Bears can’t open car doors. Even if a bear could get into the car, a black bear couldn’t do it so fast that we couldn’t start the engine and escape. And a black bear wouldn’t hang on to the roof like James Bond as we swerved down the mountain.
I could close my eyes and try to get some sleep.
But what if I had to go to the bathroom?
My eyes popped back open.
We had driven hours and hours from suburban DC to a weird and wild part of the Mid Atlantic. It’s mountainous. It’s old mining country. Logging roads wind along rivers and up steep valleys and it’s easy to loose track of if you’re in Maryland, West Virginia, or Pennsylvania. And it’s rural. With a capital R.
Rural also meant big rivers. There were plenty of fine trout streams only a short drive from home. The vast majority were just that: streams. Creeks. Runs. I love those streams. Every now and again it is nice to be able to cast. More refreshing is to cast without thinking about being surrounded by trees. In that part of the country, you do have to get rural to find these big trout rivers.
It was so rural that the first two campsites were on roads our little Toyota Corolla couldn’t navigate. Brown signs with a-frame tent logos promised opportunities just down the path. But the paths were equal parts mud, roots, and tire-eating holes. Add in the darkening skies over a thick canopy, and we opted for another option.
The whole point of the adventure was trout. Trout from this remote river. Hypothetically, with every mile we drove away from civilization we’d see less anglers. One thinks of these things. Not the lack of cell service. Not the roads unfit for compact sedans. Not the bears.
There are bears everywhere. That’s part of being outside. These bears were brazen in their behavior towards humans. The omnipresent signs said something to the effect of “these bears are approaching everyone – deal with it.” Mildly unsettling. Majorly unsettling for your angling companion who is terrified of bears.
Although the bears never got us, we didn’t escape unscathed from wildlife. Getting ready to settle into our sleeping bags on reclined Corolla seats, we cracked the sunroof a few inches for ventilation. No Bear was going to get in. But a bug did. This wasn’t a bee or a mosquito. It was a golf ball with wings. Dropping through the crack, it hit my open sleeping bag flap with a buzzing thud. In the darkness and in my panic I flipped the bag closed. Now, this cicada/scarab/roach was in my cocoon with me. I flailed around every available inch of the Corolla.
We never did confirm that the bug was gone. But every second I spent scouring the car with the door open was a second my buddy was risking the bears coming to get us. I conceded defeat and resigned myself to having eggs laid on me during the night.
There were noises all night long. Infrequent passing cars. Raccoon or possum or mountain folk or whatever. Probably bears. But I could always hear the river. It was just downhill from the car. Eventually it put me to sleep. Exhaustion, physical and emotional, had a part in it. The sound of the river wasn’t just white noise that drowned out irrational panic. It was also a positive reminder that we were somewhere wild, a little weird, and good. That the sound that promises fishing in the morning. That’s the sound that makes long drives, sedan seats, and insect attacks worth it. That’s the sound that means trout, at first light, only feet away.