Now I know how a bear would feel. . .

©2012 Lydia Hinshaw

Don't leave home without it

  WEST GLACIER, MT -- This week I learned what it feels like to inhale bear spray.
 It was not as exciting as it sounds (there was no bear involved), and it certainly wasn't much fun.
 In these parts, all hikers are encouraged to carry the pepper-based stuff, and I often pick up hikers along my Going-to-the-Sun Road bus run.  No doubt I've transported dozens of bear spray cans over the course of the summer without incident. Our vehicles have no luggage compartments, so everything has to ride with the passengers.
 Tuesday, I picked up a friendly young man from Texas at the Loop, a popular trail-head named for the switchback turn the road takes at that point.
 We were exchanging small talk and he was fumbling around with his hiking gear when he suddenly coughed and asked me to open a window.
 At the same instant, I realized there was sometime terribly wrong with the air I was breathing.  My whole respiratory system was tingling.
 I hit both buttons to lower the front windows as I asked my only passenger if his bear spray had discharged.
 "Yes, it fell on the floor and a little came out," he said.
 Turns out, he was right and this became a minor incident.
 But at the time, I had to assume that the whole aerosol can had failed and might empty itself in the confines of a 12-passenger Dodge Sprinter van.  This stuff is formulated to chase off a grizzly, and I feared that in a few more seconds I would not be in any shape to  drive.
 And at the time, I was driving along a narrow ledge, with an unforgiving rock wall to the left and thin air to the right.  There aren't many places to get off the road, and the few places available tend to be packed with tourists' vehicles.
 I got lucky.  Within a quarter of a mile there was a spot just big enough to get the bus out of the traffic lane.
  Concentrate.
  Put transmission in park.
  Set brake.
  Open passenger door.
 "Get that bear spray off the bus," I rasped and the two of us bailed out.
 The tiny amount of bear spray had given me a quick case of laryngitis.
 My passenger, who didn't seem to be similarly affected, was apologizing profusely, over and over again.
 I was walking around, breathing the fresh air and trying to tell him it was OK, I knew it was an accident. When I tried to speak, nothing would come out.  When I made an extra strong effort to talk, I could manage a hoarse whisper.
 I needed to let my dispatcher know my location and what had happened, but there was no way I was going to get on the radio.  Everyone who could hear me would think I was dying.
 I decided instead to flag down the driver behind me.  We travel about five minutes apart, so it wasn't long before my co-worker Mark arrived.
 Taking a deep breath, I told him what had happened, that I thought I was all right, but I planned to stay in this spot until I got my voice back, and the bus thoroughly aired out.
 Mark bravely volunteered to take on my passenger, and his can of bear spray, which was now behaving itself.  This was fine with me.  After they left he radioed in my situation to our bosses.
 After ten minutes of fresh air I could speak normally again, and could detect no residue of pepper spray in the bus.  So I closed the doors and finished up my last run of the day, although I was not permitted to carry any more passengers, "just in case."
 I suffered no lasting effects from my minor bear-spray encounter, but I'm hoping there won't be a next time.