Surviving Bear Island Read Online Free

living. How the fish’s life passed into the bear, became part of the bear. Like some of the stuff my mom used to write and sing about. In my mind I saw her guitar sitting in my room. She had some songs she’d started. I was planning on finishing them.
    Then a growl from my stomach pushed into my throat, and the hunger kicked back in.
    I couldn’t catch fish like a bear. Or could I? Could I dive in and grab one, and toss it on shore? But I had stubby fingernails, not sharp claws. And, I’d get soaked.
    I could feel the digestive juices creeping up my throat—burning.
    I wanted a salmon.
    I needed a salmon.

CHAPTER 4
    I DIDN’T dare move until the bear moved northward. I watched it disappear into the forest and then reappear several minutes later farther along the shore. Then it climbed the next point and was gone.
    Two bald eagles moved in to clean up what the bear had left, along with a flock of gulls.
    I walked upstream, opposite of where the eagles and gulls were feeding, found a shallow spot, and crossed. As I stepped out of the water, the gulls squawked and rose, flying down to the shoreline where they resettled at the mouth of the creek. The eagles departed silently, their long wings carrying them skyward.
    I faced the carnage. Not much but heads, tails, and bones. Still clinging to the heads of the bear-killed salmon were bite-sized chunks of dull pink meat. Leftovers, but I’d take them.
    I grabbed a salmon by the tail. It slipped from my hand into the matted-down beach grass. Fish slime and bear drool covered the carcass.
    I wiped my hand on the beach grass. “Nasty.”
    I hunted around and found five of the six fresh kills. Then I carried them across the creek and downstream to the spot where I had observed the bear. It was out in the open, so I could see if the bear came back or if another one showed up. Or, if my dad appeared from the forest or from up the coast, or even from the way I’d come, I’d see him.
    I used another hunk of fire starter stick to get a fire going. I kept adding slightly damp sticks, and turned a steaming mass of wood into a small blaze.
    The fire starter sticks, little brown rectangles of solid fuel, wereawesome. It was like having a mini-fire to start your real fire. You could focus on getting small sticks to catch over a steady flame.
    My dad, he knew his stuff. Without the survival kit I’d be scarfing raw salmon, and probably puking it back up. That is, if I was even still alive. That first fire had kept me from freezing to death, kind of anchored me to my own life. I could’ve just curled up and let the cold take me.
    Build up a bed of coals. Get some green alder branches. It grows just above the beaches. Lay the green alder crisscrossed to make a grill. Put the fish on the grill and cover it with alder leaves. Grilled, smoked salmon. And nothing to clean up.
    He wanted to cook a salmon for me like this, but we hadn’t caught any. Hadn’t fished much, really. My dad really wanted to do an epic trip, that’s what he’d said, a big journey. The kind he used to do with Mom before I was born. Said if I liked this trip, then next summer we could do a whole month.
    I hadn’t said anything. Didn’t know if I’d even want to do another kayak trip. I wanted to get my learner’s permit and then my driver’s license so I could get to town when I wanted. So I could eventually have a freaking life outside our house in the sticks. So I could take guitar lessons and join any school club or play any sport I wanted. So I could do what I want without depending on my depressed dad to get off his butt and take me somewhere. Anywhere. But now, I’d kayak with him the whole summer next year if it meant finding him alive.
    When Mom was alive, I didn’t feel as isolated because she was always talking to me or getting the three of us to do things or taking me with her when she went to visit Heather’s mom.
    I