HEROES AND BEARS AT 14,000 FEET

My midlife crisis can lick your midlife crisis. Whenever I get down I go up, and there was Red Cloud Peak reaching toward the sky at the end of the Silver Creek Basin. I had decided to climb the mountain solo so as to have time to slow down that 21st Century noise and clear out the cobwebs that engulf my brain from time to time. In addition I had made the mistake of mentioning my plans to a friend named Popcorn who had recently lost a close family member, a 16-year-old cat named “Dad”, to a dog attack. Popcorn, who conveniently enough owned a liquor store in Crested Butte at the time, handed me a miniature vodka concoction and asked me to drink a toast to Dad on top of the mountain. No more excuses. I now had a holy mission.

Heading up an abandoned jeep road into the forest I began thinking, with the wisdom of humans, how politically correct even the wilderness had become. No jeeps humming, no dirt bikes screaming, lots of little check-in posts for hikers, plenty of bear tagging, controlled burns, stocked lakes, and lots of signs prohibiting litter. It’s the Information Age in the pines.

That’s all very nice on a sunny Sunday morning, but I remember the days prior to all the obsession with political correctness, you know, when people simply respected each other for the hell of it. The first part of the hike is taxing and I push myself up the trail hoping it will level off long enough for me to catch my breath.

Soon I enter dark timber and catch a glimpse of Handies Peak just waking up for the day. My mind wanders as my legs do the work. The other day I was shocked to hear a classic Motown tune backing up a sales pitch for some animated stick of margarine on television. Copyright limitations be damned! Don’t these propagandists have any respect for what’s left of our culture? I think what really bothers me is that most of the beaten down people don’t even notice anymore. I’m moving back to Uruguay tomorrow. Damn.

I can hear Silver Creek crashing down through the rocks. I wonder what ever happened to my college girlfriend or to that bastard in the Saab that cut me off on Highway 135 last week. I wonder how many loyal patrons are attending Sunday morning services at Restless Spirits down in Lake City.

As I cross the first of three wide snowfields I can see Sunlight Peak in the distance. Realizing that I have been talking out loud I’m relieved that there is no one else in earshot. There seems to be no distinct origin for, or welcome end to the involuntary thoughts that, like blind, charging snowmelt, are running through me.

Is it just that I’ve been around too long? Have I seen the same movie one too many times? At 46 am I sentenced simply to growing old? Will I reach mild euphoria knowing that it’s ten o’clock and time for the news? At my age most of the former custodians of this place, the Utes, walked out into the mountains alone to meet their creator. Honor.

Back when I was in my twenties I was certain that by the time I reached this point I would not only be wise and affluent but that I’d have my emotions in tow. Good luck, sailor. That was in the Sixties. Maybe we all missed something during that time but it’s too late to run the whole decade by again. All we have succeeded in preserving is tie-dyed shirts, lava lamps and gender confusion. It’s not the shock of waking up to find that one has waltzed through 20 years without realizing his goals. The difficulty comes in accounting for the wasted time. I’m talking out loud again.

The thought that Mick Jagger is a grandfather weighs heavy on my mind. I remember a conversation the other day where my friend Terry Starr told me that the only true escape from midlife crisis is to become just that, a grandfather. Another friend bought a bright red Corvette and he’s only 43. What will he do for an encore if this approach falls short? What would Sigmund Freud say, or Carl Gustav Jung for that matter?

Climbing out of the creek bed I am surrounded by wildflowers. The wet spring did its work well and…Wait! What’s that large black, fury  thing coming over the ridge? I scope it out with my zoom lens. My God, it’s a black bear. Does he see me? He’s heading in this direction. Now, I’ve read where these bear are quite docile but I’ll bet this one weighs in at 400 pounds!

As the animal methodically approaches I instinctively go into an emergency bear response like the one outlined in the four-color government brochure, produced, of all places, in Denver. He sees me now alright. I wave my arms, so as to appear larger than life and make noises to give him every reason to retreat. He meanders down the slope in my direction. Careful not to look him in the eye I begin to back up but it’s at least three miles to my truck. He comes close. He doesn’t look that frightening but…

“Excuse me,” says the bear, “but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with yourself, and what’s all the mumbo jumbo about? Do you realize how silly you look waving your arms around and screaming?”

