Yellowstone (Part 2)

Now, I don't know what your favorite thing to see at Yellowstone is. Maybe it's Old Faithful, or maybe the herds of bison roaming across the landscape. But I can take a guess and say that it's probably not a coked-up grizzly coming down from its first high.

You can probably trace this particular problem back to where most problems come from: bad taste in music. I had pulled over beside a couple other people to take in the view. One was from California; the other two were heading there together. We stood enjoying the fresh air when out of nowhere a grizzly appeared behind us. I think Ethan and his buddy just thought it was after their food, but I knew better. My old biology teacher didn't know much, given that he was a paranoid schizophrenic with a taste for pencil shavings, but he did know about bears. "Son", he had said to me, "never play rap music around a bear." He had then proceeded to eat some pencil shavings, but I think the point stands. And Ethan and his friend had been playing Drake the whole time we had been standing there.

The others leapt in their cars and sped out of Yellowstone, but they didn't have to deal with the grizzly. It had taken a liking to the Buick, which was pointed in the wrong direction. I drove off, not quite as fast as I would have liked, as the roads weren't too great, but fast enough to get away from the grizzly I thought. I cruised along for a little while until it began to get dark. By this time I was well and thoroughly lost. To hell with it, I thought, I'll just sleep in the car. The bear barely even crossed my mind.

Rattle. Thump. Roar. The damn bear had gotten into my stash, and now it was looking for more. I bolted upright, slammed on the gas. Damn! The parking brake was still on. I slammed on the gas again, and this time the car sped off across the rough ground, the trunk bouncing up and down and in the rear view mirror the tweaked out glare of a bear with a newfound lust for cocaine. I swerved back and forth in the darkness, frantically trying to turn on my headlights while looking over my shoulder at 600 pounds of crazed flesh rushing toward me at nearly 20 miles per hour. I finally got the headlights on and reached a main road. The enraged mass of fur searching for its next hit slowly receded into the distance, but I think the moral of the story is this: trust your biology teacher, even if they really should be in an insane asylum. And never play rap music around bears.