encounters

by Nicholas Schmidt

1.

One bag was fine. Ironically the lower hanging one. The bough still hung low with the remaining weight. 

The other bag had been ripped open.

Not too much taken, just some trail mix and some cheese.

Some remnants: crumbs, shredded plastic bag, string from the ripped mylar.

The granite below the bags glinted with sunshine.

A few feet away, in shaded snow, the imprint pads and a few claws marked clearly who had been there.

And had their fill.

2.

“The bear was real close.”

“What?”

“The bear. It got really close.”

The brush had just fallen still, bent stalks showing the brute that had just stomped through.

“Really man. That was really close.”

There was something not clicking for me.

At most I’d seen an amorphous barrel shape disappearing into the reeds and green-amber grass.

But B--, I could hear his heart beat in his voice.

“It came right up and was just sniffing. He was like this far away.” He held his hands trout (maybe salmon) sized apart.

“Man, I could feel his breath.”

He was panting.

“They’ve got that shit eyesight.”

The more B— talked, the more my own heart rate rose.

“I was frozen.”

One more deep breath.

And then the boots continued their stomping under the lowering sun.

Our heart rates settling as the fear of now became memory.

3.

We saw them from across the plain. We were up on a hill, green grass tufted around our ankles, walking a ridge.

A big ole mama bear and her cub.

In my mind they are the size of cows. In reality they are the size of Volkswagens.

Their fur, even from that distance, shimmered gold and black and brown in the sun.

It had just finished raining, and you could tell, especially on the little one, that their fur was still matted with water.

We looked at each other and then the hooting began. The yelling, the swinging of walking sticks; quite the show. That’s what the books say, get big.

And then, that big mama’s body turned and stopped.

And then, the sprint.

Down the far hill, up the next.

The baby was startled and we heard it shout out and then scurry, best it could, to catch its mama.

The speed, the sheer distance conquered with each lope, I had no idea.

Moments later, they were gone.

A memory in trampled grass.

Photo of Nicholas Schmidt

BIO: Nicholas Schmidt is an educator and school leader working in Chicago. He holds degrees from Harvard Graduate School of Education and National Louis University. His writing interests include education, human development, humanistic exploration of existence.