BEAR HUNT
An excerpt from an allegorical short story
by John Bascom
The swells of Alaska's inside
passage tossed our drenched little Zodiac inflatable boat as my guide, Nick,
and I glassed the shoreline of the remote island bay through the area's
infamous rain and mist…"There," Nick hissed so urgently that I jerked
around in the direction he was looking through his field glasses. I could just see something the few hundred
yards away on the beach, and when I wiped the lenses and put the binoculars to
my eyes, I was staring into the face of the biggest bear I had ever seen in my
life. And he was staring right back…
… I glanced at Nick who had an
odd look on his face. I thought at first
he was mad at me. Again. Then he said, "Biggest damn thing I ever
seen," barely mumbling it, and I saw he was scared, too.
____________________
I had first
contacted Nick almost a year before about the possibility of a brown bear hunt
with him just after returning from an Alaska vacation… We collected my
gear as soon as it was off-loaded, while I attempted an unsuccessful exchange
of pleasantries. Nick picked up my gun case
and daypack, and I grabbed my big duffle bag.
He nodded his
head at my gun case. "What'd you
bring?" he said.
"Three
seven-five-magnum," I said.
"It's real nice. Three
hundred grains, holds four in the magazine and one in the chamber. Lots of firepower."
"Nothing in
the chamber if you're hunting with me," he said. "Causes too many accidents. More likely you'd use that chambered round to
kill yourself, or worse me, instead of a bear.
There'll be plenty of time to rack a round," he said. "And if you're worried about needing
more than four shots, it's why I'm behind you."
It was just
about the most I'd hear Nick talk in one breath, and with the most emotion, on
the entire trip…
____________________
We flew under the ragged, wet
clouds and landed as the last of the twilight was fading at the local Hoonah
airstrip, a leveled gravel bar by the harbor just on the edge of town. Our contact was waiting with his car, a
short, barrel-chested Tlingit man to whom Nick referred by only his first name
and didn't bother introducing me.
"Greg here'll put us up for
the night," Nick said, "and take us out in his boat to where we'll
make camp tomorrow morning."
I nodded to Greg and loaded my
gear into his open trunk. We all piled
into the old car.
"Can you drop us at the
Snail Clan House?" Nick asked Greg.
"You can take our gear to your place, and we'll walk back when
we're done." Greg nodded.
"Ever been to a
potlatch?" Nick asked me.
"Not that I know," I
said.
"Well, you're going to one
tonight. Gotta meet up with a guy who's
supplying our provisions for the trip.
Only chance to see him tonight is at the potlatch."
… We pulled up in front of a
well-kept frame, two-story house. It was
elaborately decorated with symbols of animals, birds, fish, and people painted
above the small front door. The figures
looked like those
on some of the totem poles we had passed, but were painted
rather than carved. Inside, the house
was filled with native Alaskan people, with the exceptions of course of Nick
and me… An older lady hushed the gathering and began to tell a story...
 |
| Snail Clan House |
"Great legend," said a tall, slender
native Alaskan man who had walked into the clan house just as the story was
wrapping up. He introduced himself as
Matt Richardson.
"I had no idea of the
interesting traditions among the Tlingits," I said. "The story is fascinating. But I wonder why the hero declined to be
rescued by the Land Otter people."
Matt laughed and said,
"You've got to understand the native history and cultures to know
that. Land Otters are a clan of the
Haida Tribe, the traditional archenemies of Tlingits. They didn't trust each other. Land Otters, in Haida tradition, have a
history of helping travelers or people who are sick, injured, or
stranded."
"The Good Samaritans of
early Alaska," I said.
"Right," said Matt,
“but the Tlingits didn’t see it that way…
____________________
Before dawn the next morning we
made way and headed out of Hoonah Harbor in Greg's fishing tug,
the Sea
Eider. Our gear was stowed on deck with
the eighteen foot Zodiac in tow. It was
still dark as we passed Halibut Island in the harbor mouth, Pinta Rock with its
harbor seals barely visible and Scraggy Island before entering the Icy
Straights headed north along the island's coast. About an hour out there were three quick
whooshing sounds out in the dark water, like steam under high pressure venting
from a relief valve.
 |
| Hoonah Harbor Mouth |
"Humpbacks blowing,"
Greg said. "These waters also have
dolphin, Orcas, and some sea lions, so keep your eyes open if you're
interested."
… It gets darker than I've ever
seen on Chichagof. After dinner and
clean up, I closed up my tent and climbed into my sleeping bag, with my
three-seven-five magnum next to my cot, loaded with a round in the chamber. To hell
with Nick, I thought. At least for
tonight.
