Mugged by a Bear

The ground trembled, but it was the huffing and snorting outside that woke me in the dead of night.

Looking through the screen of my tent, I saw the large black bear lurking about 10 feet away and staring back at me. I struggled to get my brain around what I was seeing while working to shove the sleep away and awaken my senses. It huffed again, and it seemed that bubbles blew from its nose.

I knew that my food was safely stored in a metal bear-proof box 50 yards away, but I could not remember if I had brought a snack into my tent. As that thought formed, there was another loud huff and the tent rattled. My empty backpack was outside leaning against the tent less than a foot away from my head.

There was a snort, a shuffling sound, and a bang as the tent shook. Rattled, I screamed and looked outside the tent, but the bear – and my backpack – were gone.

Oh My God, I thought, heart pounding. My watch said 3 a.m.

Unzipping my tent, I grabbed my headlamp, and crawled cautiously into the night. The lamp was only mildly effective in the mist, but I walked a ways in the direction I thought the bear had gone. Nothing. 

I had been mugged and robbed by a bear, and it was running away into its neighborhood, much as a downtown mugger would have disappeared into its hood.  I am guessing that the bear weighed about 300 pounds and was an adult, probably a male, though I have no idea why I assumed that.

Wandering aimlessly through the mist, a harsh reality hit. My wallet and truck key were in the inside pouch of my pack and that meant my driver’s license, Social Security card, debit and credit cards and other stuff were gone. My brain went into overdrive at the mess that would make.  I had no ID, no money, no transportation, no way to get someone to cut another key; it was Sunday and the banks were closed. How would I get a South Carolina driver’s license in New Jersey? Where do I start?

I crawled back into my tent and struggled with those questions while also trying to be optimistic that I would find my stuff the next morning.  I had carried that Osprey backpack on my 2011 thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail and for three seasons as a ridgerunner in New Jersey.  My keys, wallet and the rest of my stuff could be replaced, but I surely would hate to lose that pack. It carried my gear, years of sweat and grime, and tons of memories.

My thoughts also wandered to life on the trail. I knew there had been bear activity near Brink Shelter in Stokes State Forest this summer.  The previous afternoon I had cautioned a thru-hiker that a bear and a couple of rattlesnakes had been seen on Bird Mountain just ahead. He grinned with eager anticipation. 

I was always hoping to see bears.  New Jersey is known for having more bears than anywhere else on the AT, but I had not seen any when I passed through in 2011. I saw just one the following summer, that a small one on Labor Day, the final day of my first ridgerunner summer.  I saw 20 or so in 2013 (not as many as boasted by other ridgerunners) but I had seen maybe two dozen so far in 2014, and I and was eager for more.

            Bears are more of a problem at public campgrounds and in suburban neighborhoods than they are deep in the woods.

Folks using these campgrounds are typically less careful with their food and bears soon learn that this is a fine place for lunch or dinner. This summer, Park officials killed one young nuisance bear at a public campground in Stokes and others here and elsewhere have been driven away by park police firing rubber bullets. Bears also are seen digging around in trashcans in nearby towns, and just last week, a large one broke into a house through a screened window and then went out the same way after being caught rummaging around in the kitchen. 

But the trail is by no means immune.

The Gren Anderson Shelter in Stokes was closed off by crime scene tape when I came by on my Long Walk in 2011. Two youngsters in a camp group had complained that a bear had attacked them in their tent. Officials tracked the bear, wounded the bear and finally caught and killed the bear, though doctors said later the reported youngsters’ “injuries” were healing and happened much earlier than the alleged attack, so their story was, essentially crap. (Explain that to the bear.)

All these thoughts – but mainly my pending ID crises – rumbled through my brain as I lay back in my tent. 

I was surprised at what had happened because on the trail, bears had always been a novelty, not a threat.

            My pack had been leaning against the head end of my small one-man tent, which, without the rain tarp, is essentially a 30x85-inch screened space. As I lay there, still shaken, I realized that bears do not have opposable thumbs, meaning he grabbed the pack in his teeth and that those teeth had clamped shut less than a foot from my head. It mattered little that a screen mesh separated us.

