A twig snaps somewhere off to my right. Heavy. Not a squirrel. Not a bird.
“Deer?” I offer hopefully.
The reply is a low huffing sound. Wet. Deep. Followed by a rhythmic crunch of weight on underbrush.
My heart climbs into my throat.
The bear steps into view between two trees about twenty meters away.
Black, massive, shoulders humped, nose twitching. Its fur glistens with moisture, bits of old snow clinging to its back. It stares at me, small dark eyes intent.
I do not move.
My brain starts reciting the protocol in all caps.
DON’T RUN.
DON’T SCREAM.
MAKE YOURSELF BIG.
SPEAK CALMLY. BACK AWAY SLOWLY.
“Hey, there,” I say, voice higher than I’d like. “Wow. You’re… you’re very beautiful. And large. Incredibly large. Have you considered a career as a model? No? That’s fine, you’re doing great in your current field.”
The bear snorts.
Adrenaline floods my system, making my knees feel like they’ve been replaced with cooked noodles.
I slowly raise my arms, making myself as big as a moderately tall, moderately fit human can be—which is to say: not very.
“I’m backing up,” I announce, because apparently I’m the sort of person who narrates his own potential mauling. “I’m just going to… give you space. I’m stringy and full of anxiety; I promise I don’t taste good.”
I take one step back. Another. The bear watches, weighing its options. I can almost see the calculus.
Then, from somewhere behind me and to the left, there’s a crash through the underbrush.
It’s not subtle. Whatever it is, it breaks a branch with a sound like a gunshot, then lets out a sharp, barking grunt.
The bear rears slightly, ears pricking, gaze flicking toward the sound. It hesitates for half a heartbeat, then turns and bolts in the opposite direction, crashing away through the brush like a furry freight train.
I stand there, arms still raised, heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
“Okay,” I croak. “Okay. That’s… that’s fine. That’s good. That’s great. Leaving now.”
The logical part of my brain knows I should stay put for a minute. Let the bear clear the area. Breathe.
The rest of my brain is already packing its imaginary suitcase and sprinting for the nearest airport.
I lower my arms, grab my bag and—on reflex—my notebook, because apparently documentation is still a priority even in mortal peril, and start moving back toward camp.
Not running. Definitely not running.
Fine. Jogging a little.
“Don’t run from bears, don’t run from bears,” I mutter as I speed up. “Bear is gone. Bear is scared. Bear is probably filing a complaint about the screaming human. You’re fine. Everything’s fine. No one got eaten. Gold star for everyone.”
Branches whip past me. My boot skids on a slick patch of mud and I windmill my arms, barely catching myself before I face-plant.
