think that after running for 12 hours, throwing up, nearly dying of thirst and hallucinating so badly I started talking to storm clouds, the worst of my troubles would be behind me.
You’d think that. But you’d be wrong.
Bigger troubles still lay ahead. For instance, I wrote my obituary at 6:10 p.m. That’s right — my obituary. My death was moments away.
QUINN SCHEURMANN, 1999–2013. Passed away suddenly during the annual running of the Shin-Kicker 100-Mile Race. Cause of death: mauled by bear. Charges of negligence are pending against race organizers …
Too bad I wouldn’t live to see it in print, I thought. Unless I could pull off a miracle in the next 3 seconds.
What was it my dad had said about bears?
If it’s black, attack!
If it’s brown, lie down!
You weren’t actually supposed to attack black bears. But if you scared them well enough, threw rocks and made noise, they were supposed to chicken out and run away.
Brown bears, on the other hand, were trickier. Most brownbears are grizzlies, and grizzlies aren’t scared of anything. The only thing grizzlies are afraid of is missing dinner. If you run into one of them, Dad advised me, then play dead.
Unfortunately, this bear wasn’t black or brown. Instead, it was a rusty shade of orange. Worse, it was as big as a fridge. It was standing on its hind legs. And yes, it was growling.
Bears are fun to see at a zoo, or at the side of a road, when you’re safe inside a car. But when you’re running through a forest, all alone, miles from civilization? Seeing a bear then is a total drag.
Crap, I thought. This totally sucks. Not only might I die at any moment, but I’d finally started making decent time. For the last hour I’d been running along the edge of a limestone ridge. The trail was hard and flat and fast. It was like running on a superhighway.
Suddenly I heard stones clattering right behind me. Something was huffing and puffing. I jerked my body to a stop.
The bear was shaggy and monstrous and boy did it stink! A swarm of deer flies buzzed around its head.
I clenched my butt cheeks to keep my guts from spilling out. I expected the bear to charge, but instead it dropped onto all fours. It rubbed its head against a rock and made a snuffling noise with its nose. Its smell was truly awful. It stank like wet dog.
SYDNEY WATSON WALTERS: Please tell me that you got away from that bear.
QUINN: I didn’t. Because there’s one little detail I haven’tmentioned. The bear was wearing camouflage pants.
SYDNEY WATSON WALTERS: Camouflage pants
again?
So the bear was another hallucination?
QUINN: Exactly. Number two, in case you’re counting.
There is nothing quite as hilarious as a bear wearing pants. I stifled a giggle. It’s Winnie the Pants, I thought.
The bear shook its head and took a few steps backward. Then it lay down on its back and rolled around in the dirt. Its snout was pebbled with raspberry seeds, and its eyes drooled like a sea lion’s. Did I mention that it was huge? Way bigger than a fridge! More like the size of an SUV.
“Where’d you get those pants, Mister Bear?” I asked.
The bear rolled over and shook out its fur like a puppy that’s been swimming. It raised a paw to its snout. “Shhhh,” it said. Then it rose up on its hind legs and placed its front paws on my shoulders, as if it were about to give me some fatherly advice. It leaned way down, until its black snout was a centimetre from my forehead. It took three deep sniffs and let out an epic sneeze.
“Thanks for that,” I spluttered. “I needed a shower anyway.”
I wiped the bear snot off my face while Winnie the Pants dropped back onto its four paws.
“Um,” I said. “Where are you going now?”
The bear twitched its ears and made a chuffing noise. Then it made a movement with its paw, as if to say, “Follow me.”
I decided to follow. I mean, c’mon! How often do you get to hang out with a bear in tight pants?
We went down a narrow path and
You’d think that. But you’d be wrong.
Bigger troubles still lay ahead. For instance, I wrote my obituary at 6:10 p.m. That’s right — my obituary. My death was moments away.
QUINN SCHEURMANN, 1999–2013. Passed away suddenly during the annual running of the Shin-Kicker 100-Mile Race. Cause of death: mauled by bear. Charges of negligence are pending against race organizers …
Too bad I wouldn’t live to see it in print, I thought. Unless I could pull off a miracle in the next 3 seconds.
What was it my dad had said about bears?
If it’s black, attack!
If it’s brown, lie down!
You weren’t actually supposed to attack black bears. But if you scared them well enough, threw rocks and made noise, they were supposed to chicken out and run away.
Brown bears, on the other hand, were trickier. Most brownbears are grizzlies, and grizzlies aren’t scared of anything. The only thing grizzlies are afraid of is missing dinner. If you run into one of them, Dad advised me, then play dead.
Unfortunately, this bear wasn’t black or brown. Instead, it was a rusty shade of orange. Worse, it was as big as a fridge. It was standing on its hind legs. And yes, it was growling.
Bears are fun to see at a zoo, or at the side of a road, when you’re safe inside a car. But when you’re running through a forest, all alone, miles from civilization? Seeing a bear then is a total drag.
Crap, I thought. This totally sucks. Not only might I die at any moment, but I’d finally started making decent time. For the last hour I’d been running along the edge of a limestone ridge. The trail was hard and flat and fast. It was like running on a superhighway.
Suddenly I heard stones clattering right behind me. Something was huffing and puffing. I jerked my body to a stop.
The bear was shaggy and monstrous and boy did it stink! A swarm of deer flies buzzed around its head.
I clenched my butt cheeks to keep my guts from spilling out. I expected the bear to charge, but instead it dropped onto all fours. It rubbed its head against a rock and made a snuffling noise with its nose. Its smell was truly awful. It stank like wet dog.
SYDNEY WATSON WALTERS: Please tell me that you got away from that bear.
QUINN: I didn’t. Because there’s one little detail I haven’tmentioned. The bear was wearing camouflage pants.
SYDNEY WATSON WALTERS: Camouflage pants
again?
So the bear was another hallucination?
QUINN: Exactly. Number two, in case you’re counting.
There is nothing quite as hilarious as a bear wearing pants. I stifled a giggle. It’s Winnie the Pants, I thought.
The bear shook its head and took a few steps backward. Then it lay down on its back and rolled around in the dirt. Its snout was pebbled with raspberry seeds, and its eyes drooled like a sea lion’s. Did I mention that it was huge? Way bigger than a fridge! More like the size of an SUV.
“Where’d you get those pants, Mister Bear?” I asked.
The bear rolled over and shook out its fur like a puppy that’s been swimming. It raised a paw to its snout. “Shhhh,” it said. Then it rose up on its hind legs and placed its front paws on my shoulders, as if it were about to give me some fatherly advice. It leaned way down, until its black snout was a centimetre from my forehead. It took three deep sniffs and let out an epic sneeze.
“Thanks for that,” I spluttered. “I needed a shower anyway.”
I wiped the bear snot off my face while Winnie the Pants dropped back onto its four paws.
“Um,” I said. “Where are you going now?”
The bear twitched its ears and made a chuffing noise. Then it made a movement with its paw, as if to say, “Follow me.”
I decided to follow. I mean, c’mon! How often do you get to hang out with a bear in tight pants?
We went down a narrow path and
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