“Enjoying the game?” asked the man sitting next to me.
I glanced over and recognized him immediately.
“Oh, hi Jesus,” I said. “How long have you been sitting here?”
“Since the start of the game” he said with a smile.
“You mean you’ve been here for three innings and I haven’t noticed you?”
“That’s about right,” he said.
I guess I’ve been too focused on the game,” I shrugged.
“Guess again,” he replied.
“Well, and I’m distracted and annoyed by these four girls sitting right in front of me,” I whispered. “They’re really obnoxious and don’t seem to be paying much attention to the game. And they all wear sunglasses on top of their heads like they’re some kind of fashion model or something.”
“Why are you annoyed?” asked Jesus.
“I guess I wanted to be able to relax, to have some peace and quiet and maybe a little serenity in my life.”
“You don’t go to a ball game if you’re looking for serenity,” laughed Jesus. “You go to a library or to the symphony, or …” his voice tailed off.
“Or what?”
“Or you come to me.”
“To you?”
“Come to me, all who are weary and heavy burdened, and I will give you rest – remember that?” Jesus asked.
“Matthew eleven,” I said.
“Right. Peace isn’t something you find at a ballfield. In fact, it’s not something that you can always find in nature either. Peace – real peace – is found only in me.”
“Doesn’t it help to be able to just chill?” I said. “Mary and Martha come to mind. Martha was frantic because she was trying to prepare a meal for you, and Mary was just relaxing.”
“Mary was sitting at my feet, listening to every word I spoke.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Listen. I’ll tell you a secret. See that guy standing in the aisle over behind third base?”
“The one with a kid on his shoulder and another kid tugging on his pant leg?”
“Yep, that’s the one. His name is Mitch. Mitch works for a road construction crew. He mans a jack hammer. He also has four kids, volunteers weekly downtown at the soup kitchen, and teaches Sunday School And you know what?”
“What?” I responded.
“Mitch is the most serene person at the game tonight.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not kidding. He comes to me daily and unloads his burdens and gets recharged. But mostly he comes to listen and to get centered.”
“You know, I really need to do that too.”
“Yes, I know. Now, let’s talk about Abby, Dori, Melissa, and Emily.”
“Who?”
“The four ‘annoying girls’ sitting in front of us. You said they don’t really seem to be into the game.”
“Right.”
“You’re judging them, you know.”
“Am I?”
“You’re wanting them to be as into the game as you are. You want them to be sensitive to your need for peace and quiet.”
“Well, yes, I guess so.”
“But maybe they are at a different place in life than you are.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for starters, Abby’s mother died from breast cancer about a year ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. That’s got to be hard for her.”
“It has been, but she has a strong faith and that has been a great help to her.”
“I’ll try to be more understanding,” I said.
“Wait, I’m not done. Let me tell you about Dori. Dori’s father lost his job six months ago. Her mother is on disability, and they’re buried under a mountain of debt. They just lost their house and may have to move soon.”
“Ouch, that’s got to be stressful.”
“It is. Dori’s parents have developed a solid faith through all of this, though, and they will come through it okay.”
“You’re teaching me that I shouldn’t judge others because I don’t know what they are going through.”
“No, I’m teaching you that you shouldn’t judge others because you are not the judge.”
“Okay.”
“Now, Emily has her own problems. She has a cleft palate that gives her a speech impediment, and she gets viciously teased at school. She has an inferiority complex and is battling depression.”
“Wow, depression at that young age?” My heart was feeling remorse for the way I had let myself be annoyed with these girls.
“She, too, will be fine. Her adversity now will give her a sensitivity to special needs children, and that will serve her well later in life.”
“Whew. So, in spite of these problems, these kids will survive okay.”
“Not in spite of, but perhaps because of,” said Jesus softly. “Then there’s Melissa.”
“What about Melissa?” I asked.
“She has leukemia, diagnosed a week ago.”
“Oh no!” I cried. “I was hoping she would turn out okay, too.”
