Reading about Mike Tyson’s scuffle at LAX airport today brought up two thoughts in my mind…”there’s a shock” and a memory of me threatening him with a 30-06 rifle in New York’s Laguardia airport back in 1988.

That’s right…I’m an idiot.

But frankly, just a few days earlier, I was just moments and a few yards away from being ripped to shreds in a deep wooded area in New Brunswick Canada. To this day that moment still chills my spine and was certainly the catalyst to the buildup of my idiotic bravado with Mike Tyson.

That frightening canadian event all started with a relaxing dinner at the Chickadee Hunting Lodge by the peaceful Saint John river. Surprisingly, I was there on a bear hunting trip. I say that because I had never hunted bear before. I had only one rule for hunting…you eat what you get. Frankly, the thought of eating bear just wasn’t on my personal menu. But at a fish and game show in long island I met Vaughn. He was the thick accented owner of the lodge who had a booth at the show…he talked me into it. “The bear meat goes to feeding the poor”. Granted in retrospect I’m not sure that was a good thing. It’s bad enough not having enough money to eat out but having wrapped up hunks of Yogi and BooBoo delivered to your home…food stamps may not seem so bad.

I was sharing that dinner with a group of salmon fishers. They were all taking turns in spinning mighty yarns of catching their slimy prey. One story from me of bagging a bear would have put their tales on the B list…but alas, at that point the only thing I caught was a cold and a run in with a moose.

Oh god…that Moose.

When I first got to town I was warned to look out for Moose. They are not the cute lovable quirky animals you see in films or TV. They are Godzilla tall and are very territorial. If you should happen to be anywhere near a momma Moose protecting her babies…you are about to have a very bad day. Apparently, many pick up trucks in the area have been totaled by an encounter with a pissed off “get the hell away from my kids” Moose. So the day I came within inches of one in the swamp…was not a banner Farrington kodak moment.

Most of the trip I was actually still hunting. However, the day I came up close and personal with the moose, I had been up a tree stand. On a quick side note: I never understood some of the hunting vernacular. You sit…in a tree stand. When you are walking through the woods…that’s called still hunting. Although the latter name does make a little more sense to me. That’s the hardest way to hunt. I for one, after 6 hours of walking through a forest and not seeing a damn thing have often said, “Jesus, I can’t believe I’m still hunting”

Okay…back in the tree stand.

I was given an empty jelly jar to pee in. Apparently bears have a pretty good sense of smell…so you just can’t arc one off the tree into the murky swamp below. I had to climb down, walk a ways further down wind and release the spigot. As I was about to taint the grape smell emitting from the jar, behind me I hear...

 THWACK, THWACK, THWACK.

Oh crap…a bear…and my rifle is about twenty five feet above me...just great.

THWACK, THWACK, THWACK.

Then the swamp sucking footsteps stopped. A real contracting sphincter moment. I was only trying to take a leak...and the next thing I know, somewhere behind me is a live bear. No matter how mighty I believe my penis may be…a gun is a much better weapon of choice.

I slowly turned around to see how far it was. But a small sapling was in the way. There was a knot in the sapling right by my head…but the knot moved a little. That was no knot…it was a kneecap. It was a kneecap on a hind leg of a Momma moose.  If there was ever a time to loosen that sphincter and let it all go…this was it…but the moose beat me to it. It dropped about the yearly exported tonnage equivalent of Ecuadorian bananas right at my feet. Years ago I visited the Alamo and used one of their public bathrooms. I never thought that vile reeking smell could ever be outdone…until that moose mound started wafting up.

Somehow I kept still…eventually the fifty pound lighter moose finally went her thwacky way. I threw up and decided to call it a day. This was not the tale I was going to tell at the dinner table. So I continued to listen about those salmon monsters that got away.

Until some mountain looking man came bursting into the dining room.

With crazed eyes he grabs our guide and host Vaughn and leads him out of the room. Finally we hear the guy leave and Vaughn slowly comes back in. Vaughn relates to all of us the story of a bear that was shot last week but never found. It was originally believed he just went deeper into the woods to die. It turns out he was just wounded…and became really, really pissed off. He tried to attack a group of teenagers that were four wheeling in a field near the woods. Since Vaughn was the number two tracker in the area when it came to bears…this guy came to him hoping he would go after it and put the bear down before someone gets hurt or worse. That's when Vaughn asked us for volunteers to come help him go after the bear.

Let me tell you, those courageous monster catching fisherman suddenly became very engrossed in their chicken and mash potatoes. I asked Vaughn why not get in touch with the top local tracker and do it with him. Turns out the guy who came by was the top tracker…he went after it… the bear surprised him, he dropped his gun and got chased out. That’s when he came straight here.

