The Nature of the Thing Observed By Mark Foster Jacob scrambled to his granite perch overlooking the mountain valley far below. He panted and peered downward to the thick green meadow covering the stony valley floor, to his family’s blue tent nestled near the boulders where Paintrock Creek spilled from its high canyon into a jagged waterfall. Then the creek flattened out, twisting darkly through the meadow like an indecipherable signature. Even from here, the waterfall’s thunder rumbled through the air and mingled with the whispering of pines that grew gnarled and dwarfed on the fringes of timberline. Jacob waved to his wife and young son who, from up here, seemed like plastic figurines in a wilderness diorama. They were unaware of his gestures, strolling contentedly together at the creek side. Jimmy, his three-year old son, bounced along the water’s edge, periodically stooping, then hurling stones with abandon towards the white foam at the base of the falls; Laura, his wife of ten years, wore a bright yellow shirt and pink baseball cap and strolled comfortably behind, arms crossed, appearing half-engaged in Jimmy’s play and half-lost in her own thoughts. Jacob intended to lose himself in his own thoughts as well, the reason he had made this fifteen-minute rocky climb upward through the scrub oaks and pine. Yesterday, as they entered
the opposite end of this high valley, strewn with rusty gray granite boulders splattered with neon-green lichen, he had glanced at this familiar rocky prominence—his spot—and felt a rush of memories. How many times had he scaled to this point to contemplate his future or to reconcile his past? Dozens. He had been a regular visitor here for years, backpacking up two or three times each summer or early fall, sometimes with a group, but usually alone. Each trip, he found time for an hour or an afternoon to gaze out contemplatively across the valley, which seemed unchanged from ten years before. He came here first with the Boy Scouts just prior to his junior year in high school. He came again after his high school graduation, and again after his father died during his sophomore year at college. He came the week before he proposed to Laura. And he came often in between to fish, to ponder, to breathe. Each event, each transition in his life, when filtered or projected through this high mountain air, seemed to assume new clarity and significance, and when he descended from his perch in the valley, he always strode peacefully and purposefully, renewed and focused. But in the ten years since he married, he had not returned, not even once. After college, he and Laura had both taken jobs in Florida for five years, making it back home for Christmas only once every couple of years. Then they had moved back home to Wyoming, but Jimmy had come along, and with him the
rewards and demands of family life; Jacob simply hadn’t created time to renew his mountain meditations. Now, with his career teetering and his marriage suffering, he needed clarity and purpose, and so he had convinced Laura to accompany him on this pilgrimage so he could re-center his life. She understood that, although it was a family trip, this afternoon would be his personal quest for peace. She guarded Jimmy below while Jacob sought answers above. As he climbed, he at first felt out of place, like an optimistic prodigal son returning sheepishly to a squandered inheritance. But now, one leg dangling free, the other curled to his chest, his spine settled into the smooth contoured crevice at his back. He reposed just like when he was a lanky teenager, like he was crawling back into a bed from which he had thrown off the covers only minutes before, the impression in the mattress cooling but still warm, hoping to slip backwards, if only briefly, into his dreams of consequence. He looked below once more, waved again to Jimmy and Laura, yelled sharply, then abandoned the effort. He scanned the scene west to east, then startled in surprise when he saw the old man. Not thirty yards away on a parallel crag of rock, a man with a stern white beard, dark green jacket and pale round hat rose quickly. He gruffly averted his shoulders, avoided all eye
contact, and turned, pacing away on a wide ledge of rock that curved around out of sight and up the stony ridge that formed the eastern wall of the valley. His motion was noiseless except for a faint scattering of loose pebbles down the steep slope. He carried a light pack and clutched a heavy rifle with a sinewy right hand. He had a muscular stride that juxtaposed with his white beard, and he negotiated the rocky path with sure feet. With piercingly efficient body language, he had communicated three things to Jacob: that he desired no interaction; that Jacob was an intruder into his space; and that where he was headed was none of his business. Jacob watched him stride out of sight, then gazed up over his shoulders and around the valley to see if there were any other unnoticed interlopers. He saw none, and glancing back the way the man had disappeared, he assured himself that he was now in fact alone. He glanced at the sky, which was a bluish gray, brushed with high, dissipate cirrus clouds that were imperceptible except for their cottony undulations that dulled the otherwise royal blue sky. He then closed his eyes and allowed the piney winds and tumbling waters to carry his thoughts away. He thought of his job, his wife, his son, then of his garden, of rabbits, and of golden rabbits eating his garden. The kite of his thoughts that had been held taut in the air by his demanding consciousness began to flutter listlessly as his breathing slowed and he drifted into a light sleep.
