January 16, 2012
There are two recurring problems in my life: bears and ovens. I just can’t seem to avoid undesirable run-ins with the former and operational issues with the latter. Moving to L.A. has so far solved one of those problems—obviously, the bear encounters.
The first time I saw a bear, at 10 or 11 years old, I was camping in Canada with my family. Walking on the path to the “toilette,” I heard a noise and turned to see, less than three feet away, a small black bear. He looked about as happy to see me as I did him.
Years of lectures from my wilderness expert father and his friend had prepared me for this moment. Don’t panic. Wait for the bear to leave. Whatever you do, DO NOT RUN…