The Grizzly Bear and the Girl: A Reflection on Exclusivity in the Outdoors
As I made my way from the very last open parking spot to the trailhead on one of the most populated hiking trails in Glacier National Park, Montana, I couldn’t escape the all-consuming fear of the second most intimidating threat I could face as a solo outdoorswoman, succeeding (human) men: the grizzly bear. With males averaging at 600 pounds, and extensive rumors of unprovoked aggression from the local residents and park rangers that I had bombarded with questions and situational hypotheticals, I couldn’t *bear* the thought of running into one on the trail, with no one around to aid me in the event of an attack. Perhaps being raised in suburban New Jersey, where natural predators don’t transcend the Real Housewives, added a romantic surrealism to my impression of a full-on bear attack, but nevertheless I couldn’t really disconnect and enjoy my surroundings because of the weight of this anxiety that presented itself whenever I found myself alone on the trail without other hikers within earshot. I certainly couldn’t stop to smell any roses, even with the security of the can of bear spray that I clutched in my right hand, clipped to the chest strap on my day pack, on which I had reluctantly spent $45 at a hardware store in Idaho days earlier, which was undeniably the best option in bear repellence. I was baffled by stories from park rangers, other tourists, and the kind man at the hardware store who complied with my request for a demonstrative presentation on how to use my bear spray, that past visitors to the park had gone out of their way to approach and agitate grizzly bears. How could that extent of arrogance be survivable in the face of a physical threat so unpredictable and menacing?
This hovering thought followed me throughout Montana, down into Wyoming, and through eastern Idaho, all regions of heightened grizzly bear populations. It manifested itself in the form of an incessant internal dialogue between my panicked subconscious and my logical wit, that seems to only make itself known in situations where it senses the opportunity to create an onerous sense of self-doubt. Already well aware of how best to avoid an attack if I were to encounter a bear on the trail, I had progressed towards questions of how I would possibly survive if a grizzly bear were swatting at my back with three-inch claws in self-defense as I played dead.
It is only now, in looking back on that feeling of dread, that I can recognize that the actual object of my trepidation was less the statistical possibility of a bear attack, but my own ineptitude as a woman in the outdoors. What was undoubtedly a case of unwarranted imposter syndrome seemed to mingle imperceptibly with a tangible fear, and culminated in a nearly debilitating burden of anxiety. Many women can resonate with feelings of inadequacy, as it often intersects with aspects of identity like gender and race.
It’s not a coincidence that the onus of inadequacy that I often feel professionally overlapped with my experiences in the outdoors. For me, this feeling was reinforced by a culture of exclusivity that pervades many aspects of outdoor-oriented representation, including the image of the ideal “outdoorsman”: white, wealthy, experienced, and male. Accessibility to the outdoors is often presented as racially, financially, and experientially exclusive, available only to people who were born and raised in the community, with the resources and inclusive environment to access it. These industry-wide attitudes are reinforced from a variety of angles, including toxic gear culture, negative attitudes towards tourists, and even sarcastically cynical nicknames for newcomers to nearly every sport.
The reality of the situation is that everyone belongs outside. While there is no hierarchy of outdoorsy-ness, there are exclusionary systems and cultural practices in place that prevent people from believing they belong in the outdoors. Long after my experience among the grizzly bears of Montana, I’m now living in an urban city-scape, and have come to realize that all it takes to be outdoorsy is to step outside and feel the sun on your skin, and the sensation of cool air running along your scalp despite the clamor of traffic in the backdrop. And that’s just as valuable as taking down a grizzly bear with only your hands.
