Alone in the Woods ... Bearly : At last, a few days away from the stress of the city. Hey, what was that noise in the bushes?

“Watch out for Hanta virus,” warned my husband, the non-camper.

“Remember the forest belongs to the wild things that live there,” chided my son who respects wild things.

“Be r-e-a-l-l-y careful of the Big Bad Wolf,” chirped my 5-year-old granddaughter.

Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah, Zip-A-Dee-Ay, My oh my, what a wonderful day. In a closed car, going 58 mph up Interstate 5 away from Los Angeles, this 58-year-old voice sounded pretty good solo.

Through the Grapevine and on to Bakersfield. No rush. No worries.

At Giant Forest Lodge in the Sequoia National Park, a friendly woman handed me directions to my cabin. A sign, behind her, caught my eye: DO NOT FEED THE BEARS. “Who would want to feed a bear?” I said to myself.

*

At 7 a.m., I awoke to the gentle sounds of birds. No lunches to pack, no meetings to plan.

I pulled on my sweatsuit, brushed my teeth, put on sunscreen and mosquito repellent. With a water bottle in my backpack, I was ready to experience the tranquillity of the forest.

“Moro Rock,” a sign read. I stood tall, looked up the trail and accepted the invitation.

I reached down to pick up two walking sticks. Waving them over my head like a warrioress, I called out to the ghost of my childhood. “I am Jane, you are Tarzan.” My brothers and I spent most of our spare time in the woods near our house imitating childhood heroes.

We are marching to Pretoria, Pretoria, Pretoria.

The sky is a great audience. Swinging my sticks back and forth made me feel powerful.

As I walked on, the branches of a sequoia ahead of me began shaking. Its cones fell like hail on the forest floor. The barrage didn’t make sense. It wasn’t windy. I couldn’t see anything unusual. Yet, it shook violently. I put my walking sticks over my head and ran through.

The cones continued to fall behind me as I approached an inviting log. I had been walking more than two hours, and felt hot and tired. It was about 9:30 a.m. I sat down, opened my backpack and took out my water.

I noticed a bluebird, a meandering butterfly and some half-eaten red berries on a thorny bush nearby. I heard what sounded like the intrusive sound of a passing car in the distance and the sound of what I assumed were park rangers building something. About five minutes went by; I was thinking of taking a nap.

*

Suddenly a loud thump ripped away my serenity and catapulted me into life-threatening danger. A black bear dropped out of the tree I’d just passed and began walking toward me on all fours. I felt so dumb. No wonder the tree was shaking and the berries were half-eaten.

My insides started screaming. But, my mouth wouldn’t move. My body wanted to run. But I couldn’t outrun a bear.

I thought I was having a heart attack. A bad childhood case of rheumatic fever had left me with an irregular heartbeat. “Nothing to worry about,” my doctor said, “just leaky valves.” Wrong! I definitely had something to worry about.

Terrified, I turned my back on the bear and staggered in the direction from which I thought I had heard the car.

My thoughts raced back and forth, up and down like a television screen out of focus. I knew everyone would be mad at me if I got eaten by a bear.

I walked with fierce determination, waved my sticks over my head and sang: Whenever I feel afraid, I hold my head erect, and whistle a happy tune, so no one will suspect, I’m af-fraaaid.

Off the path, weaving in and out of obstacles, I sloshed into marshland. Frantically, I looked over my shoulder, hoping the bear was gone. Wrong! He was 20 feet away, slowly closing ground. Shock waves rolled through my body. My knees felt weak.

*

A fallen tree appeared out of nowhere to create a 40-foot bridge over the marsh. Could I balance on it? I’d been a dancer . . . 30 years ago! Could I cross and get beyond the marsh to where I was hoping against hope there was a road and people, and escape? I stepped up and prayed Mr. Bear would be too big for this small balance beam.

Knees shaking . . . I teetered across the tree . . . slipped and fell . . . scrambled back up and shakily went on. Bear’s footfalls competed with my pounding heart. He was on the tree. Perfectly balanced. Fifteen feet away. Barnum & Bailey would have hired him in a flash.

African drums began to beat wildly inside my heart. I wondered why a search and rescue party didn’t carry me out of this morning nightmare. Where was Tarzan of the jungle when I needed him?

Suddenly, I heard a deep booming voice inside my head. “Do you want to live?” It was jarring. I wondered if, indeed, I really had a choice. I reached the end of the log and jumped off.

YES, YES, YES! I turned around and angrily stared the bear straight in the eye. I pounded my walking sticks over my head and shouted. “I will not miss my daughter’s acting debut. I will not miss my son’s cooking at his new restaurant. I will not miss my husband’s new musical show. I will not miss my granddaughter’s next birthday. Now, GO AWAY!”

I turned and tore through undergrowth, bushes scratching, snagging my clothes. I went on as if the bear were still behind me, climbed a small, 20-foot embankment and, too numb to move, watched a car drive by. I looked back. I couldn’t see the bear, but I could feel him in the brush, his eyes still following me.

Frantically, I flagged down another car and scrambled into the metal womb . . . grateful to be alive. The people in the car were tourists, a young European couple, driving around looking for bears.