            Then the pounding started.

            The sound of clanging metal echoed across the campsite, and the only rational explanation was that the bear was hammering at the bear box trying to gain access to the goodies within. The nuisance bear was back after barely an hour.  I roused myself and went looking for it, hoping to track my missing pack while telling myself that I was not putting myself into harm’s way.

            No luck, as I could find neither the source of the commotion or my missing backpack.

            I returned to my tent and dozed, only to be jolted awake again by snorting and huffing. The bear was back and 10 feet away. I screamed, but he ignored me, instead continuing to paw at a nearby log. I screamed again and he left.

            Sleep finally came again, and I awoke at 7, looked around and determined that I had not been having a bad dream. I noticed my water bottle 20 feet away and found teeth marks on it, signaling that the bear had picked up from right beside my tent (and me) but dropped it as he moved away.

            I wandered the site again and then headed up a small rise to share my tale of woe with campers I had met the night before.

“He was here too,” the man said. “He grabbed my son’s pack last night and ran, but we hollered and he dropped it. We were in the tent when another hiker yelled, ‘hey, you in the white tent. There’s a bear outside!’”

That happened at 9:30 p.m., which means there were four separate incidents involving the bear – that one, plus the two at my tent and the pounding on the bear box. Unbelievable.

I phoned the park office to file a report, and the man and his son stopped and offered to help me look for my pack before they moved on.  We fanned out and moved through the section of forest where I thought the bear had gone. Five minutes later, I found my pack, about 150 yards from my camping spot. The pack’s bright blue rain cover was slashed and so was the outside pocket of the pack, but that was the only damage and by keys and wallet were still inside.

Stokes’ staff reported the bear incident to the Fish and Wildlife folks, and I also called in later, figuring a first-hand report from a trail worker and “victim” would carry more weight than a secondhand report from the park office. And, it being Sunday morning, I figured that two calls on the weekend would up the odds that the incident would get some attention.

Worried about what might happen to someone else, I wanted the experts to decide how to handle this aggressive bear.

I telephoned Trenton Dispatch to report the bear incident and talked to an operator who took the basic information and patched me through to Fish and Wildlife.  That led to two more phone interviews and a call back from a park police officer who also took a report. The system worked is it would, but everyone took the incident seriously.

I shared my story with other hikers I encountered, including a troop of young Girl Scouts out for a five-day trip on their first venture into the woods. They were planning to stay at Brink Shelter the next night and their eyes were Very Wide as they listened to my tale.

This was a clearly aggressive bear that had upped its game from simply wandering the woods near campsites and hoping to rummage through the trash. Typically, bears are attracted to food smells, but most hikers are careful while cooking and stash the leftovers, either hanging their food bags in a tree far out of a bear’s reach or stowing it in a large metal bear box placed at every wilderness shelter in New Jersey. Some hikers ignore laws banning campfires and they also burn their trash and leftovers, but the smells linger – especially when the camper unsuccessfully tries to burn metal and foil and then leaves the remains so nature can take its course or someone else decides to pack out their trash.

One former wildlife officer said this bear had probably found food in a backpack before and learned that he might get lucky again, so packs were now fair game. That makes sense. He also estimated that 600 bears are born every year and most survive to adulthood, so the population keeps growing. Jersey has a season for bear hunting, but the numbers of bears killed (harvested) each year is dropping. Apparently hunters who have bagged one bear have no interest in hunting another.

This is what I know about what’s next for the bear. (For me, I am going back into the woods on Friday, though will take better precautions with my backpack and my keys, wallet and other personal stuff.)

            The folks at Stokes are posting signs at the shelter warning about Bear Activity in the area.  Fish and Wildlife is talking about perhaps bringing in a trap to catch the bear and then take appropriate action.  I was not much help in giving them a description – I could not see any tags, could not tell its sex, and guessed it weighed 300 pounds, but “large, black, and snorting loudly” didn’t add too much.

            “Big, ugly and pretty darned scary” is not an official designation either, but the experts will have to trap it before deciding what happens next. (Bear traps are large tubular cases with an open door.  Officials use bacon to lure the bear to the trap, where a bag filled with bacon and donuts – really-- hangs inside.  If the bear comes in and grabs the bag, the door slams shut behind it and traps it inside.)

