The Bear, the Journal, and the Lesson I’ll Never Forget

Two nights ago, I decided to test my bug out bag one last time before the rainy season hit hard. After over ten years of real-world prepping, survival trips, and teaching outdoors skills to folks who think YouTube is enough, I still like to walk my talk.

I packed light—about 35 pounds—grabbed my reliable bushcraft knife, ferro rod, a compact tarp, water filter, and enough MREs for three days, just in case.

The plan was simple: drive out to the national forest trailhead, hike in five miles to my favorite hidden spot by the creek, set up a quick debris shelter, build a fire, and spend the night proving to myself that my prepping gear still held up.

I kissed my wife goodbye at the door. “Babe, if I’m not back by tomorrow afternoon, send the search party with coffee,” I joked.

She rolled her eyes. “Just don’t try to impress the squirrels again.”

The drive was peaceful—golden afternoon light filtering through the pines. I parked, shouldered the pack, and started the familiar uphill slog. My boots crunched on dry leaves; the air smelled like pine resin and coming rain.

About two miles in, I spotted fresh bear scat—big, fresh, berry-filled. Okay, nature’s reminder to stay sharp, I thought. I’ve had black bears wander close before; they usually bluff and bolt.

I reached my spot just as the sun dipped low. The creek bubbled clear and cold. I dropped the pack, stretched, and got to work.

First, the shelter: I lashed a ridgepole between two trees with paracord, draped the tarp over it in an A-frame, then piled armloads of pine boughs for insulation. Classic bushcraft—keeps you dry, keeps heat in.

I dug a small fire pit, ringed it with rocks, and within minutes had a crackling blaze going with one strike of the ferro rod. Still got it.

I boiled creek water through my filter, made instant coffee, and sat back watching sparks dance upward. The forest went quiet except for the fire’s snap and the occasional owl hoot. Peaceful. Almost too peaceful.

Around midnight, the wind picked up. Branches creaked overhead. Then I heard it—crunching footsteps, heavy, deliberate. Not a deer. Too big. I froze, hand on my knife. The firelight caught glowing eyes at the tree line. Bear. Big one. Cinnamon-phase black bear, probably 300 pounds, staring right at me like I’d stolen its picnic.

“Easy, big guy,” I whispered, standing slowly. “Just passing through.”

It huffed, pawed the ground. I grabbed a burning branch, waved it. “Go on! Get!”

The bear took one step forward, then another. Heart hammering, I backed toward the creek, yelling, “Hey! Back off!” Adrenaline made everything sharp—the cold air biting my face, the smell of wet fur and smoke.

It charged.

I splashed into the shallow creek, boots slipping on rocks, yelling like a madman. The bear splashed after me, but the water slowed it. I scrambled up the opposite bank, thorns ripping my pants, lungs burning. Behind me, splashing faded. I risked a glance—bear stopped at the water’s edge, shaking its head like it decided I wasn’t worth the swim.

I kept moving uphill, flashlight beam bouncing, until I hit a rocky outcrop. Panting, soaked, I crouched there for an hour listening. Nothing. No pursuit.

Dawn came gray and drizzly. I was shivering, gear scattered back at camp, but alive. I laughed—shaky, relieved. Ten years of prepping, and a bear turns me into a human fish. Classic rookie mistake: I’d gotten complacent in “my” spot.

I hiked back carefully. Camp was trashed—tarp shredded, pack contents strewn, MRE wrappers torn open. The bear had feasted on my “emergency” food. My bug out bag? Half the contents ruined by claws and teeth.

But then I saw it.

Tucked under a ripped poncho liner was something that wasn’t mine: a small, weathered journal. I flipped it open. Handwritten notes, dates going back years. Sketches of the same creek, the same outcrop. Entries about “testing the spot,” “avoiding the cinnamon bear,” “leaving this for the next fool who thinks he owns the woods.”

The last page, dated a month ago: “If you’re reading this, congrats—you survived the bear. I didn’t. Heart gave out mid-hike last trip. Tell my wife I love her. And don’t camp here alone. He’s protective of this place.”

I sat on the wet ground, rain dripping off my hood, staring at the words. The bear hadn’t charged to kill me. It had herded me away—from the journal, from the spot where an old-timer had died quietly under the pines.

I packed what I could salvage, hiked out, and drove straight home. When my wife opened the door, I must’ve looked like hell—wet, scratched, eyes wide.

“What happened?” she asked, pulling me inside.

I hugged her tight. “I met a guardian. And I’m never going solo again without telling someone exactly where.”

That night, I rebuilt my bug out bag—added bear spray, a satellite messenger, extra socks (always extra socks), and a note for her in the top pocket: “In case the bear wins next time.”

Survival, prepping, outdoors—it’s not about being invincible. It’s about learning, laughing at your dumb luck, and coming home to the people who matter. And maybe leaving a note for the next guy who thinks he’s got it all figured out.