He jerked awake when his chin slipped off his knee, and he squinted open his eyes to the surrounding valley. The cirrus streaks had been undermined by some drifting purple cumulus clouds, and a stiffening breeze had cooled his perch. He rubbed his face and glanced downward to this wife and son. They had left the lower creek and were carefully negotiating a tight set of switchbacks and boulders that ascended the boulders to the far side of the waterfall. Jacob watched them for some time and smiled. Jimmy, little Mr. Independent, was trying to climb over a large boulder all by himself, but his stubby legs could not quite make the upward swing. Laura reached forward then drew back several times at Jimmy’s insistence; then, when he finally crumbled in dejection below the boulder, she mercifully bent to lift him higher. Once his feet were on solid ground again, he took off running down the trail toward the next obstacle. Laura leapt up, caught slightly off guard by his burst of speed, and trotted quickly to assist him at the next boulder. The silent scene was familiar and humorous to Jacob, who chuckled to himself as their journey carried them to the top of the falls and out of sight behind a jutting ridge flanked by a corridor of lodgepole pines. Jacob strained to follow after them for a moment, trying to catch a glimpse through the forest, but they were out of sight now. He shook his head as he began to sink back into the
rock. His spine contacted the cool stone, and he glanced one last time towards the idyllic waterfall, and almost shut his eyes. But his eyes snapped open wide as he glimpsed a heavy rustling of the brush beneath the falls. A large black bear shouldered out of the brush beside the falls. Jacob stared in disbelief, then jumped to his feet, almost yelled but held his voice. Trailing the large bear was a small cub who mimicked its mother, trudging out of the underbrush slowly, then skipping to catch up, then trudging again. The mother bear gave an air of studied non-chalance towards her cub, seeming to ignore it but obviously aware. Jacob’s pulse pounded as he scanned frantically for a sign of Laura and Jimmy. Well above the falls and shrouded by trees and rocks, they could not be seen. He swallowed, spoke hoarsely, “Laura,” found his voice and then amplified it into a scream. “Laura!” His voice quavered, and he tried again. “Watch out, Laura! Bear!” The bear, far below, froze, perked her ears and swung her head slowly towards Jacob’s perch. As her stare swept across his rock, Jacob ducked down and peered out. The bear remained motionless for several minutes, only her head pivoting slowly like a large pendulum, observing the ridge. After a long while she took a step backwards, tripped over her cub, shuffled to remain standing, and then, head fixed
over her shoulder, she lumbered briskly towards the falls. The cub, who had digressed into the deeper grass, slapped at a butterfly, spun twice while swiping at its tail, then trotted to catch up with its mother, who had reached the boulders at the base of the switchbacks. Jacob stood again, hands tearing at his hair. The bear was headed up Laura’s trail; she and Jimmy could not be more than fifty yards away. The little bear could not summit the boulder, so the mother stooped to clasp its nape gently in her jaws and hoisted it up. Then, still eyeing the valley warily, she turned and led her cub onward. Jacob yelled again, “Laura! Bear!”, but the bear’s pace only quickened, and Jacob knew that Laura could not hear it anyway, so he stopped. He pivoted on the rock, whispered to himself, “It’ll be alright.” But he knew a surprise encounter with a mother bear and her cub could quickly turn deadly, and he knew Laura would likely panic and run, which would be the worst thing to do. Jacob thought of the pistol in his backpack in the tent. He bit his lip, muttered “Please, God,” and vaulted off the rock onto the steep slope. He began sliding and stumbling down the ridge, spraying pebbles and stones. Gravity accelerated Jacob’s descent, and he misjudged a large boulder that shifted. His foot slipped and his ankle rolled under him. He felt a ripping pain, heard a loud snap, and then he was launched sideways
down the ridge. His shoulder struck another large boulder, and he careened headfirst into a vertical gully filled with smaller stones, somersaulted once and instinctively spread all four limbs to seek some traction. Another twenty feet and he skidded to a stop, winced as he rolled over, and watched as a small slide of dislodged gravel rumbled toward the valley floor, kicking up ropes of dust. Jacob’s shoulder throbbed, as did his head. He passed his hand by his temple and felt the warmth of his own blood mixed with dirt into a gritty paste. He tried to stand, felt a shearing pain in his ankle, and collapsed with a sharp groan. His hands clutched grass and gravel. He looked across the valley to the mists of the thundering waterfall, to the trail that climbed and disappeared behind the rocky ridge and towering pines. From here, the scene appeared tranquil, pristine, innocent—but just out of sight the bears were on a deadly collision course with his defenseless wife and son. He clenched his jaw, surged to his feet, winced at the horrific throbbing, stood gingerly on one foot, ripped a dead branch off an old juniper to use as a crutch, and began hopping precariously down the steep slope. He stumbled into the valley floor and began lurching through the tall grass of the meadow. He came to the creek, which flowed smoothly and darkly through the valley’s sediments, and looked up and downstream for a crossing. On