“Oh, she will,” said Jesus.
I was relieved. “So these four may all end up being old ladies together, going to baseball games for the social aspect,” I mused.
Jesus smiled. “I said Melissa will turn out okay. I didn’t say she would live. She’ll come home to me in about a year.”
I sat there for a minute, taking this all in. I wanted to find some way to help, some way to rectify the situations.
“Jesus, is there anything I can do to help, like buy them lemonades or soda pop or ice cream or something like that?”
“Well, they’re already drinking lemonades or sodas (hey, you do know, don’t you, that down here in the South we call it soda, not pop?) and two of them are on diets and wouldn’t want to be tempted by ice cream. Now, my favorite thing to eat in a stadium is a Runza.”
“What’s a Runza? I’ll go get four of them. Back in a couple.” I stood up to head toward the food court.
Jesus said, “Stop. You won’t find runzas anywhere but Nebraska, and the place where you can find them is Memorial Stadium in Lincoln. They are served hot and will warm your innards in a heartbeat.”
“That sounds good,” I said, watching the team on the field execute a nice double play. “D’ja see that play?” I asked Jesus, turning my head. He was gone. Vanished. Kind of like how the lion Aslan, in C.S. Lewis’s “Chronicles of Narnia,” comes and goes as he wants.
“But darn it all, Jesus, you never gave me a straight answer on what I can do to help these girls.” Hey, what if I just said hi to them after the game as we’re exiting the park. In fact, I could time my leaving with when they decide to leave, and I’ll casually walk out with them. Even if it’s only to say, “Hello, did you enjoy the game,” it might put a smile on their faces that someone out there is nice.
That thought warmed my heart, and I knew it was on the right path. But then I thought: Maybe that would seem creepy to girls these days, being approached by a complete stranger.
At that moment, someone hit a home run, and we all stood to cheer. Even the four girls in front of me cheered. The pair of sunglasses that was on top of the head of one of the girls went flying backward. It landed on the concrete floor of my row. I reached over, picked it up, and said, “Miss, I believe these are yours. They don’t appear to be scratched.”
“Thank you, sir,” she gushed.
“Welcome,” I said, and that was the end of that.
An inning later, they team mascot was shooting free t-shirts from a hand-held, cannon-type thing, and with a not very graceful jump, I managed to catch one! I had my own souvenir shirt! I checked the label and, indeed, it was ‘L’ and was just my size.
One of the girls turned around and congratulated me on a “spectacular catch,” as she worded it. I handed her the shirt. “Here, you can have this. I have plenty of team tees at home.”
“Are you sure?” she asked meekly.
“Yep, it’s yours.”
“Oh thank you, thank you, mister. I’ll use it as my nightie. It’s just the right size for me.”
The game resumed and nothing else happened. Even though the sunglasses thing and the tee-shirt thing weren’t meant to calm down the girls, they in fact did start watching the game more. I was impressed with their thanks, their gratefulness. They seem genuine, like they have learned how to respond to other generations. Maybe it’s time for me to start paying attention to other generations too.
You can’t just fluidly wander any more.
The shuffling / freezing and balance-related falling phenomena of Parkinson’s Disease (PD) is something that won’t go away. PD is progressive. As the clock turns, the symptoms worsen. The one thing that has been found (so far) to help SLOW the progression and to mediate between body and disease is strenuous exercise.
I’m in my 25th year of Parkinson’s Disease. I’ve lived maybe ten years beyond what I was told when initially diagnosed. And I’m not folding my hand yet. No way.
When I began boxing, four years ago (is that right? I boxed for nearly two years before Covid hit. Boxing was intense … twenty PD people and their support (usually spouses) hitting boxing bags ( not each other, at least not intentionally). I enjoyed hitting the bags hard — the hard hits were like therapeutic bursts of energy. One day one of the coaches noticed I was having problems with my footwork. Well, we all had footwork issuess, but he keyed in on me.
