1. As a starting point, repeat Uncle Jerry’s idea back in succinct language. Get Uncle Jerry to form an actual premise that he believes, or you can’t ever argue against it. “So if I’m understanding you correctly, you read a meme on the internet that Jane Fonda is being paid by a secret ruling class of lizard overlords, so we can’t trust anything she says, ever. And because of that, she must be wrong about hot summers existing. Is that an accurate representation of what you’re saying?”

2. Use logic, or logos, the first in the Grecian rhetorical triad. Granted, few people use logic anymore, and even fewer use it accurately. Pro tip: If you really want to impress your uncle with your elitist, upstart ways, tell him he’s making logical fallacies. The ad hominem is a particularly easy one to spot. This means Uncle Jerry is saying unflattering things about Jane Fonda instead of actually addressing what Jane Fonda is saying. In this case, you can ask him: “So even if Jane is a sellout being paid by lizards, how does that make what she’s saying untrue?”

3. The second stop along our return to Grecian rhetoric is ethos. Ethos may involve using appropriate language and actually connecting with your audience to build credibility, rather than focusing on showing off your clearly superior intellect. However, you still need to convince Uncle Jerry that you’re qualified to discuss the topic. “Gosh dang it, Uncle Jerry. You know, I used to think exactly the same thing. But then I read through 437 field experiments done by nonpartisan peer-reviewed experts, and I made this handy chart for reference. See, it’s in red, white, and blue, for America.” 

4. Use pathos, or emotional appeal. We get the word “pathetic” from this, but pathos is not necessarily telling a pitiful sob story—it is connecting with human emotion of any kind. “Uncle Jerry, Jane Fonda is so old and frail. She has all kinds of health problems. I am not one to deny her the pleasure of revolt during her last days on earth.”

5. Put everything together and personalize it as much as possible. You may notice that politicians do this all the time. Of course, politicians may just skip logos and skate by on ethos and pathos—and not exactly in a good way. You, on the other hand, can use persuasive rhetorical tools more responsibly. “Consider this, Uncle Jerry. What if I were a lizard? Just because my skin color is different, and I was born on a different planet doesn’t mean I don’t deserve life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Right? My inherent rights are no different than yours, really. Plus, I’m a proven expert on the motivations of lizard aliens and Jane Fonda, and have suffered greatly due to societal ostracizing for my chosen profession.” 

The post Five Ways to Win Political Debates This Christmas appeared first on Out There Venture.

Because I have spent so much time dancing, everything else feels like dance too. In the muddy, chilly side months in particular, when slush covers the trails, I stand in front of the mirror learning how to isolate movements in my hips and shoulders. I grew up dancing, ballet mostly, practicing my sautés and pirouettes. And now I learn again how to stand neutrally, advance in every direction and come back to neutral. The curves in your spine are meant to cushion your movement, my dance teacher told me. Keeping everything in alignment — knees over toes, equal flexion in each vertebra as you bend — makes self-injury much less likely.

She was my idol, my teacher, and the inspiration for immersing myself in local, regimented dance classes in my mid-30s. Rachel Brice. She had started a new subgenre, a blend of things she called tribal fusion. Her performance videos made me believe I could one day move like she did, like water— aqueous and serpentine. 

I took a workshop with her first, driving 14 hours to and from Portland, Oregon, for the three-hour class. Two years later, I got into her intensive: a semester’s worth of work packed into a week. It focused on the basics of technique—what she called hard skills—and how to react and improvise—what she called soft skills. More than 40 women from all over the world flew to Portland to attend, all teachers and tribal fusion stars in their own right. I felt lucky to have only come seven hours.

Her daily lessons began with connection. Be kind to yourself and the others, she said; this is a place where you’re going to look stupid. She shared deeply personal struggles with us. I had not expected to learn the emotional component of physical health in that week, how much the head can help or interfere with the way you move. But learn it I did. I learned to love my own movement, to feel it begin in the first joint and carry through deliberately to the last. And with practice it became effortless; love was the only thing that remained.

We were far from perfect; we were often nervous. She said to use stress as your ally, to feel it as energy when you stepped up to dance. Women shed tears daily, tears of joy and healing. “For the first time in my life, I feel completely alive,” one of my classmates shared on the fourth morning. We struggled through difficult exercises and mastered them. We spoke genuine words of support to each other, admired one another, and laughed together.

