Surviving Bear Island by Paul Greci Page B

paced back and forth on the gravel bar bordering the stream. I grabbed another big rock and slammed it into the water.
    I pictured the creek where I’d scavenged the bear-killed salmon. The one in front of me looked just like it. And why were the eagles hanging around if there were no salmon? They weren’t stupid, like me. They actually lived here. They knew where the fish were.
    All day I’d been thinking about the fish. Even slime-covered remains with bear drool a quarter-inch thick would do. Something I could cook ona fire. Something that would stay in my stomach to let me know I’d eaten. The worm-filled blueberries would be good to fill in around the fish, or to eat as I found them, but I couldn’t live on them, not with all the walking in front of me.
    I let out a scream that emptied my lungs of air, stomped my feet on the ground, and then sat down and cried.
    At first I cried like a little kid who wasn’t getting his way. But soon I was crying for my dad—where was he? And for my mom, for her short life. And because I knew that with every failure to find food, the chances of ever seeing anyone again grew slimmer.
    Six days since the accident or was it seven, I wondered, as I wiped tears from my eyes.
    Fish once, two Meal Pack bars and berries, lots of berries. My stomach let out a growl that could’ve scared a bear away.
    â€œFood,” I said. “This is my biggest problem. And I need to fix it.” My mind churned away, trying to solve it. Like if I thought hard enough an endless supply of burgers and fries would just appear. A chill ran up my spine. The cold ground sucked the heat out of my legs.
    I picked myself up and started for the trees in search of firewood and a campsite.

    I draped my sweat-soaked socks on the tops of my boots close to the fire, thrilled that it wasn’t raining. I was sitting barefoot atop one of the life vests, letting my blistered feet air out. The wormy blueberries I’d eaten sat in my stomach like a tiny puddle on the bottom of an empty swimming pool.
    In my mind I started a song like my mom would’ve done. She made songs for every thing.
    Wormy blueberries will help.
    But alone will only make me yelp.
    Like a dog without enough to eat.
    Salmon for the Sentinels can’t be beat.
    I know my mom could’ve come up with something better, but she’d be happy that I was making a song. A song with her in mind. “Let the music flow through you,” she’d say. “Play with it. You don’t make mistakes when you make music. You make discoveries.”
    There had to be a salmon stream farther back in the bay. Had to be, or else I’d have to cut off some fingers and roast them. Maybe I could work that in.
    So the whole thing would go like this:
    Wormy blue berries will help.
    But alone will only make me yelp.
    Like a dog I need more than a treat.
    Salmon for the Sentinels can’t be beat.
    If I don’t find any, then fingers I’ll eat.
    By the firelight I took one of the four, identical, big pixie lures—a silver spoon with a bumpy pink center with a treble hook dangling beneath—from its package.
    Spawning salmon don’t bite, I remembered.
    They’ve stopped feeding.
    Spawning salmon don’t bite, but I do.
    When I catch one I’ll chew and chew.
    That could be the next verse to my rotten little song.
    I searched my firewood pile and chose a branch still covered with bark and about six feet long that I could just get my hand around.
    The word. What was the word? Hook on a pole. We used one when Dad took me halibut fishing when I was little. Besides me puking into a bucket, I remembered the guide slamming a pole into the halibut.
    â€œGaff!” I said. “I’m gonna make a gaff!” Yeah, talking to myself again. Or to the world. To anyone who would listen. And singing to the bears so they would know I was here and to go find their own spots.
    Wormy blueberries will