A Guide to the Bears

At the base of the mountain, just outside the Great Smoky Mountain National Park, survives a rustic, yet predominant, tourist destination. The city itself is considered trashy, with the history of the place being low-brow. But each individual road off the main city is one that leads deeper into the culture of this mountainous world. This is the path that you’ll be taking, through the woods and the city. It’ll lead you on to the great mountain peak—where I am—if you follow my instructions.

Turning left off of Main St., you are greeted by a forest of silence. This silence is only broken by the motorcyclists who treat the disintegrating one-way road as a perfectly solid two ways. If you drive along the crumbling roadside cliffs for long enough, you can leave the motorcyclists in a fit of rage at your having followed them for such an extended period. The danger of the cliffs immediately gives way to the fording crest of waterfalls, locked in a perfect atmosphere of glade-fresh mountain air. Tiny particles of spray leap up, dousing everything in their presence, making rocks slick and faces numb no matter the season. Watch your step, or you will feel too intently these mossy daggers. The spray’s visage turns snow-like as the intensity and depth of its fall increases, causing all flavors of the year to appear in tandem. The leaves fall golden into the fray, leaving the sun to beat upon your back as you lean to look at the flowers flourishing in the constant moisture. The local birds squawk their discontent at the roaring of humanity’s glee, as it disrupts their hunt and slumber. The chirrups add to the glade’s character, yet you can’t help but think the situation is sour, tainted by the palpable grievance. Returning to the main pathway, you can take a left after a distance of about 7,000 feet. This will take you to a number of places, but if you stop here, the best place to go is to the Mountainside Bar. It is named aptly, for the interior of the tavern is carved from a giant rock that was thrown to the base of the mountain. The ceiling is jagged and rough, and the current proprietors deemed that adding bits of broken bottles from midnight fights outside the facility were what the ambiance had been lacking. The carved rock ensures that the drinkers are cool and shaded, and the bits of bottles reflect specks of light onto their shadowy foreheads. Elvis croons false compassion to the inhabitants who long for the empathy their lives have been lacking. Elvis doesn’t provide, but their drinks help convince them that he is enough. This spot is better than the others on the street because you can still find those who want connection in place of the hollow repetitions of that king. These people will offer provisions in turn for your ear, or the remnant glow remaining from your time in nature. You’ve seen the waterfalls just that morning—if you’ve been following my instructions—and can remind them that they’ve seen more waterfalls in their lives than they’ve seen anything else.

A description of the next road on the left will ensure that you can recognize and avoid it, as it is apt to change its location on the map. The store is simply this: a vintagestyle linens shop that imports sheets from everywhere else to fill their already-stuffed shelves. The owners have a flash sale every winter as an excuse to wipe the dust off the weathered plastic wrappers that are slowly deteriorating in the stagnant heat of the fire inside the shop. Curiously,

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10 Short Story the fire there offers no rolling waves to distinguish the movement of air currents and, consequently, there is no purification of the settling dust.

Keep following the path away from the previous road. You may be tempted to avoid this stretch of the road, but it is vital that you weather this section of pavement to heighten your enjoyment of the rest of this tour. On the thoroughfare, there is a man hired by one of the shopkeepers to follow you. He follows everyone who passes, but will focus on you when you walk through. He makes no noise, lest you heed him before he is upon you. He is nameless, and would be attractive if he were not dressed in a horrible guise. Seeming to walk on your discarded breaths, the man waits for you to slow or stumble before he jumps out at you, scoffing at your terror. Do not give him the benefit of your fear, dear traveler: there will also be a man—probably in a ten-gallon hat and a belt buckle the size of Rhode Island— who looks of no consequence. As soon as the hired man jumps out at you, this old cowboy will walk straight up to you both and communicate somehow with the other. All travelling directions have informed me not to look, and I did not look when it happened to me. You must not look. I’ve heard said that the old man lifts up his shirt to reveal a gun on a holster, but others have said it is an opal-like blade. Others say that the place where the blade was is actually a hole in his shirt, but that it scares the young man away. In all cases, the young man laughs in the face of the old and holds up his hands as a mocking sign of acquittal. His air is all in the appearance that the men were joking, but you will get the feeling that there was never any jest. Now that you’ve met these two, you are able to continue to the next side street.

The next street proffers a variety of options. Take the road to the right instead of to the left. You’ll find a conveyor belt to the summit of a well-defined slope. There is a small farm, built specifically for the enjoyment of young children, where you can pet sheep and donkeys and watch horses, tethered to a pole, walk for hours in the same circular pattern. The children can purchase balloons, which the hawkers fill clear with fire. The fire drives them upward, and their span across the sky acts as a ceiling of flame, countering the dank bar cave’s glass reflections with waves of glazing luminescence. The sky-fire burns the first layer of your skin and then stops, opting to toast some of the neighboring trees. You keep hoping the old man will come join you—but his place is not on that lower slope. After a time there, the hawkers will begin to grate upon your nerves and you can decide to return back to the main road. The chained up animals and the lack of the old man spurs you down the slope once more, and you will emerge more refreshed than you were, but slightly more disenchanted. At this point, it is in your best interests to avoid all other side streets. There is not a lot you can learn from the company met with there, but, as always, discretion is advised. You may be drawn down one of them, but remember to return. You won’t appreciate the end of the road if you’ve spent all your time on a side street.

If you follow the thoroughfare past all these side streets—right and left—down to the end of the touristic fanfare, there is a round finishing to the road with two motels on either side of a path up the mountain. The motels—50sstyle buildings with emerald green doors—are small, but there is always vacancy. The building on the left always has its lamp lit, but knock on the door of the right house. The attendant will lead you to the stream nearby to clean off. One of the other guests told me that someone died there once and they don’t need any more bloodstains on their carpets because steamers are expensive in the mountains. The attendant leading me, however, said they were more concerned about mudstains than bloodstains.

After you’ve cleaned off, which will sting more than you expect, you can get settled in your room. There is a forest on one side of the building, making it possible to feel the cool breeze while you rest. Guests can feel the atmospheric pressure of the mountains from the interior of their rooms and open their front windows to experience the same crisp, wintery air from the fresh foliage surrounding them. You will be more refreshed by this than by sleep, so try to stay awake for as long as you can. This forest is the perfect region to view the local wildlife, too, and not in caged domesticity, locked in a permanent circle of movement. These animals roam free, comfortable with humanity but never tame. There are wild cats in the trees, stalking the wild elk from above for enjoyment, as it seems they aren’t hungry. The deer wander about, outwardly lost, though they know their way.

The rooms serve as a half-way point, don’t forget this. There will come a time for you to leave, and I’ve seen guides come down the mountain for other guests during my stay here. We celebrate every time this happens, though

none of us know what is found at the precipice. Recently, when I saw a baby bear try the door handle to my room, I opened the door instead of screaming. I recognized that we were each as wild as the other, which the cub had known all along. He entered my room, sniffed around, and then left. Now, he stands on the path as others have done for former guests. I know I must follow him up the mountain, but I’m a little scared.

“Wait! Wait just a moment!” I began to carry this guide with me, but instead, I address it to you.

The bear turns his head back to me, and his coat glitters from purpureus to palatinate. It makes me ache to see it, but my eyes are fine. I’m going now, I’m going. Don’t worry about what I didn’t tell you, you’ll see. There will be others to show you the way.

My last bit of guidance: do not be afraid. The bear will find you.

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