This Is It!

This is it!

Hiking in Banff National Park is supposed to be a peaceful, soul-enriching experience—just you, the mountains, and maybe a few curious squirrels. But nothing yanks you out of that serenity quite like stumbling across a bear. And that’s exactly what happened to me. One minute, I was happily trekking along, admiring the scenery, and the next, I was making unblinking eye contact with a black bear. A small one. A little too small. Which could only mean one thing—Mama Bear was nearby, and I was about to become an unfortunate footnote in the circle of life.

Panic set in immediately. I backed up against a tree so fast I might as well have been auditioning for a camouflage ad. My hands fumbled for my bear spray, which, I should mention, I had never actually used before. I had read the instructions, of course, but reading about bear spray and deploying bear spray in a high-stakes, pants-wetting scenario are two very different things. Still, I gripped it like my life depended on it (because at that moment, I was pretty sure it did). With all the authority of someone who was absolutely not in control of the situation, I whispered, “Go on, little guy. Shoo! Find your mom… or actually, don’t! Just… go away.”

And that’s when I heard it. Rustling to my right.

Oh. God.

My brain instantly supplied the worst-case scenario: This is it. Mama Bear is coming to collect her child, and I’m about to become the world’s least dignified headline. I held my breath, bracing for a bear the size of a small car to barrel through the trees and make me regret every snack I had ever carried in my backpack. My grip on the bear spray tightened. My knees were seconds away from a full-on mutiny. This was happening. This was really happening.

But instead of a hulking mass of maternal fury, out strolled… another young bear. About the same size as the first. For a moment, my brain refused to process it. Wait a second… two small bears? No big bear? Then, like the world’s slowest detective, it dawned on me—these weren’t cubs under Mama Bear’s watchful eye. These were yearlings. Siblings, recently kicked out of the den and, much like awkward teenagers, probably just trying to figure out life on their own.

Relief flooded me so fast I almost laughed out loud. My fingers relaxed on the bear spray trigger, my knees decided they would remain functional after all, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I let out the breath I’d been holding. The bears, completely uninterested in my near-death experience, sniffed the air, gave me a bored glance, and lumbered off into the woods, leaving me standing there—slightly traumatized, but very much alive.

As they disappeared, I whispered, “Thanks for the heart attack, guys,” and shakily continued my hike, vowing to work on my bear identification skills. And maybe, just maybe, to not panic quite so dramatically next time. (Who am I kidding? There will absolutely be panic.)