I decided that maybe I should include the short story version of "Bathroom Bear," in case anyone is interested, and on the chance it might make more sense out of the poem. --Evelyn

Bathroom Bear

(A Grim Tale of the Darker Side of Yellowstone Outhouses)


By Evelyn Stanley


I took a break from my duties as head coffee maker for the historic Old Faithful Inn in Yellowstone National Park. Now there’s a bit of irony—a Mormon kid making the best coffee in the Park. This twist of fate wasn’t lost on my boss. Every tourist that would send his “compliments to the chef” about the extraordinary brew would be treated to a face-to-face meeting with the reluctant teenager from Utah. Don, the head chef, would gleefully drag me out of the kitchen, while explaining to the surprised tourists that “ he doesn’t drink any—but he sure can make it!”
It was the summer of 1965, and I had just graduated from high school. I had come to Yellowstone to work in the great outdoors before heading to college in the fall. At least I was able to spend my breaks from my kitchen duties outside.
It was on my days-off that I became intimately acquainted with my summer love: I had fallen hard for Yellowstone. I was intoxicated with her beauty, and I spent every moment that I could with her. No longer the nerdy city kid, I spent hours fishing the Lower Firehole River. I had transformed into a true savage, as the Park employees were called. I spent that summer living in my cut-offs, my cowboy hat with the rattlesnake hat band and red ant fishing flies stuck in the brim, mosquito repellent, my blue Keds sneakers which also doubled as my river waders, and my Wright and McGill custom fly rod which I purchased with my first paycheck.
To reach my favorite fishing spot along the Lower Firehole meant I had to go behind the little general store and through Campers Cabins Campground and past the bears. There were about seven of them in a variety of bear colors—one cinnamon, two pure black ones, a couple of brownish ones, etc. They would sit quietly among the trees during the heat of the day. At night they would come down into the campground to raid the garbage cans, apparently a popular and necessary bear activity. I walked past the bears so often on my way to the river that I felt like I knew them all personally. They looked like big raccoons sitting there scratching themselves and sniffing the air. I liked to wave and say, “Hi, guys,” as I walked past. Once, I even thought one waved back, but he was probably just scratching his butt with one paw and the back of his ear with the other one. I considered them my friends, and they were during daylight hours. After dark I was just another garbage can .
I knew better than to cut through the campground after dark, but I was late returning to my dorm one night. I had lost track of time visiting with some friends who were camped on the far side of the campground. We were frying trout and telling stories around the campfire after a fine day of fishing. I realized the late hour, announced my good-byes, and prepared to start off into the night. My friends, concerned for my safety, encouraged me to stay the night with them. My work shift in the Old Faithful Inn kitchen began at 4:00 a.m., and Don, the head chef, frightened me almost as much as the bears did. He had an explosive temper which included throwing around kitchen supplies (read: knives) and bad words, and I didn’t want to be the one to ignite his temper this time. I didn’t dare be late for work, so I told my friends “thanks” and “I’ll be careful”, and I disappeared into the night.
I made my way through the campground all the while keeping an eye out for furry shadows. The campground had a few single bulb street lamps, and I moved stealthily from one dim circle of light to the next until I came to the lighted restroom. I sidled up to the restroom wall and breathed a sigh of relief. I could see the Inn off in the distance. I was going to make it back without incident. Thank goodness—no bears were out tonight. I walked around the restroom, peeking around the end of the building to make sure the coast was clear. I was just about half way across this side of the building, when my hair stood on end. There was a bear just around the corner where I hadn’t been able to see him. He swung his head towards me, sniffed, and grunted a warning in my direction. I froze in my tracks. The bear didn’t get up, but I didn’t dare go any closer. I looked up and noticed that thankfully I was on the men’s side of the bathroom (like it mattered) and dove in for safety.
