It seems strange that bears, so fond of all sorts of flesh

Host: The mountains stood dark and immense against the bruised sky, their peaks dusted with the last light of dusk. The wind whistled through the pines, carrying the clean, ancient scent of wilderness — a reminder that this world was here long before language, and would remain long after it.

In a clearing by the riverbank, Jack knelt beside a small fire, coaxing its flame to life. The sparks rose and vanished into the night air. Jeeny sat a few feet away on a fallen log, her face half-lit, her breath visible in the cold. The silence between them was not empty; it was filled with the hum of crickets, the rush of distant water, and the rustle of something unseen moving through the dark.

Jack: “John Muir once wrote, ‘It seems strange that bears, so fond of all sorts of flesh, running the risks of guns and fires and poison, should never attack men except in defense of their young. How easily and safely a bear could pick us up as we lie asleep! Only wolves and tigers seem to have learned to hunt man for food, and perhaps sharks and crocodiles.’”

Jeeny: “He said that after years in the wild. He wasn’t romanticizing nature — he was marveling at its mercy.”

Jack: “Mercy. You think that’s what it is?”

Jeeny: “What else could it be? Power without cruelty — that’s mercy.”

Host: The firelight flickered, painting the lines of their faces with shifting amber. Somewhere beyond the trees, a low growl echoed — not close, but close enough to make them listen.

Jack: “You know what I think’s strange? We spend centuries building weapons, cutting down forests, caging everything that breathes — and still, we call the animals savage.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s easier to call something wild than to admit it’s wiser.”

Jack: “You think bears are wise?”

Jeeny: “Wiser than us, maybe. They kill when they must. We kill when we can.”

Host: The wind stirred again, rattling the branches above. The flames shuddered and threw sparks like tiny, defiant stars.

Jack: “You ever think about what Muir was really getting at? He wasn’t talking about bears — he was talking about man. About how the most dangerous species on earth still pretends to be the victim.”

Jeeny: “Yes. We live afraid of nature, but it’s nature that should be afraid of us.”

Jack: “And yet, the bear still walks past the campfire.”

Jeeny: “Because it has dignity. It takes what it needs. Not what it wants.”

Host: The river nearby murmured — a sound ancient and indifferent. The night pressed close, alive with unseen motion.

Jack: “You know, Muir spent his life among things that could’ve killed him — and somehow, it was humans who nearly did. He watched forests burn, glaciers recede, rivers poisoned — and he still called us ‘God’s gardeners.’ That’s either hope or madness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. But that’s what love of the wild does — it makes you forgive the destroyer, hoping he’ll learn to listen.”

Jack: “You think we ever will?”

Jeeny: “Not as a species. But maybe as individuals — one hiker, one wanderer, one witness at a time.”

Host: Jack poked the fire with a stick, sending a shower of embers skyward. For a moment, they looked like fireflies trying to become stars.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? The bear has claws, the wolf has teeth, the crocodile has jaws — but none of them build empires. None of them invent reasons for harm.”

Jeeny: “That’s because they don’t need to justify their hunger. Only humans moralize their appetite.”

Jack: “And yet, Muir admired us anyway.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he saw potential in the same way you see light in a dying fire. You know it won’t last, but you still cup your hands around it.”

Host: A long pause. The forest breathed around them — alive, patient, watching.

Jack: “Sometimes I think nature’s greatest kindness is its indifference. The way it keeps existing no matter how many wounds we give it.”

Jeeny: “Indifference isn’t kindness, Jack. It’s wisdom. Nature doesn’t punish or forgive — it simply is. It continues. And maybe that’s the lesson Muir wanted us to learn — that existence doesn’t require conquest.”

Jack: “So the bear doesn’t attack us not because it can’t — but because it doesn’t need to.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And we, on the other hand, attack everything we can reach — because we can’t stop needing.”

Host: The night deepened. The fire crackled lower now, and the shadows grew longer, bolder. Somewhere in the darkness, an owl called — slow, deliberate, as if punctuating their thoughts.

Jack: “You know, I envy that kind of restraint. The ability to live without the urge to dominate.”

Jeeny: “You could live that way. You just have to choose humility over control.”

Jack: “Easier said than done.”

Jeeny: “Everything true is.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, holding her hands near the flame, her eyes reflecting both its light and its fragility.

Jeeny: “You ever notice that the most dangerous creatures — wolves, tigers, sharks — they hunt us because they mistake us for prey. But the others, the ones that could destroy us without effort — they don’t. Maybe it’s not mercy or wisdom. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe they look at us and think, ‘What are these fragile, fearful beings who burn their own world and call it civilization?’”

Jack: “And maybe they pity us.”

Jeeny: “Maybe.”

Host: The fire sputtered once, then steadied. The air was sharp now, filled with pine and smoke. The kind of night that made you feel both alive and infinitesimal.

Jack: “Muir must’ve felt that — the awe and the guilt. That’s what he wrote from. Not worship, not fear — reverence. He saw that even the smallest creature, the bear, the bird, the bee — lived with purpose. While man wandered through power like a child playing with matches.”

Jeeny: “And yet, he kept hoping we’d learn.”

Jack: “Hope’s the one thing we haven’t burned yet.”

Host: The moonlight filtered through the trees now, casting a silver glow over the clearing. The world around them seemed suspended — balanced between wilderness and understanding.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s something almost divine about a creature that can kill you but doesn’t. It’s a kind of grace that doesn’t ask for gratitude.”

Jack: “And yet, we repay it with fear.”

Jeeny: “Because we can’t control grace. It humbles us.”

Host: Jack looked into the fire — the embers pulsing like a heartbeat. He spoke softly, almost to himself.

Jack: “Maybe Muir wasn’t just writing about nature. Maybe he was writing about us — about the parts of us that are wild, and the parts that should be.”

Jeeny: “The parts that protect, not consume.”

Jack: “Yeah. The parts that could destroy, but choose not to.”

Host: The river whispered its endless hymn nearby. The night settled deeper, vast and alive.

Jeeny: “You think we’ll ever earn the respect of the creatures we fear?”

Jack: “No. But maybe we can earn our own — by learning from them.”

Jeeny: “From the bear?”

Jack: “From restraint. From silence. From strength that doesn’t need to prove itself.”

Host: The flames dwindled to a warm glow. The forest was wide awake — breathing, listening, forgiving without words.

Jack stood, stretching, looking out into the trees where shadows moved like memories.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? For all our power, all our science, all our pride — the bear still sleeps easier than we do.”

Jeeny: “Because it belongs here. We’re still trying to earn our place.”

Host: The fire gave one last crackle before falling into embers. The moonlight took over, cool and clean.

And as the two of them sat in that quiet communion — man, woman, wilderness —
Muir’s words hung in the air like prayer:

That true strength lies not in domination,
but in the grace of restraint.

That the wild, for all its danger,
remains purer than the human heart.

And that perhaps the bears do not fear us —
they simply see us for what we are:
creatures still learning how to be kind.