window, set a little high off the floor, but if I was motivated I knew I could dive through it.
“I didn’t bring you anything. Are you hungry, boy?” I asked unsteadily. I held out my hands to show him they were empty, and they were shaking a little from my heartbeat.
The bear took a step forward. In the small confines of that place he was enormous, his bulk blotting out the light from the doorway.
Run! Though I had fed him and he seemed tame, some primordial sense within me was reacting to being this close to such a grand, awe-inspiring beast, urging me to try to bolt for the door.
“Okay. We’re okay,” I murmured.
I bit my lip as the bear pushed his head forward, virtually nose-to-nose with me. I shrank involuntarily against the wall. I looked into those eyes; I smelled his breath. His massive head, brown and round, with ears that popped up on either side like cupcakes, no longer looked doglike or cute to me.
He was far too close for me to try to get away now. If I had made a mistake by trusting him not to hurt me, it would be the last mistake I’d ever have a chance to make.
With a small chuffing sound the bear turned and lumbered away, grunting as he forced his way back through the narrow doorway.
I heaved a deep sigh and followed him outside. He looked over his shoulder at me.
“You want me to see if there’s anything to eat in my freezer?” I asked him. My voice came out normal and easy. That had been the acid test—if he wanted to eat me he would have done it. I would never be afraid of the bear again. With the simple and uncomplicated trust of an eighth-grade boy I approached him and put my hand on the coarse fur near his spine. “You startled me a little,” I said, feeling I needed to apologize since I’d nearly peed my pants in there.
There was a sudden squeal from above, up on Road 655, followed by a dull concussion that I felt as much as heard. “Whoa!” I shouted. “Car accident!” Though the bear had whipped his head up at the sound, he didn’t seem particularly excited. I turned and ran up the wide leafy trail that had once been the driveway of the Old Cabin, glancing over my shoulder.
The bear was still looking at me, but he was making no move to follow.
When I got to Road 655 I saw a Buick Estate station wagon about twenty yards away, pulled over to the side of the road. The brake lights were on, but then they winked out and the car accelerated away. I doubted that the driver had seen me.
Twenty feet from where the car had stopped, off on the shoulder, was a thick-limbed mule deer, small, a female. I walked up and looked into her blank, black eyes, the life gone from them. Blood was pooled under her and her legs were twisted—the impact had killed her instantly.
“Hey, bear!” I shouted. A light breeze made the branches creak over my head, the sound serving to accentuate how otherwise silent the woods were. “Hey, bear, come here!”
I sighed in frustration. Did the bear even know I was calling him? And though I had a fresh deer carcass for him, why did I think he would come at my command? Was he my pet? No, but what else would you call our relationship? “Friends” didn’t describe it very well, either.
While I was stewing over all this there was a thrashing sound and the bear appeared, carefully looking up and down the road, his nose up to sniff for intruders. I gestured to the dead animal on the ground. “Look here!” I called.
It was October 4th, and I now know that the bear was well into hyperphagia—the huge intake of calories to prepare him for the winter’s hibernation. He’d been eating acorns and pine nuts and berries but probably not, based on what I’d seen, fish. As he strolled up the road toward me, his eyes were on the fresh carcass at my feet, though he did glance at me as if to give thanks before diving into his meal.
Anyone who doubts the grizzly’s position as top predator in the food chain has never done what I did that afternoon: stand
“I didn’t bring you anything. Are you hungry, boy?” I asked unsteadily. I held out my hands to show him they were empty, and they were shaking a little from my heartbeat.
The bear took a step forward. In the small confines of that place he was enormous, his bulk blotting out the light from the doorway.
Run! Though I had fed him and he seemed tame, some primordial sense within me was reacting to being this close to such a grand, awe-inspiring beast, urging me to try to bolt for the door.
“Okay. We’re okay,” I murmured.
I bit my lip as the bear pushed his head forward, virtually nose-to-nose with me. I shrank involuntarily against the wall. I looked into those eyes; I smelled his breath. His massive head, brown and round, with ears that popped up on either side like cupcakes, no longer looked doglike or cute to me.
He was far too close for me to try to get away now. If I had made a mistake by trusting him not to hurt me, it would be the last mistake I’d ever have a chance to make.
With a small chuffing sound the bear turned and lumbered away, grunting as he forced his way back through the narrow doorway.
I heaved a deep sigh and followed him outside. He looked over his shoulder at me.
“You want me to see if there’s anything to eat in my freezer?” I asked him. My voice came out normal and easy. That had been the acid test—if he wanted to eat me he would have done it. I would never be afraid of the bear again. With the simple and uncomplicated trust of an eighth-grade boy I approached him and put my hand on the coarse fur near his spine. “You startled me a little,” I said, feeling I needed to apologize since I’d nearly peed my pants in there.
There was a sudden squeal from above, up on Road 655, followed by a dull concussion that I felt as much as heard. “Whoa!” I shouted. “Car accident!” Though the bear had whipped his head up at the sound, he didn’t seem particularly excited. I turned and ran up the wide leafy trail that had once been the driveway of the Old Cabin, glancing over my shoulder.
The bear was still looking at me, but he was making no move to follow.
When I got to Road 655 I saw a Buick Estate station wagon about twenty yards away, pulled over to the side of the road. The brake lights were on, but then they winked out and the car accelerated away. I doubted that the driver had seen me.
Twenty feet from where the car had stopped, off on the shoulder, was a thick-limbed mule deer, small, a female. I walked up and looked into her blank, black eyes, the life gone from them. Blood was pooled under her and her legs were twisted—the impact had killed her instantly.
“Hey, bear!” I shouted. A light breeze made the branches creak over my head, the sound serving to accentuate how otherwise silent the woods were. “Hey, bear, come here!”
I sighed in frustration. Did the bear even know I was calling him? And though I had a fresh deer carcass for him, why did I think he would come at my command? Was he my pet? No, but what else would you call our relationship? “Friends” didn’t describe it very well, either.
While I was stewing over all this there was a thrashing sound and the bear appeared, carefully looking up and down the road, his nose up to sniff for intruders. I gestured to the dead animal on the ground. “Look here!” I called.
It was October 4th, and I now know that the bear was well into hyperphagia—the huge intake of calories to prepare him for the winter’s hibernation. He’d been eating acorns and pine nuts and berries but probably not, based on what I’d seen, fish. As he strolled up the road toward me, his eyes were on the fresh carcass at my feet, though he did glance at me as if to give thanks before diving into his meal.
Anyone who doubts the grizzly’s position as top predator in the food chain has never done what I did that afternoon: stand
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