On the afternoon of the third day of my recent Cohos Trail thru-hike I descended from the heights of Mount Eisenhower, crossed the valley of the Ammonoosuc River and popped out onto Route 302 at Bretton Woods, right at Fabyans Restaurant & Bar.

No self-respecting long distance hiker ever passes by such an establishment, so I dropped my pack, ducked inside and bellied up to the bar and began to order mass quantities of food. Several hours later, appetite satisfied and thirst slaked, I waddled out the door and up the road a half-mile to the Mount Deception Campground, for what I hoped would be a restful evening.

I settled in to a grassy site in the middle of the place, as far away as I could get from the RVs and campers that made up the majority of visitors. There I pitched my new lightweight one-man tent, threw in the gear and headed directly to the showers for a glorious clean-up. Back at camp I gathered up my stinky clothes and went back to throw them into the laundry for a thorough washing.

On each of these laps to and from the bathhouse/laundry room I noticed small piles of scat in the grass. Dark blue scat with seeds. Bear scat. My eyes observed, but my tired brain didn’t really seem to register this important fact, just a few feet from my little campsite. Not good.

Finally, I sat down at the picnic table, relaxed and read my book until well after sundown. That’s when fatigue won out and I crawled into my sleeping bag and fell fast asleep, that deep and pleasant slumber of trail weariness.

Some time later in the dark of night, however, I awoke to some serious noise close by, real close, like in my camp. Hmmm, I semi-thought in my semi-awake state. Something thrashing and thumping about. And snorting and uttering nasty guttural sounds. Hmmm, I thought again in a more alert state.

I reached for my headlamp, strapped it on, flicked the switch... And that’s when I first saw the bear, about 6-8 inches from my face, its face buried in my empty backpack which sat leaning up against the tent.

Pure instinct took over, and I yelled "hey!"

Startled, the bear removed its nose from my pack and stared right at me, big brown face and nose, the rest of him (or her)—and there was a lot more of him or her—black as night.

Someone had to flinch in this close encounter, and it turned out to be me.

I yelled again, louder this time: "Hey!"

Given my aggressive stance in the matter, Mr. Bear (may I call you Mister?) backed up a few paces. And proceeded to rear up on his hind legs.

{insert large quantities of hiker poop here}

Now, mind you I've dealt with bears in the wild before, but never from the disadvantage of a prone position on the ground in a tiny little solo tent, with nothing but a thin layer of nylon separating me from Ursus americanus.

At this point, Mr. Ursus, now hovering over me with large paws high in the air, begins to weave back and forth as if he's doing “the wave” at a Patriot’s football game. Well that's pretty cool, I think for a moment, something you don't see everyday.

I quickly snap back to reality and begin to understand what may happen next, said bear pouncing forward and down onto me and the tent and turning both into a midnight snack, leaving only scattered bits of Gore-Tex and gray hair behind as evidence of the meal. Hiker scat.

I yell again, much, much louder this time: "Hey, hey, hey!" {pretty creative, eh?}

Clearly the addition of those forceful extra "hey's" must have done the trick, for the bear resumed a more reasonable position on all fours. He poked around the fireplace, rummaged in the grass, investigated the picnic table.

Mr. Bear poking around my campsite at Mt. Deception campground on the Cohos Trail, NH.
Carey Kish photo

It was then that he turned and padded back toward me. And proceeded to stick his nose right into the mesh netting of my tent door, perilously close to my own nose.

Whoa!

I didn't need to think about this one at all: I back-handed the bear right in his big brown in-my-tent snout!

That got his attention! He stared right at me, mano-a-bearo, and some kinda surprised. But he backed off again and began to pace furiously back and forth, grunting and snorting and making more awful noises.

Oh crap, I thought. Now I've done it. Who the hell smacks a bear in the nose and lives to tell about it?

But you know, after a few more minutes of pacing about. Mr. Bear wandered off for good. I guess I'd hurt his feelings. And maybe his nose.

Maybe he was thinking along the same lines as me as I dropped back onto my sleeping bag, exhausted and shaking from the encounter: Smacking a bear in the nose was never on my to-do list! And getting smacked by some hiker was likely never on his!

The morning after my encounter with Mr. Bear.
Carey Kish photo