On the morning of the fourth of July, I awoke to a sound. I sat up beneath the shade of the tree and gathered my things and went to investigate. I looked in the direction of the sound and saw a baby bear hopping up and down on a trash bag it had just tossed in the air as the Mother bear stood as sentinel. I dropped my blankets (in case I had need to run) and stepped ever so lightly toward the baby bear (at an angle that favored the front door) … the cub saw or smelled me, because baby and mama bear instinctually hightailed it around the cabin and out of sight. I uttered a sorry and (instinctually) hustled inside. It was a lovely experience to have witnessed, although, at the wee hour of 6 in the morning, before coffee, before sustenance, before my eyes had adjusted to the light, it was a bit much to consider. From that experience I took away that there were bears in the area and that I was fortunate on several levels. That night, when sleep beckoned me, I laid my head bene...
(The Weaver's Song)