by Mike Charves

 

“You guys make sure you wash your hands.”

“Okay dad,” Mark said. Jack simply nodded.

“I mean it. And don’t wipe your hands on your clothes. The bears can smell it long way off.” He slipped the last salmon steak into another mason jar.

“I know dad. We’ve been out here before.”

“I know you have,” their father began, placing the lids on the jars. “I’m just saying.”

Nodding, Mark stepped around him toward the edge of the camp and continued down the path to river. His younger brother followed, a scowl on his face. The three of them had just finished cutting their catch of silver salmon into small steaks and needed to clean their hands in the river. They’d wash them again with soap to scour away the smell of fish. As they both reached the icy water they knelt down and scrubbed their hands vigorously, cleaning the scales, salmon flesh, and blood from their skin.

“Dad can be a pain in the butt,” Jack mumbled. “We’re not kids anymore. I mean, I’m fifteen now; you’re almost eighteen.”

Mark chuckled. “Yea, he can, but you know he’s right. With all the bears around we’ve gotta keep the smell off us.”

Jack shrugged. Before he could continue their father appeared next to them. He leaned down and began washing his hands, the water so cold his skin turned red in moments.

“Scrub ‘em good guys,” he said.

Jack rolled his eyes.

 

After they’d cleaned themselves thoroughly, their father attended to the pressure cooker while Mark lit the burner of the Coleman stove with a match. The flame caught with a ‘woof.’ He grinned at the familiar hiss of the propane burning; it was a welcome sound, one that brought back memories of earlier trips. He leaned down to adjust the flame further, and then nodded to his father.

“It’s ready,” he said.

Lifting the heavy pressure cooker, Mark’s father placed it on the stove. He centered the flame under the pot and leaned down to adjust the flame himself. Mark watched him with a smirk. He knew his father would adjust the flame anyway. He always did. As he continued watching, his father observed both the cooker and flame for a few moments and then stepped back, clearly satisfied.

“What’s the time?” he asked.

Mark checked his watch. “Just after three,” he replied. “Hard to believe we’ve been here less than eight hours and already caught our limit.”

His father nodded. “We hit them at just the right time.” He rubbed his upper lip. “They were fresh from the sea. I mean, they still had sea lice on them.”

“Big ones too.” Mark smiled. “How big was that one you caught again, Jack?”

“Eighteen pounds,” his brother replied, his smile wide.

Their father checked the gauge on the cooker, and then nudged the regulator next to it. The regulator let out a jet of steam and began to wobble, creating a staccato of noise as it equalized the pressure. Mark watched it spin and then sniffed. The smell of fish was strong. Very strong.

“Uh, dad? The smell?”

His father didn’t answer right away. He crossed his arms and covered his mouth with his hand as he watched the cooker’s regulator spin. Suddenly he shrugged.

“You know, I didn’t even think of that,” he mused.

Mark laughed, incredulous. Jack smirked.

“Nothing we can do about it now,” their father continued. “This was our plan from the beginning.”

The previous trips they’d taken into the valley had always been marred by the Alaskan limit on silver salmon, which was two a day, two in possession. Their father had constantly tried to find a way around the possession rule when an idea had hit him two weeks earlier. After inquiring with Alaskan Fish and Game he found that his idea was legal.

The solution was to can the fish immediately after they caught them, which obviated the possession rule. As a result they could catch their limit each day, can the fish in mason jars, and repeat the process the next day. This made a long-term fishing trip much more lucrative. The three of them immediately began planning a nine-day trip into the valley. If they caught their limit every day they could finish the trip with several full cases of fish.

Unfortunately, none of them had considered how canning drastically increased the smell of what was in the mason jars as they cooked.

“We could stop the canner,” Mark suggested.

“No, no, no,” his father said immediately. “We’re not doing that. That’ll ruin the fish. We’ll be fine.”

“Okay, dad,” Mark shrugged, looking at Jack, who shrugged as well.

“Just make sure you both know where the shotguns are,” their father added. “Just in case.”

 

With the pressure cooker’s staccato nearly drowning out the sound of the water below, Mark stood just outside the campsite gazing at the scenery. To the north the Kenai Mountains rose stark against the gray sky above the trees. Even though winter was still a few months off, the early fall temperatures had left their peaks covered with snow and ice. The sight made him think briefly about the mountain goats they’d seen clinging to the cliffs as they’d flown through the pass in the float plane earlier that morning, and he smiled. He looked at the foothills that spread out to either side, embracing the river valley about him. The thick spruce that blanketed their slopes looked like green felt. Before him was the river, swift and cold. Tall, thin spruce trees grew up along the shore, their trunks obscured by a dense undergrowth of ferns and tall grass. The trees swayed with the breeze which blew from behind him to the north. It was cool enough that he’d had to put on his jacket.