Category One bears are those that have attacked someone or caused serious property damage and are deemed to be threats to public health and safety. These bears are killed, put down, or euthanized (pick your phraseology), typically by lethal injection if they have been caught or by gunfire if they are running loose.

Some bears can be rehabilitated or re-educated in a Pavlovian or Orwellian sense and taught You Will Not Do That Again.

These methods are designed to teach the bear to associate Bad Things with human contact. Trapped bears are anesthetized, examined, given blood tests and tagged. As the bear wakes, I am told, officers might bang on the bear trap with bats, shoot it with rubber bullets as it is released back into the wild and then let dogs chase it away and hound it up a tree. 

 My zeal for seeing bears in the wild has faded, though I am sure I will smile the next time I see one in its element. The forest is, after all, their home and I am just a visitor passing through. I will continue to encourage hikers to Leave No Trace, hang their food or use the bear boxes and to please not burn trash.

I will tell them that bears have been known to steal packs looking for food, and I will to a better job of protecting my backpack, keys and personal information. The last thing I need is a bear using my debit card or hacking into my bank account.

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Arrived at Mashipacong Shelter Monday and was surprised to find a copy of the July 2013 issue of Journeys, the magazine of the Appalachian Trail Conservancy incouding this article I wrote on ridgerunning. this made me a minor celebrity on the trail in New Jersey.  Text below.


RUNNING JERSEY RIDGES

The summer thunderstorm blew through Delaware Water Gap, up and across the Kittatinny Ridge, its winds whipping the Backpacker Campsite on a steamy August afternoon.

Its thunder boomed and its lightning crackled. Heavy wind and rain slapped the tarp against the tent. Braced inside, I pushed back hard to support straining poles, happy to be dry but knowing that storms earlier in the summer had snapped a pole, collapsed the tent and sent the tarp sailing.

The wind died as the storm moved north. A steady rain continued as I slipped outside to check for damage and see how others camped on the mountain had fared. Thankful for having gotten to shelter just ahead of the nasty weather, I knew others had not been as fortunate, and I used my emergency radio to call park police about some very soggy hikers headed their way.

I knew at least a dozen people were scattered along the four miles of Appalachian Trail back to the visitor center at the Delaware River; I was especially worried about one heavy couple I had passed an hour earlier, just before the storm. They were moving slowly, wearing the wrong shoes, and starting to grumble about the long walk back to their car. The four miles up to Sunfish Pond was harder than they had expected. The pond was very nice; what, now they had to hike four miles back?

Stopping to chat, because that’s what ridgerunners do, I did my best to cheer them on with the news that it was only three easy miles to the bottom. Yes, I agreed, walking downhill often hurts more than walking uphill; and yes, hiking is harder than walking.

They trudged on; I moved quickly and eagerly up the trail, heading north, excited to be starting a 75-mile hike across New Jersey.

Again.

Hiking with the trail name “Grasshopper,” I had thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail in 2011 and had fond memories of the five hot days I had spent crossing Jersey. Blessed with the opportunity to return in 2012 as a ridgerunner, I was living the dream – being paid to hike and spending the season with hikers, trail volunteers, work crews, and Trail Angels. I hoped to give back and help them as much as they had helped me on my long walk north.

Hired by the Appalachian Trail Conservancy, the New Jersey Parks Service, and the New York / New Jersey Trail Conference, I was one of 10 ridgerunners working in the Mid-Atlantic States. Three of us were in Jersey. I was AT-3.

We are “boots on the ground” to help folks safely enjoy the AT’s forests and footpaths, to share the gospel of Leave No Trace, and to keep tabs on the trail and those using it. We share directions and advice, remind people to store food in bear boxes, and to pack out their own trash. We explain that the sign saying “No Ground Fires” really does mean that campfires are not allowed (yes, this means you, too) and that “no alcohol” means “no alcohol.” And yes, the leash law applies to your dog, too.

