I know because I often shoot that same look at driver's that cut me off (Or the lady at Whitehaven that scraped the side of my car and then denied it happened. Luckily National Park Rangers came to our rescue again and convinced her that this is indeed what had happened.), the man at Quik Trip writing a check to buy a pack of cigarettes and a Pick 3, the guy running across the highway holding up his pants, and anyone that voluntarily jumps from high places.
Most recently that same look came to my face when she had come to a stop in the middle of Skyline Drive in Shenandoah National Park. As power vacationers (20 National Parks, 4 major museums, fireworks on the National Mall, a Washington Nationals baseball game, and pool time at the hotel) once the wheels start rolling we do not have time for construction, RVs going up hill or random stops on scenic drives with no pull-out.
We might occasionally stop for this.
We had just finished a ranger program about bears and filling out the Jr. Ranger booklet. Rain had been falling periodically throughout the morning, and fog moved in, not on little cat feet, but more like a sentient energy alien on Star Trek. (Suck it Carl Sandburg.) By the time this random traffic stop occurred the rain had ended and the clouds were nestled in the bosom of the Blue Ridge Mountains creating alternating bands of dark forest (I considered using the word corbeau, a Frenchy word meaning blackish-green.) layered with streaks of clouds creating the soft blue that is the range's namesake. A beautiful day, but one that still held the promise of a thirteen hour drive back home to St. Louis, so I was just a tad irritated that we had stopped, not at a scenic overlook, but a portion of the road that was forested on both sides. That was until . . .
"Bear"
"Where?"
"There"
A black bear stood watch at the side of the road. We were actually the third in a row of cars so it was probably 15-20 feet ahead of us. She eyed us for about 15 seconds and turned to go. That is when I saw movement up in the tree. My caveman see-what-I-can-hunt vision is always keenest in the car.
"There's babies in the tree," I squealed.
The second car in the parade pulled out and continued on its way so we inched closer. Colette spent several clicks of the shutter coming to the realization that the fraction of black bear cub butt visible in the foliage to the naked eye was not so evident to the telephoto lens.
I'll give you a minute.
"Here, you try," she said thrusting the camera into my hand. Colette often does this assuming I am a Dumbledore level wizard
I was seated on the opposite side of the car so I determined that the best plan would be to exit the vehicle. In retrospect I am amazed that Colette, my usual source of reason and sanity, chose this moment to dry up and say nothing as I stepped onto the blacktop. Slowly opening the door and leaving it open so as to not startle the cubs, I crept around the front of our Ford Flex and trained the camera on the tree sheltering the diminutive ursine.
I had time to adjust the lens and snap one picture (see above) of what turned out to be a bunch of leaves when I heard the snap of a branch. Years of movie watching had trained me to know that snapping branches are always harbingers of doom.
I glanced at the car in front of me and saw a woman's face framed in the side view mirror saying, "What is that idiot doing?"
The physics of light rays dictated that my eyes were visible to her and my Pokeman eyes of surprise could not have possible be bigger than they appeared.
Now the door that I had left open to avoid loud noises looked like a brilliant moment of foresight as I leaped back into the driver's seat. As I closed the door Mama Bear, minus the cute apron of fairy tales, bounded out of the tree line. She proceeded to cross the street looking back and imploring her cubs to follow.
Just so we are clear, we have 30X optical on our camera.
I was so busy focusing the camera that I was only vaguely aware of the echoing noise emanating from the woods.
"What's that noise?" Colette asked.
"I don't know. I got to get this picture."
It was so unbearlike that my mind actually convinced me that it was a couple of hikers shouting at each other across a valley. Stirred from my photographic reverie I realized that I had heard the cry several times before as we had traipsed about the National Mall. If I had the Universal Translator App, I would have recognized Mama Bear's call and the cub's reply.
"Come on Dude. Catch up."
"I caaaaaan't"
Mama Bear was just worried about a little stranger danger and wanted to make sure that the cub looked both ways before he crossed the street.
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