Bear Hunting with Uncle Pastor
9/25/25

In 2024, the men of River Valley Baptist Church went on a Men’s Retreat deep into the Cranberry Wilderness. While we were there, I kept a journal of our escapades. Around the campfire, those pages were a huge hit—though I admit, some events may have been “creatively adjusted” to protect the reputations of the animals involved. Tonight, after my latest bear-hunting misadventure, I figured it was time to document the whole fiasco.

One of the things I love about hunting is the lessons you learn. Sure, there are the standard ones—checking for sign, finding the wind direction, scouting for food sources. But then there are the “unusual” lessons. Tonight was packed with those.

Lesson one: the doors on the Silverado 2500 Heavy Duty don’t mess around. It’s not just heavy duty—it’s finger-crushing, thumb-pulping, “you’re-gonna-feel-this-for-a-week” duty. Lesson two: that same door will still latch itself close, even with your thumb in it. Lesson three: stifling a scream while your thumbnail turns blacker than a Baptist preacher’s suit is also a hunting skill. (More about that thumb later.)

Because I had worked all day, I didn’t have much time to hunt. I set out at a quicker pace, scanning for sign—and then it happened. My first glorious discovery: bear scat! And let me tell you, finding bear scat is about as exciting to a hunter as seeing a constipated baby finally fill a diaper. Different facial expressions, same level of relief.

Not long after, I stumbled into a buffet of acorns so thick I couldn’t step without crunching one. Translation: I had just barged through the bears’ Golden Corral without a reservation. Great.

Here’s the eternal hunter’s dilemma: stay put or keep moving? Tonight, I made the rookie mistake of moving on. Channeling my inner Daniel Boone, I scrambled up a hill so steep my Fitbit would’ve given me a medal. Of course, with my pulse pounding like a bass drum, my mangled thumb began throbbing in cartoon rhythm—just like Tom and Jerry when the hammer drops. Not exactly a joyful summit moment.

Now, every summit comes with a relief: you still have to get back down. I chose to head north with the wind in my face, but soon found myself swallowed by brush. At first, it was easy walking. Then the thicket closed in, until I was on all fours doing a literal bear crawl through bear country. And here’s where your mind becomes your worst enemy. Why is it even called a bear crawl? Tonight, I wasn’t thinking of football drills or crawling toddlers—I was picturing myself scrambling away from the angriest, hungriest black bear in Appalachia. Every thorn felt like claws. Every vine snag felt like a paw pulling me back. Naturally, I crawled faster.

Picture it: a 47-year-old man crawling through a thorn-choked jungle, convinced he’s trespassing in a rattlesnake pit infested with copperheads, ticks, and a particularly offended black bear… all while nursing a thumb that looked like it belonged in a medical textbook under “Don’t Try This at Home.” I’ve never been so grateful to see daylight at the end of a tunnel.

At last, I found a nice stand where I could sit down, catch my breath, and pretend I wasn’t one panic attack or heart attack away from writing my obituary. The squirrels kept me company, the sun began to sink, and I felt that rare, peaceful satisfaction hunters dream about. Then, of course, the rain came.

It wasn’t heavy, but it was just enough to turn the downhill trail into a Slip ’N Slide. At one point, I was going so fast I’m pretty sure I saw tomorrow’s lunch today.

Finally, I reached the road—or rather, the cliff above the road. My options: turn into another thicket or take the express elevator straight down. Naturally, I chose Door #3: “Final Ride at the Wilderness Amusement Park.” Somehow, I made it down, walked two miles to my truck, and lived to tell the tale.

No, I didn’t see a bear. But let me tell you—this hunt wasn’t nearly as un-bear-able as this throbbing thumb.

Until the next adventure,
Uncle Pastor