by Blair Wheeler 

Ten years old back in 1975. That’s all I was when my friend Neil invited me on the fishing trip. Not just any fishing trip, mind you. This was a trek deep into the heart of the wilderness, a place far from the city. A place I would remember for the rest of my life.

My parents, normally cautious to a fault, surprised me with their easy agreement. Maybe they figured Neil’s dad, a man as sturdy as an oak, would keep us safe. Maybe they just needed a break. Whatever the reason, I was packed and ready before the first hint of dawn.

The Land Rover, a beast of a machine that had seen better days, shuddered to life with a roar that echoed through the sleepy streets of Corner Brook. Neil, his face flushed with excitement, bounced in the seat behind the passenger seat where his dad's friend sat. His dad, nodded once in my direction. That was the extent of our conversation for the first hour, the only sound was the groan of the engine and roar of the pavement under the knobby tires.

The paved hiway quickly gave way to a rutted, overgrown woods road somewhere in the Stag Hill area. Brooks, swollen from recent rains, flowed across our path. Washouts threatened to swallow the Land Rover whole. Neil’s dad expertly navigated the treacherous terrain, his hands firm on the wheel, his eyes scanning the woods with a help from his longtime friend who knew this road like the back of his hand.. Thirty miles, he'd said. Thirty miles that felt like an eternity.

But with every mile, the world outside the Land Rover transformed. The trees grew taller, their branches laced together in canopies of emerald green. The air, thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, felt cleaner, purer than anything I'd ever breathed. Mist clung to the moss that draped the trees, transforming them into ethereal beings adorned with strings of pearls. It was a fairytale forest, beautiful and unsettling all at once.

Finally, the road ended abruptly at a small clearing. This was it. The end of the line. We piled out, stretching our stiff limbs and breathing in the intoxicating wilderness air. Neil’s dad shouldered a heavy pack. I struggled with my smaller one, I had packed too many cans of food along with my fishing gear and clothing. 

"C'mon, slowpokes," Neil grinned, already heading into the woods.

The path was narrow and overgrown, barely discernible beneath the thick bushes of labrador tea. We walked in silence, the only sound the trodding of our boots and the distant murmur of a brook. The air grew heavier, the feeling of isolation more profound. I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched, that unseen eyes were following our every move.

Then, through the trees, I saw them. Two log cabins, nestled in a small clearing. One looked like it had been ravaged by a hurricane, its door hanging off its hinges, windows shattered, and debris scattered across the ground.

"Bears," Neil muttered, his voice tight.

“Bears. Real, wild bears. The fairytale forest suddenly felt less like a dream to me and more like a nightmare.

We approached the second cabin cautiously. As we got closer, a glimmer of hope sparked in my chest. It looked… untouched. A barrier of overturned plywood, bristling with hundreds of sharp nails, lay across the doorway.

“Unwelcome mat,” Neil's dad explained, his voice low. "Works most of the time."

He pushed the plywood aside, and we stepped inside. The cabin was small, just a single room with two sets of bunk beds, a rough-hewn table, and a wood stove. But it was dry and relatively clean, a haven in the heart of the wilderness.

Later that afternoon, two more men arrived, one driving a battered pickup truck and the other on a dirt bike covered in mud. One was a burly man in his forties, the other a younger man, barely out of his teens. They were father and son. Now there were four men and two boys crammed into the small cabin. It felt crowded, but the presence of the other men was strangely comforting.

Neil and I, eager to escape the confines of the cabin, ventured outside to explore. We followed the sound of rushing water to a pristine brook, its waters crystal clear as they tumbled over moss-covered rocks. A small waterfall cascaded into a deep pool, creating a swirling vortex of white foam.

We climbed around the rocks, mesmerized by the beauty of the place. But the feeling of being watched persisted, a prickling sensation on the back of my neck. I glanced around, half expecting to see a pair of beady eyes staring back at me from the shadows.

Back at the cabin, the men had already started preparing dinner. The aroma of bologna and beans frying and wood smoke filled the air, a welcome distraction from the anxieties that had been gnawing at me all day.

