Running in the woods, you might meet something that lives there.
The bear took one big step toward me, stopped and grunted. The gap closed to 15 feet. Maybe 10. I’m not good at estimating distances when enough adrenaline is coursing through my body to power a SEAL Team Six raid.
I heard a noise to my side and glanced left. A cub scampered up the nearest tree. My head swung back to the mother.
I’d like to tell you that time slowed down or that my life flashed before my eyes. But none of that happened. I just had one repeating thought.
I am so f--ed.
Running through a patch of tight northern New England brambles, I had stumbled into the backcountry clash feared through the generations.
So this is how it ends, I thought. I’d be just one more name added to the list of 68 fatal maulings by black bears in North America in the last century. A one-paragraph AP story would circulate around the country. My college girlfriend would see it and nod knowingly. Mayer. Exactly what I expected.
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