The Summer The Thimbleberries Failed

The thimbleberries failed this year. All of them. At least all that I could see here, a trail usually choked with a jungle of small red fruit.

I run my hands over their green leaves, whose vigor belies the lack of sustenance. I think of the bears and what they’re going to eat. Strangely, they seem to leave the thimbleberries on this trail alone, like they do the strawberry and raspberry plants in my garden. Though in less-traveled places, in more remote locations, they assuredly eat them. But I fear that in those hypothetical oases, for these struggling generalists, they failed, too. 

The bears have been acting strangely this year. Earlier this spring, a yearling came onto our deck and tried mightily to open our sliding glass door in broad daylight, all as my daughter ate a messy lunch from her highchair while Ted looked on with awe. Town was filled with reports all summer of skinny, desperate bears taking chances, entering homes, aggressively looking for anything to eat. A black bear was even sighted eating another just off the town bike path. The occurrence is not uncommon, but was nonetheless unsettling.

People have been acting strangely, too, but like we normally do around bears. After a few beers with an old friend last week, I rode a mostly empty night line back toward home. Walking from the bus stop up the block’s boardwalk, constructed in the 1980s, I spied a bear walking down an alley, toward the street, bobbing its head as it anxiously scanned its concrete environs. I stopped behind a metal fence to spectate for a moment, and was soon joined by a dozen fellow inebriates, dressed in vacation paisley, leaving their mountain dinners to film the hungry bear on their smartphones.

One of many we’ve gawked at downtown. 

All the while, the thimbleberries didn’t come.

I reach the top of my run, a quick left turn up to another trail that crests high above the creekbed and winds along an exposed ridge. There’s no hiding from the sun up there. My feet falter as my mind wanders, impaired by the heat and the exertion. Yards go by on the crunchy, dusty trail. I dodge small roots and rocks. I think of nothing, then the catharsis of my therapy session earlier in the day, then back to nothing. 

I think about dipping my shirt in the creek. I wonder about eating the fitness gummies in my pocket. I stress about my flight tomorrow. All as I descend, back to the creek barely trickling, by the barren plants and hidden bears. Back to my air-conditioned office and refrigerated food.

Past the collapse. For now.

About The Last Chair Column

This article was written by POWDER writer Jack O’Brien for his bi-weekly ‘Last Chair’ column. Click here or below to read the previous column.