Surviving Bear Island (19 page)

The bear turned back to the deer, its neck flexing as it tugged. I wished it'd just take the deer and leave. All I wanted was my stuff, my jerky, and I'd hike in the rain right now.

I kept yelling, but it was focused on the deer and didn't seem to care. I ran to the stream, grabbed some rocks, came back and started throwing them. One connected on the back of its head and it turned and growled again. I didn't know if I should keep on throwing or not. I mean, I didn't have a fire to stand behind. I had nothing. Not even my spear.

“Go on,” I yelled. “Get!”

But all the bear did was turn back to the deer. I hit it with another rock. Then another. And kept yelling.

The bear started dragging the deer, and the rest of my shelter tumbled to the ground. Then the bear lifted its head and carried the carcass off.

I watched the bear fade into the forest, then approached what used to be my shelter. Sticks and boughs and limbs lay in a pile. Smoke rose through a bunch of spruce boughs on top of the coals in my fire ring.

From the wreckage, I pulled my bowl, two life vests, two emergency
blankets, one of which had a large tear down the center, and my spear and gaff.

And the dried deer meat? I found just seven pieces spread among the boughs and sticks. How it hadn't sucked those down with the other fiftyodd pieces I didn't know.

My head drooped. My shoulders collapsed forward as I sat down against the tree. Tears streamed down my cheeks. My chest was hollow, like I'd been opened up with a knife.

I wished I could go back in time, so I could've lugged the jerky around with me. But I didn't want the jerky exposed to the rain, and I hadn't seen any bears, not even any bear sign at this camp, and I had a fire going, and I was never even out of sight of the shelter. How much more careful could I get?

But if I could just have those few minutes back again.

Get sad. Get mad. But move on, Tom. Move on.

I took one of the knives out of my pocket, opened it and thrust the blade into the ground. I pulled it out and then stabbed the Earth again and again.

I just wanted to be dead already.

It was my fault that I was here. My fault that my dad wasn't. My fault that my mom died. My fault that I'd lost my deer meat. My fault.

The cold seeped in. My fingers turned to ice. My arms shook. But still, I just sat against the tree. And even with all the deer I'd eaten these past days, I felt weak, like I hadn't eaten in over a month.

I put a piece of jerky in the bowl and boiled it to make broth. It tasted weak compared to broth made from boiling fresh meat.

I fed the fire and the wind blew smoke into my face and stung my eyes. Then I thought:

2 knives

1/4 of a fire starter stick

7 matches

1 lighter

1 fishing lure unused and one on the gaff

1 bundle of fishing line

4 small pieces of rope

2 small pieces of flint

2 Meal Pack bars that I refused to eat

6 pieces of jerky

This was it—all of it.

THREE DAYS
later and I was picking my way along a jagged coast. Fallen columns of black rock jutted into the water every couple hundred yards. The hiss of waves smashing, retreating, and forcing their way between the rocky teeth sounded like static from an untuned radio turned up full blast.

The constant drizzle made it so I was never dry. A pale outline of the sun, masked by gray clouds, hung low in the southern sky. And there was less and less daylight every day.

I'd hoped to kill something, anything, but all I'd seen were sea otters floating on their backs and diving for food, dozens of them. Some with this year's young riding on their chests. I couldn't get close enough to them to even try for a kill. I found a few shriveled berries here and there, clinging to mostly bare branches.

A tiny wail invaded my ears. Like a cross between a crying baby and a whining puppy. Then a louder, deeper call. Then the tiny wail. Then both of them at once. I turned toward where I thought the sound was coming from. The rounded head of a sea otter bobbed in the waves as it swam back and forth close to one of the black rocky points of the coastline.

I saw it open its mouth, heard the deep cry, and then from somewhere, a softer cry. The otter kept swimming back and forth. An eagle flew low over the point and the otter went crazy, continually screaming. I caught snatches of the softer wail, too. The eagle circled back and the otter screamed louder.

My mind ran with ideas. Most of the otters along this stretch had babies riding on their chests.

Two cries.

A loud one and a soft one.

I could see one otter.

A Bald Eagle circling.

I took a breath. A baby otter. This had to have something to do with a baby.

My stomach jumped into my brain and said, “Go see. Go see. Food. This could be food.”

I set my gaff and bowl above the strand line, and with my spear in hand, started to work my way out onto the black rocks. My stomach said, “Hurry, you fool. Before the eagle swoops in.” But the rock formation was a deadly combination of slippery and sharp.

I used my hands for stability, thankful for the deerskin protecting my fingers. The water was hissing on three sides of me as I approached the end of the point. The otter looked larger now that I could see it up close. Its coal black nose, shaped like a heart, sat in the middle of a rounded gray face between two small black eyes.

It opened its mouth and let out a series of prolonged cries. And from somewhere out of sight, I heard a softer cry in response. I took a breath, then crawled forward on the slick rock, the cold pressing into my chest and empty belly through my clothing. The otter continued to cry. The eagle was circling but hadn't swooped down since I'd been out on the end of the point, but sea gulls were starting to circle too.

Food drives everything, I thought. If you don't go after a meal when it presents itself, then something else will get it. And you had to weigh the danger.

