Wild Man Island by Will Hobbs Page B

the hafting. “Let’s get going,” he said.
    Across rivers and over mountains I followed him, along the seashore and over higher mountains. Everywhere there were bears, monstrous grizzly bears. They would stand on their hind legs and they would lay back their ears and woof at us, but they never charged.
    â€œWhy don’t they ever charge you?” I asked.
    â€œThey know they can’t touch me,” he replied.
    â€œBecause of your spear?”
    â€œBecause I’m dead. Bears are very intelligent. They know.”
    We kept going until he led me to a certain mountainside. “You can’t tell because of all the trees,” he said, “but that entire ridge is karst.”
    â€œLimestone?” I said. “The kind that makes caves?”
    With a wink, my father replied, “Just might be,” and then he led me up the mountainside to a small opening in a knobby gray rock formation.
    â€œA cave?” I asked.
    In reply, he reached inside and brought out two helmets, each with a headlamp.
    I asked, “Does this mean you’ve found the earliest Americans?”
    â€œNot yet,” he said.
    We went inside. The formations were exquisite beyond belief. My father led me on and on, until we came to an abyss. We were looking into the depths of an immense well that seemed to have no bottom.
    â€œLook,” I said, “across from us, the cave keeps goingon the other side. It might be possible to keep going on that ledge that swings around the side. Have you been beyond here?”
    â€œIt’s against the rules.”
    â€œBut why?”
    â€œYou can go. It looks perfectly safe. I’ll wait right here.”
    I aimed my headlamp for a better look. The ledge was ridiculously narrow, and water was seeping across it. “Forget I ever mentioned it,” I said.
    My father didn’t say anything. Obviously, he wanted me to try it. The next thing I knew, I was starting across the ledge. I got to the part that was wet and slippery. It was no wider than a balance beam, and was angled down toward the abyss. “I don’t know,” I muttered. I looked over my shoulder. My father waved me on impatiently.
    All at once I was slipping, slipping and falling. I reached out for a grip but my hands found only slick white stone and I pitched head over heels into the abyss.
    Now I was in free flight, falling, falling, falling…
    Suddenly everything changed. I was on my back again and looking straight up into the face of a bear. It was right above me, broad and huge, silhouetted against the stars. I could hear it sniffing me, I could smell its breath.
    I wasn’t dreaming. Being with my father had been a dream. The bear was not a dream. I’m conscious again, I thought. I’ve come to, and the bear is real. I’m still lying here paralyzed, and the bear is real.
    The bear’s face pulled away and stars replaced it. The clouds have cleared, I thought. Maybe they’re gone for good. At the edge of my vision, I saw the bear’s claws. The bear was still there. Gently, it was raking the life jacket that protected my chest.
    I tried to feel my fingers. Still no response. The bear was gone. I willed myself not to black out.
    I couldn’t prevent it. Now I was on a raging river and paddling for my life. The walls of the canyon bristled black and narrow. Higher up and stepped back, they glowed a vivid red orange. This was Westwater Canyon, I realized. How many times have I heard my mother talk about it?
    I looked over my shoulder for her but she wasn’t there. I didn’t understand it. She was always right behind me.
    The whitewater was getting worse, and the river was full of rocks—jagged teeth, sleepers, and submerged stones that should have been deep enough for me to slide over. Somehow they weren’t. At the stern of my kayak, something was hitting the rocks. My rudder, I realized.
    I looked over my shoulder and there was my mother.