If there's a fire, you have to stay calm, try to extinguish it if possible, close doors and windows, leave the area, and call the firefighters. We all know these rules, somewhere in the back of our heads. They are standard routines for emergency situations. But when the situation actually happens, nothing goes as planned.

If I ever encounter a bear, it will be in the middle of a forest, with bear spray on my belt, and then I mustn't run, I always thought. For eight years, I have been spending several months a year in the Rocky Mountains, hiking hundreds of miles, camping in the backcountry, and then hearing from people who are only visiting for a week that they saw three bears from their car window in seven days. And me? Nothing. Absolutely no bears anywhere on the trail in all those years. Never. Not that I want to encounter one, because bear encounters are among the most dangerous and deadly hazards in the mountains of the US and Canada. Forget Paddington Bear—the real creatures don't wear cute red bowler hats. Never underestimate animals in the wild.

When I finally encounter a bear in Canada, nothing is as it should be. It's not in the middle of a vast forest, but on a road. I've just left my bear spray in my backpack by the car—and I'm running with full speed. And suddenly it's standing right in front of me. Large, black, almost surrealistically fluffy. The fact that I can see its fur in detail definitely means that I'm too close. Much too close. And defenseless. An encounter that makes the blood in my head crystallize. A moment in which the seconds echo in my chest like a Chinese gong—slowly, loudly, and with the thought that this could be it. The end of my life.

Bears, especially black bears, are generally not interested in confrontations with humans (the situation is somewhat different with grizzlies and polar bears). You are laughing in disbelief? Yes, most wild animals have no interest in us humans because we are already too much for them. We have destroyed their habitats, poisoned their rivers, driven them away with light, noise, and hunting, and nearly wiped them out. Shame on us humans. But animals, like us humans, have their boundaries and red flags that cause them to switch from flight to attack. You should never approach bears closer than 100 yards (no, not even for a shitty selfie!), and they interpret running as an invitation to chase you. Running signals “Hello, I'm prey! Extra tasty today with a backpack containing a yummy cheese sandwich for dessert!” If there are cubs nearby, an aggressive mother is to be expected. And what bears don't like at all is being surprised, for example when you turn a corner unexpectedly or walk through tall grass where you are hidden from their sight. 

That's why many solo hikers in the mountains wear small bells on their shoes and sing or clap their hands regularly to warn potential bears, who then often leave annoyed and voluntarily. I mean, would you be happy if a stranger suddenly barged into your living room without warning?

Bear spray is indispensable in these regions. Simply put, it is pepper spray with chili and other irritants that cause terrible burning and itching, watery eyes, and pain in the person it is sprayed on. It's all temporary – but extremely effective. However, the spray is only used in an emergency, when the bear is already so close that you can actually affect it with a cloud of spray. This is usually the case from ten yards away. However, a bear can run at speeds of up to thirty miles per hour, especially when it's angry. Do the math. Bear spray should always be carried close to the body. On your backpack strap or belt. Always where you can reach it immediately, otherwise it's useless. I know all this. I do all this. I have for years. Until the moment I don't. And then there's the bear.

Just as we return from our hike in Yoho National Park in Canada and stand by the car, it starts to rain. “Damn, the tent is open!” I yell. We had taken off its rain fly this morning to air it out. There hadn't been any rain in the forecast. Great. It's only about 800 yards between the parking lot and the campsite, which can only be reached on foot. My husband broke his arm four weeks ago, is wearing a cast, and is currently not keen on running anywhere in a panic. “You know what, I'll just leave everything by the car, you can take your time putting it away, and I'll run over to the tent and pull the rain cover down,” I suggest. The tent contains not only our down sleeping bag, which would no longer keep us warm if wet, but also all our clean spare clothes. I throw my hiking stick and backpack onto the asphalt next to the car and sprint off. Just a few yards across the road, along another parking lot and through the forest to the tent – no biggie. As more rain drops fall, I speed up. Then I run around the corner and suddenly something big and black stomps out of the bushes right in front of me. I'm doing a full stop.

