The Bear

“He scanned the forest around him. The pines and, the willows and, the sage and, all the wilderness around him was silent and morose. The only exception being the Quaking Aspen, who fluttered a symphonic melody of a million dried yellow and orange leaves as an afternoon breeze tickled its branches. The bruised and bloodied man closed his eyes. He inhaled his triumph and savored the ferrous taste of his own pathology when a crimson stream, originating at the torn gashes in his scalp, trickled onto his swollen bottom lip. His pupils constricted and his breathing slowed. He closed his eyes and swayed with the breeze as the effects of his body’s adrenaline dump began to fade. He was already beginning to forget the details of what had transpired. The memories were diluting as his synapse flooded with plainly contemporary blood. He calmed himself. He remembered he had not entered the forest alone. ”

With only a single weekend left to hunt together before school started, a young father and his aspiring son walked the same path that three generations before them had walked in pursuit of the same game. The boy wasn’t yet old enough to legally hunt so, he followed in his father’s footsteps, admiring the lever action rifle slung over the man’s shoulder and the assortment of tally marks carved into the wooden stock. Each one resembled a kill made with the long-gun over the course of the same three generations who had cut the trail they were walking on.  

“Dad?” The boy whispered when they had stopped at the edge of a clearing.  

“Yea Buddy?” The father responded.  

“Why does Mom say you have a bear in your heart?”  

It was one of those questions that couldn’t be appropriately answered from a perch, towering above the inquirer. The man smiled at his son, leaned his gold plated Henry Repeating Arms rifle against a nearby tree and, kneeled down on one knee to address him.  

“Why do you think Mom says that?” He quizzed his son.  

The boy thought for a moment. Then, preemptively embarrassed by his only assessment, he forced out the words that he was sure were silly and would be ill-received.  

“Because you growl when you sleep?”  

An instant spurt of unrelenting humor boiled from the depths of the man’s gut. He attempted to stifle the laughter but a few muffled chuckles slipped out. Deciding such wonders could be addressed later, the boy’s father dismissively responded,  

“Yea Bud, maybe that’s it.”  

The boy’s face betrayed his unsatisfied intentions to contest his father’s conclusion. Before the man could stand and continue on, the boy asserted himself.  

“Grandma says it too. She says you have a bear in your heart just like Grandpa. She says you do a better job than he did of keeping the bear caged in there.” The boy wore a concerned look as he pointed directly at his father’s chest with an accusatory forefinger.   

“Not much better” the man mumbled under his breath, a disdain for himself weighing heavy on the words. 

His son didn’t pause to ask what he meant.

“She says that the bear is always rattling the cage bars, making you mad and wondering if you should let it out. She said sometimes it’s hard for you to keep it in there…. and that Grandpa couldn’t; no matter how hard he tried. She says that the bear in there will hurt everyone around you if you let it out.” 

The hardened man turned his head for a moment to conceal the single tear that had escaped from the corner of his left eye and broke away, running towards his mouth. He spit the wad of Copenhagen he had been nursing inside his bottom lip all morning to the ground, swallowed the emotions he was secretly battling and faced his son.  

“Well Son, Grandma has a way of saying things like that to describe people’s behavior. Your grandpa and your daddy both have struggled a bit, over the years, to act in a way that other people think is okay. Your grandpa never quite figured out how to keep that bear inside his heart and, as a result, he wasn’t a very happy man. He loved your grandma and he loved your daddy but, some guys just aren’t equipped with all the right tools to be domestic men. Your grandpa didn’t like to hurt people but he did a lot of it. He hurt a lot of bad people. People who may have been bad but, they deserved a chance to explain themselves. Your grandpa wasn’t too keen on letting them do so.”  

It didn’t answer the boy’s question. Aggravated, he insisted,  “It’s not just that!” The boy was determined to make his point and find the answers he was looking for. “She says the bear you’ve got caged in there isn’t just making noises that only you hear! She says the bear is always calling out, calling other bears to come free him. She says that’s why you get in so many fights with Grizzlies. She says the bears out here can hear the bear in there.” He spoke with anxiety.  

The boy began to shake a bit. He scanned the trees around them and the hair on the back of his neck stood tall. Terrified for his son, the man pulled the boy in close and embraced him within proportionally larger, flannel covered arms. Even with the scent in the air alluding to their present danger, he soothingly whispered to the boy that there was nothing to fear. He promised to always protect him and persuaded his terror away.  

The boy calmed in his fathers embrace but… the hair on his neck refused to lay down. The fear had vanished but the alertness remained. Every crunched leaf. Every broken twig. Every bit of scraped hide against Lodgepole pine. Every single sound, no matter how inconsequential, made its way to his ear. Then the smell filled his nostrils. The rancid smell of rotten carcass emitting from the monster’s fur. The metallic stench of the blood drenching its paws and mouth. The boy’s senses filled with nothing else but the intimidating realization that he and his father were no longer alone. The man hugged his son tighter for a moment, grasping the back of his neck and speaking deliberately into his right ear.  