We gathered in May at Scott Farm near Boiling Springs, PA, where ATC’s Bob Sickley and Matt Rosefsky of SOLO Wilderness Medical led us through excellent but exhausting and intense 14-hour days of training in Wilderness First Aid and CPR. We backpacked to the Darlington Shelter and back, role-playing various LNT scenarios and camping nightmares to prepare for the worst that the summer might bring.

Thank God for training.

We were at Backpacker during Jersey orientation when I dropped a heavy rock and ripped a four-inch gash down my ankle. Hal Evans (AT-1) cleaned and bandaged my wound, resisting the urge to snip away the loose flap of skin. A doctor later gave me a Tetanus shot, a heavy course of antibiotics and ordered me off my feet for three days. The cut, she added, could have used a dozen stitches.

I recuperated off-trail at the house that the ridgerunners shared with firefighters and summer interns working at the Lake Wallkill Wildlife Refuge. Getting antsy and healing quickly, I soon headed into the woods for a summer rotation that included either spending five days at Backpacker and Sunfish Pond or patrolling a 35-mile stretch of trail and camping with others near AT wilderness shelters.

The trails and back roads of Jersey soon became second nature and ridgerunners were wonderfully supported and shuttled by the good folks who work in and manage the state’s four public forests, especially Rebecca Fitzgerald at High Point and Ernie Kabert at Worthington.

By August, hikes that had taken four hours were now taking three. While I was not exactly running the ridges, I was certainly moving quicker. Including my thru-hike, I had hiked more than 2500 miles and had lived in the woods for nearly 11 months. Now I was taking the opportunity to thru-hike Jersey from south to north.

I had been camped at Backpacker for five days, hiking nearby trails and keeping tabs on Sunfish Pond, a gorgeous glacial lake that attracts hundreds of hikers and tempts many to ignore the ban against camping and swimming.

I had gathered trash from near the pond and in the bear boxes and I was making my rounds when I encountered an Outward Bound group headed north. We had met the night before and they happily gathered again to hear me “talk trash.” Holding my bag aloft, I said, “I know this isn’t your trash, but this is what others have left. This is why we … Leave No Trace!”

“Leave No Trace!” they shouted. “Thank you, Grasshopper,” they said in chorus as my lesson ended, and they moved on.

My shift at Backpacker was ending but I was staying in the woods, working my way north from the Delaware Water Gap in Pennsylvania to the New York border.

I moved north, hoping to see a bear. The other Jersey ridgerunners have seen 40 bears between them and I am miffed at not having seen a single one this summer – or on my hike through here last year. My dismay was fueled by the glee of other hikers who delighted in sharing their daily sightings – “I saw a Mama Bear and three cubs this morning. Awesome.”

The Trail crosses the state line at the Delaware River and gently climbs to 1500 feet and follows the Kittatinnies, a panorama of lakes and farmlands unfolding across Pennsylvania to the west and Jersey to the east. Crossing Raccoon Ridge and Rattlesnake Mountain, the trail is rocky, but it gradually smoothes and then flattens as it moves north.

An old man with a face filled with bushy white whiskers was standing in the middle of the trail watching me approach from the south. “Howdy, Pilgrim,” I shout! “With that beard, I am guessing you are a thru-hiker.”

“I’m Birdman. Who are you,” came the reply in a drawl so slow I thought I was back home in South Carolina instead of New Jersey.

“I’m Grasshopper. I am a ridgerunner.”

“What’s that?”

Birdman, from Tennessee, retired from a lifetime of quarry work and was thru-hiking to Maine. At 65, he’s four years older than me. We stopped for lunch at Mohican Outdoor Center and I explained myself, making a new friend and gaining a hiking partner for the week. We walked on together and I kept going when he took a mid-afternoon break; I figured we would see each other up the trail.

Birdman rolled in late, joining me at a primitive campsite just north of a pond near Millbrook-Blairstown Road. The next day we covered 11 miles and stayed the night at Brink Road Shelter with three camp groups, six northbound thru-hikers and four hikers headed to Georgia.

I make my rounds, checking in with the counselors and scanning the wide-eyed stares of youngsters who are facing woodlands isolation, perhaps for the first time.

