9. Whales Are Very Much My Thing #2
A man who can speak science to me is my favorite type of man. This isn’t just academic science either, this is lived experience science, which is a whole other energy. “Alright, I’ll be here,” I say as I sling my bag to the ground.
“You got bear spray in that pack?”
“Oh, no. Forgot to pick that up.”
Matt reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a large, cylindrical canister which he lobs at me. “Take this.”
My reflexes surprise me, and I manage to wrangle the can out of thin air. I glance at it, then at Matt. “Um. Thanks,” I say.
Matt nods, pushes his lips together, and then jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Well, I’ll be out that way. If you holler, I’ll hear you.”
“Sounds good.”
Matt heads off down the rocky beach and into some tall timber.
He knows where he’s going and what he’s doing, walking with confidence and no hesitation.
For a big man, though, his steps aren’t demanding and hard.
Every step conveys a respect to the ground beneath him, as if they are synchronous rather than separate.
If only more people understood that separating ourselves from the earth has only made things worse.
Once I force myself to look away from him and focus, I place the spray beside my pack and sort through my equipment.
It’s not hard to lose myself in the work.
I want to move quickly, but carefully, especially with the field testing I have to do—pH, turbidity, and color.
All things I have to observe immediately.
After the tests are done, I grab my sediment corer and push it down into a shallow point in the riverbed, filling the tube with dirt, sand, and silt.
The water is fucking cold, which I guess I should have expected.
But I’m still surprised at just how biting it is against my skin.
I stow the sample and mark it before wading back into the water, venturing further from the shore to collect additional samples for testing back at the cabin.
One by one, I stick them into the cooler I have hung on my elbow.
Science is precise work, but it isn’t elegant.
The squatting and avoiding water getting into my waders, the bent elbows, the nearly losing the cap of a vial but saving it at the last second . . . all far from glamorous.
I turn to slog out of the water but stop short when I see movement through the trees. It’s the same bulky movement I saw from the boat. At least, I think it is. I’m a marine biologist, not a mammalian biologist.
I tiptoe to land, if that’s possible through water. Just as I make it to shore, a bear emerges from the trees. Not as big as a bear could be, but that doesn’t really matter. Because a bear is a bear no matter how small.
What do they tell you to do around bears? Be big and wave your arms? Or arm in this case, since I can’t disturb my samples.
Hopefully, it hasn’t seen me.
I feel like I leave my body as I watch the bear. Whether it’s wonder or adrenaline, I don’t know. He swings his head through the air, sniffing or just enjoying the scenery. I read somewhere that bears understand the concept of beauty which is quite sweet.
The bear lumbers a few steps forward, big paws padding seamlessly across the ground. Just like Matt, really. Except it has claws. It’s going toward my pack. I don’t have any food in there, I don’t think. It’s probably just curious.
I start waving my free arm to make myself bigger. I’m supposed to yell too, right? “Hey! Bear!”
The bear is unfazed, getting closer to my pack. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why did I leave the spray right there on the ground? This is some fucked up dramatic irony.
With a burst of unearned confidence, I bound over to the bag and grab the strap, yanking it back toward me.
This throws me off balance, sending me falling into the rocks on my ass.
I scream as my cooler of tubes flies through the air.
Pain ricochets through my backside and tailbone as I hear the metallic clang of the can tumble amidst the rocks.
The bear skitters back in surprise, which would be settling if it wasn’t for another bear emerging from the trees. This one is bigger and runs quickly into the clearing with deep huffs.
Did I mess with a cub? Oh no.
The bigger bear spots me and moves toward me with urgency. I try to push myself to my feet, but between the weight of the pack and the sliding rocks, I’m floundering.
Time slows down. Not enough for me to make sensible choices, but plenty of time to think and wonder.
Do I run? Do I leap into the skiff and try to get back to the boat? What about Matthew? Where’d that stupid can of spray roll off to?
The mother bear hip-checks her cub out of the way and continues to huff and barrel toward me. I cower, making myself small, hoping if I play dead and docile she’ll forget I scared her.
When I think all is lost, I hear someone shouting words I can’t identify in the swell of my terror.
However, when I hear the sharp sneeze of an aerosol can, I force myself to look up.
It’s Matthew, standing in front of me, not more than a couple yards from the bear.
He has the yellow can of spray, and is spraying it toward the mama bear.
She roars, a combination of a donkey’s bray and an elephant’s trumpet, before recoiling.
Matthew steps back, a hand reaching down. For me? Before he can make another move, the mother bear cajoles her cub back into the woods, away from the cloud of bear spray.
I don’t think I’ll ever move again. That’s how tense I am.
Suddenly, Matthew crouches in front of me. His hands fly to my shoulders. “Are you alright?’
My eyes land on his. I open my mouth to speak, but I can’t. I think I’m in shock.
“It’s alright. They’re gone, you’re—” He runs his hands up my arms, unspooling my wound-up muscles. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m sorry,” I manage to squeak.
“What? No. No, let’s?—
“I grabbed my bag from it. I shouldn’t have grabbed my bag.”
“Lillian, it’s over. You’re okay. And I’m okay. There’s no use beating yourself up about what could have happened, alright?”
I blink at him, unable to express my gratitude that he’s not chastising me even though I deserve it. I’m gripped by fear again when I remember. “My samples!”
I try to jerk to my feet, but Matt tugs on me. “Easy, easy. Let me.” He gets up and goes to the cooler, swiping it off the ground.
The second he leaves me, I’m terrified that the mother bear will see me through the trees.
“I think they might have gotten a little shaken up,” Matt warns.
I don’t even want to look at the damage. “I’ll have to take them again. I’m sorry, I’m?—”
“Lillian, it’s okay. Okay?”
His voice is so calm and delicate I think I might burst into tears.
Matt looks back down into the cooler, then toward the woods. “Why don’t we head back to the boat, okay?”
He approaches me, hand outstretched to help me up. I let myself take it and hold on all the way to the skiff.
Once we’re back on the boat, Matt sits me down on the deck and disappears into the cabin.
I rub my tender tailbone, expecting him to drive us down the river a bit farther, but he emerges again with a rectangular black bag.
He sits across from me to unpack it. I realize quickly it’s a collapsible fishing rod.
I watch him carefully, allowing the stress to abate. His handling of the rod is deft and unquestioning.
Once it’s all reeled and ready, he stands and holds the rod out, handle toward me.
Confused, I follow the length of the rod up to his eyes.
“Come on,” he says, tipping his head toward the port side of the boat.
“You want me to . . .” I hold my hand out and hesitantly grab the rod.
“Let me bait the hook for you,” he says before reaching into his pocket and producing a slippery minnow.
“Where’d you get that?”
A humored grunt rumbles from the back of his throat as he pierces the small fish with the hook. “From the river, obviously.”
“Just now?”
“Yeah, while you were working, so I could catch you a salmon.” With the rod baited, Matt moves behind my left shoulder. “But now, you’re going to do it.”