“We can’t talk anymore about this now, Son. Now it’s time to fight. I need you to run. Do you remember the lookout I showed you, up in the trees?  

The boy nodded in the affirmative against his father’s shoulder.  

“Go Son! Go! NOW!”  

The boy bounded from his still position and carried himself as fast as his legs would allow. He sprinted over deadfall and sage until he reached the quackie grove where a two story fire watch lookout had been built more than 30 years prior. He climbed the wooden rung ladder he and his father had refurbished the previous summer and from the tower’s west window he watched through a gap in the forested canopy as his father and the bear faced off below. At some point between when the boy had separated from his father and when he had reached the tower, his father had been thrown by the massive bear, across the trail and away from his rifle. The boy’s face began to swell and an acrid combination of tears and horror poured from his eyes.  

“DADDY!” The boy cried as he watched the bear maneuver into position cautiously. His seemingly unconscious father lay motionless as the beast closed the anticipatory gap between itself and its prey. Now, hovering over the lifeless man, the bear stood on its two hind quarters as it prepared the momentum to deliver the final blow to an easy meal. As it did so, the man sprung to life, pulling the 3 inch minimalist blade from the kydex scabbard that hung from a paracord lanyard around his neck.

He thrust the blade through the bear’s left-hind paw and into the dirt beneath. In response, the bear let a horrifically agonizing growl escape its slobber saturated jowls before falling backward away from the man. He leaped to his feet and retrieved a foot long Bowie formed blade from the scabbard on his belt. He scanned the arena to find his rifle, action broken open, lying beneath a pine more than 30 yards away. Blood spilled from an open wound on his scalp and blinded his right eye. The rifle was too far away to access before the bear returned to the fight. Not only that but, the chamber wasn’t even charged. How could he have been so careless to not even load the tube?

Without time to wonder such things to himself, he turned back to the large boar as it squirmed momentarily before standing, now on three legs. It nursed the wounded paw and for a moment the two animals stared at each other, contemplating if the resulting juice of the continuing onslaught was worth the proverbial squeeze. The boar hadn’t yet been convinced it was not. It charged the man with slightly less efficiency than it had with four working quarters and a lot more confidence. Once in range, it again stood on its two hind legs and attempted to engulf the man in its aggressive hug. As it did so, the man launched a backhanded swing of the large knife into any and all flesh he could contact from within the terminally encompassing embrace of the monstrous creature. The razor sharp blade sliced open veins and arteries and the resulting spurts of blood entered the atmosphere of the fight from somewhere near the boar’s shoulder.

Not without consequence however, as the bear’s forward-left claws tore gashes into the man’s back, near his right shoulder blade. The two beasts fell to the ground in unison, still wrapped together in a violent embrace. As they stumbled the man voraciously thrust his blade into the bear’s chest in repeated, swift stabs. He pierced the bear’s hide three times and on two of those occasions he felt his thrust be diverted by the bear’s fortified rib bones. The boar screamed in agony and tossed the man away as it rolled in retreat, stood, and crashed through the underbrush and deadfall – escaping the scene. The man lay there, listening while the cacophony of wreckage the eluding animal left in its wake of retreat diluted, as the creature ran further and further away. Then, with abrupt suddenness, the sounds of catastrophe halted. The forest turned quiet and the man surmised the bear had succumbed to its wounds, crashing to the earth – motionless and departed. 

He scanned the forest around him. The pines and, the willows and, the sage and, all the wilderness around him was silent and morose. The only exception being the Quaking Aspen, who fluttered a symphonic melody of a million dried yellow and orange leaves as an afternoon breeze tickled its branches. The bruised and bloodied man closed his eyes. He inhaled his triumph and savored the ferrous taste of his own pathology when a crimson stream, originating at the torn gashes in his scalp, trickled onto his swollen bottom lip. His pupils constricted and his breathing slowed. He closed his eyes and swayed with the breeze as the effects of his body’s adrenaline dump began to fade. He was already beginning to forget the details of what had transpired. The memories were diluting as his synapse flooded with plainly contemporary blood. He calmed himself. He remembered he had not entered the forest alone. 

“BOY!” He called. “Come here, son!” 

He heard a tearfully ecstatic voice call in response from above the canopy of pines around him. Moments later, he heard the creaks and pops of deadfall limbs as his son returned to him. He reached into his bag and pulled from it an extensive first-aid kit. He globbed topical antibiotics onto his head wound and covered it in gauze. He then encompassed his head and brow with bandage. Then he peeled off his button down, flannel shirt. His son arrived. 