his way out this morning, he had bounded across on the rocks, but that would be impossible now. Glancing upstream to the waterfall, he plunged his good foot into the creek at what appeared to be its shallowest point, probed his crutch for a solid spot, and began to cross. His foot sank into the soft black sediments, and as he lunged forward the mud gripped his ankle, upsetting his balance. Instinctively, he set his injured ankle down, but the instant he contacted the creek bed he yelped in pain and toppled sideways into a four-foot deep pool. He thrashed in the frigid water, floundered to right himself and pushed towards the opposite shore, dragging himself up the grassy bank, shivering. His head abrasion bled freshly into the wet, gritty scabs, and he wiped diluted blood from his eyes, looked downstream and saw his crutch floating silently around a bend. Dripping, he looked up to the thundering falls, struggled to stand on his good foot, and began hopping toward their tent through grass that shrouded the uneven stony ground. He fell again, finally reached the tent, and pushed backwards through the open flap. He reached behind his head for his backpack, blindly ransacking its pockets until he felt the heavy ridges of the pistol’s handle. He checked and reloaded the clip, closed his eyes and blew out a crisp sigh through chattering teeth. He rocked forward out of the tent and onto his foot again. He
yelled out, “Laura! Bear! I’m coming! Don’t worry!”, and he staggered forward. The din of the falls grew louder as he approached. He tottered up to the steep rocky trail that led past the falls, heaved himself upward on the boulders, still dripping wet with the gun in hand, twisting and crawling, dragging himself towards the top. The intense throbbing in his ankle had subsided somewhat, but it was now exquisitely tender, and every time he brushed it against a stone he shook with searing, tooth-shattering pain. His head continued to bleed, and as he breached the top of the trail, he began to feel faint, could not rise to his feet again, squinted his eyes, shook his head, stayed on his hands and knees and looked at the soft dirt of the trail. The corridor of tall pines eclipsed the trail in shadows, and in a patch of mossy mud he could see big and little boot prints overlapped with big and little bear tracks. He yelled again for Laura, still heard no reply. He crawled a few dozen feet down the trail, the din of the falls now muffled by the pines, and he saw the trail curve into a narrow clearing. He grabbed onto a tree, fought the dizziness, staggered to his feet, clutched the pistol, and with a deep breath plunged forward. “Laura! Jimmy! Can you hear me?” They must be within earshot, he thought. Why don’t they answer? He began to feel panic, called again but choked on
their names. How many minutes had he wasted by falling and twisting his ankle? Ten? Fifteen? And if the bears had stumbled into his family in the meantime? He limped frantically into the clearing, drenched and bloody, stifling a desperate sob. The pines opened into a small meadow. A large rock face rose on the left into a steep purple canyon. No bears, no sign of his family. He propelled himself across the clearing to where the trail vanished into the dark brush and pine, through tears repeating, “Laura! Laura!” “Jake? Watch out!” He spun his head towards the cliff wall, towards Laura’s voice, and he saw her perched high on a ledge, holding Jimmy safely, and Jacob felt a rush of relief. But she gestured frantically. Distracted, he tripped on a stone and stumbled headlong into the brush, and as he fell he saw Laura’s eyes widen in horror. He collapsed into the bushes and directly onto the dark brown fur of the bear cub, who yelped and scrambled out from beneath him. As he hit the ground, he heard an explosive roar and looked up to see the defensive mother bear’s heavy paw swinging towards his head. He dodged it clumsily, rolled into the bushes, tried to bring his pistol around when a second paw strike clubbed him squarely on the head, raking claws across his face and sending him sprawling backwards into the clearing. His gun clattered to the ground. Dazed, he spun onto his back and reached for the it, saw the gray and pink flesh of the mother bear’s gums that
housed her dripping yellowed teeth as she charged from the brush. She growled lower, more menacing, and it echoed through his ringing head. He heard Laura’s shrieking and gazed limply up to her ledge, where he saw her clutching Jimmy, who was petrified with fear and then erupted in terror as he realized that this bloody, bedraggled stranger was his daddy. Jacob’s instinct was to reach for his son, to speak some soothing words, to spare him the horror of watching as his daddy was mauled by a bear, but he had no voice and no time. The mother bear’s paws stomped on his chest and he felt the humid breath of her jaws sweeping towards his neck, and he closed his eyes. A gunshot shattered the air, echoes ringing sharply off the canyon walls and rattling through his skull. He felt the full weight of the mother bear collapse across him, smelled the dusty fur of her chest and her rotting breath, opened his eyes and saw a stream of bright red blood trickling out of a bulletwound just behind her eyes. He looked to his wife, whose hands had flown to her face in disbelief. She burst with a sob of fear and relief as Jimmy continued in a paralysis of screeching. Jacob cast his gaze upward and saw across the narrow canyon the outline of a pale round hat and white beard perched on a high ledge. The old man lowered the rifle from his shoulder, surveying the scene. Then he wheeled and disappeared into the inscrutable shadows of the cliff.
Warm blood rushed down Jacob’s face, staining his vision red. He was pinned beneath the bear and couldn’t move. He dropped his head back into the cool dust of the clearing. He could hear his wife’s cries as she scrambled down the cliff, his son’s shrieking, the random babbling of the creek, the ubiquitous thundering of the waterfall, the whispering of the pines. He looked towards his feet, where the bear cub was edging apprehensively towards its dead mother, mewing in distress, nudging her musty fur with its wet black nose. Jacob’s thoughts began to spill loosely from his mind. He suddenly could not remember where he was or what had just happened, aware only of some vague irony that seemed strangely funny to him. He laughed, uncertain why, then coughed. His pain was lessening by the second. A light washed across his body, and he closed his eyes, slipping towards a dream that seemed at once both pleasant and frightening, somehow supremely important and yet utterly inconsequential.