Read Online Beyond the Bear by Dan Bigley, Debra McKinney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dan Bigley, Debra McKinney
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shit!”
We screeched to a halt. Up ahead, the alders were shaking violently. John grabbed me by my shoulders and yanked me backward a step. My stomach plunged. My heart felt like a fist trying to pound its way out of my chest. Was that bear stalking us? Had it circled around to cut us off? Instantly, and without need for discussion, we about-faced and started hoofing it back the way we’d just come. We didn’t get far.
In a flash, the bear we thought was now behind us came tearing around the corner in front of us so fast it had to dip its shoulder to make the turn. Head lowered, ears flattened against its neck, eyes on fire, it took a running swipe at Maya. Maya yelped and leapt sideways off the trail, avoiding the blow. Without breaking stride, it took a running swipe at John. John launched sideways into the alders with such propulsion he flew out of his wader shoes, leaving them behind on the trail. The bear blew by him like a missile, eyes locked on mine.
Those eyes, I remember them as yellow and burning like comets. Those eyes would be the last thing I would ever see.
In the nanoseconds I had to decide how to save myself, I whipped around, took two running steps, and dove headfirst off the trail into the brush. The bear slammed into me like a wrecking ball and had me before I hit the ground, snagging my left thigh midair with a powerful swing of its paw. Crashing through a barrage of snapping branches, I landed with a thud, the wind knocked from my lungs, in an explosion of pain.
Slow motion is cruel, the way it draws out the horror, each second crawling along, dragging its hindquarters. This . . . can’t . . . be . . . happening.
With its claws embedded in my leg, the bear yanked me from a tangle of brush back out to the trail in short, jerky motions like a dog playing tug-of-war with a sock. Lying facedown, fingers interlaced around the back of my neck, elbows tucked tight around the sides of my head, I tried to play dead. From somewhere above, I heard sickening, primal screams that didn’t sound human. It didn’t register that they were coming from my own throat.
Lying ten feet away, stabbed and scraped by branches that had splintered on impact and made a sieve of his waders, John lay in dense brush, armed with nothing more than a fishing pole, listening to the roars and screams and thrashings of the bear killing me . Eyes wide, chest heaving, unable to see more than two feet in front of him, he rose onto his elbows and started a frantic belly crawl through a thicket of prickly branches and devil’s club spines that bloodied his hands and face.Upon reaching the edge, he stood, stumbled, and started running, screaming for help . Remembering the fish on his back, thinking it bear bait, he wriggled out of the shoulder straps of his pack and winged it on the run as far as he could into the brush. He stopped a short distance later, at the Cottonwood Hole, where earlier we’d all been fishing together. Hyperventilating, he paced back and forth, back and forth on rubber legs. He felt sick about leaving me. About running. What to do? What to do? What to do? The urge to go back was overwhelming. But the bear. . . He whipped around toward the parking lot and cupped his hands to his mouth.
“HELP! SOMEBODY HELLLP!”
After dodging the bear, Maya had bolted downriver, but came charging back when she heard John’s screams.“Get out of here!” he hollered, giving her a kick in the chest, partially for her own good, partially for fear a freaked-out dog would make matters worse. Maya yelped, turned around, and dashed back down the trail toward The Sanctuary. Still within earshot, John paused to listen. All he heard were dogs barking off in the distance and the river flowing by. I had passed out, and the bear had wandered off a few paces to wait and watch, as bears do when neutralizing a threat, real or perceived. Thinking the bear had gone, John called out.
“Dan! DAN! ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?”
He could barely make
We screeched to a halt. Up ahead, the alders were shaking violently. John grabbed me by my shoulders and yanked me backward a step. My stomach plunged. My heart felt like a fist trying to pound its way out of my chest. Was that bear stalking us? Had it circled around to cut us off? Instantly, and without need for discussion, we about-faced and started hoofing it back the way we’d just come. We didn’t get far.
In a flash, the bear we thought was now behind us came tearing around the corner in front of us so fast it had to dip its shoulder to make the turn. Head lowered, ears flattened against its neck, eyes on fire, it took a running swipe at Maya. Maya yelped and leapt sideways off the trail, avoiding the blow. Without breaking stride, it took a running swipe at John. John launched sideways into the alders with such propulsion he flew out of his wader shoes, leaving them behind on the trail. The bear blew by him like a missile, eyes locked on mine.
Those eyes, I remember them as yellow and burning like comets. Those eyes would be the last thing I would ever see.
In the nanoseconds I had to decide how to save myself, I whipped around, took two running steps, and dove headfirst off the trail into the brush. The bear slammed into me like a wrecking ball and had me before I hit the ground, snagging my left thigh midair with a powerful swing of its paw. Crashing through a barrage of snapping branches, I landed with a thud, the wind knocked from my lungs, in an explosion of pain.
Slow motion is cruel, the way it draws out the horror, each second crawling along, dragging its hindquarters. This . . . can’t . . . be . . . happening.
With its claws embedded in my leg, the bear yanked me from a tangle of brush back out to the trail in short, jerky motions like a dog playing tug-of-war with a sock. Lying facedown, fingers interlaced around the back of my neck, elbows tucked tight around the sides of my head, I tried to play dead. From somewhere above, I heard sickening, primal screams that didn’t sound human. It didn’t register that they were coming from my own throat.
Lying ten feet away, stabbed and scraped by branches that had splintered on impact and made a sieve of his waders, John lay in dense brush, armed with nothing more than a fishing pole, listening to the roars and screams and thrashings of the bear killing me . Eyes wide, chest heaving, unable to see more than two feet in front of him, he rose onto his elbows and started a frantic belly crawl through a thicket of prickly branches and devil’s club spines that bloodied his hands and face.Upon reaching the edge, he stood, stumbled, and started running, screaming for help . Remembering the fish on his back, thinking it bear bait, he wriggled out of the shoulder straps of his pack and winged it on the run as far as he could into the brush. He stopped a short distance later, at the Cottonwood Hole, where earlier we’d all been fishing together. Hyperventilating, he paced back and forth, back and forth on rubber legs. He felt sick about leaving me. About running. What to do? What to do? What to do? The urge to go back was overwhelming. But the bear. . . He whipped around toward the parking lot and cupped his hands to his mouth.
“HELP! SOMEBODY HELLLP!”
After dodging the bear, Maya had bolted downriver, but came charging back when she heard John’s screams.“Get out of here!” he hollered, giving her a kick in the chest, partially for her own good, partially for fear a freaked-out dog would make matters worse. Maya yelped, turned around, and dashed back down the trail toward The Sanctuary. Still within earshot, John paused to listen. All he heard were dogs barking off in the distance and the river flowing by. I had passed out, and the bear had wandered off a few paces to wait and watch, as bears do when neutralizing a threat, real or perceived. Thinking the bear had gone, John called out.
“Dan! DAN! ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?”
He could barely make
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