Untraceable

Survival Skill #2

To avoid wild animals when hiking, make lots of noise and stay alert.

~

About one hundred feet in front of me, a huge black bear lumbers onto the path, blocking my exit.

His dark fur glistens in the broken streams of light, and his nose twitches. Bears have a wicked sense of smell—seven times that of a bloodhound. They’ve even been known to detect a human’s scent hours after someone has left the trail. I’m not worried. If I stay upwind, I can probably go unnoticed long enough to sneak away.

As if on cue, a slight breeze strokes the back of my neck. My body stiffens.

Crap, I’m downwind.

Whether this guy has seen me or not, he’ll get a good whiff in about two seconds. The bear rears up on his hind legs and wiggles his snout, sniffing the air. His beady brown eyes shift around until they focus on me. He huffs a warning and stares me down.

I remain completely still and size up my opponent. Black bear. Adult male. About four hundred pounds. Six feet tall. Definitely the largest one I’ve ever faced out here without Dad.

This is the first time I’m totally on my own.

I keep my eyes on the animal, remaining stiff. Even though black bears are generally passive, Dad once told me they cause more injuries to hikers than any other bear species. Partly because people don’t seem to be afraid of them like they are grizzly bears. Unfortunately, thanks to Yogi Bear, people think the bears are cuddly, tame animals out hunting picnic baskets.

I scroll through all the facts Dad has drilled into my brain over the years.

Can’t run. Bears can bolt about thirty miles an hour.

Forget climbing. They can scale a tree trunk faster than you can yell, ‘Bear!’

My best chance is to retreat slowly with the hopes of widening the space between us. I suck in a breath and inch backward. The bear immediately senses my movement and drops down on all fours. A series of huffs and growls pour from his throat. I keep my feet grounded, but my heart takes flight.

Time for Plan B: when a 140-pound girl scares off a 400-pound Ursus americanus.

Waving my hands over my head, I shout out to him. “Go on! Get outta here!” I stomp my feet on the path a few times just for show.

The bear is not amused. He swings his massive head from side to side and snaps his jaws, displaying long, sharp fangs. And I’m pretty positive he’s not smiling. The bear roars an awful sound.

My chest heaves, my mouth turns dry, and my stomach cramps. All at once. I force my eyes to stay open and prepare for his next move, “The Bear Two-Step,” as Dad calls it.

As I anticipate, the bear lunges forward, invading the small space between us. He charges with his huge paws hammering the path. My legs threaten to move, but fear has kidnapped my entire body and shackled my feet to the earth.

Lucky for me, I’m right about the bluff. When the bear’s only a few yards away, he jerks to a stop and stares me down.

I drop my head and look away, breaking eye contact, so he doesn’t consider me a threat. However, my brain remains on high alert. If this thing charges again, I need to be ready or I’m dinner. I peer out of the corner of my eye. It’s only then that I notice a white necktie marking on his massive chest and a single scar running over his left eye.

Simon.

I’m amazed at how much he’s grown since I last saw him.

Years ago, Dad found Simon when he was a cub. His mother had been killed, and Simon had been shot right above his eye. Against his own rules, Dad brought Simon home, hoping to nurse him back to health. During the months of rehabilitation, the little cub and I were inseparable. He was a silly animal. Forty percent human, forty percent dog, and only twenty percent bear. The day Dad returned Simon to the wild was one of the worst days I can remember. For a year after that, every day after school, I’d hike deep into the national park, hoping to catch a glimpse of Simon.

But I never saw him again.

Until now.

Part of me wants to run up and hug him, but I force the feelings aside. Even though we have a history, Simon is wild at heart, and that’s how it should be.

Simon notices me watching him out of the corner of my eye. His amber eyes seem to soften and his eyebrows twitch, giving him a strange human-like quality. He moves his lips around in a circle like he’s trying to tell me something. I almost think he recognizes me.

A few minutes later, he finally gets bored and lumbers off, uttering grunts under his breath, getting in the last word. As usual.

As soon as he disappears behind the green curtain of leaves, my legs crumble underneath me and I slump to the ground. Even though my body has already surrendered to my nerves, my brain doesn’t cave so easily. I keep an eye out, just in case Simon decides to give a surprise encore.

Once I’m positive he’s gone, I muster up the courage to leave. During the long trek back to Luci, every rustling noise and cracking stick sends my heart skipping. I’m relieved when I finally reach my bike safely.

I hop onto the motorcycle, throw on a helmet, and press down the pedal with one foot.

The bike grumbles a couple times before dying a slow, sputtering death.

I holler out, “Geez, Luci! Do you ever start the first time?” Luci, short for Lucifer, has been temperamental since the day I got her. My boss, Tommy, restored the vintage motorcycle for my sixteenth birthday. Except for the testy starter, the bike works fine.

I attempt to wake Luci again. This time, more gently. She forgives my outburst and springs to life. I pat her engine like she’s a horse and steer her out of the woods. When I finally hit the main drag, a breeze welcomes me.

On my way into town, I try not to think about the Cheetos bag stashed in my backpack. About what it could mean. I can’t help but allow a drop of hope to sneak in. I rev the engine and increase my speed, eager to get to the police station and show Captain what I’ve found.

Somewhere along the winding road, I think about Simon. Even though I was almost bear breakfast, seeing him brings back good memories. Feeding him milk from a bottle. Playing chase in the woods. Catching fish in the river. (Actually, I hooked the fish; Simon just scared them away.)

Through my rear-view mirror, I watch the forest fade into the background and smile.

I love these woods, and so does Dad.

Protecting bears like Simon is what got us here in the first place.