In 1958 my parents came to visit me in L.A. while on their vacation and I gave them the west coast tour of beauty - L.A. to Vancouver BC to L.A. On the return trip south we passed through Yosemite, where I spotted a half-grown black (species?) bear milling around a campground area and wanted to get a pic as close as I could (no interchangeable lenses for my old Minolta A). Take a snap, move closer, take another,move closer, take another. Just then a hotrod came razzing through the area backfiring. The bear's eyes got big as silver dollars and he started to run. I was in his escape route and he came straight at me. Everything I did at that point was instinctive as he skidded up to me on all fours. I held my ground while he grabbed the back of my knee in his mouth and I let that leg swing freely. Then he let go and ran off in another direction without breaking my skin or poking holes in my pants - just four fang bruises. Poor thing was in panic mode. Started shaking at that point when a guy stepped out from behind a large nearby tree after witnessing it all and said "Geez, you got guts!" to which I replied "Maybe so, but they're little ones." Parents had stayed in the car and had not seen the incident. Mom said if she'd seen it she might have had a heart attack. Glad she didn't see.
Bookmarks