“Check the gashes on my back, Son. Are they still bleeding?” 

Horrified, the young boy who despite any willingness, was being expediently forced into adulthood, stepped closer to examine his father’s wounds. 

“They’re still bleeding, Dad.” Terrified, he wanted nothing more than to cry. He restrained himself, knowing his father wouldn’t allow it. 

“Son, push these sterile patches into the cuts then, help me wrap this bandage around my chest. I should be okay to walk out of here and, we’ll go straight home to have your mom patch me up.” 

As the two worked to get the man dressed again, the boy asked his father with a quivering lip, “is the bear dead, Dad?” 

“I don’t know, son.” The man responded with an undeniable quiver in his own voice. “I imagine he is either dying in the brush about 60 yards that direction or he made it to a meadow beyond the tree line. Either way, I only heard him run away for a short few seconds. After that, there was silence.” 

He pointed in the direction the bear broke away in and then turned his attention to the rifle. It had been knocked to the ground early in the skirmish. Seeing it lay there now, action partially open to reveal an empty chamber, the man’s guilt set heavy onto his shoulders. He was infuriated with himself. How on earth could he have forgotten to chamber a round before walking in. How could he have risked that? He instructed his son to bring the rifle to him and when he did so, he opened the action the remainder of the way, before closing it with a fresh cartridge loaded. He placed pressure on the cocked hammer and squeezed the trigger. With the hammer controlled under his thumb, he gently returned it to the uncocked position. 

“You better carry the rifle, Son. My shoulder is trashed.” 

The boy, in just those few words, understood that he had changed in his father’s eyes. He had grown. They began walking back to the trailhead where a vintage Ford pickup awaited them. It too had been handed down through the generations. As they limped along, the man could feel the same vexatious weight on his shoulders also weighing on his son’s. 

“I’m proud of you, Boy.” He said in a deep voice, meant to be calming. The boy looked up at his father admiringly. He didn’t want to talk about the fight. He didn’t want to ask if his dad was hurting – he knew he was. He didn’t want to talk about how he had been scared, then happy to see his dad survive or how he felt now. 

So the boy picked up their conversation exactly where they had left off. 

“Dad?” 

“Yes, Son?”

“What are domestic men?” His face was contorted by confusion. It was a term he had not yet learned. 

It took a moment for his father to recall what the boy was referring to, then he remembered the term he had used to describe his own father earlier in the conversation. With a chuckle the man clarified, 

“Yea okay, so like how your pups are family dogs. They look a lot like the wolves that sometimes come off the hill in the back lot but, your dogs aren’t like them are they?” 

The boy shook his head. 

“The wolves are wild. They’re not okay to have around because they don’t know any matters of civility like your pups do. The dogs knew to be gentle with you when you were a baby. They know how to behave in the house and not to bite people. The wolf doesn’t know those things. He just does whatever he wants. He’s not domesticated like the dogs.” 

The boy understood. Like with all things he explained about behavior, his father had used an anthropomorphic metaphor to teach his son how all animals are different but, all men are animals. 

“So, you and grandpa are like wolves?” The boy tried to conclude. 

“No.” The man granted. 

“Well, you do whatever you want all the time! It drives Mom mad.” The boy insisted. 

“Yea but, that’s what wolves and bears have in common. There’s a big difference between bears and wolves though.” 

“What is it?” The boy wondered aloud. 

Casually, the solemn man reported back, “wolves have friends.” 

The boy thought about that. He understood what his father meant. The wolves which frequented their large property tucked against the Wind River Mountains, never appeared alone. Usually they were a unit of 5 to 10 beasts, working together to terrorize their livestock and family. Bears on the other hand; he had seen plenty. Being the son of such a man, he had first encountered them at a young age and every summer since. He realized his father was right. The large boars; the grown, male bears – they always roamed alone. He had never seen one working together with another like the wolves do. He considered this for a moment then, wondered if it actually applied to his father. Again, his father was tooling the knowledge his son had of the animal to help him understand the behavior of men. 

They continued on. The old, abandoned forest service road wound over the south face of a pine planted ridgeline. The man’s legs grew tired as his body compensated for the loss of blood. His son walked beside him, unable to conceal the concern on his face. Hastily, the young father set his intentions to easing the boy’s worry. He attempted to occupy the boy’s mind with inconsequential conversation. His attempts were soon thwarted. To his present dismay, his boy was a thinker. 

“Son, are you excited to start school next week?” 

Sheepishly, the boy dawned a facial expression of worry as he shook his head back and forth with a definitive “no” stuck in the back of his throat.  

“Why son?” 

The worry in his eyes intensified as he lay his feelings out on the table to air out. “Because some kids are mean” he finally choked out.  