“A... bear!” I gasp, almost amused, because it's so surreal that I can't believe it's really happening. The bear stops and looks at me. There are maybe five yards between us. Then I start to feel an ice cold shiver and start to sweat. A bear. Much too close. And I had been running. I was identified as prey – no question about it. I hear people talking and laughing innocently in the other parking lot behind the thicket. I freeze in my spot. Then slowly, I reach for my belt. Where is the bear spray? Where is the damn bear spray?! I breathe in gasps. It's on the shoulder strap of my backpack. At the car. Where I threw my backpack on the ground. I'm standing here with absolutely nothing. In hiking boots, pants, jacket, and with a small camera in my pocket. If anyone asks me now if I took any pictures, I'll scream.

My inner survival instinct screams, “RUN!” but I know better. I am trying to breathe. It feels like an entire hour has passed in a matter of seconds. The bear doesn't move and stares at me. “Go away,” I whisper. It stays put. But what if it is going to attack? And if so, will it be soon? Right now? My ears are ringing. If you don't have spray or it doesn't work, you should make yourself as big as possible and shout at black bears. I raise my arms, which are shaking like crazy, and stand on my tiptoes. Then I let out a deep, loud, growling sound that I don't even know where it comes from. And now go away, bear! my logic thinks. RUN, Sarah! my instinct screams. Nothing happens. The bear looks at me. I look at the bear. I have no more tricks up my sleeve. I consider resorting to the last survival move in case of an attack and lying down on the ground with my hands behind my neck. Here on the asphalt. Right next to the parking lot with all the people and cars, which is as infinitely far away as the sea at low tide. But what if that makes the bear curious? I'm exhausted. Then I look at the small footpath that leads through the thicket to the parking lot. Going there would mean taking another step toward the bear. But what else can I do? Continue playing tug-of-war and wait to see if he would leave or attack me?

More endless moments pass. Then a fuse in my head blows. I take a few quick steps, turn onto the footpath, almost jogging now, my heart is bursting, I can't breathe, I don't turn around. I can see the parking lot right in front of me now. A car with open doors and several people right there. A refuge. Then I run after all. With a jump, I dive through the hedge and yell, “BEAR!!” Everyone in the parking lot stares at me. I keep running until I reach the car, and hide behind it. Only then do I dare to turn around.
Nothing.

I stare at the spot where I broke through the bushes. No angry black fur ball is chasing after me. Silence. Then excited conversations. But I can't hear any clear words. Just a buzzing sound, the beating of my heart, my breathing—my body in a state of red alert. I can't tell my husband because we don't have cell phone reception out here and my satellite phone is also attached to my backpack. I'm such an idiot. 

A small mistake. A moment of carelessness. Crazy. There's a walkie-talkies at our campsite, and my husband has the other one. But I'm unable to walk the remaining 500 yards to the tent alone. Through the forest. No way. I'd rather go for coffee with an axe murderer than walk through this forest alone, with the bear still somewhere. Finally, two other hikers set off, one carrying bear spray. I join them. Quietly and secretly. I can't talk to anyone right now. I'm still in shock. 
When I arrive at the tent in their shadows, I grab the walkie-talkie and radio my husband. “Bear,” I whisper. That's all I can say. Then I notice that it has stopped raining.  

Never underestimate wildlife – whether in the Americas, Asia, Australia, Africa, or anywhere else. In Europe, most of us are no longer used to encountering wild animals that are superior to us. Wild animals are not a zoo, and the wilderness is not a funny backdrop for TikTok videos. Know the rules, show respect, be prepared, take it seriously. Don't stay home frightened either, but know where you stand. I will continue to go out into the wild. But from now on, I'll be keeping my bear spray close to me all the time, no matter what. Aho. 

Feel free to follow our stories, travels, fails, and adventures daily on Instagram: @squirrel.sarah.

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