This month’s inspiration station is The Shenandoah National Park. The government sums the park up well on their website: “Gazing across the horizon from the peaks of Shenandoah National Park it’s hard to believe you are just 75 miles from the bustle of our nation’s capital.” As you may know, a paved road takes you through the park from one end to the other. You can see fantastic views without leaving your car if that’s your preference. I always prefer to get into the woods and camp in a tent, sleep in a cabin, or hike around for a day.
A few weeks ago, I hiked to the top of the tallest peak in the Shenandoah National Park. The ascent takes you 700 feet up in a short period of time. On our way back down, we ran into two large bears. I threw my apple into the woods and waited. That apple was the one thing I could control. What else could be done? Running was out of the question since bears can run 35 mph.
I did think of my bear encounter when reading this man’s encounter with a whale:
“There’s something magical, something spiritual, at least for me, about being this close to a 50-foot sperm whale that chooses to tolerate you being there. Why? Because of some sort of affinity with other living things.”
When you see a bear that close—staring at you for what seems like hours—it gives you a different perspective on life. I stood 30 yards from the bear. The world was the bear, the fur, the waiting, the sweat, the hope none of the other people would do anything dumb. The six adult hikers staring at this bear were strangers yet dependent on one another not to enrage a wild animal. We waited. Our clothes became soaked in the 100-degree heat. Someone’s baby thankfully did not cry.
And the bear spared us. We were not as exciting as berries. Her baby had meandered up the mountain. The mother bear sniffed the air, paused, snacked, gazed at us, and walked away.
Bear in Shenandoah National Park
And so, did I have an epiphany? Will I get all “Araby, Araby” on you? Not really. I’m still figuring out how to put words around the experience.
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It must be seeing something so wild, so unexpected that shakes our world, and, for a few moments, makes us pay attention. For me, it was a huge coyote pacing along beside my slow-moving car, having appeared out of the mesquite and dry brush, the ease of muscles loping along, the gray and brown fur, ligther but thicker around the neck like a lion’s mane, looking so much like a dog, groomed and on show, and so little like one, too fierce, too alone. When it turned to look at me, golden eyes larger than I expected them to be, full of light and wilderness, accepting me, looking right at me, seeing me the way so few people ever look at even their beloved, I stopped breathing, afraid to look away, to lose that moment. Then it angled away, never looking back, leaving me following it with my gaze until I could no longer see it. There are moments we find the world larger that it used to be, more real, more alive with possibilities, and those moments live with us, we take them out and polish them and linger over them and feel blessed.