Bear Country (Black Peak Search and Rescue #2)

1. CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

The bear was upwind.

She got thirty-one.

The grizzly moved first, not toward her, a lateral shift that put it between her and the trail, and then it caught something in the air and it turned.

She had photographed grizzlies for six years.

She knew the body language of a bear that had registered a human and was processing it.

She knew the difference between curious and escalating.

This one skipped curious.

She dropped the camera and ran the wrong direction because the trail was blocked, which she knew even as she ran it was wrong, but the lizard brain had its own opinion and she was on the ground before she made a coherent decision, face down, hands over the back of her neck, the grizzly's weight on her shoulder and then not, a sound she could not later describe, and then nothing for what her body reported as a very long time.

She noted that her hands were steady. This was useful data.

She had the same response after the mountain lion: the adrenaline had done what adrenaline did and when the acute phase passed her body had returned to baseline faster than she expected.

Field experience. Her nervous system had been trained to cycle through threat and return to operational.

She thought about the cubs. The sow would have taken them northeast, up the corridor, once the threat was removed. They would be moving now, covering ground, putting the encounter behind them the way animals put things behind them: completely, without rehearsal.

She was going to have to find them again.

She was thinking about angles when she heard him come through the treeline.

She was alive when she assessed. She took inventory the way her wilderness medicine course had taught her: start at the head and move down, name what you find, stay systematic.

Head: intact. Left shoulder: not intact.

Right side of her torso: three distinct areas that reported damage when she breathed.

Left arm, which she had thrown up to cover the back of her neck: the camera bag strap had taken a swipe that had not reached the arm itself, which was either luck or good nylon construction.

The bear was gone.

She got to her knees. She found her radio. She keyed it.

"Black Peak SAR, this is Wren Hadley, photographer, backcountry permit 4417. Bear contact on the northeast basin trail. I am ambulatory. I have injuries to my left shoulder and right side. Over."

Static. Then: "Copy that, 4417. Boone Callahan, Black Peak SAR. I am seven minutes out on the northeast basin approach. Stay put if you can. Over."

"Staying put," she said. She looked at the spruce corridor. The light was still extraordinary.

She picked up her camera and checked the lens for damage.

It was fine. She had gotten thirty-one seconds of extraordinary light and a grizzly encounter and both of her cameras were intact, which was the most she could say about the morning.

She was sitting on a log with her radio in her lap when he came through the treeline.

He was moving at a pace she recognized from watching animals: fast but not hurried, the kind of speed that comes from knowing exactly what each step will find.

Large, which registered first. Dark jacket, orange stripe, a medical pack that was clearly a medical pack rather than a hiking bag. Green eyes when they came to her face.

He crouched in front of her without preamble. His hands went to her shoulder first: not grabbing, a specific touch, his fingers pressing in a sequence. She understood, from the way he moved through the assessment, that he had done this many times and was currently telling himself things.

"Left shoulder," he said. "What's the pain level, one to ten."

"Six."

He looked at her face when she said it. She understood that look too: assessing for stoicism, recalibrating.

"What's your actual six?" he said.

She considered the question. It was a good question. "Seven and a half."

"Right side."

"Three to five depending on breath depth."

"Can you take a full breath?"

She demonstrated. The right side reported its opinion. "Yes."

He nodded. He moved to her ribs, the same specific sequence of pressure, reading the structure. She watched his hands. They were large and steady and moved the way he had moved through the treeline: knowing exactly what each motion would find.

"You ran," he said.

"The trail was blocked."

"I know. You also played dead."

"Eventually."

"That is what got you out of it." He sat back on his heels and looked at her properly. "You have been mauled before."

It was not a question. She felt its accuracy settle.

"Mountain lion, six years ago. BC backcountry. I learned faster that time."

Something moved through his face. "Deep lacerations on the shoulder. Possible rib fractures, I want to rule out pneumothorax. I am going to need to assess more thoroughly. There is a shelter station three miles down the basin. You are walking out."

"My camera equipment."

He looked at the tripod, the 500mm lens, the second body hanging from the log where she had dropped it. He looked back at her.

"I will carry it," he said.

She looked at his medical pack, the radio, the rescue equipment on his belt. "That is not practical."

"It is my call what is practical. Stand up slowly."

She stood. He was right there, not taking her arm, positioned so she could take his if she needed to. She found her balance.

"What were you shooting?" he said.

"Grizzly sow, three-year-old cubs, northeast corridor light at 0800." She looked toward the spruce. "The cubs are going to come back through in twenty minutes when she settles. The light will be past by then."

He looked at her for a moment. Then at the corridor. Then at the equipment.

"Show me what to carry," he said.