The previous afternoon we’d driven into a fully loaded campground on the edge of Yellowstone National Park and decided to act on a tip from a mostly drunk, and definitely insane camp host, who gave us a map he’d scribbled on a piece of scrap paper. “Big timber up there” He said, pointing to a mountain range rising a cool two thousand feet above us. “Beautiful in there. It’s the best…the best bear country you can drive a vehicle into.” We had nowhere else to stay, and a sideways mention of a creek along the entry road was enough to warrant a look. As we sat there the next morning, shivering, trying again and again to get the van to turn over, the stress and anxiety of our situation almost reached a state of euphoric transcendence. I was reminded of the previous night when Aimee and I were cooking s’mores over a modest fire when in my periphery I noticed a large, brown shape lumbering towards us. “Aimee.” I said sternly. “Animal…BIG animal!” We immediately sprung up and made a dash at the van for safety. “It’s locked!” I yelled, “Where are the keys?!” she screamed in a panic. The shape drew nearer as we franticly fumbled in our pockets while simultaneously clawing at the door handles. Just as the headline “TWO CAMPERS DEAD! Eaten alive in best bear country you can drive a vehicle into!” was flashing before my eyes the light of the fire illuminated the big mule deer buck, and our panic instantaneously transitioned into laughter and relief. “This is why we are here.” I thought to myself as I stopped to give the van a rest from the relentless ignition cranking. “We’re here to have an adventure.”