A Montana Journal, ca. March 2022 

Me and friend Bill lit out up to the East Fork of the Bitterroot River these few days past. We was anxious and aiming for some early season of fishing. Still there were a bit of snow on the ground and the river icy. But beautiful day, nonetheless. Last time here on this water were back in October. And memory sprung active as there was excitement aplenty on that day past, which included the presence of bear cub seen and momma bear unseen yet frighteningly heard. I will tell that truth now. Standing knee deep in mild current and casting to opposite bank against a lay down tree, I heard the sharp, loud crack of a branch breaking behind a brushy wall of willows what was impenetrable for seeing within. Glancing back and eyeballing nothing beyond that thick cover, I imagined I was about to be treated to deer or elk breaking through to shoreline for a sip of water. Continuing to cast, it then come to mind that many an assumption made by those who live in these wild territories, and so miscalculating the actual nature of things, has brought deadly harm. So thinking better of it, I slowly turned and studying them dense willows just a few yards away returned to rocky shore to further investigate snapping branch when suddenly, up a pine tree, scampers this cute little ol’ black bear cub. I was thrilled at the sight and thought it quite the view. Yet only briefly. For I soon realized there was still a rustling behind them willows, accompanied by the low grunts, huffs and breathy blows of what I could only assume was that little cub’s momma. During them October days, it is known well for bears to be roaming about the valley, feeding and fattening up for den in winter to come. Plump and pleasing treat or dangerous threat to her youngin, I was not sure which that grunting, huffing sow was currently considering of me, either of which would not do me well should tussle be forthcoming. So taking eyes off that pine-treed cub in poor attempt not to incite further concern by momma, I walked slowly downstream to where friend Bill was fishing and spoke quietly that there was a cub up that pine tree, of which upon seeing he agreed. I spoke also of them huffs, puffs, and low growls of unseen beast coming from within them willows, which he did not hear I suppose due to distance and rushing river. Friend Bill, being much more the outdoorsman than I and also being an ex-marine and also being able to outrun the portly gait possessed by I, asked if I wanted to stay and continue fishing. I explained to him, and I will admit knowing my common lexicon, in terms not suitable for polite folk, that no, I did not wish to get ate by a pissed-off bear and would prefer to get the **** out of there post haste! So at that moment, I sent all masculine bravado to the rear and allowed the sober sense of me, a mere man, facing the protective maw of a mother bear – or mother of any species for that matter – come full to the fore and skedaddled the hell out of there. We brought no fish to net that day in October. And none on this recent visit. But I have not died today. And that is a fine thing. Yours truly…