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Reporting from Glacier National Park -
No one knew what to expect on the trail to Grinnell Glacier one late summer morning, but a second bull moose less than an hour out was hardly a good sign. During September and October -- mating season -- it's always best to give the spindly-legged animals plenty of room.
That's exactly what Jenna Otter wanted to do. She wasn't of the mind to take pictures, let alone chances. If she felt safe, it was only because she was hiking with a large group.
FOR THE RECORD:
Glacier photo: A photo caption in Friday's Section A said the picture of Heidi Reindl and grizzly attack survivor Jenna Otter was taken by Johan Otter. The photo was taken by Janet Reindl. —
It was a reunion of sorts. She and her father, Johan, were joined by Heidi Reindl and Heidi's parents, brother and boyfriend. Ken Justus had taken the day off from work as well. Once strangers, the hikers were now best of friends, brought together by what had occurred three years ago in these mountains just a few miles ahead of them.
Jenna never thought returning would be easy.
The first moose saw to that. More than the others, Jenna knew how unassuming moments can quickly turn dangerous, and as the animal started to walk toward them, close enough that she could see that its antlers had been scraped of their velvet, it was beautiful and frightening all at once. When the moose saw a clear path ahead, it ran, disappearing into the brush.
The second moose acted more skittish, and it started toward them, hooves hitting the dirt like a panicking horse. Jenna bolted up the hillside, and just as quickly it veered off the path and was gone.
Three years ago, Jenna and her father were not so lucky. They had gotten an early start for the glacier, and an hour out, had encountered a grizzly that didn’t disappear in the brush. It laid into them -- like 400 pounds of lightning.
The story played well in the national media, including the Los Angeles Times. The through line -- father fights bear to save daughter -- was compelling, and Johan's recovery, for the severity of his injuries, was nothing short of miraculous. Jenna's story, however, was lost in the drama of her father's.
Although her wounds were less life-threatening, the mark on her psyche -- like the scar the grizzly left on her face -- was more pronounced and more difficult to understand, and on this clear and sunny morning in the park, surrounded by friends who had been their rescuers, Jenna hoped to regain what the bear had stolen.
'Do you guys mind if I yell out?" Jenna asked Heidi, once the moose were gone.
"Sure. Go ahead."
"Aa-oo!" she shouted, always the best precaution against surprising any animal.
When Jenna was a little girl, Glacier National Park was her favorite place in the world. She first saw it during a family vacation when she, her sister and their parents drove there from their home in Escondido. She was 8 and didn't know she'd wait 10 years before returning.
When she did, she had just graduated from high school. It was a father-daughter trip, a chance to blow off a little steam hiking in the Tetons and Glacier before she started college. Everything had been perfect until the attack. Afterward nothing was the same. She couldn't shake the memory of the bear coming right at her -- and standing right over her.
Last summer her father planned a trip to the park, his second since the attack. She went, but when he kept encouraging her to join him and a few others on a hike to the glacier, she snapped at him and stayed off the trail that day. Having recovered from his injuries -- a torn-off scalp, numerous puncture wounds and gashes, neck broken in three places, broken ribs -- Johan chose to exorcise the demons of the attack by facing them head-on. It wasn't so easy for Jenna.
She wished it was, but life was different now. She felt it as soon as she got out of the hospital, and she didn't like it. To begin with, there was all the attention she was getting -- from the "Today" show, "Good Morning America," Cosmopolitan, Animal Planet and some British magazine whose name she couldn't remember. She wanted it to stop. She kept saying that moment on the mountain wasn't going to be her 15 minutes of fame.
She had a different plan for herself, and it began freshman year at UC Irvine. She wanted to study and she wanted to dance. Her injuries -- lacerations on her chin and heel, puncture wounds on a shoulder and the back of her head, a broken tailbone and fractured vertebra -- kept her from dancing, so she poured herself into her general-ed requirements. By the second quarter she was taking 30 units, more than twice the average, had begun practicing again in the dance studio and was volunteering at Hoag Hospital.
When patients asked about the pink scar running from the corner of her mouth to her chin, she told them about the attack and used the experience to relate to their illness and discomfort. She was proud of the mark, certain she'd never have it erased by lasers. Still, it was evidence of the trauma that had fallen across her life, and occasionally she found herself caught in its unwanted eddy.
