Bear in Mind
Zach Burford
They left us in the lake. I waded out of the water and watched the propeller plane take off. My step-dad Mike, our guide Sky, and I were the only humans around in this vast stretch of Alaskan tundra. From the plane, the only sign of life we had seen for fifty miles was a lone arctic wolf, but the scream from the propellers tore through the silence of the plains and the white mass bolted out of sight. Now that plane had left, the stillness of the countryside returned. We started our trek across the moist, spongy ground to the river.
In about an hour, we reached the river, teeming with life. The salmon formed a dark, dense line that snaked up the stream from the ocean. Mike and I were a bit giddy, but even in our excitement, we managed to get our fly rods set-up and cast out into the clear, sparkling water. There were fish everywhere. Even as bad as we were at casting, we both reeled in as many fish as we could, until our hands started to hurt. It seemed like nature was playing along with us. It let us haul in one fish after another, each more beautiful than the last one. And, as instructed, we promptly threw them back in the river to spawn. I felt wonderfully connected to the flow of the river, to the cycle of the fish, to the great outdoors and to mother nature. It was a glorious day.
"Oh yeah! Got me a big one!" I said, as I fought against what I thought was a huge fish. Unfortunately, my line had only caught a semi-submerged tree trunk. Embarrassed, I waded over into the deeper water to unwrap my line. Sky came over to help. Suddenly, the bush behind me shook and I watched Sky's eyes widen through his sunglasses. I half-turned and there, within a two yards of me was a monstrous, brown bear with a head the size of an ice chest. The bear wasn't looking at me, she was staring into the water, looking for fish. But, I was looking at her and could feel my entire body reacting to an animal I knew could literally eat me for lunch. I stood there, next to Sky, and we played like tree stumps, with water up to our armpits. It was one of the longest moments of my life. Sky, our trusty guide-so perfectly named for this job-did not move. So, I did the same. Standing there, I was scared like I had never been in my life because I had absolutely no control over the situation. I was at the mercy of a 1,000 pound wild animal. I knew she could rip me to shreds in seconds. I knew I was defenseless.
After an eternity that probably lasted no more than 30 seconds, the big, beautiful, but very stinky bear slowly shuffled back into the brush, allowing us to scramble to the other side of the river.
"Damn, that's the closest that I have EVER been to a bear," Sky said, as we tried to laugh off the shock from the encounter. Coming from an experienced fishing guide in Alaska, Sky's comment troubled me a bit as I realized what had happened wasn't common, even for him.
Trying to keep my legs from shaking, I gave him an unsteady smile and said, "Yeah, I think we've worn out our welcome here."
We looped back to the lake where we had been dropped off and sat down on the shore to rest. Sunlight reflected off the surface of the water and prickled my face with warmth. While I had gotten to see its beauty and unity, mother nature had also shown me that I was incredibly inferior, and, truthfully, at her mercy, as I had been in that moment with the bear. As our plane appeared in the distance, I thought about my home and the rest of the world. Was I still at nature's mercy in the middle of Austin? Safely inside the plane, I pressed my forehead against the cold, hard glass and thought that this could be true. A force so powerful and permeating cannot be ignored because of the security that our everyday lives in the city seem to provide us.
When we returned to Austin, I began reading Albert Camus' The Plague. Camus uses the spread of disease in an unsuspecting city to show how unpredictable and unstoppable natural forces can be, and how humans react to these forces. During our Alaskan fishing trip, I had neglected to consider the danger of these forces--in my case coastal brown bears--and I had unexpectedly imperiled myself and another human. My only reaction had been to remain perfectly still and to pray to be left alone. I'll never forget that moment and I hope that it will always be a reminder for me, as I consider my future and my usefulness in the sciences, that as hard as we try to control our world, it has a power and force greater than each of us individually, or combined. As humans, we remain vulnerable unless we work toward balance and harmony, and, even if today this equilibrium sometimes seems beyond repair, I still have hope that we can continue to coexist if we do so thoughtfully and with a respect for who really is in charge.
I know its long, but my counselor said it was fine.
