You've Still Never Seen a Bear

“There have been a lot of bear sightings in Valdez this summer,” Brother Gordon explains to your concerned mother, as he loads a rifle into the back of his Suburban. “I just want to be prepared.”

You hug your mom goodbye and jump into the van, ignoring her requests for a kiss. The year is 2003, you’re 13, and you can’t wait for your second year of Mormon Girls Camp.

“Don’t worry, Mom!” you call as you wave through the open window. “I’ve never even seen a bear!” Outside of a zoo, of course.

You spend the five-hour drive to the camping destination singing deafeningly and incessantly along with the other four second-years, annoying Brother Gordon so thoroughly that he eventually bans the radio. That doesn’t stop you. You are full of gusto and the promise of adventure.

The campsite is nestled against a towering mountain, a sheer granite rock face adorned with clumps of green trees that have somehow eked out an existence on the steep face. At the edge of the campground is Prince William Sound, where you and your friends will get the opportunity to kayak in the open ocean and view the sea life up close and personal. You're desperate for the chance to see a whale.

Your leaders give you all a camp tour. Here’s where you’ll set up the tents. Here’s where you’ll help prepare all the Dutch-oven meals. You’re given very clear instructions about how to clean up the campsite after eating. You learn that even toothpaste and scented deodorant will be collected and stored in locked vehicles. Any smell could attract wildlife, and your leaders tell you repeatedly: this is bear country.

Then it’s time for the group to stroll together the quarter mile down to the communal outhouse. A two-stall affair with an open doorway leading in, you quickly discover it is the worst smelling accommodation you’ve encountered in your years of Alaskan camping. Your friends fill their lungs before plugging their noses and storming in, only to re-emerge minutes later gagging and coughing.

“It sure doesn’t smell like raspberries, does it girls?” a strange man chuckles as he walks by. You and your friends exchange worried glances and nervous giggles. What a creeper.

But the discussion on the use of the lavatories doesn’t end with the outhouse tour. After your group returns to the campsite, your leaders explain that the outhouses are for use during daylight hours only. Furthermore, daytime bathroom trips will be managed under strict use of the buddy system: no peeing without a partner. During the night hours, a bucket will be available in Sister Scoresby’s tent. Again, this is bear country, and the leaders don’t want anyone straying too far from the group.

Your cousin Hanna gives you a look, eyes wide with horror. You know you’re thinking the same thing: that dropping a deuce into a bucket with your bare butt cheeks inches from a sleeping Sister Scoresby’s face would be the absolute height of mortification.

That night, after a day of hiking and kayaking and scripture lessons, your tent-mates Hanna, Shea, Sara, and Jaimi agree- no one will be making use of the “honey bucket.” You all make a pact to run out and pee in the woods, if necessary. Then you stay up into the wee hours, talking about who likes who and telling ghost stories.

When you wake up, it’s 2 AM. Nature is calling, but not in a way that can be taken care of in the tiny patch of trees nearby.

“Is anyone awake?” you whisper. No answer. So much for the buddy system.

The leaders are being overly cautious, you decide. Braving a quick walk alone down to the outhouse won’t hurt anyone. You squash your feet into your shoes, trampling down the heel, and unzip the tent.

It’s still fairly light outside—a perk of summer in the Last Frontier—but you realize you didn’t put on your glasses before you left the tent. Your bravado falters just a little, and you shuffle faster past green and gray and brown blobs.

No matter, you decide. Bears don’t like noise, so to deter any that might be about, and to comfort yourself, you begin to sing, loudly, just as you did in Brother Gordon’s van.

“This. Love. Is. Taking its toll. On Me!” you squeak. “You said goodbye, too many times befo-o-o-o-ore.”

Before long, you’ve reached the outhouse, and you chuckle at yourself for your nervousness. Nothing to be afraid of after all. You take a big gulp of air, plug your nose, and rush in to complete your mission.

You’re just pulling up your pajama pants when a noise makes you pause. It sounds like footsteps, but one seems heavier than the other. The noise is getting louder—as if someone is walking toward you.

Spooked, you try to think of a rational explanation. Maybe it’s Brother Gordon, coming to tell you off for breaking the camp rules?

“Brother Gordon?” you call out tentatively. No answer, but the steps come closer.

Could it be that guy from earlier, the one who talked about the raspberry smell? Everyone in camp thought he was weird. Maybe he just needed to use the outhouse, same as you.