That's exactly what Jenna Otter wanted to do. She wasn't of the mind to take pictures, let alone chances. If she felt safe, it was only because she was hiking with a large group.
FOR THE RECORD:
Glacier photo: A photo caption in Friday's Section A said the picture of Heidi Reindl and grizzly attack survivor Jenna Otter was taken by Johan Otter. The photo was taken by Janet Reindl. —
It was a reunion of sorts. She and her father, Johan, were joined by Heidi Reindl and Heidi's parents, brother and boyfriend. Ken Justus had taken the day off from work as well. Once strangers, the hikers were now best of friends, brought together by what had occurred three years ago in these mountains just a few miles ahead of them.
Jenna never thought returning would be easy.
The first moose saw to that. More than the others, Jenna knew how unassuming moments can quickly turn dangerous, and as the animal started to walk toward them, close enough that she could see that its antlers had been scraped of their velvet, it was beautiful and frightening all at once. When the moose saw a clear path ahead, it ran, disappearing into the brush.
The second moose acted more skittish, and it started toward them, hooves hitting the dirt like a panicking horse. Jenna bolted up the hillside, and just as quickly it veered off the path and was gone.
Three years ago, Jenna and her father were not so lucky. They had gotten an early start for the glacier, and an hour out, had encountered a grizzly that didn’t disappear in the brush. It laid into them -- like 400 pounds of lightning.
The story played well in the national media, including the Los Angeles Times. The through line -- father fights bear to save daughter -- was compelling, and Johan's recovery, for the severity of his injuries, was nothing short of miraculous. Jenna's story, however, was lost in the drama of her father's.
Although her wounds were less life-threatening, the mark on her psyche -- like the scar the grizzly left on her face -- was more pronounced and more difficult to understand, and on this clear and sunny morning in the park, surrounded by friends who had been their rescuers, Jenna hoped to regain what the bear had stolen.
'Do you guys mind if I yell out?" Jenna asked Heidi, once the moose were gone.
"Sure. Go ahead."
"Aa-oo!" she shouted, always the best precaution against surprising any animal.
When Jenna was a little girl, Glacier National Park was her favorite place in the world. She first saw it during a family vacation when she, her sister and their parents drove there from their home in Escondido. She was 8 and didn't know she'd wait 10 years before returning.
When she did, she had just graduated from high school. It was a father-daughter trip, a chance to blow off a little steam hiking in the Tetons and Glacier before she started college. Everything had been perfect until the attack. Afterward nothing was the same. She couldn't shake the memory of the bear coming right at her -- and standing right over her.
Last summer her father planned a trip to the park, his second since the attack. She went, but when he kept encouraging her to join him and a few others on a hike to the glacier, she snapped at him and stayed off the trail that day. Having recovered from his injuries -- a torn-off scalp, numerous puncture wounds and gashes, neck broken in three places, broken ribs -- Johan chose to exorcise the demons of the attack by facing them head-on. It wasn't so easy for Jenna.
She wished it was, but life was different now. She felt it as soon as she got out of the hospital, and she didn't like it. To begin with, there was all the attention she was getting -- from the "Today" show, "Good Morning America," Cosmopolitan, Animal Planet and some British magazine whose name she couldn't remember. She wanted it to stop. She kept saying that moment on the mountain wasn't going to be her 15 minutes of fame.
She had a different plan for herself, and it began freshman year at UC Irvine. She wanted to study and she wanted to dance. Her injuries -- lacerations on her chin and heel, puncture wounds on a shoulder and the back of her head, a broken tailbone and fractured vertebra -- kept her from dancing, so she poured herself into her general-ed requirements. By the second quarter she was taking 30 units, more than twice the average, had begun practicing again in the dance studio and was volunteering at Hoag Hospital.
When patients asked about the pink scar running from the corner of her mouth to her chin, she told them about the attack and used the experience to relate to their illness and discomfort. She was proud of the mark, certain she'd never have it erased by lasers. Still, it was evidence of the trauma that had fallen across her life, and occasionally she found herself caught in its unwanted eddy.
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