The constant noise of the pressure cooker made him think of their fishing excursion earlier that morning. They’d seen plenty of bear sign as they walked along the gravel beach north of their camp. It was everywhere. Half eaten fish and scat lay scattered about, and the tall grass along the far bank had several places where bears had obviously come down to the river to fish or drink. In one spot they’d found fresh tracks in the mud. As they’d fished, Mark remembered even smelling them; a musky, dirty smell unique to bears.

He smiled again. This was one of the most beautiful places he’d ever seen. He loved coming back here. The bears did nothing but enhance the experience to him. They stood as the ultimate symbol of wild nature, representing everything he loved about the wild. He hoped they’d see a few before the trip was over, lumbering about in their lazy gait or devouring fish torn up by their teeth and claws.

A sudden snort behind him made him smirk. He didn’t turn around. His father occasionally made noises just to mess with him and his brother, and he was good at mimicking the growling, snorting huff of a bear. He ignored his father’s joke and continued gazing at the scenery.

Another snort. His smirk became a smile and he turned.

“Okay dad-”

Suddenly he smelled it. Overpowering. Musky.

It wasn’t his dad.

The bear stood there, sniffing at the pressure cooker, so close that Mark could’ve leaned forward and touched it. It was big for a black bear, but to Mark’s eyes it looked huge… immense. Twigs and leaves stuck to its matted, dirty fur in a few places.

It snorted again.

Stunned, Mark could do nothing but stare. Everything he’d ever thought or heard about bear encounters flashed through his mind. His father always telling him not to run. Fish and Game saying never look them in the eyes. Pamphlets with instructions to play dead if attacked by a bear. Above all lay images of people mauled to death. Those images finally galvanized him. He shouted. Shouted for his father. For anyone.

The bear jerked. Like a startled cat it flinched and turned, clearly seeing Mark for the first time. With a surprised growl it stood on its hind legs, snuffling. It roared. Falling forward on all fours, it swiped a huge paw at Mark, who fell backward. The claws caught his jacket, tore it open, flipping him around. Someone was screaming – he realized it was his own voice.

The explosive sound of a gunshot was shocking. Over his shoulder Mark saw the bullet hit the bear’s left shoulder, the puff of dust unmistakable. The bear howled and turned.

Another gunshot. Another puff of dust, this time somewhere on the bear’s head.

“Mark!”

The bear leapt off the ledge into the water with a terrific splash. Mark watched it go, watched it struggle through the swift current sending plumes of water in all directions. Suddenly time seemed to slow down – he could see each droplet of water, the huff of the bear’s breath, its soaked fur as it struggled for the opposite shore. The river, the bear, the trees and sky – it all stood out in perfect clarity, images he’d remember for the rest of his life. It was magnificent. It was beautiful.

Another shot. A fountain of water flew up next to the bear as it reached shore, running for the trees. Two more shots. Mark couldn’t see where they hit. A moment later the bear was gone. His father was at his side, the .44 magnum pistol in his hand still smoking, Jack behind him.

“Jesus Christ, are you alright?”

Mark nodded. “Yea, I think so.”

Jack’s eyes were wide as he helped his brother from the ground. Their father indicated Mark’s torn jacket with a nod.

“You sure?”

“Yea dad, I’m sure,” Mark grunted, inspecting the damage to his jacket. “It just got my jacket, not me.”

“I never even heard it!” Jack’s voice shook. He looked at the brush where the bear had just disappeared.

“I didn’t hear it either,” Mark mused. “Not until it snorted. I thought it was you, dad.” He was shaking. Not from fear surprisingly, but from adrenaline.

“Wasn’t me,” his father said. “I was down checking on the raft.” He followed Jack’s gaze, and then began to work the spent casings from his pistol, reloading it. “First time I’ve ever had one come into camp like that.”

“I don’t think it saw me at all. It was after the cooker.” Mark continued to inspect his jacket, frowning at the damage.

“I’m not surprised,” his father said. “The wind is just right, so it probably didn’t smell you either.” He pocketed the spent shells. “We’re gonna have to track it down and finish it now.”

“Why?” Mark didn’t like that idea, and couldn’t stop a hint of anger in his voice. He remembered the images of it crossing the river. Killing the bear seemed almost sacrilegious.

“Why? You know why,” his father exclaimed. “I hit it at least twice. We can’t leave a wounded bear prowling around. That’s dangerous.”

“More dangerous than a pressure cooker full of fish?” Mark said with heat, and suddenly laughed. The tension released like a flood, and he sat down, laughing harder. His father and brother both looked at him strangely.

“You know it is. What’s wrong with you?”

Shaking his head Mark held up a shaking hand. “Nothing dad. I’m just a bit shook up is all.”

“I bet.”

“Why can’t we leave it alone, dad?” Jack asked.

“Because an injured bear is unpredictable. It’s likely to try to attack us, or attack other people in the valley.”

