The Bear, the Man, the Woods, and Me

An explanation of the meme from someone who's lived it

Shideler Acres in Michigan, site of my first bear encounter

If you're online as much as I am, you've probably seen this question lately: 

If you, a woman, were out in the woods by yourself, would you rather run into a man or a bear?

To the dismay of many of our male counterparts, nearly all us us have picked the bear.

The question apparently originated on TikTok, then made its way to Twitter and Facebook. Now it's invaded offline spaces, as men the world over display shock and offense by the thousands of women who have dryly explained their choice with some variation on the statement, "The worst a bear could do is kill me." 

And yes: I, too, would pick the bear. But let me set aside the meme and talk about the real-life situation this thought exercise introduces, because I have lived it.

In the 1960s, my father's family bought a very remote campground in the wilds of Michigan, the nearest city - which isn't actually very close at all - being Cadillac. Originally conceived of as a private camping-cum-hunting ground, Shideler Acres, or "the Property," was and still is a place without addresses, without paved roads. The best way to get a weather update, if you're thinking of going up, is to call a gas station and mini-mart some ways away and just ask someone.

From my most recent trip in 2020

I haven't been to the Property in a few years, now that I live in California. But when I was a little girl, it was roughly a seven-hour drive from my home in Ft. Wayne, Indiana, and we made it often. My mother is equally in her element indoors or out, and my father absolutely reveled in the wild - a place where he could target-shoot, track, hunt, set off any number of exotic explosives, and generally be Man: Conqueror.

The man himself, my father, Dan Shideler, circa 1993

As a girl, rather more given to reading, playing with dolls, and wearing froofy dresses than learning to shoot firearms, I liked the Property a little less than my many male cousins and brothers, when they came along. But I understood early on that this was my education in the Great Outdoors, and I tried to pay attention. Because, for all the wacky stuff the men in my family got up to at the Property, it really was safety first.

My job was to listen to my dad. He knew everything! Incidentally, today, my brother, Ted, is the one who knows everything about the Property, and he has since long before our father died 13 years ago. It's been amazing to realize! But when I was a little girl, it was Dad who was the undisputed king of the forest.

On a hike with my mother and father, circa 1988

He knew what animal any set of tracks belonged to. He knew where deer would congregate; he could look at any stand of ferns and wildflowers and see whether a fox had been there, and how recently. He knew how to render our cook cabin safe from animals while the food was still inside; he knew how far away the coyotes were when we heard their mournful howls from the bunk cabin.

And Dad knew about the bears. More pertinently, he knew the best weapon to carry at any and every time as we walked softly through the endless forests, and he could load and aim like nobody's business. 

I remember being about eight years old, on a hike with my dad, slogging through the wet pine needles that covered the forest floor, releasing their sweet, sappy scent with every step. Suddenly I felt my dad's powerful fist squeezing my shoulder. We stopped. I looked up and Dad pointed to my left.

The rich forest floor in 2020

"What's that, Sally?" he asked, pointing to a depression in the ground - a concave cutout filled partially with thin branches and other forest debris.

I peered through the fractured light of the impossibly tall pines, letting it all register. "A bear bed," I answered, my stomach curdling a little.

"That's right," Dad said. Loudly, he fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette and lit it, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "We're going to cut around this way!" he said jovially, beginning to whistle an old John Philip Sousa march - one of his favorites. I had already learned that we should do everything we could to let a nearby bear know that we were here: release an unfamiliar scent (the cigarette). Make noise (the whistling). But most of all, we needed to move off.

I whistled along with my dad. I was deliciously nervous: this was exciting, but surely Dad wouldn't let anything happen. After all, I could see the metallic black gleam of his gun as it rested in the pocket of his shorts. And there was a shotgun over his shoulder.

We followed a fork in the path, Dad steering me with one arm on my back. But as we turned, a flash of black flew across my peripheral vision, maybe 100 yards away.

The hardwood forest seen in 2020

The yelp I'd have let out caught in my throat. It was a good thing, too, because making noise to warn bears is only right when you can't see any. If they're visible, you don't want them to think you're threatening them. 

Now Dad's hand clenched around my scapula, showing me his white knuckles. "Keep going," he said, in a voice that I trusted. "It's OK. He just wants to be left alone. Remember, this is his forest." 

That much was clear.

Somehow, we walked back, Dad at my back all the way to the big clearing that held the cabins, my mom, my two young brothers - safety. I resisted the terrible, constant urge to look back. My whole body jangled, and once the forest opened up, I shrieked and made a beeline to the benches near the fire pit. I sat there heaving as it occurred to me that the bear had probably been there our whole stay. He'd be there until we left, and after. And next time.

But Dad was right. Nothing had happened.

Gorgeous fall colors on display in 2020

That was when I was a little girl, more than 30 years ago. But now, as impossible as it seems, I am close to a decade older than my father was that day he guided me to safety.

I'd like to go back to our Michigan forest with my fiancé. But it is painfully clear to me that, despite my years, I wouldn't have the first notion of how to defend us if it became necessary. I don’t use firearms. We'd have to rely on being careful and lucky - and as my intervening life experiences have shown me, that can be a recipe for disaster.

I’ve been at a loss to explain this to my mystified uncles and brothers in the years since my dad died. But the truth is, it's not bears that I'm worried about up there in that Michigan wilderness - not by a long shot. It's men.

We do have a good relationship with the nearest neighbor, though they're still pretty far away. Still, they don't exactly drop by to visit. You see, the Property is so remote that, if we see someone - anyone at all - that person is certain to be up to no good. Even the audible sound of a car was a reason for my father, all those years ago, to set down whatever he was doing and get eyes on the guns.

Sometimes, year-rounders show up to steal things, although the sixty years my family has owned the land have taught us what to leave accessible. Generally, they try to steal copper, or anything else they can resell for scrap. It doesn't happen much, but it does happen.

So the real danger of that wilderness, in my mind, is the fact that if I got into trouble and screamed out in fear, for any reason, no one would hear me. No one is there - or rather, no one I'd trust. After all, no one is supposed to be there.

Except the bears. 

Sorry, gents: I'd rather face them any day.