If you’re just joining us, this is the second installment in our somewhat-epic summer journey to Yellowstone, in which I fervently hope we have a bear encounter that ends up well enough for us as well as the bear and whatever we happen to be driving. You can binge-read the whole series here.
We were discussing bear encounter survival techniques on the way out of town this morning and realized we’re all a little confused about how one is supposed to react when running into a bear. One site recommends stopping whatever it is you’re doing to assess the situation, and then identifying yourself by speaking in a calm, appeasing tone.
Were I not working with Jack on his first half marathon, I’d currently be on a very different training schedule. The Race to Robie Creek is five weeks away, and my long runs should be in the ten-mile range right now.
Jack is up to six and a half miles, adding another half every weekend, and I can’t do a ten mile run one day and then run with Jack the next, even if we go super slow.
My husband-slash-running coach says two back-to-back medium length runs will mimic the impact of the weekly long run for training purposes. He also says Girl Scout cookies don’t have calories. He’s really smart, so I’m subscribing to both premises.
Last week, Colin suggested a family ban on cussing, including his own use of profanity.
Although I appreciate his attention to the matter, our ten year-old is more disposed to biting than swearing. I suspect the focus of his ban is probably more on me cleaning up my act. I don’t have the same kind of leverage in the biting arena. No one here’s presenting him with some bad example I can remove. I can only scold him for acting like a two year-old and try to keep snacks handy in case he’s really just hungry.
I have an embarrassing parental oversight to cop to. We’ve never taken our kids to Yellowstone. All the traveling we’ve done and one of our most cherished national icons has never even been a consideration.
Technically it’s not my fault we’ve never considered this possibility. Although I was born in Boise, we lived in north Idaho for my formative years. Our family trips were mostly by boat, through the locks of the dams on the Lower Snake River to the Columbia, all four of us crammed in a 28 foot Bayliner for hours of quality time.