Sarah Black
Biography
Camping with Bears
This summer I finished a locum job up in Alaska, and my son and I drove around Alaska, then down through Canada on the Alcan — The Alaska-Canada Highway. I love camping, and the wild places, even though I have a great fear of bears. Of course I'm afraid of bears! Bears are killers!
Up in Denali I saw a brown smudge in the distance that I suspected was a bear's butt, sticking out of a thicket of berry brambles, but even more exciting was a wolf peering at us out of the woods — his eyes really did glow like amber. The wolf disappeared like smoke, and I had to believe it let me see him as a gift. Alaska was crowded with people, and my only other bear sighting was actually a sleeping hiker who popped up out of the tall grass, (bear country) and scared me nearly into hysterics.
It wasn't until we got into Canada, the Yukon Territory, with those astounding mountains and remote glacial lakes, that we started seeing lots of wildlife. Herds of bison, big horn sheep, bald eagles, and bears, a big mom-bear with a couple of roly-poly little cubs bouncing behind her. The black bear didn't look quite so scary, though we did lock the doors of the truck when she crossed the road in front of us. The animals looked just like they did on the Nature Channel, only bigger. When we drove back into the US, though, into Glacier National Park, my bear-fear reasserted itself.
My son and I are people who read all the notices from the park rangers. We study the bulletin boards next to the bathrooms. We were given to understand that Glacier belonged to the grizzlies; we were guests, and the bears liked hot dogs.
The ranger who visited our campsite instructed us to lock up our water, our food, our toothpaste, our combs and brushes, anything, in fact, that suggested human presence. (ourselves?) It was clear after our briefing that if we roasted our wienies and marshmallows over the campfire, then in the night we could plan on smelling the snuffling grunting breath of a carnivore, right before the mighty claws shredded our pathetic nylon tent. We slept with a hot dog roasting fork (cleaned with antibacterial gel) between us. My plan was, when the grizzly opened her mouth and roared, prior to eating us, I would shove the fork into her upper palate, into her brain, which would give the kid time to escape out of the tattered remains of the tent.
Somehow, though, the bright stars decorated the sky above us (we slept with the mesh top of the tent uncovered, to better hear the bear's approach) with the deep purple night sky over us, the color of blackberries; we smelled wood smoke from campfires, and the cold breeze off the lake that just kissed our faces, snug in our sleeping bags, and the bears must have decided to let us stay, and they kept themselves busy somewhere else. Here are some pictures from Glacier.
Flasher Santa at Rosie's Café
The talk about Santa really being the spirit of Christmas was a little overdue, but at thirteen James was still not ready. He listened carefully to my explanation, let it simmer for a couple of days in his extremely literal, autistic brain, emailed his Grandfather and discussed it with him.
"Mom, I'm sorry, but I'm going to keep believing in Santa."
"Fine. I don't want to argue."
He wasn't talking about my 'Spirit of Christmas' Santa, but in the real guy, the one with the beard and reindeer, the one who lived at the North Pole. And when we moved to Alaska, we drove through the town of North Pole, sitting right there next to Fairbanks, concrete proof, and he quietly started his search.
Alaska is full of old men with unruly white beards and wild white curls, psychotic, jolly blue eyes, jelly bellies and wire reading glasses. But he always found a reason to reject these potential Santas. Santa would not wear a Corona T-shirt, for example, and Santa wouldn't drive a Hog and Santa would not have a tattoo of a hot babe on his biceps. Santa could not possibly be the cab-driver who refused to wear his seat-belt, though he looked very authentic. The cab-driver Santa explained in detail the constitutional arguments behind his refusal to wear a seat-belt, and actually, I thought he sounded a great deal like my son. But Santa would believe in Safety First, so the cab-driver Santa could not be Him.
We were sitting in front of our grizzly burgers at Rosie's Café, between Fairbanks and Denali, and an excellent potential Santa came in the door. The white curls were shoulder length and cotton candy soft; ditto the beard. He was wearing jeans and red suspenders. James' eyes bugged out. Suspenders! This could be Him! Then James and I realized at about the same time that Santa's zipper was down. And not only was he going commando, but the cool Alaskan breeze seemed to be stimulating a healthy response.
James stood up. "I'll go tell him his zipper's down!"
I grabbed a handful of his 'Peace Out' T-shirt and shoved him back down in his chair. "Don't. Move."
I made frantic eye contact with the waitress, psychic messages: OMG! WTF?
"Johnson, what are you doing?" (Of course his name would be Johnson.) She snagged him by the arm, fussing into his ear. Oh, great, Flasher-Santa was a regular at Rosie's! He took a seat at the counter and zipped up.
James was staring at me. "Mom," he said, his voice patient. "You told me we should be Good Samaritans."
I stared back. Possible explanations bobbed around in my mind like rudderless boats, and I was sure if I said anything, this explanation would go as badly as my botched answer to his question, 'Can boys kiss other boys?'
"Son. For now, I just want to make this a Family Safety Rule: Do not approach any man who has his zipper down. Just trust me, okay?" This was my fall-back argument, Family Safety. I used it like the government used National Security.
"What about Papa? Can I tell him his zipper's down?"
"Yes, you can tell Papa."
"What about Uncle Joe?"
"Fine! Papa and Uncle Joe. No other exceptions. Now eat your grizzly burger."
James kept shooting looks at Flasher-Santa, and so did I, but we managed to eat and pay and get out of Rosie's before the nut wheeled around too many times on his little counter stool.
In the parking lot James studied the cars. "Mom! Look!" Flasher-Santa was driving a beat-up purple-blue Nova, and his bumper sticker had its middle finger raised. James shook his head. "It's not him, is it, Mom?"
"I don't think so."
I could see it in his face, though. He's here. I know he's here.
Sarah likes to drive around on empty, red-dirt roads on the Navajo reservation in a beat-up blue Ford Ranger pickup. Unfortunately, she still doesn't know how to change a flat tire.
Every Christmas, Sarah tries to make her grandmother's fudge recipe, the one on the back of the Hershey's cocoa box. So far no luck. This year she's going to break down and buy a candy thermometer.
Sarah has a secret addiction to reading books from Mother Earth News about building your own house. Right now she is reading about Cordwood and Cob.
Sarah will use any excuse to buy cashmere sweaters from Land's End. She has even been known to do it without an excuse
When she was young, Sarah wanted to marry Barnabas Collins, the vampire from Dark Shadows
Life goal: To visit all of America's National Parks
Sarah has lived in: California, Connecticut, New Hampshire, Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Florida, Mississippi, Texas, Arizona, and Alaska. Also Italy, and one year in the Persian Gulf on the Hospital Ship USNS Comfort.
First pet: Janet, a red-eared turtle the size of a quarter. During a hurricane evacuation in 1968, Sarah's father carried Janet in his pocket wrapped in a damp washcloth, inside a plastic bag.
Sarah has a secret crush on Brett Favre, and believes that he redeems the sins of the rest of the NFL. He is one of the few remaining quarterbacks playing who is not young enough to be her son.
When she can't sleep, Sarah gets up and reads a random selection from the Oxford English Dictionary. Sometimes those words show up in her stories.