Feel the Burn

Bear-spray blunders from around southwest Montana.

In summer of 2024, we asked you—our readers—to send in stories of when things got a little spicy. We received a surprising number of submissions, from a few sentences to a few pages, describing all type and manner of bear-spray accidents: from innocent mistakes, to impulsive overreactions, to general foolhardiness. The winner, however, jumped out immediately. Read his comical story, along with those of five runners-up, in this compilation of Bozeman’s best bear-spray mishaps.

Fire in the Hole
by Clay Erhard

It’s day one of a weekend camping and ski-touring trip in the Mirror Lake drainage of the Spanish Peaks. While setting up camp and gathering wood in deep snow with skis on, I hear a hiss from behind. Instantly, there’s a cold sensation on my hip and back. My heart sinks. I quickly pull up my tube-neck as the caustic smoke settles and I realize what’s happened. Bear spray in my own butt crack! I slide down the hill and rapidly shed my ski garments—down to skivvies and ski boots. Standing nearly naked in the soft corn, my mind races to the worst possible outcome: Can we still ski Bearclaw? Thankfully, a tiny bit of Beehive Lake is exposed, and I rinse my bear-sprayed butt, then polish off a bottle of whiskey before bed.

After a painful night’s sleep in the bivy, I awake to sun-laden, ripening corn—and a stinging, burning butt crack. I came all this way, though so the ski objective has to happen. We pack up camp and begin the three-ridge slog over to Beehive Basin. Bearclaw looms dead ahead and I know what must be done. Despite a painful bootpack up the couloir, cooling my cayenne-coated butt in the isothermal snow every 20 steps, we make it to the top of the run. A quick yodel on top, then I ski back down to my pack and am immediately on the quest for the trailhead.

The rest of the trip is unbearable. Every 20 or 30 steps, I need to quench my burning bootie in fresh snow. When we finally make it to the car, I can’t help but bathe in the culvert between the parking lots, knowing full-well that the pain won’t subside on the car ride back to Bozeman. Halfway through the drive, gritting my teeth and yelling at my own stupidity, I give in to the temptation of cooling myself in the fresh mountain air. Placing my bear-sprayed bum out the window is the only solution, and it gives me the relief I need before a cool, soapy shower back home.

Trigger Unhappy
by Jack Austin

When my three sons were young, it was a wonderful summer tradition to backpack into the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness to camp and fish. Before one trip, when they were 12, 14, and 17, I sacrificed a whole can of bear spray in the parking lot so they could each practice drawing, removing the trigger guard, and deploying their spray. A few hours later and about three miles up the trail, we encountered a fellow on horseback staring down a hackled-up cow moose with twin calves by her side. Just as the rider warned us that she was going to be a problem, the man’s blue heeler pup took a run at the cow—immediately causing a full-blown, ears-back charge right at us. Thinking quickly, I told the boys to get behind a tree. Thinking quicker, my middle son blasted me in the back of the head with a full dose of bear spray, doubling me over in a fit of coughing, wheezing, and slobbering. After a thorough rinse in the creek and some recovery time, we hiked the next few miles to the lake where we again ran into the horse rider. As soon as he saw us, he barked out, “Which one was it? He got me and my horse, too!” Then he started laughing, and it’s been one of our family’s favorite backcountry stories of all time.

Hot Hands
by Paul Yakawich

When my wife and I were first dating, we spent a week camping and hiking in the Seeley-Swan Valley, where we safely packed our bear spray around the woods. On the drive home, my wife asked what it was like to discharge it. So, being a man and trying to impress this lovely lady, I explained what it felt like, man-splaining to the 10th degree, even though the only can I had ever discharged was in my brother’s garage—which is a whole different story.

We turned off the highway onto a dirt road, and after about two miles I stopped the truck and suggested we discharge one of the expired cans (it turns out they were both expired). My wife fastened a can to her hip and walked about ten yards before drawing it as if she was in a showdown with Doc Holiday, flipping off the safety clip, and stopping the charging fencepost in its tracks. I was impressed at her speed and accuracy, and she saved some of the can for my fearsome fencepost. So, I discharged the remainder, and then we had an elegant picnic spread of cheese and crackers on the tailgate of the truck to celebrate our victories.

