23/7: In Canada, I heard story upon story about the bears. Apparently, they were everywhere. Just not where I happened to be.
By the time I reached California, I had given up on the hope of seeing a real wild American bear. In Sequoia National Park there were signs about bears everywhere, but I thought they didn’t mean much.
But on our way down from Moro Rock, two cars were standing by the narrow road with people leaning out of the windows. And when I looked up into the forest, I saw it.
A bear.
A live, wild black bear, walking through the shrub.
It was smaller than I thought it would be. Maybe it was young. And it didn’t seem to care one bit about us. It didn’t even bother to look our way. Cool bear.
Folks, I’ve seen a Californian bear. And why not, California had already given me so many other things. Why be stingy with the animal that adorns the Californian state flag.
Katja Malmborg 