share my food, prepare to Bling Sting their innocent eyes, and then expect them to entertain me at a distance of my choosing? I wouldn’t make an appearance for me either.

 

I got home, took all my damp gear out of Frankie and brought it inside the house. Out back, Mister Weatherby was in the raised garden bed, wrestling with himself in the dirt. 

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