Now, I know that Craigslist is chock-full of opportunities to take showers with a bear. But I mean an actual, big, hairy, bear. No wait, I mean, a grunting, rotund…crap. I mean Ursus americanus californiensis. A real four-legged bear.
I live in Northern California, in the shadow of the Sierra Nevada mountains. One of my great joys in life is getting out into the wilderness and going camping. Also some of my fondest memories. Ever since I was a little snot, my parents would take me and my brother out in the woods for at least a week every year. The crisp chill of the morning air, the burble of a tiny mountain stream, the breeze whispering through stands of Jeffrey pine and Douglas fir, the scent of pine needles and campfire smoke…dang it, I need to go camping.
Anyway, where was I? The only thing better than camping is camping with hot showers. Our favorite campground had wonderful, wonderful bathrooms. (My readers who are camping enthusiasts have no doubt seen and smelled some vile, horrible bathrooms, and will appreciate the simple joy of flushing toilets and hot water.)
I do love backpacking and the more pure forms of camping, I know what it’s like to go a week without a shower or a real bathroom, but good Lord. How wonderful a thing, to go out hiking all day, fishing, playing in the creek, doing camping things, getting filthy and sweaty, then being able to take a scalding hot shower until your skin pinks and then go off to your sleeping bag freshly scrubbed.
In fact, the only downside to this little slice of campground heaven was the bears. Once they lose their fear of humans and learn that campgrounds are chock full of tasty tasty human food, it’s game on. My family had the unique experience of being there when this particular campground’s bears figured out that fact. One summer it was okay to leave your ice chest out, the next summer it very much was not.
People adapted pretty quickly. It didn’t take very many dismantled ice-chests before campers started leaving their food in their cars. The park rangers made sure to pick up trash before dark. But still, it was a bit unnerving, these roaming gangs of bumbling assholes wandering down from the hills every evening, going from trashcan to trashcan. In the middle of the night, you’d hear a clang! as a trash can went over, then a few minutes later you’d hear another.
All in all, black bears are pretty docile. A loud noise usually scared them off. Like so many giant, lurking, vague, hairy 300 pound threats in life, you just learn to live with it. They were really nothing much to worry about.
But try telling that to a naked thirteen year old in a shower.
There I was in the late evening, the only one in the bathroom, enjoying a nice hot shower. The shower stalls were private. Sort of. There was like a public bathroom type door, with a flimsy latch and a one foot gap between the door and the floor. A psychological barrier only.
So I was taking my little shower when I thought I heard something. It was a public bathroom of course, people go in and out. But Something was odd. I stood still, straining to hear over the spatter of falling water. Yes, I heard something. A snort. The click of nails on a tile floor. I crouched down and peered under the door of the shower stall. And what did I see but four black bear paws, claws the size of ballpoint pens, standing there not ten feet from where I crouched, naked and wet and alone.
The bear paused, becoming aware of my presence, then continued on. Click-click. Click-click. Snort. Snorfle-snark snort. Grunt. WANG! KA-WHAM! CLANG! The bear had found the metal trash can in the corner of the bathroom, and sent it ricocheting around the room with one casual swipe of his paw. Wrappers and used tissues and strands of dental floss sprayed across the floor. I still stood, crouched in the shower, the hot water still spraying down on my back. The bear sniffed his way through the wreckage, gave the trash can one more thump, snorted again in my direction, and walked back out the door.
Being the brave sort that I am, I only hid in that shower for another forty-five minutes.
If there was any damned justice in the world, The Abhorsen Series by Garth Nix would be as well known as Harry Potter. Young protagonist learning about their magical birthright? Check. Creepy semi-dead bad guy? Check. Expansive magical world built as solidly as a brick house? Check. Fun, exciting plot that starts out simple, then is revealed to actually be really complex and convoluted, yet the author still manages to steer the ship true and bring it all home in a really satisfying way? Check. YA fiction that’s still deep, engaging and layered enough to be enjoyed even by the most cynical of adults? Check. And of course, bonus points for numerous bad-ass female protagonists. Imagine Hermione Granger, if it was her destiny to defeat the living dead with an enchanted sword and bells.
Enter Sabriel, a teenage girl in a boarding school in Ancelstierre who finds out she is the daughter of the Abhorsen, a necromancer whose job is to make sure the dead stay dead. His powers include the ability to travel into the land of the dead and to bind and command the dead with a set of magical bells, each one of which has its own powers and its own dangers.
If I could kidnap Guillermo Del Toro, tie him to a bed in a cabin in the woods, and break his legs with a sledge hammer in order to make him create a movie of my choice, I’d make him direct adaptations of these books. Probably starring Hugo Weaving in one role or another. And Tim Curry as the voice of The Mogget, a powerful free magic creature trapped in the form of a cynical talking cat.
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What can I say? I had a wonderful trip. Despite the somewhat melancholy tone of my last post, I had a great time. I met dozens of amazing people; Swedes and Scots and Brits and Poles and Germans and French and Hungarians. I got super drunk and had great conversations. I saw sights. I bathed elephants. It was excellent.
This place stinks. It smells like trash and durian and fetid tropical dumpsters. It’s too hot. It’s more humid than a sauna. The traffic is insane. It’s filthy. I fantasize about running rampant through the streets with a pressure washer. There are staggering levels of poverty on display. The pavement is uneven. Buildings are thrown together. Everything is falling apart.
There’s something about this crazy, ancient city that keeps me coming back.
And so, even if I’m usually keeping my own company, even if I’m just reading a book and drinking a cappuccino in one of the hundreds of little coffee shops and restaurants in the old city and watching the world move by, like a post in a stream, somehow I just enjoy being a part of it.
Matt Kincade 