My husband and I traveled to the Great Smoky Mountains to spend a week with friends. Even before we arrived, our rental host sent an email outlining the strict policy of not feeding the bears and why it was important.
The house we rented sat perched on the ridge overlooking Gatlinburg. It was stunning. We gathered that first evening around the thirty-foot island in the kitchen. A cool breeze wafted in through the open front door as each of us arrived and unloaded our things.
I was coming from our bedroom when I heard shouting. “Get inside and lock the door. Hurry!”
Outside was a large, male black bear lumbering up the drive. He made a circuit by the garbage and around each vehicle, sniffing and inspecting.
We took photos.
Seeing a bear in the Smokies is a highlight. Seeing one in the wild (as opposed to rooting through a dumpster) is special. Having one come to your front door and stare inside—terrifying.
When the bear wandered away, I went outside and watched him wander around the neighboring house and then down into the woods. A couple of our friends shouted for me to return inside. They viewed my actions as careless and stupid. They were neither. I just wasn’t afraid. The bear wasn’t after me. He’d moved on.
Before returning inside, I ensured we left no food in the car and locked the doors. Checking twice.
The next morning, we awoke to find the door to one of the vehicles standing open. They’d left their car unlocked. Bits of paper and other odd items were scattered across the interior.
A bear had opened the back door and climbed in. He punched a hole through the console with a clawed finger and pried the lid open, breaking the latch. Rummaged through the contents and left. Beyond the console, the only other damage was a soggy back seat.
Our friend swore the damp didn’t smell.
I didn’t check.
A bear, sometimes two, visited our rental every evening. Some mornings, dirty paw prints were found on vehicle doors—they never scratched the paint.
I’ve been thinking about that moment on the driveway since we got home. Not the bear—the shouting. Don’t get too close. You’re being careless. Don’t put yourself at risk.
Based on my assessment, my actions were reasonable. But I was outside, and they were in, and from behind the window my actions looked reckless in a way they didn’t feel from the driveway.
I’ve heard many of those same warnings before. In fact, they exist in the recent chapters I edited this month in Hope and Madness.
Sierra Mason lives on the driveway. Her sister, Hope, has bipolar disorder. The disease is scary and unpredictable. Her sister is not.
Sierra is not reckless. She is informed in a way that doesn’t translate to people who haven’t been outside. The people and institutions look on from inside, safe, separated by glass that distorts the picture. They tell her she doesn’t know what she’s doing. They tell her a reasonable person would step back.
She knows what happens when no one goes outside.
Mental Health Awareness Month exists, in part, because the view from inside — the clinical distance, the institutional remove — has historically been mistaken for objectivity. It isn’t always. Sometimes the person on the driveway, the one being called careless, is the one who actually knows what the situation requires.
The bear never scratched the paint. Whatever damage the systems in this novel cause, it is not that precise, and it is not that careful.