King of the Woods
Structure announces emphatically, “If I could just see one bear.”
Sincere quips, “The bare mass.”
Hat tells me his criteria for a good branch. It must be high enough that a bear standing on its hindlegs can’t reach it, sturdy enough to hold the food of four travellers. It must extend a fair distance from the trunk, so that a bear which has scaled the trunk cannot reach for the food. It must not be too sturdy, lest it tempt the bear to climb onto it.
With rope and branch we fashion a pulley, then struggle with the strength of three men to hoist the food bag to the necessary elevation. Finally, we wound the rope around the trunk of an adjacent tree, and find that Force = mass*acceleration. “Prelim physics works!” Sincere exclaims joyfully. I remember this problem, remember being surprised by the final geometric result: if a rope is wound around a cylinder, the force needed to maintain a certain tension in a rope diminishes exponentially as the length of the winding. Two windings around the adjacent trunk, and I can hold the food bag with a finger.
Bear sightings are rare in the Catskull Mountains. Here, tempestuous rains lash the mountains and transform hiking trails into flowing streams. Rain-slicked sedimentary rocks protrude from puddles, from mud that engulfs, these plate-size rocks serve as stepping stones. Larger boulders are strewn across the landscape, they must be overcome by a combination of hand, foot and graspable tree roots. Footing is treacherous. The pack is heavy. We climb.
Four mountains on the second day. When we finally reach the lean-to, I am debilitated by shooting pains which spike whenever I support my weight with my left knee. I am trailing the group, holding them back. As the rest of the group set up camp, I struggle to a nearby spring to bathe my wounded knee with water as cold as midwinter breeze. The numbing is welcome, but undone by my clumsy exertions as I head back to camp. The rustling of leaves alerts me that somebody is oncoming. Has my group finally noticed that I’ve been gone too long? Why would they hike through brush when there is a perfectly good trail?
A snout protrudes from the foliage, a black-furred head emerges with beady eyes, pointed ears, wide mouth, then its chest and forelegs, I quailed at their girth, they dwarf the limits of human strength, suggest a terrible ease. I still myself, I find once again this familiar sensation, that a moment can be pregnant with death. As this creature is about to cross the trail, it senses me. Its first reaction is surprise, it rears back, as if to retreat. I register a quiet astonishment, that I understand its reaction perfectly, because it is so recognizably human. I sense its fear of me, because its first instinct is to run. My relief is quickly extinguished, because it reconsiders, swivels its snout toward me, and appraises me with alien, undeniable intelligence. How did the bear and I come to be, stumbling across each other in the woods. I recognize you, bear. My human-centered worldview is supplanted by you.
The bear takes a tentative step toward me. This is an awkward time to have a wounded knee. Bear, dare I intuit your intentions? I turn tail and limp briskly back to the spring. I am careful not to run, not to reveal my fear. I am unsure I can run even if I wanted. For ten steps I did not look back, for ten steps I am haunted, my mind narrows to a raw, pulsating sliver, a single thought, that it could be bounding toward me, its claws sinking into my back.
I look back. The bear has not moved. I widen the distance between us.
Until once again the bear feels safe. It crosses the human-made trail and disappears into the trees and brush, a lumbering force of nature, oblivous to branches and leaves. Where it goes, the rustle of leaves follow, alerting every creature, but it heeds not, fears not, it is the king of the woods.
Sincere quips, “The bare mass.”
Hat tells me his criteria for a good branch. It must be high enough that a bear standing on its hindlegs can’t reach it, sturdy enough to hold the food of four travellers. It must extend a fair distance from the trunk, so that a bear which has scaled the trunk cannot reach for the food. It must not be too sturdy, lest it tempt the bear to climb onto it.
With rope and branch we fashion a pulley, then struggle with the strength of three men to hoist the food bag to the necessary elevation. Finally, we wound the rope around the trunk of an adjacent tree, and find that Force = mass*acceleration. “Prelim physics works!” Sincere exclaims joyfully. I remember this problem, remember being surprised by the final geometric result: if a rope is wound around a cylinder, the force needed to maintain a certain tension in a rope diminishes exponentially as the length of the winding. Two windings around the adjacent trunk, and I can hold the food bag with a finger.
Bear sightings are rare in the Catskull Mountains. Here, tempestuous rains lash the mountains and transform hiking trails into flowing streams. Rain-slicked sedimentary rocks protrude from puddles, from mud that engulfs, these plate-size rocks serve as stepping stones. Larger boulders are strewn across the landscape, they must be overcome by a combination of hand, foot and graspable tree roots. Footing is treacherous. The pack is heavy. We climb.
Four mountains on the second day. When we finally reach the lean-to, I am debilitated by shooting pains which spike whenever I support my weight with my left knee. I am trailing the group, holding them back. As the rest of the group set up camp, I struggle to a nearby spring to bathe my wounded knee with water as cold as midwinter breeze. The numbing is welcome, but undone by my clumsy exertions as I head back to camp. The rustling of leaves alerts me that somebody is oncoming. Has my group finally noticed that I’ve been gone too long? Why would they hike through brush when there is a perfectly good trail?
A snout protrudes from the foliage, a black-furred head emerges with beady eyes, pointed ears, wide mouth, then its chest and forelegs, I quailed at their girth, they dwarf the limits of human strength, suggest a terrible ease. I still myself, I find once again this familiar sensation, that a moment can be pregnant with death. As this creature is about to cross the trail, it senses me. Its first reaction is surprise, it rears back, as if to retreat. I register a quiet astonishment, that I understand its reaction perfectly, because it is so recognizably human. I sense its fear of me, because its first instinct is to run. My relief is quickly extinguished, because it reconsiders, swivels its snout toward me, and appraises me with alien, undeniable intelligence. How did the bear and I come to be, stumbling across each other in the woods. I recognize you, bear. My human-centered worldview is supplanted by you.
The bear takes a tentative step toward me. This is an awkward time to have a wounded knee. Bear, dare I intuit your intentions? I turn tail and limp briskly back to the spring. I am careful not to run, not to reveal my fear. I am unsure I can run even if I wanted. For ten steps I did not look back, for ten steps I am haunted, my mind narrows to a raw, pulsating sliver, a single thought, that it could be bounding toward me, its claws sinking into my back.
I look back. The bear has not moved. I widen the distance between us.
Until once again the bear feels safe. It crosses the human-made trail and disappears into the trees and brush, a lumbering force of nature, oblivous to branches and leaves. Where it goes, the rustle of leaves follow, alerting every creature, but it heeds not, fears not, it is the king of the woods.
posted by Dr. Broke at 7:25 AM
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