by and watch as a bear tore into and devoured an entire mule deer. It was somehow even worse that his bites were almost dainty, using his front teeth like a polite person at a chicken barbeque. It was both awe inspiring and somewhat sickening, and when his energetic claws wound up pulling the deer off the shoulder and down the hill a little bit I didn’t follow. The savagery of nature is sometimes too much for those of us who sleep in a soft bed under a wooden roof.
When the whole story of that afternoon and everything that followed was made known, my dad asked me what I could have thought I was up to. I was feeding a grizzly bear? Talking to it? Playing with it? What was I thinking?
The truth was, I wasn’t thinking anything. Did I stop for one second to question the sensibility of my behavior? Absolutely, especially when the bear had me cornered in the Old Cabin. But the world had already lost all sense to me. Things that I knew in my bones could not possibly be true were, nonetheless, inarguable facts. Though it was impossible to believe, my mother was dead and I would not be seeing her again. Once a person tried to live within that inexplicable construct, nothing seemed too outrageous.
Did it really happen?
Here’s all I can say to that: after the bear finished the deer carcass, he clambered back up the hill toward me like a dog tracking back to its master. It seemed as natural as anything in the world to put my hand out and touch his thick fur, to pat the huge head, and to say, “Come on.” As the bear obediently followed me, it felt completely reasonable that I would take the bear home with me, maybe feed him a meal directly out of the freezer. That my dad would let me keep a live grizzly.
Well, okay, that last one didn’t slide so easily into place: I wasn’t able to conjure up a conversation in my head where my father said, Of course you can keep a full-grown grizzly, Charlie .
I’d have to think of something.
Rather than climb back up to the rocky ridge and on to my house, the bear and I walked past the Old Cabin, heading toward the river. The cabin was up on a bluff, and below it was a steep bank of heavy sand that ran all the way down to the rushing waters. One of my favorite things to do was leap from the bluff, the soft soil absorbing the impact.
“Ready?” I said. I launched myself into the air with a hoot, showing off for the bear, who stood up on two legs to watch me slide and tumble down the embankment.
Then the bear followed suit. I laughed in disbelief as the bear sprang into space, landing on all fours and then rolling down the hill in an explosion of flying sand. He came to rest at the bottom of the hill, lying on his back as if he, too, were laughing.
The bear took a deep drink at the river. There was, I reflected, time enough for me to grab my rod and see if I could coax a few fish from the water. The bear kept wading deeper into the stream until he was up to his neck, his big head serene in the clear, rapid river. Or maybe we’d just stay here and swim.
I grinned at the thought of Kay coming upon us just then. I’m just watching my friend swim, in case he needs junior lifesaving, I’d tell her. She’d be amazed. She’d sit with me and hold my hand while the bear frolicked. It would be our secret, something Kay and I would never tell another soul.
The easiest way back home was to follow the river upstream until the creek joined it, then walk along the creek’s banks to the trail up to our house.
The bear came out of the water and we strolled side by side as if there were nothing more natural than the two of us together. He got interested in overturning some rocks to take a look at what was underneath: grubs and worms, it turned out, which I thought was pretty disgusting, but the bear slurped them up as if they were made of chocolate.
The riverbank here was a wide stretch of light, sandy soil, striated from when the waters rose high but otherwise as pristine as a chalkboard
When the whole story of that afternoon and everything that followed was made known, my dad asked me what I could have thought I was up to. I was feeding a grizzly bear? Talking to it? Playing with it? What was I thinking?
The truth was, I wasn’t thinking anything. Did I stop for one second to question the sensibility of my behavior? Absolutely, especially when the bear had me cornered in the Old Cabin. But the world had already lost all sense to me. Things that I knew in my bones could not possibly be true were, nonetheless, inarguable facts. Though it was impossible to believe, my mother was dead and I would not be seeing her again. Once a person tried to live within that inexplicable construct, nothing seemed too outrageous.
Did it really happen?
Here’s all I can say to that: after the bear finished the deer carcass, he clambered back up the hill toward me like a dog tracking back to its master. It seemed as natural as anything in the world to put my hand out and touch his thick fur, to pat the huge head, and to say, “Come on.” As the bear obediently followed me, it felt completely reasonable that I would take the bear home with me, maybe feed him a meal directly out of the freezer. That my dad would let me keep a live grizzly.
Well, okay, that last one didn’t slide so easily into place: I wasn’t able to conjure up a conversation in my head where my father said, Of course you can keep a full-grown grizzly, Charlie .
I’d have to think of something.
Rather than climb back up to the rocky ridge and on to my house, the bear and I walked past the Old Cabin, heading toward the river. The cabin was up on a bluff, and below it was a steep bank of heavy sand that ran all the way down to the rushing waters. One of my favorite things to do was leap from the bluff, the soft soil absorbing the impact.
“Ready?” I said. I launched myself into the air with a hoot, showing off for the bear, who stood up on two legs to watch me slide and tumble down the embankment.
Then the bear followed suit. I laughed in disbelief as the bear sprang into space, landing on all fours and then rolling down the hill in an explosion of flying sand. He came to rest at the bottom of the hill, lying on his back as if he, too, were laughing.
The bear took a deep drink at the river. There was, I reflected, time enough for me to grab my rod and see if I could coax a few fish from the water. The bear kept wading deeper into the stream until he was up to his neck, his big head serene in the clear, rapid river. Or maybe we’d just stay here and swim.
I grinned at the thought of Kay coming upon us just then. I’m just watching my friend swim, in case he needs junior lifesaving, I’d tell her. She’d be amazed. She’d sit with me and hold my hand while the bear frolicked. It would be our secret, something Kay and I would never tell another soul.
The easiest way back home was to follow the river upstream until the creek joined it, then walk along the creek’s banks to the trail up to our house.
The bear came out of the water and we strolled side by side as if there were nothing more natural than the two of us together. He got interested in overturning some rocks to take a look at what was underneath: grubs and worms, it turned out, which I thought was pretty disgusting, but the bear slurped them up as if they were made of chocolate.
The riverbank here was a wide stretch of light, sandy soil, striated from when the waters rose high but otherwise as pristine as a chalkboard
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