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In “Man’s Search for Meaning,” writer and “Logotherapist” Viktor Frankl talks of his experience in the brutal Nazi prison camps, and how he was able to transcend the daily squalor, banality and brutality there. One day, on yet another forced march to a day of hard labor, he thought of his wife. He said,

I did not know whether my wife was alive, and I had no means of finding out (during all my prison life there was no outgoing or incoming mail); but at that moment it ceased to matter. There was no need for me to know; nothing could touch the strength of my love, my thoughts, and the image of my beloved. Had I known then that my wife was dead, I think that I would still have given myself, undisturbed by that knowledge, to the contemplation of her image, and that my mental conversation with her would have been just as vivid and just as satisfying. “Set me like a seal upon thy heart, love is as strong as death.”

He goes on to explain in his book that finding meaning in the pure passions heals the sick soul in almost any condition. Frankl went through some of the worst suffering ever known in the whole human experience, and spent the rest of his life treating patients with “Logotherapy,” or treatment by finding meaning.

Logotherapy has made its way into tourism. Even when living conditions are good, people yearn for meaning in their lives. Carla Santos, a professor of Sports and Tourism at the University if Illinois, talks of “Genealogical Tourism” and “Cultural Tourism.” She says that many travelers are looking for the charm of antiquity or a peek into ancestors’ lives. She’s onto something, and although it would do her a world of good to read a Strunk & White 4 or 5 times, and maybe never pick up J.P. Sartre again,  she has a point in all of her tortured academic syntax: “Genealogical tourism provides an irreplaceable dimension of material reality that’s missing from our postmodern society.” Translation: “in a confusing world, people are looking for authenticity and meaning.” Given the few dreadful quotes attributed to her, I think save myself the irritation of parsing her orotund syntax and skip her article in the Journal of Travel Research, but I’ll run with the ideas.

Here are a few notions of what a trek for meaning might be

• Hiking or driving to pictographs, petroglyphs, and pre-Columbian ruins to look into another age. See a different facet of the human experience, and enjoy their art. Talk about the “Charms of Antiquity.”
• Visting ancestral villages and cemeteries. Someday I’ll travel to the Isle of Man just to see where some of my ancestors walked.
• Walk along a stretch of the Old Spanish Trail.
• Revisit the Muley Twist in Canyonlands. I don’t have any ancestors that I know of that used that route to go from west to east across southern Utay, but I’m taken by the story.
• Spend a few days and nights in Canyonlands Salt Creek to see the wall paintings and Ancient Puebloan ruins.

You get the idea.

I hope that the apps I have out so far for Utah’s peaks and national parks help some people find meaning, and I’m just getting started!

For most of my life I’ve camped and hiked in Utah, and never gave bears much thought. None of us bothered with about keeping a clean camp. A few years ago, on a trip to the Olympic Peninsula, the rangers harangued us straight on the ursine issue, and we toed the line. We put our chow in bags, clipped them to pulleys and hoisted them up on systems rigged up at each campsite. In California, on the trails to Mount Whitney, same thing. We got all kinds of “scared straight” talk about bears. They’ll rip your car open. They’ll sniff bar soap and if it’s in your car, rip it open. Of course, after all the stern warnings, we never saw any.

Back in Utah, we let our guard down again. Sure, on long treks I didn’t break open the sardine tins, not wanting to be a walking infomercial for convenient snacking products, and I didn’t take anything into the tent, but I didn’t do much else. At least I didn’t rub myself down with bacon grease before turning in for the night, but my diligence didn’t go much beyond that.

For the last 2 years here in Utah, either my number is up, or there are more bars out thar than there used to be. A couple of summers ago, my brother Tom went with some scouts to the Uintas and they came across a young bear in Painter Basin. Tom said they tried to throw the bear a scout to pacify it, but it just turned up its nose at the offering, wanting something with more meat. A bear that doesn’t want to mess with people is exactly the sort you want. And you don’t want them to figure out, like their California cousins have, that campers are meals on two feet, or that minivans have better eats inside than Corollas.

In Utah there have been a few nasty incidents over the years, including the 2009 attack in Desolation Canyon, when Louis Downard, 78, was attacked by an aggressive bear while sleeping in a cot in a remote campsite. Downer fils plugged the bear with a .45, and the bear didn’t get more than half a football field away before dropping dead. (Mr. Downard is doing all right now, stitched up and apparently no worse for the gnawing.) As a young man Downard had spent spent 17 years of his life at the Rock Creek Ranch, but now in his golden years, he discovered that something had changed.

Late last summer, Tom was riding his mountain bike on a trail near the Alpine Loop, and almost ran his fat tires across the back of an ursine in repose. The bear was not happy about almost getting tread marks up its back, and voiced its vigorous disapproval. Tom, for his part, could only manage to scream like Sponge Bob, at least for a few minutes. His riding buddy soon arrived at the scene and made the screaming a duet. The bear stomped off, turning its head back towards the human interlopers to voice his disapproval a few more times.

A few months later, on a day hike back from Mount Waas (Utah High Point #4, the highest in Grand County, and one of the La Sal’s 12,000-footers), Tom looked up at a talus slope and picked out a black shape moving about there. We all stood there and looked at the critter above us, and guessed that maybe it had been flipping rocks, looking for bugs or rodents underneath. I had never seen a bear in the wild before. It was a thrill.

The bear didn’t act menacing, but just sat there and looked at us, and we just stood there and looked back at it. My brother Bill got out his bear spray, just in case it decided to come down and rumble. Tom unholstered his 357 Magnum lead-based bear repellent dispenser, a recent acquisition since the previous encounter, as a precaution. There was no fracas, just a little mutual ogling between the quadruped and the bipeds. It was a great way to end a fine October day. I’d hate to be sleeping up there with a bag full of food in my tent though, and even if the grub is outside, I don’t want the bear to get it.

I decided then that if I ever camp in the backcountry in the La Sals, I’m going to take something to keep Señor Oso away from camp. What about the old Boy Scout idea of tying your chow bag up in a tree? Too much bother, and I think most of these improvisations won’t work anyway. Bears can climb trees and yank on cords.

So, what piece of gear will I pick up for the next trip? There’s a great article in Wired about bear gear, and the testers devised an excellent test: fill the products full of tasty grub and throw them in the bear enclosure at the local zoo. All four products they tested survived both attacks from bears, and for good measure, an enclosure full of rowdy orangutans. None of these critters, even the ones with opposable thumbs, could break into the chow.

The thing I think I want to add to my gear collection is the BearVault BV500 Food Container, shown below. 700 cubic inches makes for enough room for the chow. Bears can’t get it open, and tire of trying. It’s tough, and they can’t smash the contents while they’re trying. I think a con is that it will take up lots of room in the backpack, but it still seems the best choice.

Honorary Mention, for backpackers at least,  goes to the Ursack S29, a tough sack that critters can’t tear open. Sacks are nice because they’re easier to deal with inside the pack. The problem with it is that you have to stake it down or the bear will just take it away. If it is staked, the bear can still chomp on the bag and turn the contents into a blob of goo.

What about car camping? There’s something for that as well: the Yeti Tundra 45-quart cooler.

So, besides the usual bear safety rules, what’s the best extra thing to do? I’m going to add the BearVault to my gear checklist.

Someone sent me a link to this great video and I thought I’d pass it on. Most of us don’t do this kind of stuff, but it’s nice to know that there are those who will do it while the rest of us watch in comfort from the safety of our workplaces, and at least think about raring back on our hind legs every now and then to to totter around Utah’s spectacles.