It was in the middle of the night
when I heard it. Walking around the
tent, brushing against it, turning over stones.
It was pitch black, and my heart began to beat fast and hard. Then I heard it clawing at the canvas
entranceway. Overcome with fear, I
considered groping for my flashlight and rifle, but didn't want to anger or
encourage it with any noise or movement.
I felt if I didn't move it might go away.
I heard the flap tear. I could feel it breathing and knew its head
was inside. The whole shelter moved as
the bear slid its neck, shoulders, and feet into the tiny tent. It was too late to go for my rifle in the
total darkness. Any sound or movement, I
was sure, would trigger an attack. I
could smell its wet, matted, musky fur, and feel its breath on my face. It stunk of rotting salmon.
____________________
…"What would make them
attack?" I asked. "Anything
special to be aware of out here?"
"Most encounters, they're
set on getting away from you no matter what.
But a sow with cubs, a dominant boar used to being top dog and getting
its way, or an adolescent male feeling its first oats, any of those can spell
trouble."
Nick took a long drink of his
beer while I stared into what was left of the fire. "Course, there's always the wounded
bear," he said.
"What do you do if one comes
at you?" I asked.
"Well, first off, never take
that first step back. You'll have an
almost irresistible urge to run. Even
drop your gun, panic sets in. You give
up all your advantage and act like prey to the bear. Trigger his urge to chase and kill running
prey.
"Sounds hard to do with a
big brown barreling down on you," I said.
"It's what you have to do to
keep him away most of the time. If he
ever gets to you, chances of survival go down about five percent for every
second he's on you. Ten seconds, fifty
percent chance of coming out alive.
Twenty seconds, zero. It's what
the statistics say."
"Not good odds," I
said. "I've heard they can tear a
moose open with one swipe of a claw."
"On a man, a bear'll
generally go for the head if he means to kill you. A lot of victims have their scalp or face bit
clean off. Or tooth punctures through
the skull."
____________________
…I had lost sight of Nick as he
scrambled downhill, into the trees that bordered and filled the deep
ravine. That's when I saw it move, just
across the gully, in the thick, dark foliage along the ridge above the stream
bank. Just inside the wet brush, very
near the edge of the narrow gully, less than twenty-five yards in front of
me. The outline of a small, round ear,
barely moving. An eye, floating. A dark, massive, hovering shadow. I sensed it as much as saw it. Smelled the wet, musky fur, as I had that
first night in my tent. As I had so many
nights before. But now it was
unmistakably alive. Unmistakably huge
and moving, slowly. Directly toward me…
…As soon as I saw the bear moving
toward me, while it was still in the brush, I instinctively lifted the bolt
handle of my rifle and cycled it back, forward, then down, chambering a huge
three hundred grain round. I instantly
flicked the safety off as I raised the gun to my shoulder, at the same time
putting my eye behind the four-power scope.
The bear, moving faster now over the far edge of the gully, completely
filled the scope at this close range.
I had an overwhelming urge to
turn and run. But with time running out
and the crosshairs of the scope somewhere on his brown, moving chest, I planted
my feet, steadied my legs, and pulled the trigger...
____________________
I stared out at the sparkling
waters of Icy Straights and could now understand the native legend. As I
watched the diamond-like flashes of the
reflected waves, I was reminded of my own family—wife, children, parents,
grandparents, brothers, and sister. I
realized Alaska has a way of soaking to one's core, and this primal land
provides context and meaning to our familiar contemporary world. And makes it somehow easier to understand and
attach meaning to one's own life. Strangely,
I wondered if some future passerby would ever contemplate my soul from the
reflections of the waves of the Icy Straights.
 |
| Whales-Icy Straights |
Matt said, "Why don't you
come with me to our hunting camp just up the mountain here? There's some food, something to drink, a fire
going. Nick can take care of things for
a while."
I was exhausted and his
invitation sounded awfully good. I was
sure Nick had seen me talking with Matt and knew where I was.
"I might just do that,"
I said, "if it wouldn't be trouble."
…"You ready?" asked
Matt, as he started up the hill.
I turned to follow him up the
mountain. I could see a plume of smoke
curling up over the trees on the hillside well above. I knew there would be fresh salmon baking on
the fire, strips of venison in the smokehouse, and green spruce logs putting
out richly scented smoke.
"I'm ready now," I
said, and started up the hill, following Matt.
Up to the camp of friendly, welcoming, helpful people. Where the sun shone bright and warm on the
hillside, and where there was a warm, dry fire inside…
_______________________________________________________________
Look for "Bear Hunt" and other short stories by John Bascom in the collection, Follow Him Up the Mountain, to be published in 2014.
