The Visitation, Described

We were sitting quietly on our patio last night, enjoying the evening, reading our books. It was around 11:30 which, in our neighborhood, is the time of night when only the crickets are making noise. The lights in the neighbor's windows gradually begin to go out. An occasional car goes by on the road below the house. We had been reading for about 15 minutes when Jen gave a little yelp...

A little backstory would be helpful here. We live in the foothills at the edge of the Los Angeles basin. This places us in a sort of no-man's-land between the wilderness of the mountains and the wilderness of the city. There is a bit of overlap between the two and we are in it. In our case, for example, we have found ourselves overlapped by a whole tribe of raccoons. We sometimes think of them as intruders, especially at 3am when we are trying to sleep and they are going about their business playing, fighting, engaging in reproductive activities, and doing community theater on the roof of the house. Of course, they probably feel the same about us when we get home from work at 5:30pm and start banging the pots and pans while they're trying to sleep off their hangovers from the afterparty the night before.

Last weekend the little scratching sound I heard in the tree as I was walking into the house turned out to be 6 pairs of eyes sitting in a row a few feet above my head.

Now, the relationship between the Raccoon Bandit Tribe and Jen has been tenuous at best. Part of it comes from their habit of springing out from around the corner of the house when you least expect it. Doesn't make for peace between the clans. She is gradually getting used to the surprises, but the peace is still a little shaky.

So, last night, when we were sitting outside reading our books and she gave out a strange yelping sound, I didn't spring into action immediately, vaguely assuming that the Bandit Tribe had made another appearance. Besides, I was in a really good part of my story.

But it was something different this time and, although in reality it took only a second or two, the next few moments seemed to last a long, long time.

First, she yelped.

Second, I remembered the Bandit Tribe and, weighing it against the sentence I was currently absorbed in, decided to stay with the sentence.

Next, my mind replayed the moments immediately preceding, like backing up the CD to hear a cool part a second time. As the soundtrack played again, I heard above the sound of the crickets a strange snapping, rustling sound.

This rustling sound was immediately associated with the pile of leaves just around the corner. Which was immediately associated with something significantly larger than the neighborhood coon. Which caused me finally to look up from my book.

At this point, I crossed into that abstract state of mind which is more common when you are woken up in the middle of night by a strange dream. Or when you've stayed up the whole night and you can't remember how to unscrew the toothpaste or take a shower. What I was seeing with my eyes was not making sense to my mind.

On the step, within spitting distance from our chairs, head down, all four feet on the ground, was a black bear.

He was big, taller at the shoulder than the hood of my car. Jen's noise and our simultaneous leaping to our feet caused him to stop. His head came up and he looked at us in that blurry bear fashion for a moment. Jen dove for the door just as he dove backward and by the time she was inside, he was heading back up the street in the direction he had come. A minute later we heard him in the brush on the other side of the house. We turned off the lights and watched him as he dropped down the hill, walked along the back porch of the neighbor's house, around the corner, and into the night.

Then we felt each other's pulses and relived the experience. I started looking around for a big stick to keep on the front porch.

Jen, on the other hand, went back outside and resumed reading her story. I love that woman.

And that's the story of last night.