How long has he been watching me? This is what I wonder when I spot him too few paces away, peering at me through a tangle of branches. He is still slim from winter, last summer’s sun-bleached coat not yet fully molted into this season’s sleek cinnamon. I discover I can neither move nor speak as he considers me—I can’t even breathe when he twitches an ear in my direction. He sniffs once, twice. Then, sweet relief, he finds me uninteresting. He ambles away toward some other quarry while I remain frozen for long moments after he is gone.
Mica Pacheco writes from Juneau, Alaska, where she tries not to run from bears. Find Mica on Twitter @micachu_pacheco.