Well…if the top tracker in the area got outsmarted and almost killed, it made perfect sense for me to volunteer…after all, I’m a New Yorker. What’s a psycho man eating bear compared to hanging out at Penn Station around 3am.

Leaving those pussy fisherman behind…I’m now in the woods slowly walking behind a light stepping Vaughn. He stops to show me some fresh bear droppings on the ground but I was too busy looking at some real saplings…that had been freshly broken in half. I point at the ripped apart saplings. “Bear?” I whispered. Vaughn nods his head. Nice…we’re going after an animal that snapped six inch wide saplings like tooth picks.

We took maybe about five more steps when we suddenly hear a THUMP THUMP really close by. A moment later we are treated to a long loud bellowing ROAR! I had never heard anything so terrifying in my life…and it was just a few yards away into the thick brush next to us. By the look of Vaughn’s face…he’s never heard or been so close to that either. I’m just taking an educated guess at this…but I’m fairly certain it must have been a similar situation that birthed the phrase “scared shitless”.

Another loud ROAR followed by some toothpick snapping saplings. Then…a few THUMP, THUMP, THUMPS and the bear moves on into the woods.

As if this moment wasn’t surreal enough, an earthquake starts…but it turns out it was just me shaking. Vaughn however, calmly puts his rife down on a fallen log. Takes out a cigarette, lights it and sits down on the dying bark to smoke it.

“Aren’t we going after the bear?” I asked.

“What bear?” he says between drags.

“That  Beowulf bear we just heard”

“What bear?” followed by another drag.

It finally dawned on me that there was no way in hell he was going after that wounded batshit crazy cujo bear. And honestly…I was okay with that.

I never did get a bear that trip. Matter of fact it wasn’t long after that I quit hunting altogether. I got a dog for the first time in my life…and just couldn’t pull the trigger on another animal after that. The only shooting I do now is at small little clay targets on the trap shooting range. But I still have that rifle…but it didn’t show up on the baggage carousel at LaGuardia airport when I flew back home. That makes sense of course…for New Yorkers, guns moving around in that carousel is like a free weapon buffet. So I had to wait nearby for a baggage guy to bring me my gun…and that’s when I saw this poor bastard at the carousel getting hounded by a crowd of people.

I asked a woman standing near me who he was.

“That’s Mike Tyson!”

“Who?”

“Mike Tyson! You don’t know Mike Tyson is? What are you an alien?”

For the record…I’m a turn the other cheek type of guy…but her condescending attitude pissed me off more than usual…so I replied-

“No. I don’t know who Mike Tyson is and I don’t give a shit either”

Well…that girl happened to be Mike’s girlfriend at the time…I guess he hadn’t taken a swing at her yet. So while I’m filling out a form on a clip board that I set on top of my gun case that has just been brought over…these three guys come moving towards me.

Two tall guys that look like matching bookends made out of life size roman pillars and a short guy with a buzz cut and a neck wider than the Hudson river. If Captain Sulley ever needs to ditch another plane…I say aim for Mike Tyson’s neck. Yep…that was Tyson. He walks right up to me and points a finger in my face. Funny though…I wasn’t prepared for such an ominous looking guy to have such a cartoony lispy voice.

“I heard what you said…I heard what you said”

His bookends bodyguards apparently also had the duty of being echoes…

“He heard what you said…he heard what you said”…folks…I can’t make shit like this up.

Now I realize that girl must have told him my comment…and with her attitude I’m sure she made some crap up to go along with it. But I’m tired and screw it…I got a gun. I swear on my grandfather’s grave the following is pretty much exactly what I said.

“Look, I have no idea who you are…and like I told that girl…I don’t care…but if that bends you out of shape enough to march over here and stick your finger in my face then I think it’s fair to tell you that I’m exhausted and not in a great mood. This past week I had a moose take a huge dump at my feet and a crazed bear almost tore me to shreds...so dealing with your bullshit pales in comparison. Now granted, I may not be the best shot in the world with the gun I have right here in this case...but I’m guessing my aim is pretty damn good at things that are only a few feet away.”

Tyson gives me a puzzled look…and then started to laugh. He put his finger down and said…

“I’ll let you live”…and walked away.

That’s it…that was my encounter. When I got home to my wife I told her what had happened. She hadn’t heard of Mike Tyson either. So the impact of my story was pretty much that I stood up to a nut job.

Cut to a month later…I’m in the kitchen making a snack when my wife calls me into the living room. “Hey…is this the guy you met? That Mike Tyson guy?”

I walk in and sure enough…there he is, on HBO…fighting Michael Spinks.

“That’s him all right…his neck looks bigger in person though”

 It was a good thing I got there quickly…the fight didn’t last long. We both watched as this human brick wall knocks out Spinks in the first round.

With wide eyes she turns to me and says…”He let you live.”

Yes he did…and for that I am forever grateful.