The bear at the hot springs

A musical comedy that could have been a tragedy

We had already said goodbye to Jerry Johnson last October. We were preparing to fly to Southeast Asia for the winter and knew we would probably be too busy for another visit upon our mid-March return to Montana to finish building Walter, our big yellow adventure truck. Besides, traversing the path in the springtime is difficult. Runoff from the steep hillsides make that final mile and a half up the trail from the parking area into a sloppy, slippery hike. Visiting in winter’s slick snow and ice is difficult enough—we’ve done it twice previously—but springtime can be a mess.

An October visit, before our winter backpacking adventure in Southeast Asia, seemed like the best option, so we went last fall to see our old friend for what we assumed would be the last time. We ate and drank and relished in good conversation, grateful to not encounter any nudity that time. We stayed long after sunset and didn’t hike back out to our car until the stars danced overhead and the moon cast spooky shadows in the deep, silent forest. The soft path weaving between the silent old-growth trees is delightfully creepy by night.

For a variety of reasons, we found ourselves back on Hwy 12 this past Friday, winding through rugged, rural Idaho, toward the Montana state line. On a whim, we decided it would be a perfect time to pay Jerry Johnson one more visit—a post-goodbye bonus round, if you will.

We packed snacks and beverages into our lunch-size cooler bag. What didn’t fit, we stuffed into our little daypacks with our towels, swimwear, and jackets. At the last minute, I grabbed our headlamps, just in case we decided to stay late again and had to hike out in the dark. I’m so glad I did.

After securing a nearby campsite by setting out our chairs and a stringing a utility strap between two trees, we drove a few more miles and parked Walter in the familiar gravel lot along the side of the highway. We donned our packs and grabbed our water bottles and the lunch bag, then crossed the road and scrambled down the steep approach to the suspension bridge. It’s one of our favorite footbridges, a long stretch with plenty of sway and bounce. With its heavy wooden beams and taut steel cables, the sturdy marvel of engineering inspires confidence, enough that the wobbly crossing over the rocky river is not frightening; it’s an exciting start to the trail.

The bridge to Jerry Johnson in autumn

The bridge to Jerry Johnson in winter

Once over the bridge, we noted that the official trail sign, the one that always makes us laugh with its straight-faced, U.S Forest Service-issued warning that nudity may indeed be present, had been stolen since our last visit. I’m guessing it now adorns some college kid’s apartment wall. In its place, someone has scrawled with a Sharpie on the now empty wooden signpost:

Clothing optional trail

But that is not the point of this story. It’s just an amusing reality of every visit to Jerry Johnson: you might see a person whose entire epidermis is showing. Remote natural hot springs are often like that. Whatever. Jerry Johnson Hot Springs is still a favorite way to spend a day.

It was late afternoon by the time we started hiking in, and we passed several small groups of hikers going the opposite direction, hoping to get back to civilization before dark. Everyone is friendly on a trail, and we greeted each new set of hikers warmly in passing, but we were glad to see them go, of course. Their absence meant more room at the pools for us. We were still a little peopled-out from the last couple of weeks and were hoping for some time for just us.

The half an hour hike in passed uneventfully as we let the beauty of the dense forest pre-soak our senses. We did make a point of chatting most of the way though, having realized we forgot to wear our bear bells and not wanting to surprise a furry, unfriendly face when we came up over a rise or around a bend. We discussed whether the bears and other local wildlife just avoid this stretch of the woods altogether, with its heavily trafficked out-and-back trail, or if they at least wait until late at night, when it is quieter.  

At last, we came over the final hill. Steam rose from the small pool down at the riverside. It was already occupied, but that was fine. The approach to that one is so steep that we generally skip it anyway. The main pool, the one out in the open, surrounded by rocky terrain streaked with rivulets of muddy runoff at all times of the year, was populated only by two young women and their big dog, who announced our presence with a low, tentative woof.

“Oh, be quiet!” one of them shushed him with a chuckle. “Don’t worry about him. He’s fine.”

The other one answered our question before we could ask it. “There’s only one other person at the upper pool, in case that’s where you’re headed. We found him to be a bit of an energy-suck, so we came back here instead.”

“Alright, thanks. We prefer the upper pool, so we’ll take our chances. We might be back, though.”

“Haha, sounds good.”

We picked our way gingerly through the mud and rocks, then marched up the path to the upper pool, the prettiest one, tucked back into a line of trees among tufts of tall grasses and thick moss. A leathery older man wearing a towel around his waist and a scowl on his face stood by the water’s edge. For a moment I thought he was leaving, but then he spoke.

“You don’t mind if I’m naked, do you?”

