It was May of 2020, in the thick of the pandemic. There was nobody around, literally no one anywhere on any of the trails.

I worked as a full-time trauma nurse. People couldn’t even imagine the things we saw every day, all day long. I lived and breathed running. If I had to work a 12-hour shift, I’d get up at 3 in the morning, go run 16 miles before work, go to work and then sometimes run on the treadmill or go to the trail.

Between a Rock is a Los Angeles Times series that shares survival stories from the California wilderness.

At the time, I was training for an ultra marathon, the Barkley Fall Classic, in September. My friend and I always used to run together. I was getting deeper in the miles, and she was getting more relaxed. She didn’t have anything that she was training for.

I told her, “Hey, I’m going to go out to my trail.” It’s not a very long trail, but it’s challenging in that it has roots and rocks and all kinds of different things that could present a problem if you’re not used to it.

“I don’t think you should go,” she said. “It’s late in the day. You don’t usually go this time of day. Nobody’s going to know where you are. Just don’t go.”

“I’ve ran this trail a million times,” I said. “What’s the worst that could happen? I get eaten by a bear?”

We were laughing. Who knew?

It’s by Miller Canyon OHV area off Silverwood Lake. I took a little of a different path than I’d normally take, as I wanted to be out of there before nightfall.

There’s one specific spot along the trail that has really good access to this free-flowing creek. I thought, I really want to make it to this one spot because it’s so scenic, and I just need that mental unwind.

And so, I’m walking along this path. I’m about a quarter-mile in, and I’m just gathering my thoughts. Something told me to look up. In the middle of the path up ahead was this huge bear.

I’ve seen Yosemite black bears. They’re kind of small. This was not that.

I instantly panicked. I looked around me to see if there was something I could climb or a rock I could toss. There was nothing. Your first animal instinct is to turn and run, but I’d read several articles about escaping wildlife and what to do in those situations, and [those] said to not run because you’ll activate that prey drive.

My next thought was, “I’m never going to see my kids again. Nobody’s going to know what happened to be. They’re just going to find my bones — maybe, eventually if they’re lucky” — and I’m profusely sweating at this point, and I’m just so terror-stricken. Mind you, this is within a 10-second span, I’m processing and thinking all of this.

The bear charged. It’s running full force. I can see the fat all over its body just shaking. I had no weapon. There was no cell reception where I was at. I tried to activate the emergency beacon on my watch. Nope. It wouldn’t activate. I was cut off from the world.

I thought to myself, “I’m going to take a picture because at least if my phone is retrieved, they’ll know what happened.”

I’ve been a dedicated fan for one type of running vest, for a few reasons, but the main reason I will always buy this vest now is because it has this little tiny plastic safety whistle that comes with every vest. I started blowing that whistle so hard like my life depended on it. The bear stopped running. It startled it. Now it’s walking toward me.

Had I gone down the original way that I typically run every time, I fully believe I would have surprised the bear because it came out from where I was actually heading. I almost feel like it was divine intervention. Something told me not to go that way that night.

[The bear] was probably maybe 200 feet from me. I still had my Strava and my Garmin on at that point. I walked backward as I was blowing this whistle, to the point of pain in my ears, a quarter of a mile to the trailhead all while that massive bear was following me. I got in my car, and I could still see the bear up ahead. I was in shambles.

I fully thought it was going to kill me. I still see it in my mind like it was yesterday. I was 100% convinced I was going to die.

I don’t know why it charged. That’s my only question. I contacted Fish & Game, and they were like, “That’s very unusual behavior. We don’t know why it would have done that. Usually bears will take off when they see people.”

I think maybe I startled it, and then when I blew the whistle, I for sure startled it, and I think it was just curious at that point.

[My running partner] thought I was lying at first. She was like, “No way.” I sent the picture to her. She’s like, “You put it out in the universe!” I was like, you know what? I didn’t manifest that bear.

The biggest thing [I learned] was to make sure somebody always has a copy of or knows your route location. You want to tell at least one or two people who you trust where you’re going to be at, what time you’re going, your estimated finish time. Send a picture of yourself and what you’re wearing. I even still do that, even if I’m going to a more populated place.

A selfie that Bethany Pinedo took the day a bear chased her while she was on a run near Silverwood Lake. (Bethany Pinedo) A large bear walks toward a trail runner who came upon it on a path near Silverwood Lake in May 2020. (Bethany Pinedo) A large bear walks toward a trail runner who came upon it on a path near Silverwood Lake in May 2020. (Bethany Pinedo)

I have some bear spray now. If I’m going somewhere that’s really remote, especially if I’m solo, I’m going to bring it with me.

And I think the big one for me — sunset and sunrise, I avoid those times.

I know this is going to make me sound nuts, but I went back and ran that same spot the next day.

I was terrified, I was so on edge the whole time, but I thought, “I can’t let this own me because then this is going to ruin the outdoors for me. I need to make myself go back out. It’s probably a once-in-a-lifetime encounter, and I need to go back out and do what I love. I can’t let this stop me.”

I went at 9:30 in the morning, and running trails, I usually avoid sunup and sundown (because) that’s when wildlife tends to be out. [ The evening before] I wanted to train to simulate possible race-day situations, which could be I’m running in the dark, or I’m running really early, or I’m running in unfamiliar terrain. But I said, “Forget [that], I’m running when I normally run because getting eaten isn’t worth it.”

When I back a week later, they had posted signs about bears in the area. Apparently, I must not have been the only one.

I kept going back and never ran into it again. I’ve been all over these mountains. I got growled at once by a mountain lion but still couldn’t see it. I’ve encountered a bobcat here and there, packs of coyotes and deer, but that was the first bear.

Old me would have never went back, but I told myself, “You’re an adult, and if this is something you’re passionate about, you have to face those challenges, whatever it may be. You can’t let it curtail your love of the sport.”

You have to overcome your fear. You can’t let something own you because of what could happen. There are always going to be the “what ifs” out there in life, and you have to stand up to that.

From where I was living, it was the closest, most accessible trail. It’s beautiful. It’s scenic. It’s like you’re in another world. It’s the kind of place that’s absolutely enchanting.

One spot I ran through, it was covered with ferns and vines, and when I came to the end where water drops off onto these rocks, everywhere you looked, every inch of space was covered with baby frogs. It was just the most incredible moment that I had ever had out on a trail. None of the other trails I run have ever looked like this, had this, so I really love it up there.

Bethany Pinedo is a nurse, avid runner and longtime Southern Californian. She was running near the Silverwood Lake State Recreation Area. About three weeks ago, officials issued a bear advisory for that area because of a significant uptick in recent bear sightings and interactions with humans. Pinedo plans to steer clear.

Do you have a California wilderness survival story? We’d love to hear from you. Share your close encounter here.