Running Into Danger on an Alaskan Trail
By CINTHIA RITCHIE NOV. 23, 2016
It happened so fast: One moment I was running trails, the next I was staring a black-bear sow in the face, so close I could smell it, wild and pungent and alarming, and I knew it could smell me, too, my fear.
I was in the middle of a rainy 22-mile run in Far North Bicentennial Park on the outskirts of Anchorage, where I live. It was late July, a time when grizzlies sweep down from the mountains to feast on the red-flecked salmon swimming up Campbell Creek. But I was miles from the water. I had planned my route away from the creek, and I hadn’t seen bear scat in more than an hour. As I crested a hill, a crash sounded from my right, and I instinctively moved to the left, expecting a moose. But it was the sow with three cubs. The cubs fled up a tree. The sow paused in front of me, as if waiting.
I backed into the brush, fortifying myself behind a skinny grove of alder trees, moving slowly, carefully, never taking my eyes off the bear. When it veered as if to leave I felt such relief that my throat loosened and small gasps escaped my lips. Then it abruptly turned and charged directly at me.
It’s impossible to run the trails around Alaska without thinking about bears. There are piles of scat everywhere, dotted with blueberry and cranberry seeds that glint in the sun, reminders that you have to be careful. You have to be versed in bear awareness, bear etiquette and bear protocol. Headphones are a no-no and going alone is discouraged. Making noise and carrying bear spray is recommended.
Still, I often ran alone. I preferred it that way. I liked the serenity and the loneliness, liked the hours of nothing but me and the mountains and the trees. That day, I wore a bear bell attached to my hydration pack, and I sang, too, whenever I came to dense areas. I sang old rock ’n’ roll songs, loudly and badly. I was cautious but not afraid. I ran these trails all summer and the summer before, and while I saw bears on many other trails, I only twice saw them on these sections.
Maybe I let down my guard. Maybe I felt invincible, the way you feel when you repeat risky behavior without negative results. Maybe the bear was having a bad day.
When the bear charged, time stood still. I felt every millisecond. I stood in the drizzle, rain coating my face like tears, and I did what they tell you to do if a black bear charges: I waved my arms and yelled.
“I’m human!” I cried, my voice rising through the birch trees, through that silent and never-ending moment. “I’m a person!”
The bear paused and ran back toward the brush. A minute later, it charged a second time. And again, I waved my arms and yelled and again it stopped, this time so close I could almost reach out and touch its snout. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow. I wondered, briefly and almost idly, if this was how I would die. Suddenly, I wanted to talk to my son, who was grown and off living his own life. I wanted to hear his voice.
A lifetime later, the bear turned and ran off, its backside swaying into the trees. I had to get back to the trail, to the possibility of safety, yet I couldn’t step away from the alders. It was my only protection.
That’s when the bear began circling around me in a wide arc. That’s when I knew I was in trouble, became really afraid.
When my son was young and nothing would comfort him, I would talk. It didn’t matter what I said, he needed my voice, the steady flow of words. As I stepped from the shelter of the alders, I talked out loud, my voice surprisingly calm. I talked to the bear to show that I meant no harm, but mostly I talked to reassure myself. As the bear circled for a second time, I stumbled through devil’s club, snagging my shorts and scratching my legs, and I talked about the day my son was born, how I recognized his face immediately.
When I reached the trail, I kept talking. The bear followed, but I didn’t look back. A half a mile later, I glanced over my shoulder, and the bear was gone. I started running and didn’t stop until I encountered two hikers, and I collapsed at their feet.
For weeks I saw that bear’s face in my dreams, and I woke up, heart pounding. I swore I would never run trails again, but I missed it too much, and soon I was out with the trees and that big, big sky. Some things are worth the risk, though I made sure to carry a canister of bear spray, just in case.
And sometimes even now when I’m running, I think of that bear charging and how I stood there, so still and yet so alive. It opened something inside of me that can never be closed. It offered a taste of the unknown: At any time I might find myself crouched in the brush, face to face with my own fragile existence. So much of life is chance. There are no guarantees. But there are vast landscapes and dangers and wild moments of good luck.
Evidence from Story / Key Question / Answer to Key QuestionAHA! Moment / Why would the character act this way?
AHA! Moment / Why would the character act this way?
Again and Again / Why might the author bring this up again and again?
Memory Moment / How might the memory moment be important to the rest of the story?