The Chairs

Watching Mandy successfully raise our tent gave me a feeling of pride which seemed out of proportion to the accomplishment. True, she had never been able to do this on our previous campouts without some assistance from me, but surely other twelve-year-olds with five seasons to learn could do this. Does every single-parent feel so proud of his child’s minor accomplishments, or were the circumstances magnifying my feelings? I had taught her a skill that my father had taught me. I had hoped to celebrate the day that she taught a child of her own.

“Ready” she announced without fanfare.

“Looks good”

I didn’t want to embarrass her. Stifling the urge to embrace her and lavish praise, I suggested she move on to “bear proofing” our food supplies. In years past we would take time to acknowledge her mileposts along the road to maturity. Our first bike ride sans training wheels was to the Dairy Barn for a celebratory cone; the achievement was even deemed worthy of rainbow sprinkles. Her perseverance and my patching of skinned knees and bruised ego taught a vital lesson to each of us. She had to fail and I had to watch. The current lesson was, don’t praise my achievements; expect them.

“I’m not sure this will work,” she said of the tried and tested method of food security we once again employed. “I saw a show on the nature channel where black bears had learned to get at food suspended from a branch”.

“Those were Eastern bears,” I offered, “Bears West of the Mississippi are more laid back, not like your type-A New York City Bears. I saw a show once where bears survived by pilfering pic-uhh-nick baskets from unsuspecting campers”.

Her rolling eyes conveyed to me that my material was too dated and unsophisticated to warrant a chuckle. Her mother used to react this way to my jokes that fell short. Was this an inherited trait or something she had observed as a toddler and was able to mimic now?

“Ok then” I said, “let’s head over to the meadow”.

Camping was not allowed on the alpine meadow due to the fragile nature of the tiny ecosystem surrounded by granite hills. We always camped about a mile away under a canopy of cottonwoods, and depending on the rainfall and temperatures of the preceding spring, we would sometimes awaken to a gauzy, damp blanket covering our tent courtesy of the majestic trees.

Traditionally our hike from the campsite to the meadow would proceed silently; each of us preparing for the inevitable, confessional conversations among the fragrant columbines. My increasingly independent daughter decided this time to dispense with tradition.

“Daddy, why did you ask me to leave the room”?

Daddy had been Dad for the past year.

“You mean at the doctor’s office”?

“Yes,” her eyes again conveying more than her words.

“Well, you are twelve years old now; old enough to sit by yourself in the waiting room, and old enough to understand some of the more personal, plumbing-type issues we had to discuss. I just didn’t want either of us to be uncomfortable”.

Again my offering was inadequate, but this time I was not chastised. The tradition of silent hiking suddenly seemed worth restoring.

Arriving at our familiar spot, we reclined in our “chairs” and gazed past the meadow watching for wildlife along the tree line. A boulder, the only one in the meadow, had depressions and angles that allowed two people to sit as if they were in Adirondack chairs set at right angles to each other. It was a place that inspired contemplation. Could such a place be the product of random occurrences?

“I wonder if we’ll see them again”. She said without a trace of fear.

A year earlier we had witnessed a black bear and her two cubs ambling across the meadow. I told Mandy to remain still and prayed that her trust in me was greater than the urge to flee. The mother momentarily glanced our way, but the distance and wind direction allowed us to be a harmless feature of the scenery, rather than a threat to be confronted.

“Whew! That was close! Good thing I’ve got good running shoes on.”

“You can’t outrun a bear” she said.

“Don’t have to. I just need to outrun you”.

It took a moment, but I was rewarded with a laugh. The eye rolling responses wouldn’t begin for a few months yet.

“I doubt they’ll be back this year, but something will certainly appear if we sit long enough. One thing you can count on though, those hills will always show up. They were here for your grandpa, and they’ll be here for your kids”.

“I’m never having any”

“Why do you say that”?

“I saw a movie about it on TV. It’s gross and it hurts”.

“Well, I can’t speak from personal experience but……..Oh wait. I saw one born once. It really was gross, although I don’t remember feeling any pain”.

Mandy burst into tears and rushed to my side of the chairs. She clung to me as if force of will and physical strength could overturn the verdict. No words, no looks, just the helpless sobs of a family coming to grips with its fate.

Unseen just past the tree line, a bewildered adolescent bear watched as his battle-scarred mother wandered deeper into the woods.

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