Okay, so, it's been a while. That's the first and last time I'm going to refer to my mysterious blogosphere disappearance (read: I've just been really busy.) But, lo and behold, I have been inspired! Instead of putting up some sort of lackluster paean to, I don't know, being stressed or hating the holidays (both of which I have recently experienced) I instead want to share with you a testament -- an ode -- to the manliest man of them all. The one who doesn't so much as set me ablaze but, instead, makes me feel safe. Protected. Well-prepared for whatever life might hand me.
This guy.
If you're a Discovery Channel watcher, or an excitable 8-year-old boy, or a survival enthusiast, you recognize that snake-chewer up there as Bear Grylls of the television show Man Vs. Wild. Here is the premise of the show: Drop Bear out of a plane. Watch him fall. Watch him rock climb, slide down trees, dive into icy cold water (more on that later!), kill little animals, make fire, and find civilization. He does it all. As a former member of the British Special Forces and a certified Bad Ass (seriously, he has a license), Bear Grylls is the only person in the whole world who can keep me interested in things like Nature and, yes, even rock climbing. (Sorry, Boyfriend. Your crimps and your jugs are tame compared to what Bear does on some of those slippery, crumbling rock faces. Don't worry though, I don't hold it against you.) Still, Bear Grylls is the fluffiest of the hardcore. His sweet British pronunciations -- "I made a raahhhft out of DEH-bris and sticks!" -- and his thoughtfulness -- "I think I'll save this snake head for my little boy" -- are utterly charming. He is the perfect dichotomy of sugar and spice, of naughty and nice. A man who can slay a pig on camera but who can still tell you the proper way to slide down a knobby tree is "like a koala bear." Awww.
You may be wondering why ON EARTH I have chosen Bear Grylls as the ultimate reason for my return to blogging. Don't worry, journalism students, I haven't forgotten my hook. Today was the first episode of the new series, and though I missed it, I did watch the two reruns that followed and was quickly reminded of what Bear Grylls does to me: he makes me sit, in rapt attention, cataloguing all of the information he rattles off. Yes, Bear, I do remember what I can use to soak that turban to prevent heat stroke (hint: urine!) I am currently dropping your "how to light a fire without a flint or a match" demonstration into the safety deposit box in my brain. Instinctually, I work hard to file away each and every useful scrap of survival technique, because who knows? Life is crazy, and though I don't currently have any trips to the Mojave desert planned, you never know.
My love for Bear Grylls was sparked one night a few years ago, while babysitting my niece and nephew. My nephew, who was probably seven or eight at the time, had two current obsessions: Man Vs. Wild and Deadliest Catch, both on Discovery Channel. In fact, he could actually recite Bear's opening monologue in Bear's accent, which was both entertaining and impressive. But long after the kids had gone to sleep, I found myself transfixed, tethered to their DVR. It had never occurred to me that I might need to know how to slay a snake (bash its head with one swift blow) or locate water in the sahara. Bear knew so much, and suddenly it was apparent to me that I knew so little. Teach me, Bear, I thought, as he climbed inside the Scottish mountain goat. Teach me.
The next day after babysitting, my mom and I took the two dogs for a walk in a woodsy Connecticut park. We followed signs but soon we were wandering in circles without any hint as to where the entrance to the park was or even where we could locate picket-fenced civilization. I wish I could say it was getting dark, or late, but all I can really gripe about was the fact that we were tired and lost and the dogs were giving us looks like "Okay, walking is great and everything, but we would like some water and our beds now." That's when it came to me.
"Mom," I started, and before I knew it I was recounting Bear Grylls' every word. "If we can find moss, we'll know where the water is!" (A moot point, since we were, in fact, watching a river rush by us.) "We can extract water from elephant dung if we find a good heap of it!" (Another useless fact, considering Connecticut is home to about as many wild elephants as leprechauns.) But still, I had these facts, these tidbits of life-saving info. Eventually, we followed the sound of lawnmowers to refuge, but nonetheless I was shocked. Since when did I remember anything worthwhile or nature-y? What about Bear Grylls had stoked such a fervor for survival?
Elephant dung cocktail, anyone?
I still haven't found the answer to this riddle, to this unbridled attraction I have to Bear Grylls and his show. In truth, I don't even find him all that physically attractive. But somehow, when I watched him shed all of his clothes to wade across the icy river in Alabama, I was still interested. And then, when he came ashore, his "meat and two veg" blurred (his words, not mine), and started doing "200 press-ups" to warm his shivering body, I was in love. And not because he can do 200 press-ups, or even because he was man enough to wade across that frosty river. No. I was in love because he threw on his windbreaker and proceeded to do his press-ups pant-less, without blinking an eye, or even considering the fact that there was no need (none, whatsoever) to delay putting on his pants. It just wasn't really necessary, then and there, to wear pants. And a man who doesn't really see the value in pants... well, that's a man of my heart.
So here's to you, Bear Grylls. You swim in water with dead squirrels but you also probably drink tea and play fun games (like skin the snake!) with your little Bear cub. Because of you, I will know how to make that raft, or that grappling hook, or that animal trap when the time comes. And in my head, it will come. One day, when I am dropped out of a plane onto frozen tundra or left alone to scale mountains, I will hear you in my head, Bear, coaxing me, comforting me. "Come along, just like a koala bear," you'll say to me. Or, "Hold your kindling like a butterfly -- not too tight so you hurt it, but not too loose so that it flies away."
So profound, Bear, so profound. Not only are you a beast, but so, too, are you a poet.
