Snacks!!!

*** continued from previous post ***


Now that the initial rush is over, my mind shifts into high-gear 'what if?' mode. I search the corners of my memory, dragging up every piece of knowledge I have about bears. What concrete knowledge do I possess?

Well, bears like picnic baskets, and are pretty friendly with Park Rangers. That eases my apprehension a tad. They also like honey, and have a wide array of animal friends such as donkeys and rabbits and tiggers, (which we all know are wonderful things). They like porridge.

Okay. This isn't so bad. I'm calming down and feeling better by the moment. Plus, there's only one day a year when you have to be especially careful. That would be the infamous Teddy Bear Picnic. It's sort of like Burning Man. Only in the woods not the desert. And there are far fewer hippies. And generally it smells better.

But the more I ponder, the more I'm unsure of my intel. Curse you public school education!! Curse you Saturday morning cartoons!

Okay. What do I really know about bears. And especially, Grizzlies?

Well, I remember that a Grizzly can run. Fast. They can run up to 35 miles per hour for short distances. Oh fudge. I glance down at the speedometer, and see that we are currently cruising at about 20 mph, and I can't safely move the bike any faster.

I remember that female Grizzlies, or 'Sows' - although you wouldn't want to call her that to her face – unless you were looking to get your lips chewed off - and they give birth to their young in the spring. By late summer, the cubs are old enough to follow their mom on hunting trips. During this phase, the Sows are EXTREMELY protective, and aggressive, especially when they think their cubs are threatened.

Damn. Maybe that's why she kept looking back. A big honkin' futuristic looking motorcycle between a Grizzly and her cubs.

Or, to put it another way - snacks!

So, to summarize: Cranky and fast. Really fast. Large teeth. Large claws. Guess that's all I really need to know.


*** the journey continues. Unless this is my ghost typing. It's possible. ***

Chapter 4 - FERRY OF THE DAMNED

* * * after a short mid-winter break, we return to our story with Chapter 4 of the ongoing saga * * *


A few more minutes and we see the sign for the Ferry, and follow the only path available to us - which I now notice is wet - looks like it may have sprinkled a bit in the last hour - and start a rather steep descent towards the lake.

We had been gently climbing for the last mile or two, but I hadn't realized how much we had climbed. We came around a bend in the road, and saw a line of cars parked on the incline, waiting to board the boat. I cruised behind the last car in the queue, turned off the bike and set her gently on the kick-stand. I stayed on the bike while Mom climbed off the back. I didn't want to leave the bike unattended. Did I mention how steep the hill was? Think of one of the hills heading to the waterfront from downtown Seattle. But without the bums. Or the smell of urine. Actually, replace the vagrants with tourists, and the smell of urine with the smell of trees, and the saltwater with fresh water, and the . . . well, this is just getting silly now. It was steep. Let's leave it at that.

Anyway, we are sitting there with nary a boat in sight. Now what?

"I wonder how much this will cost? Not that I really care, and not that we have a choice, but I'm curious."

Mom pulls off her helmet, and attempts to smooth her hair. It is a lost cause. I don't tell her that though, because I like my teeth.

"I don't know," Mom says, "I don't even see any signs listing the charges."
By this time a few other cars have pulled in line behind us. People are getting out of their vehicles, stretching their legs, walking their dogs, and generally doing what people do when they wait for a Ferry. Two teenage girls, carrying a bag of chips, explode from the car behind us and run down the ramp bursting with giggles and squeals to see if they can spot the Ferry. The woman driving the car climbs out, yells after the girls to be careful, then sort of loiters by the driver’s side door. Mom and I give her a quick smile and nod of our heads in a "Look at us, we are friendly American types from THE STATES and will not harm you. Probably. Mostly.", which seems to put her at ease. I hate to generalize like this, but these Canadians are way too trusting. I smell an opportunity. Anyway, she strolls over, gives the bike a good once over and says, "Wow. That is a really nice bike."

I love her immediately. The way to a man's heart may be through his stomach, but the way to a biker's heart starts with "Wow. Nice bike."