On the last day, after we’d taken tests and posed for photos with our teacher, we went to a dance party at her studio and congregated around the edges of the dimly lit room. Each person was supposed to dance in the circle and improvise. She had said to use stress as your ally; let it pull feeling from you, and so when I stepped into the circle beckoned by the girl before me, my churning stomach rising, I was ready; the music played me; the women I had danced with all week surrounding me. They were the eggshells of my nascent self, eyes turned inward to watch. I birthed myself through movement—as Eve, the lady-mother Eve, and as the serpent, a hissing serpent, coiling. And my mothers in the darkness hissed; they called their ululations. I had never moved so well, so fully. I could see her, the mother of us all, grinning in her corner, her delight the best praise I could have dreamed.

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As we set up for the four days we’ll be there, we reminisce about other festivals: Oregon Eclipse in 2017 was the first one we’d both gone to, although we didn’t meet then. Witnessing a total eclipse with approximately 50,000 other awe-struck people from around the globe was more profound than either of us had expected; dancing and talking with pockets of them afterwards to world-infused house music felt like a celebration of everything that was possible under the sun. Both of us started attending other festivals as a result.

Mary talks about how she was given tickets to Burning Man, the grandfather of the West Coast festival scene. Burning Man is not a “music festival,” although music is present; it’s a “transformational” festival. People go to Burning Man for a variety of reasons: to witness the otherworldly and surreal, to dance, to party, to pray. It’s populated with hippie stereotypes, both good and bad. However, people from every walk of life attend, from the Silicon Valley tech bro to the middle-aged European tourist.

From a tiny event in 1986, Burning Man grew to a behemoth, an exclusive, lavish, art-filled city in the inhospitable Black Rock Desert. Other festivals eagerly took up the task of providing something a little less challenging. 

In theory, you could go to a festival almost every weekend, hopping in early summer along the California coast from Lucidity to Desert Hearts to Lighting in a Bottle. In August, you can go to Beloved in Oregon, or Shambala near Nelson, British Columbia. Those are some of the big ones, and hundreds of offshoots are smaller and more regional. SummerFest in Sandpoint (July 12-14) is a tiny, kid-friendly version.

At Shambhala, happening Aug. 9-12 this year, you can swim in the river as you listen to Sunday morning grooves at the house stage. You can find a perch and watch 19 year olds in glowsticks and spandex twirl to bass or hip-hop. Or you can relax in a hammock and talk to strangers about the cosmos. 

The festivals are a mix of learning —yoga, dance, or possibly how to flirt in a non-creepy way—and music, mostly electronic but also live. There are communal spots, tree forts, and teahouses. There may be drum circles or late-night, spontaneous singing by the central fires. There may be mud baths; a giant Chewbacca painted onto a 30-foot high decal; or mechanical art that shoots fire. 

Art, music, learning, connection, and self-discovery are constants. Each festival has mixed the ingredients differently, however. Shambhala is known as the party scene that young rave kids flock to; Beloved, from Aug. 9-12, is smaller, less manic, and heavier on the learning. 

Even within one festival, there are a variety of experiences. At moments—when the smoke blows in from forest fires, or the dust rises and face masks come out—you may feel as though you’re in a post-apocalyptic episode of Mad Max where everyone is getting in their last rites before the world ends. At other times, you may find yourself in the happiest spot on earth, drinking perfectly-brewed tea in a luxurious tent with strangers who greet you as if you’re a best friend they haven’t met yet.

The last night at Lucidity, I stay up until 5:30 a.m. Mary is sleeping, but I’ve found my festival groove. I’m totally sober, dancing all night with a crew from San Francisco. After the closing ceremony, one of the women breaks down weeping, overwhelmed at what she’s processing internally. She leans into a tree and asks that we hug her. We do, eight of us, a dozen, it’s hard to say, surrounding her in our long coats and resting against one another. We breathe with her, transformed into one large organism with a shared set of methodical lungs. She calms. She says thank you. It’s a simple thing, standing tight-knit with your fellow human beings and breathing together deliberately to calm down, but I’ve never done it before. 

I have been to more than 30 countries, countless small towns, and micro-communities, and never have I seen anything so curious and so welcoming.

The post Where Urban Meets the Outdoors: The West Coast Festival Scene appeared first on Out There Venture.

If you do not already have a fire pit in your backyard, various options exist, whether you want an expensive cast-iron portable or a simple dirt pit you dig yourself.

