Being the world’s most infamous punster, I wanted to title this book accordingly. The opportunities were endless, suggesting wordplay on terms like “bare,” “barely,” “bear market,” “bearishness,” “forbearance,” and so on. A cleverer writer would have achieved what I wanted, but none of my attempts were satisfying. Hence, I chose a title plagiarizing Robert Southey’s, “The Story of the Three Bears,” published in 1837. As I’ve always said, if you must steal, steal from the best.

At the outset, let me explain that I’m talking about bear encounters that were more-or-less personal, not those distant bear sightings so many of us Westerners brag about. I’ll never forget one such sighting in Yellowstone National Park. Dozens of cars were parked on both sides of the road, in some cases blocked the road, the cars abandoned while their occupants crowded a ridge overlooking a meadow where bears romped.

Park rangers referred to such events as “bear jams.” I shamefacedly admit that I never saw the bears in question; didn’t even join the crowd who were pointing, talking enthusiastically, and taking enough photographs to fill a large art gallery.

One look at the mob and I decided I’d never wend my way to a point where I could see what was going on. Actually, there wasn’t much room for me to even park our van.

My family was satisfied to forgo trying to sight those bears, content to drive on (with difficulty) toward our planned destination, another of Yellowstone’s marvelous geological features: Minerva Terrace—where crystalline deposits formed a series of travertine terraces so large you could walk on them, and where thin waterfalls spilled down the structure, depositing more carbonates, everlastingly changing the appearance of the terraces.

An admission: My personal bear stories were first related to my father. I’m drawing on those memories because I like repeating myself, also, because I like stealing from the best (myself).

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I first learned bears were fascinated with me when my wife-to-be, Ann, and I joined her parents during a weekend at Yosemite National Park. At days end, her father suggested (that’s putting it nicely) I should sleep in the back of her small Corvair. Seats were folded down, and I was given a sleeping bag, climbed into the car and made myself comfortable … or as comfortable as you can accomplish when trying to sleep on a lumpy platform about the size of a card table.

After the campground settled down for the night, I began to get groggy as nap-time approached when I heard what at first sounded like a dog; that is I heard a low growl. Next, the animal made grunting sounds, much like a big pig, or boar.

Being a greenhorn, it took me a minute or two to decide the thing must be a bear. Naturally, I jumped out of my sleeping bag, dashed out of the car, and confronted the animal to chase it away. … Like hell, I did.

I cowered in the bag, praying the bear didn’t know how to open a car door. The animal inspected Ann’s Corvair a few minutes (without touching the vehicle), grunted with dissatisfaction, and left to find a promising garbage dump.

The next morning, an experienced camper—probably Ann’s father—knocked on a car window to wake me up. “Do you know a bear circled this car three times last night? I can show you the tracks.”

I probably responded, “No thanks. I’ll just stay here until time to go home.”

On the drive back to Ann’s house, I pondered that bear encounter. What fascinated him so? We didn’t have any food in the Corvair, and I doubt he found the car itself intriguing … assuming he wasn’t in the market for a used car. No, he must have been focused on a delicious morsel—me!

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After we’d been married several months, Ann and I returned to Yosemite National Park for a couple of weeks, setting up at a nice site in Bridalveil Campground. We were thoroughly prepared, having purchased a big tent, a camp stove, a Coleman lantern, a snakebite treatment kit, and a large cooler which we filled to the brim with goodies. In addition, we brought a lengthy clothesline, a stout canvas bag about as big as the cooler, and empty orange crates to hold dishes, silverware, cooking utensils, and assorted foodstuffs.

We filled the canvas bag with meats, cheeses, and so forth, then strung it up over a high tree limb to keep it away from bears. We’d been warned—by our elders and by neighboring campers—that the animals raided unprepared campsites at night. So, we prepared!

A neat camp is a happy camp—that was our motto—a place for everything and everything in its place. Before bedding down in the tent, we scrubbed and cleaned everything but the site’s tree moss. When finished, our campsite could have been featured on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens.

My last act before zipping up the tent was to raise the canvas bag as high as I could reach, tying it firmly down. Then we settled down for the night, proud and comfy.

Hours later, we heard the noise of a bear on the prowl. The damned thing made a beeline for us, and we listened nervously as it noisily set about redecorating our site. A neighbor heard the commotion, shined his flashlight on the beast, and forcefully said something like, “Scat! Shoo! Beat it!”

According to his report the next morning, the bear glared back at him and growled—whereupon the camper lowered his flashlight beam and quietly went on his way. His only other comment: “It was a big bear!”

The noises Mr. Bruin made while raiding us were pretty disconcerting: scrapes, bumps, bangs, woofs, and grunts. Then we heard him scratching his claws on canvas. I thought he was trying to rip open our tent. Grabbing a small hatchet, I asked Ann, “Do you think I should go out and chase him away?”

She saved my life, saying “No, let’s wait for him to leave on his own.”

Things finally quieted down, and I was tempted to peek outside, to survey the damage. But, it occurred to my rattled brain that Mr. Bruin might be quietly lurking behind a big rock in our campsite, waiting to ambush me, so I dropped that idea and waited for dawn, for the camp to come alive with friendly people.

What we saw when leaving our tent was carnage! Everything scattered; most edibles consumed. That bear had terrible table manners.

Our firmly latched cooler was wide open, and we deduced that Mr. Bruin had dragged the heavy thing to the top of the big rock and let it roll down, doing so over and over until it opened. He was rewarded with a can of Crisco and other appetizing items, which he devoured. The cleanest thing remaining in our campsite that morning was the Crisco can, which he’d ripped open and licked spotless.

Seeing the damage on the ground, I looked up at the canvas bag hung from a tree limb, expecting to find it ripped to shreds and thoroughly emptied. Nope. It was intact. Close inspection revealed claw marks at the bottom of the bag, which accounted for the canvas scratching we’d heard in the night, fearing Mr. Bruin was trying to invade our tent.

Apparently, the bear tried to tear the canvas bag open, but every time he clawed at it, the bag swung away like a pendulum. I’m guessing the bear departed in a pretty grumpy mood.

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