The autumn scenery in Grand Teton National Park was stunning and it was just chilly enough to offer a welcome relief to a couple of South Floridians worn out by the omnipresent heat and humidity. Since we planned to spend the day exploring the park we stopped at a Subway on the way and bought a couple of sandwiches for our lunch.
As we entered the park we stopped to pay the entrance fee and the ranger, a large, stern woman, looked indifferently into our car as I handed her my credit card.
“Don’t feed the bears,” she intoned.
“OK,” I said.
She looked me in the eye as though feeding the bears was my sole purpose on this junket.
“Really,” she said. “Don’t.”
“Really,” I said. “I won’t.”
“Don’t even approach them,” she said and I began to get concerned. I looked at my partner and mouthed, “’Them?’” and he shrugged, eyes wide.
She kept talking: “They’re fattening up for the winter, so whatever you do, don’t carry any food with you.” She smiled grimly. “A bear can smell a ham sandwich in your pocket from a mile away,” she said.
My partner took over:. “We’ll keep our food locked up in the car,” he told her.
The ranger shrugged. “Up to you,” she said. “But a she-bear can smell an M&M in a closed car from two miles away.”
This was not going well; for weeks we had been looking forward to this trip and to spending a beautiful fall day hiking around Lake Jackson, but it never occurred to me that having lunch would be a life-threatening experience.
“We’ll just eat lunch in the car before we go on our hike,” I told her. I looked at y partner and he gave me a thumbs up, as if I had just solved minor, but perplexing, domestic issue.
“If you do, just wash your hands and face really well afterwards,” she said. “A she-bear can smell bacon on your hands from three miles away.” She paused to let this sink in. “And to a she-bear, if you smell like bacon you ARE bacon.”
My partner is pretty literal sometimes. “Good thing we brought turkey sandwiches,” he told her and she smiled outright. “A bear can smell turkey from four miles away,” she said.
I began to wonder if the ranger gave these instructions to everyone or if she simply got her jollies by trying to scare the city-folk. “Well if the bear is four miles away,” I said foolishly, “I don’t see that as a threat.”
“A bear can cover four miles faster than a BMW on the Autobahn,” she said. She let this sink in. “And there’s not many people in the Park this time of year.” She looked at us with pure contempt. “It gets dark early this time of year,” she concluded, “and a hungry bear is a mean bear.” She chuckled softly. “No one could even hear you,” she said, “if you needed help.”
I had a sudden image of my partner and me up a tree calling for help while a she-bear ate our Subway sandwiches.
“We’ll keep our cellphones in our pockets,” said my partner unwisely.
The ranger’s eyes and nostrils both flared. “Good luck trying to get a signal,” she said dismissively. “But I suggest you leave your sandwiches here in the office fridge for safekeeping and get them on your way out. Why take any chances?” she asked reasonably, and of course we agreed.
We hiked around the lake for hours and saw nothing more threatening than a chipmunk, although every three or four feet I felt compelled to look over my shoulder, convinced that we were being stalked by a she-bear who knew that I had an ancient Altoid in my pocket. Later, as we drove back to the checkpoint we were starving.
There was a different ranger on duty now, pleasant and smiling.
“We were here earlier,” I said “and the other lady put a couple of Subway sandwiches in the refrigerator for us.”
“Bears,” my partner explained.
The nice ranger sighed and went to the refrigerator. She came back empty handed; she exchanged a look with an older, bald ranger with a walrus mustache. He just shook his head.
“Sorry,” she said, “but there are no Subway sandwiches in there.”