Two Cabins, One Lake: An Alaskan Romance Read Online Free PDF Page A

behind five-inch claws
and killing teeth.  They kill to survive… and also sometimes just because. 
    We Alaskans have whole books full of gruesome bear attack
stories.  We’re talking detailed, gory maulings where faces and scalps and all
sorts of deliciously horrible body parts are rent open or ripped off.  There
are accounts of bears being shot right through the heart—heart, destroyed—and
they continue to kill and rampage for a full ten minutes after.
    So now you know where I’m coming from, when I tell you, I
was walking back to my cabin after work Sunday afternoon, and I came
face-to-face with a bear.  There was nothing between us; no fence, no plate
armor, not even the thinnest veneer of civilization.
    And in that unguarded moment, staring into the bear’s eyes, I
realized something.  Humans are just bags of blood walking around, and we’re
pretty darn easy to pop.  Despite what my forward-facing eyes said, I could be
hunted, and killed.  Sometimes, people are prey.
    My heart doubled its pace, and my vision narrowed as my
fight or flight response kicked in.  But I wouldn’t win against this thing in a
fight, and I couldn’t run.
    It’s something drilled into Alaskan kids:  Don’t run. 
Absolutely do not run.  Bears are predators, they will give chase, and
they can run thirty-five miles per frickin’ hour.  And when they catch you,
they will tear you apart…
    I was frozen there, trying to figure out what to do.  I
could have put my hands over my head to make myself look bigger, but they were
full.  I could have yelled to try and scare it, but I felt barely capable of a
squeak.  I really, really wished I had my gun.
    It was still staring at me.  Not afraid.  A really bad sign.
    I began to back away.  Slowly.  Just one step.  Two.  Over
the thunder of my heart, I became aware of another noise, the low, thrumming
drone of an aircraft getting closer.
    The bear took a step to follow me.  Then another.  Did it
look hungry?
    I looked around for a tree to climb.  There was nothing
close.  I had my Leatherman, but that knife was only two or three inches long,
and it’d take a precious few seconds to pry out.
    I took another couple steps back.
    The bear chuffed, and advanced, moving a little faster. 
He’d been about thirty feet away.  Now it was twenty-five.
    I finally decided to try shouting.  I made some noise,
waving my rod- and tackle box-laden hands above my head.
    He kept on coming.
    I stumbled backward, shouting louder, barely aware that I
was now competing with the thundering approach of an aircraft.
    The bear paused.  Cocked its head.
    A helicopter roared by directly overhead, low above
the treetops.  The sound was enormous, the blast of air snapping off dead
branches high up in the trees.
    The bear turned to its right, and scooted into the woods.
    Now I know I said don’t run, but this was my chance.  That
bear could have turned around at any moment and come back for me, and I didn’t
want to be anywhere nearby when he did.
    I sprinted along the trail, my neck prickling, sure at any
moment I’d feel his claws in my back.  After a harrowing couple-minute run, I
broke out of the woods.  I dropped my fishing gear as I crossed my little
drive.  I flew up my three steps, smashed through the door, and then slammed it
behind me.
    Safe .  My breath heaved as I leaned back against the
cool metal door.  That had been one of my closest calls yet, and of course it had
happened during one of the very, very few times I was caught without my gun.
    My gun, which was on a broken-down four-wheeler, along with
a bunch of expensive fishing equipment, next to a tourist-infested river.  I
had a story deadline, but I also had stuff .  And that stuff allowed me to make a decent living as a fishing guide, so I really needed to
rescue it, and soon.  My choices were:  I could play pack-mule again, or I
could get the four-wheeler running.
    I’m capable of lots of things—I can fish, and