Previously I mentioned the need to be aware of your surroundings, because you never know how dangerous things can suddenly get. But I only told you one of the two promised stories of how that lesson was burned into my mind. 1997, about ten years after the close proximity encounter with a bull moose that wisely chose* not to stomp me into blood sausage, I was living on my grandparents homestead about forty miles outside of Fairbanks. My wife and oldest son (#2 was baking in the oven at the time) were at home and I had decided to go out and see if I could get a couple hares for dinner. I took up my trusty old .22 rifle, and strapped on a sidearm, a new (to me) little snub nose .38 I had recently bought, maybe do some test firing of it. I was about two miles from our house walking up the “Well Road” toward an offshoot trail that always had lots of Bugs Bunny’s buddies hanging out like a street gang looking for trouble. If no hares were about, there would usually be a grouse or two along the trail. I’d not go home empty handed…probably.
Mighty hunter that I am (never bagged anything larger than a marmot) I carried my rifle at port arms and scanned side to side looking through the trees for my prey. It was a quiet, windless autumn morning, about ten-ish, the sun shone flat through a thin veil of low grey clouds that might burn off by noon, or might not. On the left is a forest of birch and spruce choked by thick tangles of willow and alder that act like a solid wall against anything more substantial than a medium sized dog, on the right a boggy marsh of clusters of labrador tea, and small tart blueberries and lingonberries, dotted by round green tussocks like rose from the soggy ground like giant mossy puffballs. Clusters of spindly black spruce jutted at odd angles through waist high grasses like the swamp was having a bad hair day.
Soon my mind began to wander and instead of scanning for prey, or just as importantly scanning for other predators, my ears got sucked into the rhythm of my footfalls and gradually drew my eyes downward until I was staring at the hard dirt as my feet crunched on packed in gravel step after step. At one point I felt that familiar pressure on my bladder and figured I should stop for a quick relief break. Slinging my rifle over my shoulder I took a step off the edge of the trail and directed the stream into the flora, splattering noisily on some dried leaves on the side of the road as I proceeded to return the half gallon of coffee I’d drunk that morning to the soil from whence it came.**
Suddenly I notice motion out of the corner of my eye. Ten feet in front of me a wildly jutting cluster of black spruce, a kind of tree that looks as if it were developed in Sauron’s Greenhouse Laboratory at Mordor, stood where it had risen from the swamp, sparse limbs grasping wildly at the sky as if desperate to be pulled out of their cold and wet misery. Several dozen trees stood very still, as trees are wont to do. But one tree did not obey this traditional tree behaviour, its few gnarly branches rattling against one another as the whole tree quivered then violently swayed side to side with the kind of force typically applied by large living things. Usually very large living things, much larger that a marmot or a hare or, especially, a Basil. I immediately redirected my evacuatory operation away from the dry leaves onto which it landed with a splattery crackle that seemed unnaturally loud and directed it into a tuft of grass, silencing the now raging torrent.
I scanned for bear cubs. The ears heard no little ones, my eyes saw nothing but the wavering tree. The bear, for that is what it was, was probably a male. Grizzly or Black Bear I did not know and it did not matter, because both editions larger, stronger, and faster than me and both had considerably more razor sharp claws and head popping teeth than I do. The subsonic ammunition in my .22 rifle, preferred round of small game hunters and contract assassins world wide, was no match for any of the Ursa-kind. And the snub nose .38, while almost twice as powerful as the .22 was barely accurate at more than arm’s length and still would only irritate the bruin.
The tree stopped shaking. A ground reverberated with the thump of the massive beast dropping back onto its front paws, then a low rumbling grunt followed by an extended wet splattering sound. With a satisfied huff the bruin rose back to the task of scratching its back against the rough bark and broken spiky branches.
The still wind had saved me from olfactory detection, the bear was so wrapped up in his scratching that he did not hear me turn around and walk away, now slowly stalking backwards, keeping that swaying tree in my sight. A hundred yards or so down the road a slight breeze reminded me I had failed to “close the barn door”, so I reached down and carefully slid the zipper of my jeans back up and got out of there. No bunny brunch today it would seem, not even a grouse.
So there you have it, two of the times I strolled directly into potential doom, barely escaping by sheer chance, and the luck of disinterested monster beasts. Now you may think to yourself, “those were definitely not near death experiences, you’re exaggerating. Lots of people get even closer to danger than that.”
To which I reply, “True, but lots of people also get stomped, chomped, shredded and/or eaten, particularly those who get a little closer than that.”
The moral of the story is, avoid becoming fertilizer by paying attention to your surroundings, lest ye become a forest feast.
*Wisely chose on its part, because had he stomped me to death how could I have written him into substack fame?
**I know coffee does not grow in Alaska, but Alaska is part of North America and is connected to South America which contains Brazil from which my coffee comes, therefore, it is one soil, and my contribution to its return journey is legit…so there