“You have to be very intentional.” I knew he was right. I had to think, okay, I’m going to step “here” and step “there” and then swing. Or I’ll step in, duck out, and then step in and hit. I started planning my steps. I began doing better. I would still fall down occasionally (well, several times) at each practice (we practiced three days a week, two hours at a time. I was in pretty good shape when we had to close down because of Covid.
I took up biking maybe 6 years ago. I rode several long (50 mile) rides with my brother during the course of a year of training for RAGBRAI (the annual ride across Iowa), which he and I did together in the summer of 2018 (I think?). We rode 440+ miles in seven days across the entire state. It was wild and fun. There were 10,000 registers riders, plus another four or five thousand (or more) local riders would hop in for a rode to the next town. Biking helped with cardio, but the repetition of the pedaling movement somehow helps with PD. It’s like it makes the oral medication more effective by a little bit.
I should note that I began having crashes on my two wheeler, a couple of them not really pretty. My wife and I decided a three-wheeler (trike, with two wheels in front and one in back) would be the way to go. And it is … but I crashed it two weeks ago. I went down a big hill too fast, skidded into the curb, flipped (at least) twice over a sidewalk, into some grass, and against a metal fence. I ended up with the trike on top of me. I crawled out. I didn’t have a scratch on me. Not a mark. But one wheel was bent at a 45 degree angle, and some gear stuff got messed up. It’s been in the shop for a couple of weeks and I hope to get it back soon!
The other thing that is helping me — and I was really doubtful that this would do anything for me — is Tai Chi. The movements in Tai Chi are martial arts movement but in slow motion. Every move is something that is learned with practice. There are very specific motions for each move, moves with names like: Pushing Mountain; Parting the Clouds; Repulse the Monkey; Part the horse’s mane; Brush Knee; Grab the bird’s tail; and others.
And it’s helping. Making the movement slow and intentional helps me to refocus, recenter, and to remember to plan each step.
I have a tendency to lean forward, and my weight propels me and then my legs try to keep up, and my shuffle turns into a fast shuffle, and eventually and down I go. What I do now though when I start moving my feet faster and really shuffling is to say STOP! “Think Tai Chi,” I say to myself, and then I slow down and continue.
“I’m approaching a door with people standing near the doorway. Focus on steps. Left. Right. Left. Right. Through the Door. ” Thoughts like that help. What doesn’t help is when you start trying to put conditional phrasing in too, like, “Okay, if someone says hi, say hello too. Or if someone steps in front of you, slow down too. ” It’s really hard to think about multiple things at once.”
Even running a football play where I go out for ten yards, then cut left and catch the ball, is almost too much for my brain to handle.
But I’m trying.
Enough for now. I will write more sometime about the clinical trial I’m doing and why it’s helping my daily life.
Cheers y’all!
Joel
More than just a mechanical goat …
My 25-year old riding lawn mower died last week right in the middle of … well … mowing my yard. My yard has a slight incline (ever so slight, you barely notice it when you’re playing football or baseball, soccer, or kickball out there) but I was mowing up the incline when the mower stopped moving forward and a high shrill/grinding noise appeared from below (me). After doing some research and coming to the conclusion that it would take me about seven years to fix via YouTube videos, I talked with my neighbor / expert lawn mower repair person (he’s fixed something like 70 mowers over the years). He said that no, I didn’t have a squirrel sitting behind the air filter, lamenting his woes. Instead, I had a back trans-axle that was broken or severely impeded. He said that the cost to fix was too prohibitive to even think about — even if we could get the parts and do the work ourselves — and I should plan on the mower’s demise.
My first thought was, well, I could just park it in the woods. After all, we have a couple of acres of trees where I could hide it nicely. The woods serve well as a hide-and-seek playground and/or paintball retinue and, after all, isn’t putting a vehicle in your woods a kind of southern thing to do? Come to think of it, I see cars in the woods in most states I drive through, with the exception of Iowa and Nebraska, which don’t have trees (actually that’s a misconception … I read somewhere (NU alum magazine I think) that Nebraska has the largest amount of “natural forest” land of any state. And that may be not quite the term for it — there probably is an added requirement or two, like: forest land for educational/research use, or forests where buffalo formerly roamed, or something. Maybe it has the most forests for states whose university has won over 800 games in its duration, or something) or Silicon Valley, also barren of trees (okay, I’m just kidding there too. I tend to think of California as being one giant interstate, but I know that’s not the case).
