Surviving Bear Island by Paul Greci Page A

forest, dodging deadfall and fighting brush, and I heard a twig snap behind me. I jerked my head around and jumped backwards.
    I caught a glimpse of a squirrel clinging to the side of a spruce tree; then it dropped to the forest floor and disappeared into some deadfall.
    No way, I thought. No way could that little animal make such a loud sound.
    Then I remembered what my dad had told me around a campfire early in the trip.

    â€œIt was on my first solo kayaking trip,” Dad said. “It was light out and I was in my tent, reading. I kept hearing something walking in the forest. I’d unzip the tent, stick my head out and have a look around. I did that three times in less than twenty minutes. And each time I heard the walking noise, it sounded louder than before. I was drifting off to sleep when I heard it again, and this time it sounded like it was right on top of me. I panicked, shouted to scare whatever it was away, and blew on a whistle I carried. I was sure it was a bear.”
    â€œWhat was it?” I asked.
    Dad smiled. “I got out of my tent, looked around, and didn’t see anything. Got back in and heard it again. I thought I was going crazy. I got out and looked again. And then I saw it. And I didn’t know that it was responsible for the noise I was hearing until it moved, and I heard a watered-down version of the walking noise.”
    â€œWhat was it?” I asked again, wishing he’d just tell me.
    â€œI’m kind of embarrassed to say—it was a big black stinkbug perched on top of the rain fly of my tent, and every time it moved it sounded like footsteps. The sound was magnified in the tent. And, since I was alone, I was more sensitive to noises and what might be making them.”
    â€œA stinkbug,” I said, smiling. “No way.”
    â€œWhen you are alone in the wilderness, everything is magnified.”

    The next day I hiked toward the back of Hidden Bay, where the biggest mountains were, eyeing the ground for tracks, or any other sign from my dad. I stopped a couple of times and made rock arrows above the strand line, pointing toward the back of the bay. Pain stabbed my hip with every step and bend and twist. The wounds in my mouth stung, my cheeks ached, and the insides of my arches burned with blisters.
    I remembered those bear-killed fish.
    A stream. All I wanted was one stream, full of salmon.
    What I really wanted was steak and chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy, and some chocolate ice cream.
    I’d settle for salmon, but worried about how to catch them. I mean, walking around in that creek and having all those fish swim away from me. That sucked. Like the whole world had abandoned me.
    And I couldn’t live on bear-killed remains. I’d be like a seagull, waiting for the bears to finish their meal, and then moving in. Except gulls could cross the mountains in minutes, and go from stream to stream scavenging. I didn’t have that kind of range. I had to learn how to catch them.
    Your mother and I would go to watch bears catch and eat salmon. Those big creeks coming down out of the mountains. That’s where they’re most likely to be. That’s usually where the salmon streams are. Usually. We’d just float in the kayak and watch.
    From the top of a headland, I saw the signs of a salmon stream. Yellow-green, seaweed-covered rocks dotted with gulls at the mouth of the creek. As I walked down the slope, I spotted three bald eagles perched in the tree tops. The creek spread out and split into a few channels before flowing into the bay.
    Yes.
    Yes.
    Yes.
    I stopped at the first channel. The water was shallow, just shin deep. No fish. So I waded across.
    I tromped up one channel and down the next. Covered them all, shallow and deep, but found not one salmon, dead or alive.
    At the far side of the last channel I shouted, “Not fair!”
    I raised a big rock over my head and slammed it into the creek. I took a deep breath and