What do yall think?
Zach Burford
They left us in the lake. I waded out of the water and watched the propeller plane take off. My step-dad Mike, our guide Sky, and I were the only humans around in this vast stretch of Alaskan tundra. From the plane, the only sign of life we had seen for fifty miles was a lone arctic wolf, but the scream from the propellers tore through the silence of the plains and the white mass bolted out of sight. Now that plane had left, the stillness of the countryside returned. We started our trek across the moist, spongy ground to the river.
In about an hour, we reached the river, teeming with life. The salmon formed a dark, dense line that snaked up the stream from the ocean. Mike and I were a bit giddy, but even in our excitement, we managed to get our fly rods set-up and cast out into the clear, sparkling water. There were fish everywhere. Even as bad as we were at casting, we both reeled in as many fish as we could, until our hands started to hurt. It seemed like nature was playing along with us. It let us haul in one fish after another, each more beautiful than the last one. And, as instructed, we promptly threw them back in the river to spawn. I felt wonderfully connected to the flow of the river, to the cycle of the fish, to the great outdoors and to mother nature. It was a glorious day.
"Oh yeah! Got me a big one!" I said, as I fought against what I thought was a huge fish. Unfortunately, my line had only caught a semi-submerged tree trunk. Embarrassed, I waded over into the deeper water to unwrap my line. Sky came over to help. Suddenly, the bush behind me shook and I watched Sky's eyes widen through his sunglasses. I half-turned and there, within a two yards of me was a monstrous, brown bear with a head the size of an ice chest. The bear wasn't looking at me, she was staring into the water, looking for fish. But, I was looking at her and could feel my entire body reacting to an animal I knew could literally eat me for lunch. I stood there, next to Sky, and we played like tree stumps, with water up to our armpits. It was one of the longest moments of my life. Sky, our trusty guide-so perfectly named for this job-did not move. So, I did the same. Standing there, I was scared like I had never been in my life because I had absolutely no control over the situation. I was at the mercy of a 1,000 pound wild animal. I knew she could rip me to shreds in seconds. I knew I was defenseless.
After an eternity that probably lasted no more than 30 seconds, the big, beautiful, but very stinky bear slowly shuffled back into the brush, allowing us to scramble to the other side of the river.
"Damn, that's the closest that I have EVER been to a bear," Sky said, as we tried to laugh off the shock from the encounter. Coming from an experienced fishing guide in Alaska, Sky's comment troubled me a bit as I realized what had happened wasn't common, even for him.
Trying to keep my legs from shaking, I gave him an unsteady smile and said, "Yeah, I think we've worn out our welcome here."
We looped back to the lake where we had been dropped off and sat down on the shore to rest. Sunlight reflected off the surface of the water and prickled my face with warmth. While I had gotten to see its beauty and unity, mother nature had also shown me that I was incredibly inferior, and, truthfully, at her mercy, as I had been in that moment with the bear. As our plane appeared in the distance, I thought about my home and the rest of the world. Was I still at nature's mercy in the middle of Austin? Safely inside the plane, I pressed my forehead against the cold, hard glass and thought that this could be true. A force so powerful and permeating cannot be ignored because of the security that our everyday lives in the city seem to provide us.
When we returned to Austin, I began reading Albert Camus' The Plague. Camus uses the spread of disease in an unsuspecting city to show how unpredictable and unstoppable natural forces can be, and how humans react to these forces. During our Alaskan fishing trip, I had neglected to consider the danger of these forces--in my case coastal brown bears--and I had unexpectedly imperiled myself and another human. My only reaction had been to remain perfectly still and to pray to be left alone. I'll never forget that moment and I hope that it will always be a reminder for me, as I consider my future and my usefulness in the sciences, that as hard as we try to control our world, it has a power and force greater than each of us individually, or combined. As humans, we remain vulnerable unless we work toward balance and harmony, and, even if today this equilibrium sometimes seems beyond repair, I still have hope that we can continue to coexist if we do so thoughtfully and with a respect for who really is in charge.
I know its long, but my counselor said it was fine.
What do yall think?