Portable outdoor fireplaces: The easiest path to backyard campfires in terms of regulation and set-up is to purchase an enclosed receptacle of some kind. In Spokane, portable fireplaces are allowed closer to buildings than fire pits. For multi-family dwellings, you need to have at least 15 feet of clearance. Otherwise, you’re supposed to abide by the manufacturer’s safety instructions. A number of options are available, starting at around $75. More decorative options from Etsy run to $200 or more.

Handcrafted off-the-cuff fire pit: If you choose to dig your own fire pit, in both Spokane and Coeur d’Alene, it must be no greater than three feet across and built with 25-foot clearance from structures and combustibles. A pit is generally the cheapest option and has a certain rustic charm. If you already have rocks or bricks on-hand, you can simply dig your own little pit and protect it with a ring of amateur masonry.

Internet tutorial fire pit: Regulations still apply, but if you’re trying to craft a certain look, there are a number of step-by-step videos and blogs online, complete with purchase suggestions. You can buy materials for around $60 or less, depending on the project. One family-friendly option is stacking shaped pavers in a circle to create a small, concentric wall that prevents sparks from escaping and children from tumbling in. You can even pave out the bottom as outlined at Keepingitsimplecrafts.com/how-to-build-diy-fire-pit-for-only-60.

Upcycled do-it-yourself portable fireplaces: If you chose to make your own portable fireplace rather than a permanent in-ground one, it’s safest to abide by the in-ground fire pit regulations. There are a number of ideas online complete with tutorials. One of the best is using an old washing machine drum, adding bolted-on perforated angled bars for legs, and finishing it all off with heat-resistant paint. The full tutorial is here: Theflourishingabode.com/2012/06/diy-metal-fire-pit-tutorial-hack-challenge-finale.html

Grilling attachments: If you’re interested in grilling over coals or open flame, make sure it is possible with the model you choose; some pre-made fire pits come with grill attachments, or you can purchase a freestanding fire pit grill separately. In a pinch, of course, you can use existing grills you may already have, particularly if you’re handcrafting your fire pit. The best oysters of my life were grilled over a large portable fire pit, and I’ve made delicious campfire chicken the same way. The secret is to brine it for at least 24 hours so it doesn’t over dry. //

Regulations for Backyard Fires

When can you have a fire in your backyard? The answer is “it depends.” Your city may have more stringent regulations than the state, and if there’s a fire ban in effect or poor air quality, burning of any kind is forbidden. In Spokane, if winds rise above 10 mph, you’re not supposed to burn anything, either. Outside city limits, in both Idaho and Washington, you’re supposed to have a fire permit during certain seasons.

In Coeur d’Alene, the legality of your backyard campfire also depends somewhat on the neighbors: if neighbors call the police or fire department due to “smoke, loud parties, late hours” and so on, this “will result in extinguishment of the fire,” according to the City of Coeur d’Alene.

What you can burn is most safely defined as untreated, dry wood, or charcoal briquettes where applicable, but in some places and at some times you can also burn debris such as leaves. Trash is illegal to burn in the backyard.

More specific details can be found here:

Spokane: My.spokanecity.org/news/stories/2014/06/05/use-caution-with-outdoor-recreational-fires/

Coeur d’Alene: Cdaid.org/1486/departments/fire/permits-and-inspections/recreational-fires //

Katie Botkin enjoys rock climbing, snowboarding, and running around the woods barefoot. She wrote an article on MovNat for the February issue.

[Feature photo: Simple fire pit composed with shovel and rocks encourages party goers to gather around it. // Katie Botkin]

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“I went to a yoga class recently, and the instructor did a one-leg balance series to see if she could make me lose my balance. She couldn’t,” says Clark, performance director and Chief Operating Officer of MovNat, a natural movement-based wellness company.

Clark used to be based in Sandpoint, Idaho, where he helped run a conventional gym and worked as a trainer. He currently resides in Sante Fe, where he helps run MovNat as a company and works to expand it internationally.

Since he has taken up balancing and other core natural movements, his overall fitness has improved. Improving reactive balance helps with every outdoor sport, including snowboarding, skiing, climbing, mountain biking, trail running and even hiking. Clark has realized that, if you’re climbing a mountain or crossing a creek, it doesn’t matter if you can pick up a set of weights—or even a boulder—that weighs 250 pounds. However, it does matter if you can navigate wobbly or uneven surfaces.