Ever the trail ambassador, I prepare hikers for the perils ahead, including Joe to Go in Branchville, where the trail crosses Highway 206 at Culver Gap. This is both a prime spot for breakfast and a source of angst to outdoor types who slip from woodland solitude unprepared for the urban crankiness of a man said to be unfriendly to hikers.

“He’s a nice guy, but he does things his way. Just order your food and keep it simple,” I advise. “It’s cash only and don’t even think about asking to charge your phone or to use the bathroom.”

A camper who passed by Gren Anderson Shelter is telling others to leave their trash in the bear box, a weird twist on Leave No Trace, and I only grouse a little before packing out someone’s leftovers. A northbounder is packing a six-pack and he finishes two at the shelter, smashing his empties and then packing them away. I caution him about alcohol on the trail; he smiles, shrugs, and hikes on, opening a can as he goes.

A woman in sandals struggles up Sunrise Mountain with a large pack. With a thick Eastern European accent, Mary says she is on the second day of a hike across New Jersey. She complains that her feet hurt after 24 miles the day before. “Why so far?” I ask. “I only have four days,” she replies.

Mary limped in to High Point park office late the next day. Injured, she needed a ride to the train in Port Jervis. My truck was nearby and I considered giving her a lift but decided instead to help her call a cab.

At 1700-feet, High Point is the highest spot in New Jersey and the trail drops to the valley and cuts southeast along the New York border, across farms and through fields and forests, board walks, pasturelands and along country roads. I covered seven miles in a steady rain, took a late morning break to dry off at Jim Murray’s shelter and then stopped for lunch in Unionville at Horler’s Store.

The trail passes near ridgerunner housing, so I stopped for a hot shower and a night’s respite from the rain. Up and over Pochuck Mountain the next morning, I took a mandatory ice cream break at Heaven Hill Farms and then climbed 900 feet up the Stairway to Heaven and crossed Wawayanda Mountain, camping near the shelter as my hike across Jersey wound down.

New York is four miles north and I planned to flip at the border and hike back to Wawayanda for a shuttle to my truck, but at the state line I met Fred Schneider, a volunteer trail maintainer, and decided to hike down the State Line Trail with him.

Lost in my reverie and feeling sassy about my walk across Jersey, I stumbled, slipped and landed hard, snapping a trekking pole, bruising my bottom, blackening an eye, and spraining my hand.

The pain and indignity faded as we made it down the mountain. Fred ferried me toward Warwick and we stopped at The Creamery, a trail oasis where the AT crosses US 17A. Thank you, Fred. The chocolate milkshake was a taste of heaven.

Limping but refreshed, I caught a ride to a hiker hostel in Vernon where a Wawayanda park worker gave me a lift to High Point and my truck. I met Birdman and three other northbounders for breakfast the next morning, picking up the tab as Trail Magic, and then shuttled them back to the trail and the steep hike up Wawayanda Mountain that would start their day.

August melted into September, and Labor Day ended my ridgerunner summer. I camped near the High Point Shelter my last night out and then hiked 12 miles back to the house at the wildlife refuge to pack up for the long drive south. I was barely a half mile down the trail when I saw a bear cub scamper ahead and disappear into the trees. My ridgerunning ended with my summer’s only bear.

Birdman and I are planning to hike together to Trail Days in Damascus, VA in the spring and then he’s going to New Hampshire to finish his hike to Katahdin. Me? I’m hoping for a return to Jersey and for more ridges to run.



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High Point Shelter with my Hubba tent

Into the Woods – Again

It’s cold and rainy this morning in western Jersey, but I am eager to get outdoors, though a bit anxious, as my transition to ridgerunner is surprisingly difficult this year.

This is my fourth straight summer in the woods, but I haven’t been hiking since September. My previous moves from the “real world” had been easy. I had been living a mostly monastic existence down a long country road or with my friends, the brothers at Mepkin, so the quiet and solitude were familiar and comfortable.

Today I go hiking fresh from a highly stressed but successful stretch as a car seller at Hendrick Honda of Charleston. During 40 hectic days, I sold 25 cars and made sales to about six of every ten people I met and helped.  Two days later I was packed up and headed north, alone with my thoughts in my little Ford truck.