Andy answered. “Nope. You do your thing on that side, and we’ll keep to ourselves over here.”¹

He grunted in reply, and I gazed at the trees as he returned to the water.

Good enough.

Andy and I sipped and munched and chatted in low tones as the warm mineral water gradually softened us like carrots in a pot of stew. After half an hour or so, our pool-mate left without a word, giving us the place to ourselves. Twilight eventually bathed the small clearing and us in magical serenity. Like Goldilocks trying out beds and tables, we have determined dusk is just right, after the daytime bathers leave and before the late-night party crowd arrives.

As the last traces of light left the sky, we reluctantly climbed out of the water to towel off, bodies still steaming. We pulled on dry clothes, packed up our belongings, and swept our headlamps around for a final check that we had everything, then we started back down the trail. A new set of young people was already in the main pool. Far below, at the base of the steep trail leading to the river’s edge pool, we noted glowing lights and laughter. The night was not over at Jerry Johnson Hot Springs, but we would enjoy the rest of it at our campsite with a crackling fire. All that remained between us and our destination was the half hour walk through the old-growth giants, back to Walter.

Without our bear bells, we opted to sing on the hike out. I volunteered a few silly bits of this song and that, even rewriting a folksy tune about being lonely we’d heard only hours before. Instead of pining over how we ain’t had no lovin’ for so long, I light-heartedly changed it up to fit our current situation.

 How long? How long? Ain’t been no bear bait, for how long? How long?”  

We laughed, oblivious, and moved on to a medley of John Denver songs.

But the Colorado Rocky Mountain high. I’ve seen it rainin’ fire in the sky. You can talk to God and listen to the casual reply, Rocky Mountain high, Colorado . . .

We crooned into the still, dark night.

Well, I’d play my fiddle all day if I could, but the Lord and my wife wouldn’t take it very good. So, I fiddle when I can and I work when I should, thank God I’m a country boy . . .

The glow of several headlamps bounced toward us in the distance. I lowered my volume but continued.

Almost heaven, West Virginia, Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River. Life is old there, older than the trees, younger than the mountains, blowing like a breeze. Country roads, take me home . . .

The chorus was interrupted by trail greetings as we passed the group of college-age kids headed for the hot springs, towels over their shoulders and 12-packs under their arms. The woods swallowed their happy chatter almost immediately and we were alone again to finish singing about the country roads.

“What else should we sing?”

“Let’s see . . . out of all the people we’ve met today, surely one of them must be close to a birthday, right?”

We sang a rousing round of Happy Birthday, random stranger to the creatures of the night around us.

What else?

We reminisced on TV commercials we remembered from long ago:

Pete Ellis Dodge, Long Beach Freeway, Firestone exit, Southgate.

followed by

Here’s Cal Worthington and his dog, Spot! If you need a car or truck, go see Cal. If you want to save a buck, go see Cal. Buy a new car for your wife; she will love you all your life. Go see Cal, go see Cal, go see Cal.

We chuckled at the enduring power of a good jingle.

Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun . . .

as well as their other memorable one

Big Mac, Fillet-o-Fish, Quarter Pounder, French fries. Icy Coke, thick shakes, sundaes, and apple pies.

Another group of hikers approached going inbound. More exuberant young people with towels and brews. It would be wild up at Jerry Johnson tonight. We smiled, relived to get out before the party began. They certainly don’t need Mom and Dad hanging around.

Alone with our quiet footfalls on the dark trail again, Andy recounted the jingle he had created for Foster’s Old Fashion Freeze, the family burgers and soft-serve fast food business where he grew up. The commercial he had imagined involved a drill sergeant marching into the restaurant to order a meal with his platoon.

Two Old Fashioneds, one with cheese,

I echoed the call-and-response cadence dutifully.

Two Old-Fashioneds, one with cheese,

Add some pickles on that, please. (Add some pickles on that, please)

Sound off! (French fries!)

Sound off! (Corn dog!)

We laughed and laughed, making enough noise to alert the whole forest of our presence.

Going on with the call-and-response theme, I started into an old church youth group standard. Andy fell naturally into the echo, as if three decades hadn’t passed since we last sang it.

King Jesus is all (King Jesus is all)

My all-in-all (my all-in-all)

And I know that he’ll answer (and I know that he’ll answer)

Me when I call (me when I call)

Walkin’ by my side (walkin’ by my side)

I’m satisfied (I’m satisfied)

King Jesus is all (King Jesus is all)

My all-in- (wait, did you see that?)

We must have both heard the same noise, because we both swiveled our head lamps in the same direction, at the same instant, illuminating two bright eyes staring back at us from the blackness, perhaps twenty yards away.

I did, those were eyes.