“Oh,” Jack said softly.

Their father turned back to Mark, and his expression softened. “I’m glad you’re okay, son. That was close.”

“Yea, bro,” Jack added. “Scared me to death.”

“I’m okay. Just shook up.” He looked up at them both. “Really.”

“Alright.” His father reached out and squeezed his shoulder, then suddenly picked him up and squeezed him tight, his voice thick with emotion. “Alright.”

 

Following the bear’s trail proved to be easy at first. The injuries caused by the gunshots left a blood trail which the tree of them followed into the trees. With the thick undergrowth it became more difficult to follow the trail, but eventually it ambled down to another bend in the river. They found more sign of the bear across the water, spatters of blood and paw prints, that led straight into a large area covered with tall, thick grass.

The grass changed things. It was taller than their father, who stood a few inches over six feet, and very dense. It was so thick that it was impossible to see beyond a couple feet once inside it. Forestry workers and Park Rangers referred to this type of grass as ‘bear grass’ – it was extremely dangerous to move through as the possibility of walking right into a bear increased tenfold. They three of them examined where the bear had entered the grass, listening intently.

“Crap.” Their father looked frustrated. “I was hoping it wouldn’t run into this stuff.”

Mark shifted the shotgun he held and reached out to touch some of the bear’s blood on a blade of grass. It was cool, sticky. He felt strange, as if he’d violated the bear somehow by touching it. He didn’t like this. He understood the need of course, but he didn’t like it.

“Warm?” his father asked.

Mark shook his head.

His father grimaced and nodded. He glanced at them both and then indicated the grass with a jerk of his head. “I’ll go in first. I want you to go last, Mark. Jack, you stay between us.”

“Why?” Jack asked, his eyes narrowed.

“Just do it.” Their father’s tone left no argument.

“Okay,” Jack exclaimed. He was pale and kept looking around them.

They moved into the grass. Immediately Mark felt stifled. It was like walking through a dense fog; he could only see the grass to either side like a wall and his brother’s back ahead of him. It made him feel exposed. Naked. The three of them made as much noise as possible, trying to ensure that other bears would hear them coming and clear out. Unfortunately this also meant alerting the injured bear.

Jack stopped so abruptly that Mark bumped into him. He glanced behind them for a moment to make sure nothing was behind them before trying to see around his little brother.

“Here it is,” he heard his father say.

They moved forward and Mark saw they had found a small clearing, which was likely a bedding area. The bear lay on the grass at the far edge. Its breath came in gasps, and there was a fair amount of blood on the matted ground below it as well as in its fur. Mark saw a third injury along its right side behind the left foreleg that was bleeding profusely.

A sudden surge of emotion overwhelmed Mark, and using the butt of the shotgun for support he knelt. His eyes welled up as he gazed at the stricken animal. Conflicted thoughts and feelings raged through him. He didn’t feel any angst toward the bear for the attack. After all, it was only looking for food and he’d surprised it. He remembered the countless times he’d watched other bears moving along the shore, or eating – a majesty about them. He loved watching them, and in fact had more pictures of bears from these trips than he did his of brother and father. Now one lay shot, dying, and he couldn’t help but feel responsible. It seemed so callous. So cruel.

The bear heard them coming. It looked over at them, struggling to get up. It huffed loudly several times, and then growled.

“Dad-” Mark started.

His father took two quick steps and lifted his pistol. Mark turned away, tears spilling down his face, and closed his eyes.

The shot was startlingly loud, an invasive explosion completely out of place with the sounds of nature about them. Its echoes rumbled across the hills, eventually fading until all Mark could hear was the ringing in his ears and the wind in the grass.

“Well, that’s it.”

“Is it dead?” Jack asked unnecessarily.

Nodding, his father holstered his pistol.

Jack blew out a heavy sigh of relief and scratched his head. “I’m glad that’s over.”

Mark turned and stood. He stepped up to the bear, standing next to his father. His face wet with tears, he looked down at the animal. It didn’t seem so majestic now… it seemed shrunken, dirty. He remembered it glistening with the water as it surged across the river. Reaching out, he brushed his fingers against the thick, bristly fur. Laid his hand on the bear’s chest.

“I know son,” his father said. He put a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “I don’t like it any more than you do. But it had to be done.”

Mark nodded. He understood. The bear could have killed him. It probably would have if his father hadn’t shot it. But that didn’t stop him from feeling horrible about having to kill the bear. It brought the reality of the wilderness into stark clarity. How such beauty lay with such danger. How his own actions could be the spark that ignited that danger. He pressed his hand against the fur once more.

“Can we go back to camp now?” Jack asked, exasperated. He’d remained at the edge of the clearing.

Mark’s father reached up and squeezed Mark’s shoulder, gently pulling him away from the bear. “Come on,” he said, his voice soft. “Let’s head back to camp.”