My God, I’ve finally lost it. Senility has arrived. Hallucinations. Flashbacks. A talking bear.

“I know I look like a bear but in reality I am the reincarnation of Chief Colorow, of the Utes. While I normally avoid humans, especially white ones, I couldn’t resist talking to you.”

“Oh,” I responded.

“I’m not a mind reader, or anything, but your voice really carries in this basin,” said the bear. You are engaged in climbing a mountain. What  is the source of your frustration? When I was your age we had to contend with white folks plowing up our race tracks and gold miners plugging up our hot springs. Look at these wildflowers all around you. They have a life expectancy of about two months and you don’t hear them whining, do you?”

“No,” I responded quietly. “Are you really who you say you are?”

“You don’t believe me?” said the bear.  Ask any marmot. Do you want me to perform a war dance or something? That’s the trouble with you people today, you don’t trust anyone. You people live right here in the Garden and yet you can’t get out of first gear.”

“How did people in your day deal with aging?” I ask. “I don’t recall ever reading about early evening bingo and tubs of jello salad in your lodges.”

“First of all,” he answers, “there weren’t so many of us. We didn’t live as long. While modern medicine pats itself on the back for stretching out the average lifetime, we saw life as a challenging puzzle with an defined end. That end came alone in the mountains. Secondly, we had heroes and you don’t.”

“What do you mean? We have heroes,” I protested, becoming a bit antagonized by the pompous nature of this large bruin.

“Name one,” said the bear arrogantly.

Well,” I began there’s…Uh…there’s…Give me a minute…”

I realized the bear was right. I could not think of a real hero. Everyone from Bill Clinton to Duke Snider had fallen from grace. Even Connie Chung wasn’t what she seemed.

“See,” said the bear. “That’s what’s the matter. You have no heroes. It’s so simple yet so very complicated. Without heroes one cannot break out of the stark, familiar rhythm of life and let his desperate soul go out for a full moon stroll.”

I listened as the he went on thinking to myself that this sounds like a motivational seminar and that this is one receptive, if a bit corporate bear.

“What about you?” I counter. “Who are your heroes?”

“Well there’s Dick Butkus, for strarters. Now there was one fine Bear. There’s Geronimo,” frowned the bear, “who fought on when he knew he was whipped and Bella Abzug…”

“Bella Abzug?”

“Hey, growled the bear, “everyone has the choice of who they choose as a hero. That’s the beauty of it all. You choose and no explanation is necessary.”

“Oh,” I say, “so picking a hero isn’t really so hard.”

“No, he reponds, “but emulating one is something altogether different.”

At his suggestion I resumed my climb reaching a ridge full of shale that it a bit more difficult to negotiate.

“You are someone’s hero,” said the bear, “or could be with the right moxie. That’s our roll and if it is embraced we have no time to worry about our own problems. Soon they blow away like ashes and we are one with our surroundings, a complete person.”

“What about you,” I retorted. “From what I read that as Colorow you were an overweight bully who drank too much and  never accomplished anything during your entire life.”

“Cruel, but true,” said the bear, “and that is precisely why I’m talking to you now. Once I was a Ute chief and now I’m a smelly, old bear who sleeps in a cave. It could happen to anyone. Accept your potential roll as a hero to someone else and you will quickly overcome all the insecurities and the confusion that plagues you. Inspire someone else and you create more and more heroes as you go. The whole thing is contagious,” he said.

The bear then said goodbye and disappeared into a muddy stream before I could ask him anything else. I guess he figured that sooner or later I’ll be coming back down and, if further conversation is necessary, that he can catch me on the descent. I continued my trek up the side of Red Cloud, crossed yet another windy ridge and finally plopped down at the summit. I signed the Colorado Mountain register which was filled with the names of an assortment of heroes. Tomorrow there would be one more everyday hero, or at least someone attempting to experience that quiet distinction.

Kevin Haley, a self-described sensitive male for the ages, lives in Colona where he collects Citrons and publishes the San Juan Horseshoe. He is a former lead singer for The Tattooed Shoelaces.