There are a few moments in life when time slows down just enough for you to realize you’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake — like those students who just committed to Columbia. For me, that moment came somewhere between my face getting blasted with bear spray and a real live bear showing up outside my tent. But let’s rewind.
It started as a simple camping trip. Me, my brother, and nothing but untouched wilderness. We were deep in the woods — like four hours from the nearest city, deep. Think towering mountains, alpine lakes, no cell service and no one else around for miles. It was beautiful, serene and a little bit dramatic in that nature-romance kind of way. I was thriving. First night of the trip and the morale was high.
My brother, a seasoned stoner, naturally brought an edible with him. I, an innocent soul with no experience whatsoever in the realm of weed, thought: Why not? We’re in the woods. We’re vibing. What’s the worst that could happen?
Oh, sweet, naive me.
My brother, bless his enthusiastic heart, gave me what I would later learn was far too much for a beginner. Like, astronomical amounts. “It’ll hit in a bit,” he said casually. Forty-five minutes later, I was clinging to the earth like it might launch me into space. My brain was doing somersaults, my vision was a Jackson Pollock painting, and I could hear everything — everything — at once.
“Come sit in the car,” my brother said. “It’ll help you relax.”
It did not help me relax.
You see, he had the bear spray in his pocket. Unlocked. He sits down, and the can decides it’s time for chaos. The spray goes off, directly into my very confused, very overstimulated face. Suddenly, I’m not just high out of my mind in the woods. I’m high in the woods and my face is on fire. My skin is peeling, my eyes are screaming and my mind keeps spinning. I’m four hours away from the closest hospital. My brother is panicking. I’m panicking. I kept saying, “Are it end,” which was the best my fried brain could come up with for “make it stop.”
To his credit, he really tried. He helped me wash off, brought me water and guided me back to the tent like a charred, stunned little forest creature. Eventually, I crashed, probably more from exhaustion than anything else. I remember thinking: “Okay. That was a lot. But it’s over now. Nothing else could possibly happen.” — Right?
Spoiler alert: It got worse.
Some indeterminate time later, I woke up to a screech. A horrible, soul-chilling screech. My eyes blink open, puffy and crusty from the pepper spray, and I notice ... a shadow. A very large, very bear-shaped shadow. Literally right next to me. Inches away. Just me, a thin piece of tent fabric, and a wild black bear, all vibing together in the moonlight.
“There’s a f*cking BEAR at our tent!” my brother shrieks.
Now, under normal circumstances, I would’ve lost my mind. I love the outdoors. I’ll do a 20-mile hike like it’s nothing. But a bear? Next to my face? No way. I would’ve run for my life.
But high-me? High-me was like, “Huh?”
I barely processed it. Just sat there, blinking slowly while this 400-pound predator contemplated its next move. Luckily for us, it was a black bear. Skittish. Loud noises scared it off. My brother yelled enough for the both of us, and the bear scampered off into the dark trees, probably equally confused.
When I woke up again the next morning, I genuinely couldn’t tell if it had all really happened or if I had just lived through the most bizarre, terrifying National Geographic trip in my head. But the burns on my skin were real. The peeling was real. And the edible? Still kind of real. 12 hours later, I was still high. The only thing that had changed was that I now had firsthand knowledge of how it feels to be attacked by a bear while chemically impaired. Great.
I have no idea what I learned from that night, other than never trust a stoner’s dosage judgment and never assume your brother’s bear spray is safely locked. But hey — at least it makes for one hell of a 4/20 story.
Guess who wrote this? is a member of a class in a college in a university. They dabble in some form of work for a newspaper. They can be reached at an email.
Editor’s Note: 4/20 content is a part of The Sun’s joke issue and contains exaggerated and factually inaccurate information.