The good news was that it wasn’t a grizzly bear. Had it been a grizzly, I’d have been dead. The bad news was that it was still a bear and now I was trapped in the bathroom. I was in shock and more than a little panicked. My mind raced. I looked frantically for furniture to block the doorway, but all I could find was flimsy flip top garbage cans and things bolted to the walls. My next idea was to get into one of the stalls, climb on the toilet and hide. That would have really fooled the bear as he looked under the stalls for shoes! Next idea: wedge the door shut. I experimented with my foot, my behind, both extended arms; and even in my impaired mental state I realized that wouldn’t even slow the bear down as he flattened me between the door and the opposing wall.
I could hear the bear outside sniffing, grunting, breathing, and scratching. And I could smell him—you know you can smell bears. It’s then I remembered that I smelled like fish—a bear’s favorite food. I said a silent prayer that this bear was a “tourist” bear, the kind that go through campgrounds looking for marshmallows. I perched on the pooper with the stall door open so I could keep an eye out for bear claws coming around the old, wooden, spring-hinged door—so far my only defense—and tried to remember all those ranger lectures about dealing with bears. The first thing they taught us to do was to climb a tree. This was not a viable option—unless—maybe I could climb up into the rafters of the bathroom. I climbed onto a urinal to see if I could somehow reach the rafters and wedge myself into safety. I realized that I couldn’t climb high enough, and all I did was succeed in getting my blue Keds wet. The last thing the rangers told us to do in case of a bear attack was to play dead. Roll up in a ball, protect your neck with your hands, and pull your knees up to protect your guts. I looked at my watch and wondered if this would work against an angry boss.
After exhausting every point of strategy at my disposal, I realized that my best idea was to try and escape. I decided to take a peek out the door. This took some doing. What if the bear was right outside the door standing his full seven feet tall waiting to knock the door down and pounce on me? I finally did a one-eyeball peek, and I didn’t see anything. Nothing jumped up in front of me. I eased the door open enough to get both eyes and my nose out. I still didn’t see anything or hear anything except for an occasional cough coming from a tent in the campground, or was that actually the faint scream of a tourist being dragged out of it’s tent by a bear?
I finally worked up the nerve to put one shaky foot out the door, then one knee while wildly whipping my head from side to side trying to watch both ends of the building. I eased one whole side out—my left side--just in case I got chewed I’d still be able to feed myself and hop. I prepared to make a break for it, you know live or die, put it all on the line, get those blue Keds smokin’. I poised for flight, one foot in the air, about to lose my balance waiting for the opportune moment, when that bear leaned his head around the corner and snorted to let me know that he wasn’t ready to let me escape yet.
His grunt sent me spinning into the air, cartoon-like, limbs flailing wildly. I scrambled to get back through the door, forgetting to open it first. I got back up, remembered to open the door this time, and dashed inside. I heaved my chest against the urinal and gave myself a primitive form of CPR. I realized the bear had been in the same place the entire time. He didn’t even have to do anything to keep me trapped. I didn’t know whether to be upset or impressed. What I did know was that I had to be to work soon to fire up the giant dishwasher and then the giant coffee maker.
I waited as long as I dared, but time was running out. I would have to attempt an escape again. I repeated the routine: right eye and nose, left eye and nose, left toes, left fingers to ease the door open a bit further, rest of the left side of my body in case I get chewed, left butt cheek, ease right side of upper body, turn numb right foot perpendicular so it can be dragged through the door opening. I was now outside the bathroom. I finally decided to take a step, one baby step. Heightened senses. The early morning air was cold and thick, not even a breeze to rustle the pine trees. I took two more steps—not towards the end of the building, but straight out. I was almost out of the circle of light from the bathroom. I could just see around the corners of the building now and there was no sign of bears. I headed past the bathroom, into the trees, checking every few seconds for the bear. It was obvious that my captor had moved on. For a few more feet I did 360’s, trying to see all directions in the dark and staying away from any fuzzy shadowy lumps.
I could see my breath in the frosty morning air. I reached the point where I decided I no longer needed to look back. I was finally out of the trees, so I could just run at top speed. I headed straight for work; I didn’t even go to my room. I just made it; Don was looking at his watch. I fired up the giant dishwasher and then the giant coffee maker and waited for compliments.


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