He also believes that boosting your ability to balance can transfer to confidence in your sport. But for many people balance is hard to maintain unless it’s practiced in artificial situations, such as lifting one foot briefly in yoga. And even then, people frequently topple or tap out. They rarely have complete control over their bodies. “It’s one thing to balance. It’s another thing to balance and have control,” says Clark.

Of course, in the natural world, balance rarely looks like standing still on a flat surface; balance is what happens when you correct in changing snow conditions while you ski or snowboard down a mountain. It looks like leaping onto a wet rock in a stream or changing how you navigate a log because of the weight of a backpack.

Balancing on a swaying block of wood is not something that can be learned overnight. Clark emphasizes the need for step-by-step progressions, starting with one foot on a flat surface, and then progressing to something like a two-by-four on the floor. Once you can navigate a strip of wood forwards, backwards, and sideways, even while leaning over or otherwise shifting your center of gravity, you can progress to uneven surfaces like branches, logs, or slightly unstable rocks.

Self-correcting in unstable situations is the ultimate goal. For one thing, improving your balance and specifically your reactive balance can help prevent injury. If you are capable of correcting during unexpected turbulence, you fall less frequently. Finally, there are physiological benefits to improving balance, including better posture, more hip and torso stability, and more foot and knee strength.

Practicing balance at home is easier on your body than practicing on the slopes, says Clark. “It’s hard to slow down when you ski, but you can slow things down when you’re balancing on a two-by-four.” //

Katie Botkin is the managing editor of MultiLingual magazine. She enjoys climbing, dance, snowboarding and natural movement. She wrote about backcountry fashion in August.

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Before we had set out the first day, I’d changed out of my favorite Patagonia do-everything dress, which is the one I wear to conferences, to the beach and yes, for hiking. I had felt a little weird wearing a dress to shimmy through nettles. Apparently I shouldn’t have bothered. Americans wear yoga pants everywhere, but apparently French women do the reverse and wear dresses to march through beech forest undergrowth on their way up a mountainside.

Here are a few tips to backcountry fashion we’d do well to take from the French:

1. Superior fabric is your friend. I swear by fine-spun Merino wool for anything that requires layers. I have a perfect-fit black Icebreaker shirt that I’ve worn to meet with clients as well as across multiple days on a backpacking trek through Glacier. As a natural antimicrobial, wool staves off stink better than most, and it retains heat when it’s wet.
2. Ditch the sale mindset. The French know not to buy things just because they’re on sale. If you wouldn’t buy that hot-pink-and-neon-green tank full price, then don’t buy it just because it’s 60% off.
3. Find flattering cuts on the stuff you need. Investigate the styles and brands that work best for you and then search for deals on those. I’m not going to say that your performance in the backcountry will automatically be better if you think you look great, but it never seems to hurt.
4. Think outside the box. Who said that your favorite hiking pants have to be sold as hiking pants? Maybe the right yoga outfit or running shorts would chafe less and look better if you scored them in a different department.
5. Don’t forget the practical things. Wear sunscreen, get enough sleep and eat well. You’ll feel better all-around if you’re not sporting sun blisters and bags under your eyes.
6. Purge your closet. Life is too short to wear clothes that don’t feel great, look great and smell great under pressure.
7. Consider your feet as your ultimate base layer. After sustaining more blisters than I can count, I’ve moved away from hiking boots and towards more minimalist approach shoes. For most hiking in the summer, I wear Earthrunners — foot-hugging sandals that look good enough that I regularly get compliments when I wear them around cities.
8. Own it. If my French friend can get up and rock the same outfit for her administrative job three days in a row with a swagger in her step, then you can clearly do the same thing in the backcountry. //

Katie Botkin wrote about exploring local creeks in August last year.

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Barefoot hiking with little to no gear is a wonderful way to keep yourself aware of this balance. When you’re barefoot, you watch where you’re going and what you’re stepping on, leaving the terrain almost entirely unchanged. When you aren’t wearing shoes, you’re unlikely to crash through things. Rocks in streams can play a major role in sheltering fish and other aquatic wildlife, and exploring streams barefoot means you’re less prone to kick or move rocks, and hence less prone to destroy some creature’s home.

Keeping your gear to a minimum means you’re less likely to leave snack wrappers behind or forget your bottle of insect repellant — both of which can get washed into streams and kill things. Minimal gear also allows you to move more lightly and easily, swimming through pools or crawling over rocks unhampered by excess.