Before getting back in the truck, I stood tall enjoying the scenery and emptying my bladder. After five minutes in the car, I felt a little tingle between my legs, which quickly turned into a burning sensation. I started shifting in every which direction to find some comfort or relief as the burning intensified, and the vehicle was suddenly all over the highway. My wife was getting concerned at this point. The words, “My crotch is on fire!” finally came out as I skidded the truck into a turnout, jumped out—Dukes of Hazzard style—and bolted toward an adjacent lake, about 100 feet away down a rock shale field. Stripping my clothes, I was buck naked when I hit the lake, and the water was freezing cold but provided instant relief from the burning residue on my man-gear. I sat in the lake for a few minutes to be sure the pain had passed. Climbing out, I looked over my shoulder to see a few fishermen in a boat about 50 yards away, jaws wide open. I waved with one hand and covered up with the other before collecting my clothes and scaling up the rocky slope back to the truck, where my wife was in tears laughing. The moral of the story: when nature calls, wash your hands before, as well as after.

Sacrificial Lambs & the Burning Bush
by Kyle Hanson

One summer, I was living in a tipi in the mountains south of Livingston with my border collie, Gracie, and two sheep that I had impulsively purchased for $50 off Craigslist. Their names were Wool and Worsted and they were supposed to be my eco-friendly lawn mowers. Instead, they were professional escape artists, mess-makers, and tormented Gracie to no end.

One evening, Gracie and I arrived back at camp to a gruesome scene. A presumed bear had killed the sheep and destroyed our camp. In my haste to assess the damage, I put a canister of bear spray in the front pocket of my jeans and walked the crime scene. At one point, I bent down to pick up what I thought was a rib bone and pop! the bear spray exploded, saturating my clothes from knees to belly button in fiery, eye-watering misery. The burning was instantly unbearable, and I frantically fumbled to untie my pac boots and rip off my clothes. I fished through the cooler in my truck for any liquid that I could find. Gatorade and bottled water would have to work. No relief—the throbbing burn immediately returned. The only other solution was to hop into the driver’s seat, dump the ice and water from the cooler onto my lap, and take off like a bat out of hell down a dirt road to the Yellowstone River.

I arrived at the east bank and came to a dusty, screeching halt across from the golf course. Now picture this: a naked guy jumps out of the truck and sprints to the river. Golfers were likely wondering if they should call 911 or just take mulligans. I sat there for at least 45 minutes until the pain was somewhat tolerable, then put on some spare clothes and hightailed it to the local drug store to buy ointment. I crashed at my family’s place in Bozeman that night, where they thought it was just hilarious. It was definitely one of life’s low points, and I still joke that I might take my chances with a bear over bear spray.

Trail of Tears
by Michelle Hunt

The year I graduated from college, I delayed workforce entry with one last summer of adventures, taking a job as a wrangler at a local dude ranch. It was heaven, as one might imagine. While the pay was next to nothing, I was outdoors for six days a week in some of the most awe-inspiring country. Primarily, my job was to teach guests to ride horses, then take them out on trail rides to enjoy nature, spot wildlife, and have a good time.

Being as we weren’t too far from Yellowstone Park, there was a strong concentration of grizzly bears in the area. Sightings were common enough, and guests often inquired if we wranglers were issued guns—you know, in case of a bear attack. “Nope” I would reply, “but I do have a faster horse than you!” After hesitant chuckles, I would explain that we carried bear spray. However, it often wasn’t on my belt, nor within easy reach. Rather, it was usually stowed in the bottom of my old leather saddlebags, which typically were tied shut with bailing twine since the leather buckle had worn through.

