Some Grizzly Loving
Imagine this picture perfect postcard: snow-capped peaks, evergreens for days, raging rapids. It’s Banff, Alberta, and I was there once again to pitch new TV series and stuff.
So on this one fine day, I’m light on meetings, and I’d pledged to treat myself to some sight-seeing. Obviously I could do this on my own, with a soul-enriching hike, but wouldn’t it be more fun with a tour-guide? And what better place to find one then trusty Grindr. Before you call me a manwhore, there was an amber alert for hungry bears and cougars, given a longer than usual Canadian winter. So truly, I was just being safe.
Cool thing about Banff, it’s a popular destination for young and eclectic international travellers. So unlike turning Grindr on in most small towns, where the cannibal denizens of the Hills Have Eyes hang out, Banff is a party city for wayward souls, many of whom are red-hot (and apparently loaded with STIs). So I found myself a tasty party-jock morsel with a backwards-facing cap. He even had a thick Australian accent, or it might have been South African. It’s hard to recall, we exchanged so few words. But I digress.
My guide took me down a trail by the river rapids just outside town. I suspected it was where all the locals went to make-out, not that I was complaining (I’d never had sex in the woods). But just when we’d found the perfect cuddle bench, a pesky cluster of clueless tourists would up and sidetrack us. After a half-dozen such distractions, blue balls were looming and we needed to regroup.
So we found a bridge to cross the river and discovered a dormant golf course. The setting sun told me we’d found the tourist-free jackpot. But seconds later, we hear a loud bang like a shotgun blast. We both braced for impact as this frazzled park ranger charges in our direction, screaming “get off the path!”
Okay, okay, no after-hours hanky-panky on private property, I get it. But the ranger’s still busting a nut, and then he uses the noisemaker in his hands and I see what he’s seeing: A wild, adolescent grizzly bear prowling 10 meters away, munching on some berries. He looked cute and cuddly, but our park ranger friend assured us this ferocious predator was about 400 pounds underweight for the season, and therefore mighty hungry. We lean homos would barely serve as appetizers.
We’re ushered to the road, where a cluster of tourists gawk in clustered fear, doing what they’re told. But adrenaline still rushing, I had a different impulse. What if we worked our way back across the bridge and took that trail deeper into the woods. With everybody cordoned over here taking pictures, my date and I would have some privacy.
We found the ideal clearing, glowing in the magic hour, where we nestled against a cliff-face over a soft bed of moss with nary a camouflaged tree root to ruin the moment. The gentle rumble of distant waters and/or bear stalkers setting the mood. Pretty soon it was the Garden of Eden, only we were Adam and Steve, with a Teen Grizzly playing our tempting Satan-snake. What could possibly go wrong?
I know what you’re thinking. What if junior bear’s family was lurking nearby, gnashing their teeth for horny young adults? It's a logical idea, but here’s a little science for you. The part of the brain that regulates our fight or flight instinct also regulates our sex drive. Or they’re sort of close in the limbic system, so maybe our neurons misfired. Or maybe I’ve watched too many Cabin in the Woods horror films, where sexy teenagers are told to avoid dangerous places, but then go there anyway and have bunny-banging sex. Just before they're dismembered by some serial ax-wielding lunatic.
The point is, what I can say is this: However dumb you think movie sluts can be, the real life ones are much, much dumber. Cautionary tales, be damned.