Anyway, I was saying that my mower consultant says it’s time for a new mower (or I can hire someone to mow, etc., but THAT’s not gonna work because the gardener in our family — I mean the Chief Gardener — has numerous restrictions on what needs to be, or can be, cut in any proximity to the garden. ‘
Thus, and thusly say I unto thee (which sounds like Ring Lardner, but I don’t think that’s quite right … it wasn’t Monty Python either … or maybe it was, in the Holy Hand Grenade sketch. I don’t know).
So … I’m in the market for a mower, preferrably a new mower because technologies are still changing at a fairly rapid clip. My yard has developed a number of beds of plants and trees and stuff, and I’ve been mowing around them and backing up and hitting corners again and going around things and, eventually, it has some to the point where I make something like 4753 turns of the steering wheel just to get the yard decently mowed. That’s including both forward and backward mowing.
We’re liking the looks of these “zero degree” turning mowers. They’re a bit pricy but the prices may come down. Fortunately, we’re approaching winter. Normally my last mowing is early December. But if the last mowing happened last week, that’s not so bad. Our grass has slowed down growing, so it may be okay to keep it as is.
Or feel free to drive by my house and laugh at how long the grass might be. Stop in and we can have some hot chocolate. Or maybe I can sell you a book.
Have a great day, all, and remember: TODAY IS MONDAY.
Now go out there and get ’em.
Cheers,
me
Football team manages to win even without the encouraging prescience of its biggest football fan.
I don’t know what happenend; I mean I still haven’t figured it out.
Somewhere along the line connecting this Sunday (today) to last Sunday, something went askew. I lost a day in the shuffle there, somewhere. I’ve tried replaying the past week’s events chronologically. It was an unusual week — a few doctor appointments for various and sundry things (I felt like the phrase “62 is the new 80” might apply in this conversation) and we had visitors on Thursday and Friday …. but somewhere in there, I ended up yesterday (Saturday) thinking it really was only Friday. I mean, I went the entire day thinking it was Friday.
I should have picked up on it with our garbage. See, our garbage pick up is (usually) Friday mornings. That means Thursday night is “garbage night” — I go throughout the house and gather the garbage to be hauled out to the end of the driveway. That’s a mark that is associated with a particular point in the week. Every week has a garbage night. Then on Friday mornings, after the garbage is picked up, we return the garbage bins to their normal location underneath the tree (a Viteck tree or something, more like a really big bush). Garbage pickup was late on Friday, so we didn’t retrieve the garbage bin from the street until Saturday morning.
Okay, so we have all that going on, and then throw in the factor that Nebraska had a bye weekend last week, and somewhere in there my timing got all off.
So it was last night during dinner, when my wife corrected me and pointed out it was really Saturday … I realized I had just missed a Saturday. I had been thinking all day that we were on Friday.
I ran upstairs and turned on the laptop. Sure enough, we had played Northwestern (and we actually won).
I was happy we won, and I found the stats interesting, and I realized that I enjoyed not having to go through the stress of the game … being ahead by only a touchdown (or less) during the game is always scary for NU fans these days … we’ve lost too many “less than a TD away” games in the past three years. I mean, it’s some unbelievable number like 20 games in 3 years were one-score-away losses.
This was our fourth win of the year (that’s how many we won all of last year). We’re 4-3, so it’s possible we’ll end up with a winning record and even bowl eligibility. But we’ll see.
We’ll take it one game at a time. We’ll take it one day at a time. And I’ll you that this week I won’t miss the game.
See ya (and Go Big Red!)