The particular skills of hiking up streams and canyons or navigating waterfalls and currents require this kind of minimalistic approach (unless you’re going full canyoneering with ropes, harnesses, and carabineers, which is a different subject). Minimalist immersion stream hiking also requires high air temperatures as well as personal strength and flexibility. You need to be capable of any number of physical demands depending on the stream, but good balance and strong swimming (and wading) skills are crucial. Being reasonably adept at bouldering and broad jumping can also come in handy.

Earlier this summer, two friends and I went out to do some barefoot stream hiking, only to discover that the stream we had in mind was far too strong to traverse. We hiked the banks barefoot and numbed our feet in only a few seconds of exposure. When we made it back to our 1990s Mitsubishi Montero, we discovered the battery was dead because we’d left the lights on. Being saved by another car was unlikely — nobody else had ventured out to our remote location during the hours we’d spent there, so we put the vehicle in neutral and coasted partway down the primitive road. This worked for a few miles, until we had to get out and push the car over some flat spaces — a tricky proposition if you’re so into minimalist hiking that you’ve brought no shoes and the gravel is rugged. We abandoned the car and hiked (still barefoot) until we encountered a truck, whereupon we hitched a ride and got the car jumped. The moral of the story is that, particularly if you’re going minimalist, you need to have some back-up gear in your car — and it’s always a good idea to check that your lights are off before hiking for several hours.

Safety is paramount with strong currents and slippery rocks, so always take a partner. And always proceed with caution: these situations can get bad with one wrong step. Hypothermia presents a serious risk with snowmelt, particularly if the trek goes later into the day. However, careful planning and common sense can lead to many rewarding hours of stream exploration that is easy on both the environment and the feet. //

Katie Botkin is the managing editor of MultiLingual magazine, which ships to 87 countries. She frequently does international travel and adventure writing, and enjoys rock climbing and snowboarding. She wrote about the Coldsmoke Powder Festival in our January/February issue.

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I make it within five blocks and 20 minutes of the opening social event at Coldsmoke Powder Fest in Nelson, British Columbia, and I realize I’m getting a migraine. To the point that I can’t see. Did I mention this particular event I’m supposed to be covering is a series of short films?

Coldsmoke celebrates mountain culture with clinics, socials, competitions and more. From February 19 through 21, 2016, the 10th annual event will take place at Whitewater Ski Resort and in nearby Nelson, British Columbia. With any luck, the snow will be better this year — conditions at Whitewater last year were not bad on groomed runs, but they were frozen chop off-piste. As a result, the backcountry clinics, usually well-attended for the BC powder, suffered. The on-piste clinics, however, provided tailored feedback and small class sizes, and my intermediate-level snowboarding decidedly improved in only a few short hours with Nelson local and former pro rider Kendra Starr.

Even with a migraine, the social events are fun, from dinner and tastings featuring local artisans such as Tod Creek Cider and Kootenay Distilleries to the aforementioned film festival. I wrangle getting in early to the films and ask the staff if there’s a pharmacy close by. Yes, a block and a half away. In a blind fog, I stumble out of the building and across the street, concentrating hard on the aura of headlights to avoid getting hit. Good news: I manage to find the pharmacy. Bad news: It closed 10 minutes ago.

I’ve left my coat behind on the theory that the cold will constrict the vessels in my brain and cure the migraine. Longer exposure may do me good, so I set out down the street to find drugs, preferably legal ones. I have to stare down buildings head-on to read their signs, or maybe sideways depending on the spots in my vision, keeping a good pace so I don’t freeze to death.

I lurch along Nelson’s main drag like a drunken tourist who has never seen civilization before. An older fellow appraises me at a stoplight and asks if I’m not cold. “I’m trying to find a pharmacy,” I blurt out, and then correct myself: “I’m trying to find something to cure migraines.” The fellow is sympathetic and suggests the local co-op, so I lurch my way to the natural market to find out what natural oils hippies prescribe for my particular ailment. Peppermint, of course. I purchase a vial of peppermint oil and slather my eyebrows, neck, forehead and temples with it. I march back to my destination and drink copious amounts of water, massaging the peppermint oil into my neck.

