Beyond the Bear by Dan Bigley, Debra McKinney Read Free Book Online

the confluence.
    My buddy, John, and I had heard talk of bears in the area. But when fishing the Russian, there was always talk of bears in the area. Anyone dead-set against seeing bears should fish somewhere other than the Russian, somewhere other than Alaska, for that matter.So my bearanoia meter wasn’t set any higher than usual that day.
    I’d been in California the previous week for the High Sierra Music Festival, and was telling my friend Jeremy Grinkey my Alaska fishing stories, including how it’s not uncommon during salmon runs to share the best fishing grounds with bears.
    “Man, that would scare the hell out of me,” he’d said.
    “That’s just part of fishing those rivers,” I’d told him. “As long as you handle yourself correctly, keep your guard up, make noise, stay alert, and be respectful, you’ll be fine. The bears pretty much mind their own business.”
    I was dead wrong about that. Because what awaited me down on the Russian that day was a pressure cooker about to blow its lid.
    MARLENE BUCCIONE/ALASKABYMARLENE.COM
    Brown bears at the Russian River.
    MARLENE BUCCIONE/ALASKABYMARLENE.COM
    A squabble over fishing rights.

CHAPTER 3
    Last Light
    The last morning I would ever see, after Amber’s truck disappeared around the corner, I went back inside to round up my gear while John organized the back of his car. I grabbed mytackle box,daypack,polarized shades,and trademark hat, a kiwi-green ball cap with “Bonfire” emblazoned across the front, a freebieI’d scored working as a ski tech at Dodge Ridge ski area in the Sierras.Although it made me a walking billboard for a snowboard apparel company, I’d latched onto it because I was drawn to bonfires like a skydiver to gravity. Bonfires drew people together. I’d made friends, swapped stories, played tunes, and conjured up some of my most epic adventures, plus a misadventure or two, around these tribal gatherings. Plans to show Amber around Bear Valley were made around a bonfire. I was so attached to that hat it had practically become part of my anatomy, enough that some started calling me “Bonfire Dan.”
    After slapping it on my head, I poured Maya a bowl of Eukanuba for breakfast, then rummaged through the cupboards for snacks to toss into my pack. I paused a moment and leaned against the kitchen counter as my night with Amber replayed in my head. It was out of character for me to look forward to a day of fishing being over before it had begun, but I couldn’t wait to see her again.
    “Hey, Dan, you about ready?” John shouted from below.
    I washed down the thought with my last gulp of coffee, threw on my pack, and clomped down the steps in cargo pants,a T-shirt , and the Chaco sandals I wore everywhere, preferring them to boots on backpacking trips until moving to Alaska, where sandal-friendly terrain is in short supply. At the bottom of the stairs, I grabbed my chest waders and rod, which I kept hanging from hooks beneath the deck so they’d be ready to go at a moment’s notice. I tossed it all into the back of John’s Subaru next to the cooler and gave the hatch a slam. Swinging open the back passenger door, I called for Maya.
    “Come on girl, let’s load up.”
    A Lab mixed with whatever ran through the breeder’s barnyard that day, Maya and I had hiked hundreds of miles together on countless trips, from the saguaros, jumping chollas, and prickly pears of the Sonoran Desert to Alaska’s Chugach Mountains in terrain more suitable for goats. Although she’d tangled with a rattlesnake, a javelina, and several moose, Maya was a good listener and I could always call her off . Almost always, anyway. As my most loyal fishing partner, she had her etiquette down. She was content to sit back and watch, letting her tail express approval as a fish flopped on a riverbank, but staying out of the way until it had been whacked, and then just a quick inspection with her nose. Maya knew exactly what a car loaded with fishing paraphernalia