I agree. Those were definitely eyes. Oh, boy. We’ve got company.

He’s still there.

Keep walking.

Large twigs on the hillside snapped like kindling. The creature was moving toward us.

Just keep going.

I kept singing while Andy addressed our unseen, assumably ursine friend.

Well, I went out to meet the Lord (Hey bear!)

I got down on my knees (Go on!)

I said my very first prayer (Move along!)

You know the Holy Ghost met me there (Get going, bear!)

I stepped on the rock (Git!)

The rock was sound (Hey Bear!)

Ooh, the love of God came a tumbling down (Ya! Ya! Ya!)

The reason I know that he saved my soul (I can’t see him anymore)

I dug down deep and I found pure gold (I can’t tell if he’s still there)

And he’s all (King Jesus is all)

My all-in-all (my all-in-all)

The adrenaline coursed through our veins and our breathing was rapid, but we continued singing as we quick-stepped down the dark trail, unsure if we were still being followed.

And I know that he’ll answer (and I know that he’ll answer)

Me when I call (me when I call)

Walkin’ by my (We have to start carrying bear spray)

I’m satisfied (We can’t know for sure it was a bear)

King Jesus is (Those eyes were big and round and set just right)

My all-in-all (That’s true, and it was heavy enough to snap big sticks)

Well, I went out to meet the Lord (I’m so out of breath)

I got down on my knees (Me, too. It’s not even a steep section of the trail)

I prayed my very first (Let’s hope it’s not our last prayer)

You know the Holy Ghost met me there (How do you even fight off a bear in the dark?)

I stepped on the (Which is worse?)

The rock was sound (Facing a bear in the daylight?)

Ooh, the love of God came tumbling down (Or facing a bear in the dark?)

The reason I know that He saved my (The other hikers wouldn’t have even heard the struggle)

I dug down deep and I found (You’re right. At least Walter is well-marked. They would know soon enough who the victims are.)

And He’s all (King Jesus is all)

My all-in-all (my all-in-all)

Though our voices were raspy and our breathing ragged, we continued to sing the same song, no brain space to find a new one and too spooked to stop. We must have looped through the entire thing half a dozen times or more, each round a little more breathless than the one before—thanks to the combination of exertion, altitude, and adrenaline.

Finally, a car’s headlights sliced through the darkness, and we realized we were getting closer to the road. The bridge couldn’t be far now.

And I know that he’ll answer (and I know that he’ll answer)

Me when I call (me when I call)

Walkin’ by my side (I think that’s the clearing up there)

I’m satisfied (I’m satisfied)

King Jesus is all (There’s the bridge!)

My all-in-all (Oh, blessed bridge!)

Safely on the other side, we could see the outline of big Walter, his bright yellow profile reflecting faintly under the light of the cloud-shrouded moon. We’d never been so happy to see our sturdy friend. We raised an alleluia to King Jesus, who is always walkin’ by our side.

As we drove away, scanning the side of the highway for the unmarked turnout that would lead us back to our hidden campsite, our heart rates finally returned to their normal states. The question, however, remains:

Which is worse—facing a bear in the daylight (as I did a year ago when I was attempting to pick huckleberries in the same thicket as a resident fur-face), or facing a bear in the dark, as we did Friday night?² Which is preferable—facing a foe you can see, out in the open; or facing a foe that is hidden away, one that vaguely threatens you in the background, from a distance?

But what if it isn’t a foe at all? What if there is no real threat, but a lack of accurate understanding only makes it seem like something scary, so you overreact? It’s possible this was the case for us Friday night. It’s possible this is the case in many situations—out in nature, as well as in human civilization.

And does it matter who you have walkin’ by your side?

Perhaps this post isn’t about a bear on the hot springs trail at all. You decide.

Until next week,

Sherry

1. Really, this is not a bad statement to practice saying, or at least thinking, often during this election season.

2. This question reminds me of similar question raised a few months back in the social media world: If you were out in the woods, alone and basically defenseless, would you rather encounter a bear or a man? The answer to the question became a fascinating cultural flash point, as the answers were almost universally divided along gender lines. Men would much rather meet another man in the woods and often remarked that the question was foolish, as the answer was so obvious. Women, on the other hand, chimed in with nearly one voice that they would prefer to meet a bear. This answer was roundly mocked by large swaths of men, who saw it as an example of women’s foolishness. Women countered that this response revealed the clueless nature of such men, who still lacked the understanding of how much danger there can be for a woman, alone, in the presence of a man whose character is less-than-upright. Many women, in fact, replied, “All a bear could do is kill you.” Ouch. I wish this weren’t so true. It makes me so grateful for the safe men in my life—of whom there are so many.