The first film is Sweetgrass Production’s “Afterglow,” a psychedelic night skiing light show with existential dialogue I can’t process. The colors are pretty, though. The music is so good it’s making my spine feel funny. I decide migraines are kind of like being on ecstasy, only with pain instead of pleasure. Everything just washes over you in feelings, tiny things that you wouldn’t notice otherwise. If you think about it correctly, it’s kind-of delicious. I lean back in my chair and decide that if I hold my skull just right, my sensitivity is actually veering off into the realm of fun. I can see straight again. And my head doesn’t really hurt. I’m just high on peppermint oil now.

From there, my Coldsmoke Powder Fest trip just keeps getting better. The snow on the mountain is fast and icy, which normally terrifies me, but it forces me to learn what I’ve put off learning for so long. Alpine Inn and Suites, on the outskirts of Nelson, provides a quiet spot away from the bustle of downtown and is the last (and therefore latest) pickup on the Whitewater shuttle up to the mountain.

The clinic I take, one of a few covering snowboarding, focuses on learning how to ollie, how to ride switch and how to carve on steeper terrain. The four of us in the class get individual tips on beginning tricks and improved form. Other clinics teach telemarking and skiing and cover a wide range of skill levels, from an introduction to touring to the “beyond expert” freeskiing clinics (all of which will be taught at the upcoming Coldsmoke Powder Fest). I demo a new snowboard and love it.

I also check out the competitions, of which four will repeat this year: the ROAM Randonnee Rally, the Village Ski Hut Slopestyle, the Poker Run and the Backcountry Olympics. Participants may compete individually, but the highest-scoring male and female to complete all four events will be crowned the King and Queen of Coldsmoke with all the pomp and circumstance (and prizes) that entails. Winners earn a Whitewater 2016/2017 season pass as well as The North Face ski gear. Social events throughout the festival provide plenty of opportunities to win everything from Keen socks and Clif Bars to actual skis. Find more info and register for clinics at Coldsmokepowderfest.com. //

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One recent evening right at sunset, I was out hiking the Syringa Trail a stone’s-throw from Sandpoint’s city limits. There was still light on the horizon, but in the trees it was dusky, difficult to make out details. Thanks to my new intrigue with MovNat (a lifestyle and physical education system of natural movement), I was barefoot, padding along through the dust in my bare feet, wearing nothing but a sports bra and a pair of yoga shorts – just like a primitive human in the wild, if you squinted really hard.

I was rounding a left-sweeping bend when I heard something heavy in the underbrush and stopped. I saw something black, an inky blob between the trees – a bear? A stump? And then it moved, crunching along in profile so that its bulky shape, long muzzle and rounded ears were obvious.

I knew what to do in theory: Do Not Panic. Next step: Back away slowly. However, thanks to the sweep of the trail, going up or down meant moving closer to the bear. Next Step: Make noise. Alert it to my presence, in case it hasn’t noticed my very-obvious, hot-human smell, and it will probably leave. So I called out into the darkness, and, indeed, it started to move. Only, I was pretty sure it was starting to move in my direction. So I backed away into the underbrush, and then I turned and wiggled through a thicket in the hope that a fat bear would be less likely to choose this path. I was thinking MovNat! MovNat! What did I learn in MovNat? I could hear a large animal in the underbrush, closer than before.

I’d been scoping out the terrain for an easy tree to climb, and finally spotted one. It had fallen ramp-like between a cluster of small pines, and it was still heavily frilled with branches. The perfect MovNat tree, just like 10 others I’d practiced climbing up this month. Bears also climb trees, but they may not want to climb MovNat trees, I reasoned. Mostly, the tree offered a nice vantage point and a nice place to start making copious amounts of noise. Such as my Sub-Saharan yodel, a high-pitched, authoritative vibrato that has no doubt been used to strike fear into the hearts of large predators for millennia. Or at least that’s what I was telling myself.

After 10 minutes, I reassessed my situation. It was pretty obvious I was not going to be rescued by other hikers, and it was getting darker all the time. Soon it would be too dark to find the trail again. I briefly considered staying in the tree all night. Very briefly. That seemed like the least safe option, really. And I hadn’t heard any new bear noises.

It was up to me to rescue myself, so I climbed down yodeling fiercely, trying to avoid pokey things in the dark. In this I was unsuccessful, and my bare feet retained a number of prickles. After only five minutes of searching, I found the trail again, and I marched along, chanting, yelling, puffing myself up like a near-naked peacock.

By this time it was so dark that I could see almost nothing. I imagined bears all around me, although I was pretty sure I’d hear them. As I’d discovered, bears are not silent, not even a little bit. //

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