There is no place like Nebraska. My oldest son, then age four,
had just witnessed the second of three national championships that the Nebraska Cornhusker football would win over the course of four seasons (1994, 1995, and 1997). In my son’s first five years of life, the Huskers went 60-3. That is, sixty wins against three losses. (In case you’re wondering, that’s one of my favorite stats to quote). A couple of other interesting things to note. From 1961 through 2001 (a forty year stretch) Nebraska had more wins than any other team in college football. And on game days, the stadium becomes the third largest city in the state (approx 90,000 seats).
Now, I won’t say that Memorial Stadium’s seats were built for comfort. You’re basically sitting on a wooden bench with a number that is located very near to the numbers on either side of it. And the rows are close enough together that your knees are gently nestled into the back of the person directly in front of you, as is your back massaged (more or less) by the knees of the person behind you). I mean, these seats were built for comfort (wink).
I had the good fortune of being able to go to two games this fall. The alum association was trying to sell tickets so that we (the unversity) could continue its streak of consecutive sellouts. We’ve had sold out games every game since 1961. Pretty amazing. (That’s also the year I was born, and I tell ya, I’m old). The ticket office put together three game packages at greatly reduced prices … and my youngest son and I will be going to the third game later this fall. Looking forward to it!
The city of Lincoln is still lovely as ever. Downtown is downtown, complete with Val’s pizza. There are some new buildings, some upgraded buildings, and some old buildings that just aren’t there any more. Most of the hotels really jack up their rates on game weekends, but I found one (won’t tell you which) out on N. 27th that kept its regular pricing on game weekends. It was a new hotel, though, and I suspect that the owners hadn’t learned yet that they can triple their room rates on game weekends and still have no vacancies.
My wifei and I (we have four tickets per game (of the three games we picked)) found a new and tiny Ethiopian restaurant that serves amazing food. I can’t remember the name, but it’s nowhere near campus. It’s out near 26th and Orchard. Or Orchid. Or something. Anyway, give it a try.
Huskers are at 3-3. Last year at this time of the season we were also 3-3. Then we lost all but the last game, finishing 4-and-something. This year I think we’ll finish higher than that. Gosh, I hope so anyway. I’d like to get back into the winning mode. I think the new coach, Matt Rhule, has done a great job of getting some playing time, some game experience, for the younger players, and that will serve us well in the long run.
Oh, so back to my original story. I had been given a Husker key chain from a friend at work, and it played “There is No Place Like Nebraska” when you pushed a button on the key fob. Once, during church, my four-year-old son was getting restless, and he climbed up onto my lap. As he did so, he accidentally pushed the button on the key fob (which was in my pocket), and the congregation was treated to a vigorous rendition of “No Place.”
My son was mortified. He sat on my lap, frozen, hoping that nobody would notice what he had done. It happened to be during prayer time, so yeaH, people did notice. Two full verses of the song played in its entirety. There was a lot of quiet (and polite) snickering. And on the way home from church, he asked me, “Daddy, is it really true that there’s not a place like Nebraska?”
This is a poem that my great-grandfather, John Stevens Jr., wrote in 1957. He left it untitled, but I gave it a name.
The Desert of Memory
The truant fancy of the aged
Loves to penetrate the vast and barren waste
Which we call memory,
Although its vain and profitless expanse
Is thickly strewn with rough, forbidding rocks
And angry thorns.
A host of weird, fantastic shadows
Seems to drift across the scene.
But, as our dim eyes strive to catch their form,
They fade into the distant mists, and disappear
Beyond the far horizon of the past.
They are the ghosts of things forgotten,
And, as we strive to call them back,
Another host appears:
The host of things we WOULD forget.
There are heaps of ashes here and there along our way,
Ashes of promises unkept;
Ashes of rude and hasty words;
Ashes of tender words unspoken;
Ashes of things we loved and learned to cherish
All too late, when stricken by the anguish of their loss.
