Just The Abs
Recently, on a solo hike, I was not prepared for Smokey the Bear’s physique.
I knew Smokey prevented forest fires. I knew he wore jeans. I knew he somehow convinced generations of Americans that they alone possessed the power to stop wildfires.
What I did not know was that Smokey had spent the last few years quietly transforming himself into a woodland cover model.
Look at him. Those aren’t the abs of a bear. Those are the abs of a guy who starts every sentence with, “I recently cut out gluten.”
Standing there on the trail, I felt something I could only describe as deeply uncomfortable. Not inspired. Suspicious. The same feeling I get when somebody from high school posts a shirtless vacation photo and suddenly I have to spend fifteen minutes figuring out whether I’m happy for them.
Because if Smokey’s glow-up is legitimate, it may be one of the greatest second acts in American history.
For decades, he politely asked us not to start forest fires. We responded by immediately starting more forest fires.
At some point, he had to realize the problem wasn’t the message. It was the messenger. Nobody listens to a bear. People listen to cover models.
So Smokey rebranded.
The original campaign was education.
The new campaign was sex appeal.
Looking at Smokey’s physique, I found myself asking questions.
Are those abs natural?
Is Smokey on Ozempic?
Has he quietly become the spokesperson for one of those supplements advertised exclusively by shirtless men standing next to a Jet Ski?
Is he using one of those electric ab-shocking machines that Jean-Claude Van Damme reportedly used until it gave him a hernia?
I have done absolutely no fact-checking on that last claim, but that has never stopped a good investigation.
Because let’s be honest, we all know what happened after Smokey’s glow-up. Suddenly, there was money in the bank, job offers left and right, and magazine covers. One day, he’s explaining campfire safety. Next, he’s hobnobbing with Clooney on Lake Como, skiing the Swiss Alps with Harry and Meghan, and spending a long weekend at a secluded eco-resort in Brazil while Gisele pays $4,000 a night to reconnect with nature and Smokey reconnects with his core.
Somewhere along the way, wildfire prevention became his side hustle.
The deeper issue was that I had known Smokey for less than thirty seconds and was already convinced he was winning at life.
The abs were only part of it.
In my mind, Smokey had money, confidence, a low resting heart rate, and the ability to put things away on the top shelf without pulling out the footstool.
His pantry was full of organizers with labels that perfectly suited even the wildest of items. Batteries. Trail Mix. Other Organizers.
In fact, Smokey had an organizer whose sole responsibility was keeping his organizers organized. He was on payroll. Benefits. Matching 401(k). Unlimited vacation that he never takes because, honestly, why would you want to be away from Smokey?
I had absolutely no evidence for any of this.
Just the abs.
Meanwhile, I looked down at my own body and wondered how our lives had diverged so dramatically. We were both getting older. We were both spending time outdoors.
Yet somehow one of us looked ready for the cover of Men’s Fitness, while the other stood there in a sweatshirt and crossbody fanny pack, looking less like an outdoorsman and more like someone whose primary wilderness skill is knowing where the bathrooms are.
Standing next to him, I suppose I had two choices.
I could use Smokey’s transformation as inspiration, embrace the possibility that it’s never too late to reinvent myself, OR spend the rest of the hike questioning whether his abs were obtained ethically.
I suppose that’s the difference between Smokey and me.
When Smokey encountered a challenge, he reinvented himself.
When I encountered Smokey, I spent twenty minutes trying to determine whether he was on Ozempic.
I’m not proud of that… But I’m also not not proud of it.