Bears and beers -- a story
A few years ago Mrs. G, a friend and I tackled a seg of the Long Trail in Vermont, heading north from Brandon Gap. In the parking area we exchanged pleasantries with a family from Germany, who were organized in the usual fashion: mom, dad, teenage daughter and teenage son. Since our parties never move fast, the German family quickly passed us as we trudged up the trail along a flank of Mt. Horrid.
Not long after the German family passed us, there came an excited cry from above: “Beeer! Beeer! Beeer!,” the father exclaimed, over and over.
Now, it was a pretty warm day, and that cry whetted my interest -- not to say my thirst -- in quick order. In fact, I may even have become a little drooly excited about it, so I picked up the pace just a tad, hoping to catch up closer and find out more.
Rounding a little turn in the path I found the German family stalled and jabbering excitedly among themselves while pointing off into the woods downslope from the trail. The word, “beeer” kept coming up. Then the mother exclaimed about how “it was big and black . . . and went down there.”
And I was awfully disappointed.
After we provided some reassurance that the bear probably was not going to ambush and eat them, the Germans forged on ahead. They’d had quite an adventure for themselves that day.
I got another yarn out of it, to tell over real beers many an evening.
G.