So instead of going bell to bell on what should be a hot and very busy holiday weekend at the Honda store, I am being shuttled to High Point State Park and will be hiking my way home over the next four days, back to the Ridgerunner Cabin deep in the Jersey woods.

It’s Memorial Day weekend and I am hiking and camping, a professional backpacker and roving trail ambassador. Living the dream, I am again being paid to hike and help folk enjoy a busy section of the Appalachian Trail. New Jersey is just as I left it after Labor Day, but this hiker is different in many ways.

God is great. Indeed.

My son and I shared breakfast as I was leaving Charleston. He sensed my anxiety, knowing that I loved my life in the woods but I was struggling with my decision to walk away from the hot streak at the car lot and go hiking.  My sales job will be waiting in September, I know, but it sure has been fun. I had met and helped a lot of great people but I was exhausted.

And, I thought, I had told the trail folks I was coming and I was not going to go back on my word.

“You bought the ticket,” Noah said, as though reading my mind. “You’ve got to ride the ride.”

I laughed, and agreed.

That Monday I drove to Columbia and visited with friends before a leisurely 13 hour drive on Tuesday to Pennsylvania where I reunited with ridgerunner buddies. We shared memories and wilderness first aid training, hiked together and talked trail etiquette. 

I was again sleeping on the ground in my faithful Hubba tent, my dependable shelter and home over four summers and more than 2000 miles. The two inches of rain my first night out never touched me and I slept better than I had in weeks. Grasshopper, the former AT thruhiker also known as AT-3, was back on the trail following white blazes.

            The Appalachian Trail crosses from Pennsylvania to New Jersey at the Delaware River and crosses through four state forests and federal lands before reaching New York nearly 75 miles north.

Three ridgerunners patrol that section. One of us is stationed each weekend at the Backpacker Campsite, a controlled camping area near Sunfish Pond, while the two others cover 35-mile sections of trail and camp near shelters along the way.  We work five-day weeks spending four nights out and dealing with whoever and whatever we find. Most hikers are great, but some weekenders and day hikers and woefully unprepared when they come out.

That’s where we come in. Trained in wilderness first aid and well versed in trail manners and lore, we meet and greet, solve problems, give directions, collect trash and generally keep tabs on the hiking community. We talk about bears and snakes and deer.

Crises are few, though I did get called out at 10 one night last summer to go find three lost day-hikers and lead them to safety. They were late leaving Sunfish Pond, had no flashlight except the one on their phone, which they used to call 9-11. Police dispatch called me because the rangers were two hours away, so and I went hiking, finding the lost ones at midnight and leading them to the rangers who checked them over and shuttled them out.

That was cool. 

  

            But this is this year and a different gig. Our housing is better and the folks who run the state parks are wonderful to work with, but I am … well, I am a year older.

            I hesitated briefly when I got the call asking if I wanted to be a ridgerunner again this year. It was never really a question. 

            I had moved from Columbia to Charleston in the off-season to be closer to my son; I also got back into the car business at the same dealership where I had worked five years ago.   Commission sales jobs are tough and demand long hours.  It was strange being back on the carlot after a few years hiking, Business was great last fall, but traffic slacked off through the winter, but then came spring.

            Jersey called and I said yes, but then car business started booming, helped in part by a large and welcome management change. (Thank you, Lord.)

            The heat won’t be an issue today. The forecast calls for chilly and rainy, though it’s supposed to be sunny and 80 through the weekend. Today’s high probably will not break 70, which is much cooler than on the Honda lot in Charleston, where the sun and traffic will heat the pavement and the temperature will rise with the stress of business.

But today, I am off on another adventure, not knowing who or what might be down the trail or over the next ridge. There are bears and snakes out here, but, then, there are many scary creatures in the “real world” too and the worlds are not that different.

            This is a job that will sometimes feel like work. And, like any job (or the Appalachian Trail,) it has its ups and downs.

            But at the end of the day, I will be on my sleeping pad in my tent, nodding off as I listen to the night sounds of creatures in their world and wonder what the next day will bring.

Happy Trails.