Page 65 of Grown-Up Second Chance

A bear had tumbled into the water about fifty yards upstream from me. I scrambled through my memory to remember how far bears were supposed to be away from us. I stood still, praying that the fish would pass on by my fly so the bear wouldn’t notice me.

The shift of pebbles on the ground alerted me to Joe’s presence.

“Are we safe?” I whispered. “Do you think the bear knows how far away he’s supposed to stay?”

“I doubt it. But I think we’re okay.” He paused. “Or at least I am. I run faster than you do. He’ll get you first.”

“Don’t even joke about this,” I hissed.

“My bad,” he said. “Let’s keep an eye on him. I think if we stay still, we’ll be fine.” Joe studied the animal. “Of course, he might be smarter than the average bear.”

“Joe!”

The bear was probably a young one, based on how he was behaving. He’d study the water, his big head weaving back and forth, his four legs squarely beneath him as the stream rushed by. Every once in a while he’d leap, splash down, then leap again, repeating the maneuver several times, but coming up empty. Then he’d growl his displeasure, move a foot one way or another, then do it again.

All of a sudden, he threw himself in the water and rolled onto his back. His paws flopped in the air as he gave himself a good bath, rolling back and forth.

“All hopes of him catching any fish are gone now,” Joe whispered.

Just then, a hard tug came on my line, and my pole was almost pulled from my grasp.

“Not now!” I yelled as quietly as I could.

The movement attracted the attention of the bear, and he turned his head to look at us more carefully, but didn’t relinquish his spot in the river.

I fought to hang onto the pole and fish.

“Let the line out,” Joe whispered.

“Shouldn’t we cut it and run?” I asked.

“He doesn’t care about us. Let the line out.”

I did as Joe suggested, and the fish took off downstream.

The bear watched us, but didn’t move in our direction.

“Now, stop the line and reel him in,” Joe said.

“This is crazy!”

“Shh …”

I reeled the line back in, the fish fighting me every inch of the way. When the tip of the rod was bent almost to the water, Joe told me to let the line out.

We repeated the exercise several times, the bear watching us like we were a National Geographic Special for wildlife. Finally, he tired of the game, flipped himself over, and climbed out of the stream before stalking off toward the nearest cluster of trees.

Seeing him wander off made me relax my grip on the line just as the fish made a last desperate attempt to escape. I windmilled my arms, the pole flailing wildly, as my feet slipped beneath me, but there was no stopping gravity.

Down I went.

The rod slipped from my grasp, and Joe dove after it, landing on his knees in the water as he managed to snag it. From that position he reeled in the fish while I watched, unsure if my limbs were still intact and not willing to find out.

Joe held up the fish briefly for me to see, then released it.

After staggering to his feet and placing the rod on the shore, he came to help me up.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

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