Bears, Raisins and Cinnamon Roll Poop

​Yes, somehow all these things go together: Bear, raisins and cinnamon roll poop. 
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When hunting in the woods, there are many opportunities to analyze animal droppings, excrement, poop, scat, shit, whatever you would like to call it. It was one of those mornings. We found ourselves on a game trial discussing which animal had left behind the remains of the day and how you can tell the difference between their presents on the trail. Apparently, someone was hungry because there was a lovely perfectly round swirly turd which was described by Hunter 1 as the "cinnamon roll poop." What? This is where the stories began about how surely it was left behind by a bear. You see, this morning the girls had decided to hunt by themselves on the top of the mountain while the guys would work there way up from the bottom trying to push the elk to us. (At least that was the plan.) All morning long, Big Al had been encouraging his wife that we've never seen bears on this side of the mountain and there is nothing to worry about. So off we went.

Upon hiking to the top of the beaver ponds, the girls found themselves a cozy little spot just below a game trail. I was the one with the bow today and Big Al's wife was armed with calls and snacks. She was satisfied to sit and help call in any elk in the vicinity, since her pockets were filled with goodies: Raisins, fruit chews, and beef jerky.

After a short spell of sitting in silence and calling sweetly to entice any nearby elk, I turned around to check on my friend. There she was. All I saw was what looked like I'm sure to the beautiful cinnamon colored bear only 10 yards away, a crazy person flailing her arms, glasses flying to the ground, raisins scattered, running straight toward me. The bear cocked his head. Looked at her. Looked at me. Looked at her. All I remember was trying to think quickly of what the correct thing to do was. I think I pulled my bow back and yelled something smart like.. "Hey." Our cinnamon bear decided that two crazy girls wasn't worth his time. He simply turned around and sauntered away in the opposite direction.

The whole way down the mountain, all my friend could say was, "Yeah, right! There's no Fn' bears on this mountain. I'm going to kill him." Him = Big Al, her husband.

When the guys finally showed up back at the truck after dark had settled in, the story was quickly told. Big Al's response.... Let's go get a bear tag. I think Big Al is lucky to be alive after that comment.

Of course, once we were safely back at camp it made for a great campfire story... after all, a bear truly does shit in the woods, and sometimes it looks like cinnamon rolls.

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