Bernard, Bernice and the Black Bear

 

Bernard and Bernice, tourists from Florida, shuffled excitedly off the tour bus in Yellowstone National Park. Yellowstone was everything they'd dreamed of - majestic mountains, steaming geysers, and of course, the thrilling possibility of encountering a real, live bear. Bernard, a man who ironed his socks, clutched his brand new bear spray like a prized possession. Bernice, ever the worrier, had a fanny pack overflowing with emergency supplies: granola bars that could double as weapons, a whistle that could deafen a grizzly, and a tattered National Geographic with a particularly ferocious-looking mountain lion circled (just in case).

Their enthusiastic park ranger, Rick, a man with a permanent windblown look and eyes that held the wisdom of a thousand bear encounters, briefed them on safety. "Remember folks," he boomed, "bears are wild animals. Keep your distance, and if you see one, make yourselves loud and intimidating. But most importantly," he brandished a canister, "if all else fails, use your bear spray!"

Bernard puffed out his chest, his grip tightening on the canister. Bernice, meanwhile, fumbled with the safety on hers, her eyes wide with a mix of terror and fascination.

The hike began. Bernard waddled ahead, eyes peeled for any sign of furry danger. Bernice trailed behind, narrating every rustle in the bushes as a potential bear attack. Suddenly, Bernard stopped, his face contorted in a look of pure horror. There, lumbering across the trail, was a magnificent black bear.

"Bear!" he shrieked, his voice cracking. Bernice, whipped into a frenzy, let out a banshee whistle and launched a granola bar at the startled creature. The bear paused, blinked at the strange display, then ambled off the trail, clearly unimpressed.

Bernard, heart hammering, fumbled with his bear spray. In his haste, he accidentally ripped the safety off and squeezed the trigger. A plume of orange mist erupted, engulfing not the bear, but Bernice, who was just rounding the corner.

Bernice shrieked, her eyes watering, flailing at the air. "Bernard! You blinded me!" she roared, her voice muffled by the granola bar now stuck to her forehead.

Bernard, coughing and sputtering himself, could only wave his hands in apology. The once-majestic mountains disappeared in a haze of orange. The previously shy bear, curious about the commotion, poked its head back onto the trail. One look at the tearful, pepper-sprayed tourists was all it took. With a disgusted snort, it lumbered off, muttering something about clumsy humans and their strange orange rain.

By the time the dust (and pepper spray) settled, park ranger Rick was doubled over with laughter. Bernard and Bernice, red-faced and slightly singed, were the picture of misery. Yet, amidst the chaos, a grudging respect had formed. They'd faced a bear, (sort of), and lived to tell the tale, albeit a slightly tearful, orange-tinged one. As they boarded the bus, a little worse for wear but forever bonded by their pepper spray mishap, they knew one thing for sure: Yellowstone was an experience they wouldn't soon forget, even if they never wanted to see another granola bar again.