Ursophobia

Mary C.

Please note, my dear cousin, that the photo  I sent you, a copy of which appears below, of the giant elk with snow dusted antlers was sent to me and forwarded to you by Anthony B. Lettunich, an old friend of mine, .  "Tuna", as we call him, was a housemate of mine my senior year at university.  We were also teammates on the Stanford volleyball team.  Tony now lives in Steamboat Springs, Colorado.  He gave up his youthful dalliance as a ski instructor to go back to his original calling, the law.  These pictures were taken by him in his back yard.  Earlier this summer, he sent us (fellow alumni who comprise an e-mail group), some splendid shots of a huge black bear cavorting in this same back yard.  I'm afraid, Mary C., mostly what I get in my back yard are deer.  Lots and lots of deer.  In fact just yesterday there was a big young buck nestling in the back yard.

As a denizen of Priest Lake I know you enjoy much more adventurous fauna in your back yard.  I still remember the black bear that visited us while we were splitting firewood that summer.  I was glad brother Tom had a chance to see it, coming so recently from Hawaii, he hadn't had much experience with bears.  We used to camp at a beautiful little jewel of a lake in northern Yosemite.  We would carry on top of our backpacks small inflatable rowboats which allowed us to row, with our packs perched precariously on the stern of our boats, to our private campsite which could only be reached by boat or a very long treacherous hike.  This site of ours was actually the delta mouth of a seasonal brook.  The topsoil that had been deposited there made a soft little grassy meadow that was perfect for pitching camp.  The water's flow had also deposited a treasure trove of fallen limbs.  In the summers, when we would back pack to Kibbie lake, our meadow was soft and green and the firewood was dry and abundant.  From our private site, we could see other campers; campers of a lesser God who had to walk to their campground comprised of broken shale slabs.  As this rocky ground was not level, these (lesser) campers had to make do with tents and sleeping bags placed on slanted ground.  If you have ever had to endure sleeping on unlevel ground you know how uncomfortable it is.
  

We could see these campers, some with binoculars, looking longingly across the lake at us ensconced on our soft green meadow next to the huge drift of dry firewood.  "Man, look at those guys!  Lucky suckers!  How the hell did they get there?  My buddy once swam all the way over there and said it's like paradise but because it's sided by granite cliffs, pretty near impossible to pack to."  "I was talking to one of the other campers who said she saw them floating down from the trailhead, blown by the afternoon easterlies.  She could see them reading pocketbooks. They only took to their oars when they had to turn right to row into their little paradise cove, lucky suckers...I wish we had thought of that."  Our little cove was protected on both sides by, more or less, sheer granite cliffs.  The one on the east side of our cove, rose straight up from the lake.  With a bit of scrambling, we could get to a narrow ledge about forty feet above the water.  It was a splendid place to launch ourselves down into the cool blue watery embrace of our beloved Kibbie lake.  Our little cove even had a huge tree trunk stuck in its silty bottom.  We used to climb up on it and make it rock up and down.  One magical night, under a full moon, Timmy and I rowed out onto the lake opposite this huge granite cliff face in our row boats.  My brother had a musical instrument known as a zafoon which had the body of a wooden flute and the mouth of a clarinet.  He know how to play one tune on it; Strangers on the Shore.  As he tootled away, the lovely flute-like melody echoed off the granite wall.  With no wind and no other noise, the sound was eerily beautiful.  Occasionally in the still of the afternoon, from across the lake we could hear the lesser campers yelling and clanging on pots and pans.  Because of the popularity of these accessible sites, they were also popular with the local ursine community.

I remember one summer, in particular, when a young bear with a light brown coat, as if it had been bleached by the sun, made himself a frequent visitor to these campers and their food bags.  Timmy and I swam across the lake one day when we had heard the, by then familiar, sounds of a bear visitation.  It turns out the little blonde marauder had the cheek to make off with an entire backpack with the food still inside it.  "I'm sure glad we're safe from bears"  My brother muttered".  "Do you really think bears couldn't 'visit' our campsite if they had a mind to?  Black bears can swim this lake as easily as you and I" I replied.  Later when we were rowing around, we indeed saw a large bear casually swimming across the lake.  Fortunately he was not headed for our little nest.  Brother Timmy, however, was sorely discomforted by this revelation.  Some years earlier another campsite of ours had been invaded by a mother bear and two cubs.  Mama sent the kids up into the tree where we had hung our food sack and we watched as they gaily swatted away at our little pinada till it fell to the ground, burst open, and spilled out all our food.  We watched by flashlight as the three of them had a grand feast.  They left us a small floret of broccoli and half an onion.  This, and other bear encounters over the years, have made my brother extremely wary (nay I say frightened?) of our California black bears.

      I tried to mollify my brother's fear by telling him that black bears were essentially harmful, harmless...  Just don't get between a mother and her cubs and secure your food, preferably in a bear-proof canister.  I'm not sure that helped much.  I once brought home a beautiful charcoal drawing of a Grizzly bear.  When I showed it to him he let out an anguished cry and turned away.  "Oh Mickey!  How could you!  This isn't helping at all.  Now I'll have bad dreams tonight.  The breathy panting as he approaches me, frozen with fright in my sleeping bag.  The warm moist muzzle rubbing against my cheek.  The agonizing crunch of those powerful fangs as he slowly begins to make a meal of me.  Thanks a lot, Mickey!"  I came to call Timmy's condition "Ursophobia".  I'm going to submit my word to Webster's dictionary for future consideration.

It's been a while now since he last saw a bear and I think his condition has improved with the passage of time.  Maybe I can favor him with that charcoal drawing now that he's better.  Maybe that will be his Christmas present.  I know I'll be getting something strange and wonderful from the local thrift store...  Love and disses, Mickey da Mayor