As darkness descended, the men gathered around the kitchen table. A lantern cast a warm, flickering light, illuminating their jovial faces. They drank beer, played cards, and engaged in boisterous arm-wrestling matches. The younger man, the one in his twenties, seemed particularly eager to prove himself, flexing his muscles and laughing loudly. These were hardened men, men who were comfortable in the woods, men who seemed to possess a primal connection to the wilderness.

As the night wore on, the revelry subsided. The men grew quieter, their laughter replaced by low murmurs and the clinking of beer bottles. Finally, one by one, they began to succumb to exhaustion.

The lantern was extinguished, plunging the cabin into pitch black darkness. A battery-powered radio, hung from a rafter, played softly, filling the silence with the melancholic strains of country music.

Neil and I shared the lower bunk. I lay against the wall, my heart pounding against my ribs. The feeling of unease had returned, amplified by the darkness and the unsettling silence.

And then, it began.

At first, it was just a subtle rustling in the underbrush. A twig snapping here, a leaf crunching there. But then, the sounds grew louder, closer. I could hear heavy breathing, the unmistakable sound of something large moving through the woods.

Then came the scraping. Long, deliberate scratches against the cabin wall, just inches from my head. Low, guttural growls reverberated through the cabin, sending shivers down my spine.

Bears. They were outside.

I froze in the darkness, I could only imagine the monstrous creatures circling the cabin, their razor-sharp claws tearing at the wood, their powerful jaws snapping shut.

The cabin walls, though thick, seemed paper thin. In my mind, I saw a bear crashing through the door, its eyes glowing red in the darkness, its teeth bared in a terrifying snarl.

How long had they been watching, waiting for the light to go out, for us to fall asleep? How long would it be before they decided to attack?

Suddenly, a figure bolted out of the top bunk and grabbed a flashlight from the table. It was the younger man, the one who had been so eager to arm-wrestle earlier. He was barefoot, clad only in his underwear, but there was no hesitation in his movements.

He flung open the cabin door and charged outside, lighting up the treeline, yelling at the top of his lungs. He grabbed rocks and sticks and hurled them at the large shadowy figures.

For what felt like an eternity, the only sounds were his shouts and the crashing of underbrush as the bears retreated into the darkness. Then, silence.

The young man walked back into the cabin, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with adrenaline. He slammed the door shut, secured the makeshift lock, and climbed back into his bunk.

Without a word.

The only sounds after that were the rhythmic snores of the other men, unfazed by the chaos that had just unfolded. Hardened fishermen, hunters, and woodsmen, they exuded an aura of invincibility. The mournful twang of the country music from the radio filled the silence, a strange lullaby in the heart of the wilderness. Slowly, reluctantly, I drifted off to sleep, but what just happened was the gutsiest thing I ever saw.

The next morning dawned overcast and misty. A light rain drizzled from the sky, turning the forest floor into a slick, black loam.

I pulled on my rubber boots, the cold, damp rubber a stark contrast to the lingering warmth of the sleeping bag. The previous night's exhilaration hung in the air, unspoken but undeniably present.

No one mentioned the bears. The men ate their breakfast of bacon and eggs in silence, their faces grim and focused. Neil and I kept up through the wet bushes, the bogs and barrens, following the men to a series of hidden ponds and fishing holes. The world was muted, gray, and damp, but the beauty of the wilderness still shone through. Yet every rustle in the underbrush, every snap of a twig, gave me a sense of unease. I constantly scanned the woods.

The men seemed oblivious. They cast their lines with practiced ease, their eyes fixed on the water, their minds seemingly at peace

As the day wore on, the rain intensified. We each caught a few pan sized fish enough for a feed. 

Finally, as the light began to fade, we turned back towards the cabin. 

I walked close behind Neil's dad. He seemed to possess an innate understanding of the woods, a sixth sense that allowed him to navigate the darkening terrain with ease.

As we neared the cabin, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. A flash of movement in the trees.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

"What is it?" Neil asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

I pointed towards the trees. "I saw something. A bear, I think." My imagination ran wild.

Neil's dad stopped and looked in the direction I was pointing. He studied the trees for a moment, then shook his head.

"Probably just a gust of wind." he said, his voice calm and reassuring. "Don't worry about it."

But I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched, that we were never truly alone in bear territory.