Would you survive a bear attack?

[Moliere]

Yes, because I carry bear spray when I’m in those places.

[Surfah]

That's a scary story. Animal behavior professor eh? Does that make him more or less qualified?

[Northwestcoug]

Yes, because I carry bear spray when I’m in those places.

My wife’s uncle used to do a lot of back country fishing in BC. He carried bear mace on one hip and a pistol on the other. I don’t know if he ever had a bear encounter. But I’m not sure I’d trust my aim (with mace or gun) in an encounter with an angry bear.

[frank ryan]

Yeah I'd die.

[frank ryan]

Yes, because I carry bear spray when I’m in those places.

Don't miss!

[clackamascoug]

I once had an encounter in bear country.

We took off for the Haunted Mansion and ended having dinner at the Blue Bayou.

[Dwight Schr-ute]

Would you survive a bear attack?

I once had an encounter in bear country.

We took off for the Haunted Mansion and ended having dinner at the Blue Bayou.

LOL. Smart choice foregoing the Hungry Bear Restaurant. I remember setting myself up for failure by verbalizing the thought, “it’s not like they can screw up a burger.”

If my one close encounter with a bear is any indication, I’ll have the most embarrassing mauling story in history. In 2005, I spent my summer in Eastern Oregon doing bull trout research for Utah State. One of my last days in the field, I was wrapping up some unfinished snorkel surveys on a different river above Pendleton.

I had just finished surveying the stretch of river, and had tucked behind a stand of willows to strip out of my wetsuit and get dressed. I had just managed to drop the wetsuit around my ankles when I heard a bit of commotion in the stream, ten feet behind me. The sound had me curious, but I was only about a 1/4 mile upstream from a camp ground, so I assumed that there was a fly fisherman making their way upstream.

As the sound got closer, I decided there was value in verifying, so shuffled my way, stark naked wearing only a heap of black neoprene shackles around my ankles. When I peaked around the willows, there was a black bear on the far bank, making it’s way upstream and pulling large chunks of mossy bank into the stream, looking for grubs. 60 feet away and oblivious. The bear gets about 15 feet closer and the anxiety suddenly jumps from a 7 to an 11. Apparently, in one of the shelves that the bear had just pulled down, lived a hive of paper wasps.

Disturbed and agitated, the wasps seem to head straight at the bear’s face, rising it up on its back legs and shaking its head violently. After a couple of seconds of unsuccessful swatting, the bear let out a bit of a scream (could have been me as I turned and retreated inland in six inch bursts), plopped back down to four and bolted up and across the stream. We were maybe 15 feet apart (and yet I think I still managed to save that bear of its innocence) and despite a sliver of PTSD every time I get to that already awkward moment of removing a wetsuit, (even in a bathroom in the middle of the Mojave) I managed to escape unscathed.


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[clackamascoug]

LOL. Smart choice foregoing the Hungry Bear Restaurant. I remember setting myself up for failure by verbalizing the thought, “it’s not like they can screw up a burger.”

If my one close encounter with a bear is any indication, I’ll have the most embarrassing mauling story in history. In 2005, I spent my summer in Eastern Oregon doing bull trout research for Utah State. One of my last days in the field, I was wrapping up some unfinished snorkel surveys on a different river above Pendleton.

I had just finished surveying the stretch of river, and had tucked behind a stand of willows to strip out of my wetsuit and get dressed. I had just managed to drop the wetsuit around my ankles when I heard a bit of commotion in the stream, ten feet behind me. The sound had me curious, but I was only about a 1/4 mile upstream from a camp ground, so I assumed that there was a fly fisherman making their way upstream.

As the sound got closer, I decided there was value in verifying, so shuffled my way, stark naked wearing only a heap of black neoprene shackles around my ankles. When I peaked around the willows, there was a black bear on the far bank, making it’s way upstream and pulling large chunks of mossy bank into the stream, looking for grubs. 60 feet away and oblivious. The bear gets about 15 feet closer and the anxiety suddenly jumps from a 7 to an 11. Apparently, in one of the shelves that the bear had just pulled down, lived a hive of paper wasps.

Disturbed and agitated, the wasps seem to head straight at the bear’s face, rising it up on its back legs and shaking its head violently. After a couple of seconds of unsuccessful swatting, the bear let out a bit of a scream (could have been me as I turned and retreated inland in six inch bursts), plopped back down to four and bolted up and across the stream. We were maybe 15 feet apart (and yet I think I still managed to save that bear of its innocence) and despite a sliver of PTSD every time I get to that already awkward moment of removing a wetsuit, (even in a bathroom in the middle of the Mojave) I managed to escape unscathed.


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Dang... your story was ten times better than mine.

Although I did get the Monte Cristo.

[Moliere]

Ha, good story Dwight.

[myboynoah]

No.

Huh?

Back in the day you were the king of bear spray.

[Northwestcoug]

That’s a great story, Dwight.