It is awfully exciting to anticipate the approach of a 500 pound black bear as you set off on a hike. How often does a ranger tell you it is (and I quote) "extremely likely" that you will run into such a beast? With 11 miles of trail before us, most of which was a pretty harrowing climb, my group of '98s had plenty of other things to think about -- however, the possibility of encountering "Brutus" was certainly the most enthralling.
But we didn't see him.
Of course, we had plenty of other adventures, mostly when we least expected them. But isn't that always the case?
Fearless trip leader that I was supposed to be, I have a confession to make. I am afraid of bears. And I knew it wouldn't be easy to stay calm when face to face with this one.
The proverbial beasts I actually had on my mind weren't furry, bumbling vegetarians, though. I was trying to remember, as we hiked those first several miles, what it was like to arrive in Hanover as a Dartmouth student for the first time. What did I expect and want to know? What did my trip's experience lack that I could offer these eight '98s? What "bears" would they actually need protection from?
I realized, as I imagined Brutus on the trail behind us, next to us, even in the trees (quite a feat for a 500-pound creature!), that there are an awful lot of myths about bears -- and at least as many stories about the first year of college. There are myths about everything: the "freshman 15" and the "Thayer layer," mystery foodstuffs, phone troubles, bad roommate stories, horrible administrators who secretly hate college students, pressure to look good and be nice and to drink so much you forget your way home. The stereotypes you feel obligated to perpetrate because you don't know otherwise. Traditions to uphold. Classes to organize, people to know...
I read to my group from the "Bear Behavior" pamphlets the ranger gave me. The "rules" became a sort of joke; we ate food inside of Brutus' territory, wondered aloud whether he could smell Kool-Aid, walked along in a big pack calling, "He-ere, Brutus!" The crowning joke was the attempt to actually lift the garbage bag into which we had put all our food (like good little bear-aware backpackers). It wouldn't budge.
I have to say that the "established" guidelines for surviving your first year at Dartmouth are about as useful. We as "upperclassmen" (a horrible, separatist term) love to jabber about the things we remember doing, those we expect '98s to do also -- partly because we enjoy watching it, partly because it is reassuring to see others partake in the same foolery.
But I'd rather see my trippees do their own thing and not subscribe to tradition just because it is there. Salty Dog if you want to. Build bonfires if you want to. Shout that one line of the Alma Mater if you really want to. But know what you are doing when you do; know that not all of these are harmless traditions, and not everyone thinks you should keep them all. Pick the ones that actually unite the community, and feel free to discard the others.
The most frightening thing about Brutus was his reported size (twice that of other black bears!). On the other hand, our greatest advantage was our brains. So if I had one bit of advice to give the '98 through-hikers, it would be this: use your brains. Traditional Dartmouth might seem massive, but you don't have to curl into a little ball and let it walk over you. Make it change its course to accomodate you.
You have nothing to fear when you keep your senses tuned to the rustlings and appetites of the wilderness. Welcome to Dartmouth.