One day, while moseying through an alpine meadow with a group of eight “dudes” in tow, the serenity was harshly interrupted by sounds of screaming. I pulled my horse up and surveyed the scene. A few horses back, one of the riders was doubled over in her saddle, yelling at the top of her lungs, in obvious agony. Moments later, as the line came to a halt, multiple guests behind her joined in the misery. Before long, I was dealing with mass chaos. Horses skittered about riderless, as people bailed off and curled up on the ground clutching at their faces, screaming that their eyes were on fire.

I ran to their aid, trying to assess what was going on. One person haltingly exclaimed “I saw something… bounce out… of your saddlebags.” I rushed back to my horse to collect a water bottle—and my heart dropped. The bear spray was gone. Presumably it had bounced free and punctured on a rock or under a hoof, blasting the back half of the group as they rode along.

Meanwhile, one guest who was lucky enough to have avoided the mist was beside himself in panic. His wife and teenage daughter were among those affected, and he wanted to ride back to the ranch to get help. But we were deep in the backcountry, miles from the ranch. No way was he going to ride off alone into unfamiliar terrain. I might be responsible for a lost person on top of it all!

While doing my best to talk him down, I tended to the writhing group of unlucky guests. I went from person to person, taking turns carefully pouring water into their eyes to flush out the toxins. Quickly, the water ran out. After what felt like an eternity, the wailing finally began to quiet. The anxiety lessened. It was time to mount up, and it’s a good thing that dude-ranch horses are good at following nose to tail, as many riders certainly had blurry vision and foggy heads. It was a slow and somber ride back to the ranch. The only tip I got that week was a piece of advice: keep your bear spray properly secured.

Growing Pains
by Megan Ahrens

June 13, 2018, a date I won’t ever forget, a day for learning; not even in jest.

A hike up Pine Creek, two youngsters in tow, smiles on our faces, not far to go.

Two-and-a-half miles out and back, water bottles, sandwiches, and Captain America in pack.

What is that can? How does it work? Questioned Gabe, brow upturned, lips in a smirk.

It’s bear spray, I answered, just in case, there are a few grizzlies in this wild place.

Hmmm, he replied, a smile on lips, can you just show me—give it a few rips?

No, we need to keep it in a safe place, but ready to use—just in case!

What’s in there that hurts those bears, asked my oldest, a sideways glance, so sweet and so modest.

Capsaicin they call it, from the hottest of peppers, it’ll burn your skin and make you a quick stepper.

The bears don’t like it, so they’ll run from us all, but better than anything just continue to call: HEY BEAR!

’Cause the bears don’t want to hang with us humans; they’re smelling for carcasses and chowing their ruins.

We continued on, enjoying the sun, soon the sound of the falls got the boys on a run!

We reached its beauty and looked on in awe; let’s share a quick sandwich—take a pic for Grandma.

I want to go across the bridge, Cole begged, can we take a quick look—last one there is a rotten egg!

Gabe replied, he wanted to stay and just look at the falls, enjoy his chocolate, bounce his moon ball.

We’ll be right back, sure you don’t want to come? I’m okay—take your time, mum.

Five minutes didn’t seem long, but boy oh boy, what did go wrong.

In those few short minutes away, Gabe decided to try the spray.

I’m sorry he cried, his face red hot, tears flowing, and plenty of snot.

My heart broke for him, and as I stood, I wondered how fast we could get out of these woods.

A tip from Bear Grylls the boys had learned, maybe mud on the face will help the burn?

Cold water from the creek and mud on his face, we moved as fast as we could to get out of that place.

Passed a nurse with some advice, that as soon as we could, get some Dawn dish soap, and scrub him up good.

Back at the car, leaving dust in our wake, to the KOA camp store, hurry up for goodness’ sake.

The pool to ourselves, a bottle of suds, shower it up, you’ve got this bud.

With multiple washes, the cool water his aide,Gabe once again felt calm, but just wished that he’d stayed, away from that Bear Spray and listened to Mom.

For a real-life comparison on the effectiveness of bear spray and firearms in fending off an attack, check out the article “Backyard Science: Bear Spray vs. Guns,” or watch the video on our YouTube channel.