The Bear Essentials

The Japanese Alps in autumn: three-thousand-metre-high peaks cloaked in evergreen fir and spruce, yellow and orange chestnut, maple and golden ginkgo. Snow-capped Mt Fuji shimmering above the distant plain.

Greg turned into the trailhead carpark and pulled up next to the only other car. The walk he’d planned rose thirteen hundred meters in seven kilometres to the alpine hut where they’d stay for the night before returning. “A few walkers would be nice,” he said, smiling reassuringly to himself as much as his wife, Barb.

The kids burst from the car and laced on their boots, lathered sunscreen and filled daypacks with God-knows-what that he would end up carrying.

“Did you pack the bear essentials?” Barb asked.

 “Relax,” he said. “We’re on holiday.”

“Oh, so that makes us bear-proof?” she said.

“Can we run ahead, Dad? Please?’ Fran begged.

“Sure. But not too far.”

“Thanks,” Fran said, charging off.

“Really?’ said Barb.

“Wait for your brother,” Greg yelled. “And stop at the shelter.”

Fran slowed for Billy, already trailing, and they disappeared around the bend.

“Kids,” Greg laughed.

“Doesn’t that bear sign worry you?’ Barb asked, pointing to the sign: ‘Beware of the Bear.’

“No more than sharks at Cronulla. What are the odds?’

“What would you know? We’re in another country.”

“Japan’s a first world economy, Barb.”

“And the bears care? Idiot.”

Greg reached for her hand, and they set off up the narrow path beneath the towering Douglas fir. Silent, dappled light shrouded the moist carpeted understory of needles, fern, moss and lichen. They let out a collective sigh, smile to each other, and stopped for a quick hug and peck. It was their first hike on the holiday and a welcome break from the crowded cities. The Matsumoto tourist centre said there would be few tourists, just the locals—and bears, so be prepared.

The trail soon steepened. They stripped off their fleece jackets and leaned into it, laughing at how easy they used to lug twenty-five kilo packs of clubber up mountains when they were younger. They’d walked less than a K when they were greeted by the sound of cow bells as an old, smiling Japanese man rounded the bend, skipping from rock to rock, his bear bell jangling beneath his pack.

“Kaanitchiwa,” Greg said, standing aside to let him pass.

“Kaanitchiwa,” the man replied, slowing and gesturing to his bell, looking for theirs.

Greg found his iPhone Google Translate: nice day, how far to the shelter?

The man leant toward the phone and spoke in Japanese: Climate change; no chestnuts; bears hungry.

Okay, thanks. Did you see two kids?

No.

Barb grabbed the phone and shouted, two kids up ahead or at the shelter?

No kids. Bye.

“Arigato,” said Greg, then turned to Barb, scowling. “You don’t yell in Japan, Barb. At least in public.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“Relax. I’ll run ahead. They can’t be far.”

He quickened his pace to a slow jog; glad he’d put in the hours. He’d prepared for a hard six hours to the top, which hadn’t accounted for the mud, ruts, and washed-out steps from the heavy rains over the previous months.

Scanning the bamboo undergrowth more than the path ahead, he slipped on an exposed tree root and fell. His knee hit a sharp rock and he winced in pain. He wiped blood from the cut with his thermal top sleeve and hobbled on, slower, working the pain.

Did he have any doubts? None, he told himself.

He kept on and up and up, stopping to catch his breath, sip from his bladder, and wipe his brow every hundred metres or so. The track eased as he clambered over the lip of a false spur. A cluster of chipped, forlorn stone Jizo statues stared from a cleft in the rock face. They must have been there for centuries, offering protection to passing pilgrims. The slab for good luck charms lay bare. Amber-coloured chestnut and maple leaves rustled in the breeze with the tattered prayer flags and footsteps of those long passed. Was that a pita pata?

“Fran? Billy?” he called. A foreboding silence answered his throbbing heart.

He yelled their names again across the valley. They echoed into the distance.

Barb whispered in his ear: “you always find a way to fuck up.”

He continued past the Jizo to a fork in the trail. The trail book didn’t say anything about a fork; it should be straight up and back to the hut.

There was no sign.

Shit.

He took the left fork for a hundred metres until it petered.

Something crashed through the bamboo up ahead, close to the edge where the slope dropped steeply off the spur. His heart missed a beat. He froze. Reached for the can of bear spray in his pocket and held it tight. Waited. Listened. Sweaty palms and eyes dilated. Whatever it was had stopped too. Then started. The bamboo parted as it moved slowly over the drop-off.

Was it a bear? Probably a goat or deer, but he really had no idea. Australia’s mountains¾ hills, compared to these giants—don’t have bears. Wallabies, wombats and koalas maybe. He'd told his family their best defence was to not surprise or scare them, hence the bells. But the incessant jangle of bells would have driven him crazy, so he’d bought bear spray—but only one can. Why hadn’t he insisted they stay together?

He cursed himself. At least he’d coached them about bear tactics in the car: slowly back away with eyes lowered, stay calm. Whatever you do, don’t run—bears can reach sixty K an hour over short distances, swim, climb trees, and leap tall buildings in a single bound. And they’re omnivorous, which means they eat almost anything when hungry. Luckily, bear attacks are extremely rare¾ until recently.  In the unlikely event they do attack, use bear spray. If you don’t have bear spray and are clean out of luck, drop to the ground and lay flat on your stomach with your arms and legs splayed so they can’t flip you over and gouge your face. Good luck. Have a pleasant walk.

He returned to the fork and clambered up the right trail, slipping in the mud and on the mossy timber steps that had washed out and needed repair¾Japan being a first-world economy and all. He hauled himself up as best he could, using exposed roots and the handrails where they still held firm. He reached the day shelter, gasping for air. There was no sign of the kids, just a group of locals on their hands and knees, quietly chatting and gathering mushrooms in the leaf litter.

“Have you seen any kids?’ he blurted, into blank stares, polite shuffles and glances away.

A university-aged girl stood and spoke in perfect English. “You’re the first we’ve seen going up the mountain all morning.”

He stared at her in disbelief, taking a moment to process what she’d said and what to do.

He turned and ran back.

“Don’t run,” she said as he disappeared down the mountain. “You’ll scare the bears.”

Bugger the bears, he thought, as he stumbled past the Jizo. They stared and mocked: “Really? Is this all you have? Isn’t it time you grew up? Took some responsibility. You’re a parent now. Your kids are our future. They need you at the top of your game—always. We have enough to tend to—you’re not the first to muck up.”

He faltered on, looking left and right, and fell into Barb.

They landed in the mud.

“Idiot,’ she said, pushing him off. “Where are the kids?”

“They can’t be far.” He pulled himself up and reached for her.

She pushed him away. “I told you.”

“She’s twelve years old.”

“You’re always so flippant. So blasé. So minimalist!” she yelled. “Where’s the bell? Where’s our bear spray? Where’s a gun, a machete, a Swiss bloody army knife? Where are our kids? It’s always the bare essentials with you and I’m sick of it.”

She made to rise, then slid back into the mud and moaned. “I’m done.”

“Me to,” he cursed, as he turned to resume searching. “Bugger your bear essentials.”