I am motivated to keep moving by the bear droppings (albeit old ones) on Catlett Spur Trail, which took me over the last hill. I really, really, really don’t want to wake up at 2 a.m. to loud snuffling sounds and a rustling at my tent flap. I wish fervently for a magic device that would show me the location of every bear in the park so I could stay as far away from them as possible. Then I realize how much I don’t want to be reminded that bears exist at all.
The diminishing daylight forces a halt to my flight, but at least I’m able to put a creek gorge between the droppings and me. Not that a steep hike and a little water would discourage a bear with the munchies, but it makes me feel better.
It takes a little while to find a spot that is simultaneously free from thorny flora, reasonably level, far
enough from the trail and water sources to satisfy park rules, and big enough for my tent. I end up on a long bench of relatively flat ground above the creek, near piles of stone belonging to an era when this was private land. In the night, the only roaring I hear comes from a powerful wind brushing past the trees on the hilltops. Regular commercial jet traffic reminds me, in spite of the surrounding wilderness, how strangely close I am to so many metro areas.
Note the blue container hiding behind the tree. This is a bear canister rented from EMS made out of thick Lexan with a tough plastic lid. To open, push on a very small spot on the lid and twist it off. At night, leave it somewhere memorable a little ways from the tent. The advent of bear cans means no more vain searches for trees with long, sturdy branches from which to suspend a flimsy nylon food bag, which you might as well call a bear pinata.
On the other hand, pinatas are easier to locate the next day. I spend a hungry half hour in the morning searching for the canister around the wrong fallen log.