Yet we press onward, for we know
That in the secret crevices between the rocks
The desert flowers bloom -- Flowers whose sacred beauty,
Unprofaned by public gaze,
Excels the storied splendor of the tropics.
We know that in the heart of that apparent desolation
There are hidden gems
More precious than the mines of earth can yield,
And so, though stones may bruise the feet
And thorns may pierce the heart to tears,
It still is sweet to wander in the desert of memory.
-- John Stevens, 1957
I received this in the mail the other day, good words from a friend. There are some good thoughts in here.
Balance Sheet of Life
The most destructive habit — Worry.
The greatest joy — Giving.
The most satisfying work — Helping Others.
The ugliest personality trait — Selfishness.
The greatest shot in the arm — Encouragement.
The greatest problem to overcome — Fear.
The most effective sleeping pill — Peace of Mind.
The most crippling failure disease — Excuses.
The most powerful force in life — Love.
The most dangerous act — Gossip.
The world’s most incredible computer — The Brain.
The worst thing to be without — Hope.
The deadliest weapon — The Tongue.
The two most power-filled words — I Can.
The greatest Asset — Faith.
The most worthless emotion — Self-pity.
The most beautiful attire — A Smile.
The most prized possession — Integrity.
The most powerful channel of communication — Prayer.
The most contagious spirit — Enthusiasm.
LIFE ends when you stop DREAMING.
HOPE ends when you stop BELIEVING.
LOVE ends when you stop CARING.
So, please share this BALANCE SHEET OF LIFE.
FRIENDSHIP ends when you stop SHARING.
A Friend loves at all times.
—A. Davies
In a way, this book was my mentor for five years. I learned more as the author than I could have imagined I would. Pouring through family history: very old postcards (with very old stamps), family histories, family trees … In one branch, I found (from the “other side”) a not-too-distant cousin who was starting QB at University of Nebraska’s football team back in 1910-1911. Pretty cool. I found that we (my ancestors) have claim to 100 acres at the top of a mountain in Pennsylvania. Also pretty cool, though there is dispute because my ancestors temporarily left the area and someone else claimed it, kind of a modern variation on “squatters” who take over rental properties. Then there’s the family whose three daughters married the three sons of another family. Sounds like it would be kind of a wild story, but it wasn’t that uncommon back then. Rural populations tended to be small, and hey, if a man and woman are interested in each other, it’s quite probable that their siblings would also find interest.
We can follow the Stevens family (my mom’s mom’s family) back to the mid-1700s, but we can take one of the in-law families (Nef) back to 14th century (around 1386) in Switzerland. Now that’s pretty cool. Geoffrey Chaucer (of Canterbury Tales fame) would have been alive then. Who knows? My great-great-great grand-something may have been the source for Chaucer’s The Wife of Bath story (heh heh).
The Husker – Wolverines game wasn’t even a contest, but at least it wasn’t ugly.
I knew going into the game that the score likely would not be close. I figured if we could hold Michigan to 14 or 17 points, and if our offense could manage to squeak out a couple of scores, then we might have a chance. That’s not how it was to be, Benvolio. The Husker defense was second in the country in stopping the run, going into the game. I’m not sure where we’re ranked defensively, now, after the game, but it ain’t second.
If you look at the stats, you’ll notice that Michigan outpaced the Huskers in three key areas: Total number of plays; time of possession (38 mins to 22 mins); and rushing yards (249 to 106). Note that 74 of those 106 Husker yards came on one play near the end of the game. Well, four key areas, the fourth being “first downs” (26-10).
Nebraska had only one turnover (an interception early in the game). Michigan had none. Nebraska had only 30 yards of penalties. Michigan had none. At least one of the 5-yard penalties resulted in nullifying an otherwise first down for the Huskers.
All that being said, I was not at the game, but the game appeared to be cleanly played. There didn’t seem to be much (or any) trash talk. Michigan came in, very business-like, and showed who’s boss. Both sides played hard … and the Huskers did have some nice plays. We are improving week by week. More on that in a future post …
The Huskers didn’t give the game away. Michigan earned it. They earned every point. And there were a lot of them. Congrats, Wolverines, on a game well played.