I mean, the eagle had backed off, probably because of me. Had it known I'd gotten my butt kicked by a swan, maybe it would have challenged me. And the gulls were just in it for the scraps. They didn't care who did the killing as long as they got to clean up afterward.

I inched forward, my heart pounding against the black rock. At the very edge I peered down, and on a little ledge I saw it. Crammed between two sharp black teeth, letting out a soft wail, was a smaller version of the crying otter just off shore. It had the same plump heart shaped nose and black eyes, but its fur was light brown instead of gray.

A wave touched the ledge, briefly covering the baby otter, but then it was back in full view, wailing.

My stomach did a little dance. Meat. All that meat. And since the eagle had
backed off, that made me the top predator. The only thing I needed to watch out for was the waves. The mother otter was still screaming, and the baby was answering her over and over like a recorded message stuck on replay.

The ledge was about ten feet below me and now that I was ready to climb down I noticed how steep it was. I paused.

Is the payoff worth the risk? There are consequences for trying and consequences for not trying.

There were bumps in the drop that I could use for hand and foot holds but everything was damp and the rocky surface below looked even sharper, and that made me think of my mom.

I watched another wave gently wash over the baby otter. I dropped my spear over the edge, then I swung a leg over and started climbing down with my back to the water, my chest, stomach and the front of my thighs pressing into the slippery rock. One of my feet slipped off the surface and I dug my fingers into the rock as my foot searched for a stable spot. Both my hands slid downward and one of my elbows caught on a bump so I anchored myself there, jammed my foot into a crevice and then kept inching my way down until I was standing on the sharp rocks.

I turned, picked up my spear and faced the water. The mother otter was screaming, the baby answering her while the waves pushed up to the edge of the ledge and retreated. The baby otter was trapped in the bottom of a steep V in the rocks toward the edge of the ledge.

I took a breath and moved toward the otter. The mother out in the water moved in closer to the rocks and just kept on screaming. My eyes met hers and I felt a twinge in the back of my throat. I glanced over at the baby and felt another twinge. It was moving its head up and down but it was clearly stuck or else it would've scrambled out of there.

Twenty or thirty gulls were circling overhead, their calls growing louder the closer I got to the otter. I took a couple of slippery steps toward the baby otter, our eyes met and a lump formed in my throat. I swallowed it down and took another step. It let out a wail, which its mother answered. A wave washed over my boots and the mother otter's gray head appeared inches away, screaming.

I felt the weight of the spear in my hands. The spear I'd used to kill a small porcupine, and then a small deer.

The wave washed back, carrying the mother otter out with it. I watched
as she swam back toward me. Then she raised her body up like she was standing on something, and her face, for just an instant, was replaced by my mom's. I blinked and stared at the otter and for an instant I saw my mom's face again.

I turned my eyes toward the baby who now lay silent, its chest moving up and down rapidly. I squatted and touched one of its rubbery webbed feet. It leaned its head forward and let out a small whine. My stomach grumbled and my heart ached as the mother's cries continually filled my ears.

I pulled on the foot and its whole body moved about an inch then stopped. I grabbed its other foot and turned the otter sideways. It let out a few more whines but I couldn't see its face because it was pressed against the rock.

Its thick tail hung limp between its webbed feet like it'd given up. Like it was offering itself to me. But the mother was still screaming. I pulled the pup toward me, hoping I wasn't causing it pain by being dragged through the V in the rocks but there was no other way to remove it.

A wave washed over the ledge and cold water poured into my boots, and the otter pup's body strained against being sucked back into the V.

“Easy,” I said to the pup. “Easy.” My stomach burned. And my throat ached. And my hands were going numb even though my arms were sweating.

Do what you think is right. Do what is true to you.

The mother otter's screams were bouncing around in my head. Another tug and the baby would be completely out of the V and in my control. I glanced at my spear which was pinned underneath my boots, glad that I'd had the forethought to secure it or else the waves would have taken it.

“Okay, little guy,” I said. “Here we go.” Before I pulled I turned toward the mother and looked into her black pain-filled eyes. “Don't worry,” I said. “Don't you worry.”

In one sweeping motion I swung the pup out of the V and into the water. The mother grabbed her pup and backpedaled away from the black rock, the pup riding on her chest.

I lifted my hand and waved. The mother poked her head forward and up, like maybe she was nodding at me, and then dropped beneath the surface, taking her pup with her.

I plucked my spear off the rocky ledge. My mom's face flashed in my mind. I knew what it was like to be separated from someone you loved. Someone you cared about. I knew the pain of the sudden death of someone close to you.

I saw the otters surface in the distance and I felt a small smile form on my face. My stomach was still empty but my heart was full.

Late in the day, I climbed to the top of a headland and stopped to rest. A few blue spots dotting the wall of clouds gave me hope that I'd get another break from the rain and wet. Not that it mattered what the weather would be like when I died. In my mind I pictured that sea otter pup. All the meat I had in my hands, and said, “No, I did the right thing.” My mom's face, smiling, invaded my brain. She was nodding her head and there were tears on her cheeks.