I looked into the bears eyes and he looked into mine. I watched that wet truffle nose searching out my smells just outside the car windscreen, and I thought, hello bear, I'm glad I'm in the car.
'Oh Jesus,' I said.
'Oh shit,' my sister said. 'He's gonna eat the car. He's gonna eat the frigging car.'
'My window's not going up,' I shouted.
Keys flapped and twisted in my sister's hand. 'Is it working now?'
The window whirred and slid upwards just as the bear came round the side of the car. He sniffed again, just inches from my face. I held my breath and then he turned and loaped away; snatching mouthfuls of fresh grass shoots on the side of the road.
'He was just investigating,' my sister said.
'Yep,' I said and remembered I should breathe.
I was afraid of bears before I left the UK, but not terrified. When I got to Canada it was unnerving knowing I had to be wary when walking; that if I did meet a bear there were things I should or shouldn't do (or more accurately I could run up a tree, play dead, stick my head between my legs and sing but if it wanted to eat me it would.) Then I heard about cougars and wolves. I'd been told they took children and pets. It had only been a few weeks since they'd closed trails when a cougar had attacked a pair of hikers. They'd shot the cougar.
So, when I stepped out into the woods for the first time, my eyes were wide open, very wide open, to the possibility that that black stump could be a bear; that the light skipping over the ferns could be a cougar. Jesus, I was jibbering into my camcorder like a loon. It took about nine years to walk that first bit of path.
But I did it. Then I walked the pebbled beaches lining the estuary and the little paths of roots beneath the fir trees, and amidst all the jitters and fumbling with my feet I found myself smiling. I smelt the skunk weed; saw the mosquitoes bouncing in the light, looked into the shadows ahead and realised that the danger was real. That's what felt so flipping good.
It was real. The danger was real.
I wasn't fighting with myself to change how I was thinking - to stop protecting myself from some imagined attacker. I wasn't listening to someone tell me, 'See, nothing to be afraid of. I told you it'd be fine.' And then having to stop myself kicking them in the shins. The danger was real, my fear was entirely appropriate and it made me feel like dancing in celebration.
It reminded me that there is a symptom of PTSD that I don't hear mentioned that much. The symptom is frustration. My body's reactions to things are baffling. By far the most terrifying experience on my expedition so far has been going to a families house for pizza. I'd met them once, I knew they were lovely, but as I got dressed to go out I couldn't stop my legs shaking. I was asking my sister questions and repeating myself. She kept answering, but the words were just fluff bouncing off my ears. She frowned and I went away to cook. Chopping peppers was a monster effort, just one thing at a time, I told myself, keep going, it's all in my head, I can do this.
The terror I was feeling was all in my head. That's the important bit, but the bears weren't, the cougars weren't, the wolves weren't. They were real and I loved them for it.
I'm hiking everyday = everyday I'm facing a real danger; a kind of animal lottery. It's scary, but not terrifying. I'm taking a risk (the odds are that I won't meet a bear, a cougar or a wolf, although I did see five bears in two days...) and I'm being capable and careful.
I'm having a normal and appropriate reaction to life.
No frustration.
I've found a slightly dangerous paradise.
'Oh shit,' my sister said. 'He's gonna eat the car. He's gonna eat the frigging car.'
'My window's not going up,' I shouted.
Keys flapped and twisted in my sister's hand. 'Is it working now?'
The window whirred and slid upwards just as the bear came round the side of the car. He sniffed again, just inches from my face. I held my breath and then he turned and loaped away; snatching mouthfuls of fresh grass shoots on the side of the road.
'He was just investigating,' my sister said.
'Yep,' I said and remembered I should breathe.
I was afraid of bears before I left the UK, but not terrified. When I got to Canada it was unnerving knowing I had to be wary when walking; that if I did meet a bear there were things I should or shouldn't do (or more accurately I could run up a tree, play dead, stick my head between my legs and sing but if it wanted to eat me it would.) Then I heard about cougars and wolves. I'd been told they took children and pets. It had only been a few weeks since they'd closed trails when a cougar had attacked a pair of hikers. They'd shot the cougar.
So, when I stepped out into the woods for the first time, my eyes were wide open, very wide open, to the possibility that that black stump could be a bear; that the light skipping over the ferns could be a cougar. Jesus, I was jibbering into my camcorder like a loon. It took about nine years to walk that first bit of path.
But I did it. Then I walked the pebbled beaches lining the estuary and the little paths of roots beneath the fir trees, and amidst all the jitters and fumbling with my feet I found myself smiling. I smelt the skunk weed; saw the mosquitoes bouncing in the light, looked into the shadows ahead and realised that the danger was real. That's what felt so flipping good.
It was real. The danger was real.
I wasn't fighting with myself to change how I was thinking - to stop protecting myself from some imagined attacker. I wasn't listening to someone tell me, 'See, nothing to be afraid of. I told you it'd be fine.' And then having to stop myself kicking them in the shins. The danger was real, my fear was entirely appropriate and it made me feel like dancing in celebration.
It reminded me that there is a symptom of PTSD that I don't hear mentioned that much. The symptom is frustration. My body's reactions to things are baffling. By far the most terrifying experience on my expedition so far has been going to a families house for pizza. I'd met them once, I knew they were lovely, but as I got dressed to go out I couldn't stop my legs shaking. I was asking my sister questions and repeating myself. She kept answering, but the words were just fluff bouncing off my ears. She frowned and I went away to cook. Chopping peppers was a monster effort, just one thing at a time, I told myself, keep going, it's all in my head, I can do this.
The terror I was feeling was all in my head. That's the important bit, but the bears weren't, the cougars weren't, the wolves weren't. They were real and I loved them for it.
I'm hiking everyday = everyday I'm facing a real danger; a kind of animal lottery. It's scary, but not terrifying. I'm taking a risk (the odds are that I won't meet a bear, a cougar or a wolf, although I did see five bears in two days...) and I'm being capable and careful.
I'm having a normal and appropriate reaction to life.
No frustration.
I've found a slightly dangerous paradise.
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