The summer of the shark surprise was also the summer that Aaron and I went to Alaska to fish with my dad on the Russian River in Kenai National Park. IT wAS the time of year for “combat fishing”—that is, standing side by side, perhaps four or five feet apart, from the person next to you, all of us casting at about the same time, yelling “fish on,” when you hooked something and otherwise pulling your lure back in and out of the way—if you weren’t the one with the fish on. Combat fishing usually involves standing in the river a few feet out from shore.
The rocks in the river are slippery with moss, they’re irregular-shaped and irregular-sized, so you had to walk slowly and take it a step at a time. As you get farther out, you can’t see what you’re stepping on, nor can y ou see where to step next, which makes it more difficult.
I’m emphasizing the toughness of walking in the river because it’s especially difficult when you have PD. Talk about something creating roadblocks for the mind trying to focus on walking … Surprisingly, it’s quite rare to see someone fall into the river. I don’t know if people have boots with special properties that I’ve never seen … but I think I win the prize for most in-the-river falls while fishing. And when I catch a fish and start backing up toward shore … well, walking backward on the slippery rocks is even tougher than walking forward. So, I would turn and face the shore, pulling the fish behind me. It’s harder to play the fish that way, though. So it’s a mixed bag.
One time, Aaron had a fish on, so I took a net and walked out to try to bring the fish in. (You do that to help catch the fish, but it also lets the other fishermen get back to doing what they came to do sooner). Anyway, the person behind Aaron got a fish on just after Aaron’s, and while I was trying to net Aaron’s fish, this other fish swam in circles around me, trying to get away. I ended up wrapped in line, trying to move my legs and that just made me fall into the water. I submerged and then found myself floating down the Russian river, right into some heavy rapids. I was blessed to have some brave soul run out, grab my shoulders, and pull me back into shore. I was cold and soaked, but I was safe.
So, after that experience, I began fishing in the Handicap zone, a spot where I could get my lure out into the deep water without having to wade very far off shore.
One morning, Aaron and I were out on the river by 6:00a.m. I had a spot in the Handicap zone, and Aaron
was about fifty feet to my left, just out of the zone. Quickly we each caught a salmon and had them on a stringer, in the water. I had brought a lunch bag with peanut butter sandwiches for Aaron and me. I also had the previous day’s empty sandwich bags in my camera case. I had tucked them in my camera case just out of convenience that previous day. Those baggies had sandwich crumbs and a bit of peanut butter smeared on the inside.
Awhile later, Aaron called over, “Dad!”
“Yes?”
“Look behind you.”
I turned. There were two grizzlies—looked like a big mama and her big cub—standing close enough to me that I could have reached out and touched them with my fishing pole. This was too close. They had probably come out of the woods to gather salmon scraps that accumulate from people cleaning their fish at the fish cleaning station on the other end of the Handicap zone.
The first thing I did was reach for the two salmon on the stringer. That was probably a stupid and dangerous move, looking back on it. It was my automatic response, however. Then I began walking backwards, facing the bears and moving away from them slowly.
The bears went for my camera bag first. They smelled the bits of peanut butter on the wrappers! They ripped the camera bag open. My camera, a nice Nikon, went flying across the rocks. My zoom lens went flying across the rocks as well. Finding the wrappers empty, the bears seemed angry. They ripped open the lunch bag and found the sandwiches for which they were hoping. They ate the sandwiches in entirety, zip-locked bag and all.
There were also bags of chips and a package of m&ms. The food was all gone. and the canvas bag was in shreds.
My takeaways? Bears are cute only in movies. Bears are larger in real life. The bears seemed to briefly consider the whole salmons I was holding, but a lot of salmon scraps were floating in the water along the shore, and they decided to content themselves with that. The rest of us had to wait and watch them eat, because the bears were between us and the ferry to take us back.
The End (True Story)