A Close Call

I had just finished one of those unforgettable days on the river. From morning to late afternoon I photographed grizzlies moving through the salmon run , at least twenty to twenty-five different bears cycling through. Big boars, subadults, mothers with cubs. It was wild in every sense.

To get back to the lodge, I had to walk about two kilometers down an old wagon road through the forest. That stretch is loaded with bears. They fish the river, then carry salmon into the trees to eat in peace. So as I walked, I made noise, calm, steady letting anything nearby know I was there.

Up ahead, I spotted a large grizzly sitting on the side of the road. I called out, “Hey bear.” After a moment, it moved off into the bush. Perfect.
Ten seconds later, I heard what sounded like a freight train crashing through the trees toward me. Adrenaline hit instantly. Bear spray was already in my hand.

When the bear exploded out of the brush, I realized it wasn’t the one I’d just seen. It was a fierce mother I had been photographing earlier. She charged in fast and stopped just a few meters away, ripping at the ground, huffing, clearly agitated.

The first bear had likely crossed her path. There was an altercation. She bolted with her cub, and I was standing directly in her escape route.
Not a good place to be.

I didn’t run. I didn’t spray. I slowly backed up, speaking calmly, creating space inch by inch.
After a few long seconds, she chose not to escalate. Once enough distance opened up, she turned and disappeared back into the forest with her cub.