My Moment With An Angry Bear

I lived in Alaska for 15 years.

In spring and summer, I would hike alone into the vast and barren Chugach mountains. After passing beyond Flattop, the prevalent viewpoint for local enthusiasts and tourists, I would suddenly find myself immersed in utter silence and absolute solitude.

I met no other hikers, but among the ridgelines and small valleys, I encountered much wildlife: ptarmigans, ground squirrels, Dahl sheep, and bald eagles.

Humpbacked moose greeted me on the path leading to the mountains; ravens squawked from bare tree branches; rabbits scattered into bushes.

On this momentous day, I have just begun to climb a second mountain when I hear a loud snort — like a nervous horse — erupt loudly behind me.

I think, what is a rider doing way up here?

Slowly, I turn around to look.

A grizzly bear is galloping straight at me.

He is faster than I would have thought possible. His loose black lips are wobbling from side to side, spilling saliva as they do. His flat black eyes penetrate the gap between us. They seem to say, “You’re mine.”

This time, I am nothing more than prey, and I know it.

My calm internal mind says, hmm, I didn’t know I would die today.

My body, always more grounded, is already scrambling up the cliff. I know I won’t reach the sheltering rocks above me, but my body doesn’t listen.

I am going to die, and the idea quite astounds me.

When I glance back, the charging bear is closer.

Why is he so angry?

When I glance back again, I see the bear has turned.

Its massive hind flanks roll rhythmically as it charges deep into the valley.

The most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.

I raise my arms in victory and praise of life.

Knowing I have the real-life story I always wanted but did not want to live.