“Oh son I know,” the young father responded. “Nobody knows that more than your daddy. All the kids were mean to me when I was your age. I was different from them all and they hated me for it. They were mean and they were cruel but, you know what your dad learned?” 

The boy shook his head unconfidently. 

“I learned that the mean kids were mean because they were weak and, because they were weak, they were scared. They were weak in their hearts and weak in their bodies. They were scared but, they didn’t want anyone to know it, so they acted out violently hoping it would fool everyone into thinking they were tough and unafraid. It took daddy a long time to understand that but, I hope that you can learn it early so you don’t waste any time worrying about mean people. Mean people are simple and weak. They don’t deserve your concern” 

The light in his eyes started to trickle back in. “What do I do to mean people?” 

“Nothing son. You’re strong. You’re strong in your mind and in your heart. You’re strong in your back and in your fists. I’ve watched you wrangle the dogs and move the wood pile. I’ve watched you learn and share. I’ve watched you help others. You’re stronger than you know and strong people don’t waste their time fussing over the weak, arrogant fools. Instead, we pray for them. We pray that God strengthens their resolve before that weakness turns them into something we can’t tolerate in our community. You treat everyone nicely and with exceptional kindness – especially the weak ones. Let them be mean and ugly. You just be good and happy. You be so, until you can be so no longer.” 

With a new sense of understanding, the boy pieced together the puzzle of uncertainty that had recently surrounded his anticipation of the oncoming start date. Then, in his mind, he approached yet another obstacle. 

“But… what if they’re mean to me?” He spoke the trembling words with a type of desperation his father had never heard in him before.  

“Well son if they’re mean to you with words; simply ignore them. Responding to them alone is enough to make them feel like their being mean is accomplishing something. Don’t give them that. Remember that they are weak and their words are weak as well. Let them throw that garbage out at you. Return it with kindness. Return it with wit. They’ll soon learn they can’t hurt you with their silly words.” 

“But what if they hurt me with their hands?” 

The thickest, most deliberate words he had ever spoken responded. “Then son, in those situations, you have an obligation to unleash what’s inside you. Inside that heart of yours is the same bear your daddy has. The same your grandpa had like, his daddy before him. The men in our family are both blessed and cursed by that bear. That bear is there for a reason, Son. It’s not an easy life, to live as a tender for such a bear but, it’s an important one. One day you’ll understand its purpose. For now, just know that if bad people are trying to hurt you, you are to let the bear out of your heart and it will dig its claws into them. Words are harmless, no matter how cruel. Don’t ever respond to words with violence but, if someone tries to harm you or your body – you force your hand and you prevent them from hurting you or anyone else. You make them see the evil of their ways by turning that evil on them. You make them cry. You make them see and feel what they’ve been doing to others. You make them pay. You make them think twice because, the next time they try to hurt someone, it may be someone who isn’t strong like you. It could be someone who can’t fight back. It could be someone you love. You can’t let that happen. You have to stop them. God gave you strength so, with it you have an obligation to protect others. If there is someone trying to cause you harm, be thankful that it’s you they chose to act on. You can stop them where, maybe, someone else could not. You put that hurt on them and make them conform to good nature.”

Some confusion set into his expression. “But, if I hurt them won’t I get in trouble?” 

“Don’t ever let me learn that you’ve picked a fight or were bullying someone. I won’t have a bully in my house. You never hurt someone without good reason but, if bad people try to hurt you or someone you love, you strike fast and hard. You hurt them in ways they could never dream of. You do this only in those times and, if …… you find yourself in trouble with your teachers or the law for it, you just send them my way. You tell them to come talk to your dad. I’ll make them see the light.”

They boy felt conclusive as the worry washed away from his mind. He reached up to take his father’s hand. The hardened man closed his around the boy’s grip. They walked in silence while the late Fall sun diminished. The trail continued on around the face of the mountain. Through the thick pines and molting Aspens they stepped in silence, confident and unafraid. Onward to the welcoming doors of home, where meaning awaited them both.

Author’s Note:

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this story and all the content associated with it. 

As an avid sportsman, I hope that this tale inspires you to get outside to enjoy the wild with the ones you love most. The details of my stories are purely fiction and the sentiments in my poems are hypothetical. They should, in no way, be misconceived to represent real people, organizations or factual events. Some of my stories are inspired by my experiences in the world; however, that inspiration only serves to develop the fictional realm for which I write about. Nothing about these stories should be garnered as fact or truth and, as an author, I take no responsibility for any actions carried out by readers of this blog. These are simply tall tales meant to entertain the tired mind; best served with a clear evening, a warm fire and, a strong whiskey.

That’s all for now, my friends. If you enjoyed this content and would like to see more like it, I can be found on Instagram by searching “Authentically Wild Out West” and on YouTube by searching the same phrase. Until the next campfire, stay safe out there and look after each other.

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