Maced in Montana

Annually, my parents and I take a short vacation to northern Montana to visit my grandfather. This persnickety old bugger lives half the year in Montana and the other half in New Zealand (of course, the better perennial halves of both years, he wouldn't have it any other way.) Most family vacations, by the Griswold family stereotype generally consist of the following:

Large awkward meals
Children fighting
More large awkward meals
Adults fighting

These trips aren't quite the same. It's a non-TV version of man versus wild sprinkled with a lovely holiday essence.

The closest airport to my grandfather's ranch is Spokane, Washington - a pan socio-economic four hour drive from his actual residence. He never makes things easy. A vehicle passes through the following: the Aryan Nations, Ruby Ridge, the lavish lake homes of Lake Pend Oreille, the dilapidated single-wides of somewhere between Athol and Bonners. Additionally no trip to Montana is ever complete without one of the following events. Consider the following descriptions to be extremely general, let your imagination run wild:

- A mammalian or insect infestation in the guest cabin
- A mildly dangerous encounter with a large mammal
- Fires
- Guns
- Being attacked by biting / stinging insects

In previous years, there had been many "death hikes". This is what my parents and I refer to the hikes that my grandfather chooses to take us on, they end up being six hour long marches in grizzly bear habitat with only the relatively slow and benign "protection" of a handgun. Truly, guns ain't got shit on bears. It's a false sense of security, much like a Sonicare toothbrush is to dental health. Curse all those times I used one for six months and still found my mouth riddled with expensive and irritating cavities. It wouldn't be so bad if they softened my little nerve endings up with a nice breath of nitrous oxide, but oh no, I shan't be allowed such a noxious luxury.

The other method of protection against a bear is "bear gas". Bear gas is similar to the human-grade "mace", only much more powerful.

Knowing full well that our guns worked before we set out for this year's death hike (in which we were tasked by my grandfather to pick enough huckleberries to last him through the remainder of the summer, that tricky son of a bitch - he only gets away with this because he knows damn well we have nothing else to do on the ranch), we decided that we'd better test out the bear gas. Never fired, many times dropped.

My father and grandfather wrestled with it after they removed it from it's holster. I suppose it was quite a good thing they were figuring it out now. In it's incapacitated state, it wouldn't be much use as bear repellent at all. In those situations, we say, "just hope you can run faster than somebody else." But now that wouldn't be much family fun, would it? Nah, brah.

I moved away from their fumbling around, as they had frequently aimed it at my face. I thought I was being clever, predicting a possible misfire. Though seeing as how the gods of nature tend to frown upon me with a most fierce scowl, wind would soon show me who's boss.

My dad decided he'd fire off a blast to the side of the house, over the river, and away from us. It appeared that the wind was heading down stream.

Imagine the sound of an angered Lysol container. That's about what bear gas sounds like, but with some reverb.

Approximately let's see...

One-one thousand
Two-one thousand
Three-one thousand

Yes, about then, I knew what bear gas felt like.

At first it was a touch of serrano pepper on the back of my tongue. Then in no time at all, that same pepper was in my nose and in my eyes. I tried to play it cool. Acting all exercised and upset about something you can't do anything about is a big no-no in my family. But at this point, I realized I'd just been exposed to who the fuck knows how much bear gas.

"I'm getting the fuck out of here."

I took off down the porch with my mother not far behind me, who had gotten a good whiff of the gas herself and wasn't looking too good.

I ended up down by my grandfather's car near the forest when I decided the absolute worst outcome of the situation was that if this shit didn't stop stinging soon, I was going to throw up.

This is a reaction I'd never expected from mace. The stinging at the back of my throat had triggered a violent cough. As you all probably know, violent coughing often affects one's diaphragm. In which case, the impact is felt in one stomach, essentially the diaphragm is contracting and punching you in the stomach. Then it makes you barf.

I scarfed down some water in the safe, clean, non- bear gassed air of the car. It began to go away. I was free of the shackles of bear gas.

As we started the hike, not five minutes in, we spotted a nice steaming pile of black bear scat. Fresh as Dannielynn Smith.

At that point, i was happy to had inadvertently been part of the 2009 Montana Bear Gas Test Program.

I wish I could make this story more exciting, but fortunately for me and unfortunately for you, we didn't happen upon any real life human mangling bears.

I'm fairly certain that the moral I am about to impart can be applied to many dangerous and potentially harmful things (that end up being funny because they aren't lethal). Said moral of the story is this: don't test your pepper spray, just assume it works just fine.