Your hand is on the latch, but you’re too frightened to open the door. You stand, frozen, wondering what to do. The footsteps have stopped.

BAM.

Suddenly, the outhouse shudders with the impact of—something, hitting the wall just behind you. Terror fills your veins like glacial water. Could this be Brother Gordon, playing an elaborate prank to teach you a lesson?

Something sharp scratches into the back wall, swiping back and forth, and now you know for sure. This is no prankster. This is a bear.

You wrack your brain to figure out what to do next. You pull your legs up and balance on the top of the toilet seat, hoping that if you remain unseen, you might be safe. Unfortunately, there’s no disguising your scent, and the bear circles the outhouse, pausing at the entrance and breathing heavily. You can’t see it, but you know it is mere steps away from you, separated by a ½ inch of plywood and a latch he could destroy with a single, powerful paw.

Like all Alaskan kids, you’ve been taught the adage: “brown, lay down, black, fight back.” But how can you choose the correct behavior if you can’t see the color of the bear? Should you lay supine on the dirty floor, or rush out and punch it in the nose?

If you scream, will the bear be scared away? Or will it learn it was correct in its assumption that a meal lay trembling within the stall and smash its way inside?

You ultimately decide you are safest right where you are and stay put. You would have peed your pants with fear many times, if you weren’t in an outhouse. That was one advantage of the location of your entrapment.

You imagine the church leaders assembling at camp, preparing to come to your rescue at any moment. In your mind Brother Gordon is Gaston, marching toward the outhouse with his loaded rifle on his shoulder, all the leaders playing their roles as frenzied villagers with torches and ad-hoc weapons, coming to “kill the beast!”

But in reality you hear nothing, other than snarling and ragged breathing and heavy, dragging footsteps.

You pull a crusty old Glade air freshener down from the window sill and hold it to your nose, waiting as the minutes tick by on the glowing green screen of your digital wrist watch. 2:41. 3:00. 3:17.

You pray constantly. Please, God, don’t let me be eaten by a bear. I know I shouldn’t have come down to the outhouse, especially alone, but if you let me survive, I’ll always be obedient to my leaders and I’ll never go anywhere alone and I’ll even use the honey pot, I swear, I swear, I swear, please God don’t let me be eaten by a bear.

3:35. You hear the bear’s slow, clomping footsteps, and they seem to be growing quieter. You listen until you can’t hear anything at all. 3:50.

You stand and put your hand on the latch again, but you’re still too petrified to lift it. What if the bear is just in the woods, too far away to hear but lying in wait on the path back to safety? It would definitely see you before you could see it. What if the bear is coming back, and bringing its bear friends?

You count to ten, then count to ten again. You watch the minutes tick by. The horrible smell of the outhouse is turning your stomach. You decide to make a run for it at precisely 4:30.

4:27.

4:28.

4:29.

4:30. You burst out of the stall and sprint, shoes on and laced correctly this time. Tears of anxiety stream from your eyes, and this run for your life requires something a little stronger than Maroon Five.

“I AM A CHILD OF GOD!” you huff, and though you mean for it to be a bellow, it comes out as little more than a whisper. “AND HE HAS SENT ME HERE. HAS GIVEN ME AN EARTHLY HOME, WITHPARENTSKINDANDDEAR!”

You don’t stop running until you reach the campsite. Surprisingly, everyone is asleep. No leaders have even noticed you are gone.

You unzip your tent flap and slip in, the adrenaline coursing through your body making you feel like a live electrical wire.

Shea lifts her head from the pillow and stares questioningly at you from half-sleep.

“I just spent two-and-a-half hours in the outhouse.” The words tumble from your mouth by way of explanation.

“Mmm,” Shea mumbles and falls back asleep. You look around and see all four of your tent-mates are sleeping peacefully, their hair spread across their pillows like angel’s halos. What have they dreamed of while you endured the ordeal of the Outhouse of Horrors?

Not knowing what else to do, you kick off your shoes and slide into your sleeping bag. You close your eyes, even though you know it will be a while before you can fall asleep. You reach out and grab your glasses from out of your backpack, and hold them in your hand. Just in case.

The terror gradually subsides and you start to breathe a little slower. Tomorrow morning, you’ll tell a bear encounter story that will thrill your friends and horrify your leaders. Even though, it occurs to you, you’ve still never seen a bear.