I left school at 2:20, heading for the last weekend workshop of the "Trail to Every Classroom" series, with gear to run or to hike, lots of blaze orange. As I drove West on Route 2, I called my sister. We gabbed and caught up. I wondered if I should pull off and hike or run. I had forgotten my mace and did not have Luna with me. My sister urged me not to head into the woods or onto the side of the road. Yeah yeah, I thought. I will do what I do. I flipped the coin. Two heads in a row told me -- heads I don't hike, tails I do -- not to hike. Okay, I thought. And I drove on, in the spitting snow, with my work clothes constricting me. I saw a trailhead, a kiosk for Cherry Mountain, on the left side of the road, just East of Bretton Woods, and I pulled in. Mostly to have a place to change. Once warm and comfortable in polypro, I decided to walk up the trail. It was snowing after all, and I love snow.
It was nearing dark, or dusk, as I headed up the trail. The flakes were fluffy and light, collecting on the firs on the side of the trail. I stopped to take some photographs. I was there for awhile, maybe ten minutes or so, crouched low and close up to the small saplings I was photographing.
Once I had captured the shot, I rose quietly and fluidly from my crouched position to standing, and looked up the trail. There, in the snowy silence, my eyes met the eyes of a studious, brown snouted, black bear. I had a confident feeling he had been watching me for a spell, listening to my slight sounds, smelling my inextricable scent that was undoubtedly drifting toward him. Our eyes were connected. And then, in one, forceful, strong, innate motion, he was off the trail, out of site and safely into the woods. I stood there for a few minutes. I thanked the universe. Stood a bit longer and then, thinking briefly of the coin toss, I turned for the car.
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