Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/464218
s P O r T I N G C L a s s I C s 9 6 state of ultra-slow motion. The great enhancement of my mental acuity eliminated any thoughts of danger and attuned my focus solely on survival. My physical actions became automatic, immediate, and precise. The bears ran in single file about 30 feet apart, with heads held high and steady, and their broad, muscular chests thrusting like those of galloping horses—and in the slow-motion of time, I could occasionally see each of their four feet off the ground in suspension of their gaits. Rolling waves of heavy muscles visibly rippled body-length under thick coats of shimmering fur as flashing claws and heavy feet hit the ground. In the real-time of elapsed seconds after the bears vaulted the log, I yelled loudly and stomped my left foot forward into shooting position with each shout. I gauged the movements of all three animals while calculating when to stroke the trigger and weighing the consequences of my options. There were three bears, three people, and only three cartridges in my rifle, so I was waiting until the last possible split-second to kill the nearest bear before it reached me. My intention necessarily changed when the blond bear in the lead suddenly broke file a few yards out and bounded to my left, abruptly stopping within lunging range. I stood my ground as the second, a chocolate bear, halted a few feet in front of me while the third and darker bear darted to my right to disappear somewhere behind me. I remained motionless. The entire slow-motion event had actually gone from fast and furious to a gut-sinking dead stop in a few adrenalin-soaked, hammering heartbeats of real time. After they stopped, the bears demonstrated no aggressiveness through vocalization or body language. I never saw them blink an eye, bar a tooth, or make a sound of any kind. They simply maintained alert carriages with unified and intense focus that projected their confidence and dominance over me. For some reason, the chocolate bear commanded most of my attention. I had no choice but to trust my instincts, which told me it posed a greater danger than the blond. It stood very tall on four legs with its head held high, and when I matched its penetrating gaze the bear seemed to search my soul. Scant seconds of real time blossomed into additional detailing thought, and I noticed the neat patterns of fur on its face. The probing brown eyes and engaging continence were eerily reminiscent of a young child's innocent, frank demeanor. Although I had little choice in the matter, I knew I could maintain some degree of control over this ultimate face-off as long as my strength did not falter and actions remained mistake free. The bears seemed to be anticipating an easy kill, but in my heightened state of consciousness, I experienced single-minded awareness and self-assured confidence—and I waited for them to make the next move. books. This meant we were destined to experience many of the same challenges the early explorers did while searching for the original route to construct their freight trail through the wilderness. But the atmosphere of the deep woods and the camaraderie of evening camps kept our spirits up and inspired conversations rich with historical facts about the Dalton Trail as well as our speculations concerning the camping methods of the gold-rush-era pioneers. Despite all that, constant bear sign kept us on our toes. Fresh bear scat, with individual droppings the size of soda cans, provided a near constant reminder that we needed to exercise great caution. We hoped we wouldn't need firearms, but we had come prepared to defend ourselves. Carol carried a .44-magnum pistol for close-up defense. CJ was armed with a 12-gauge shotgun, and during all phases of field work, I carried a bolt-action .458-magnum rifle that contained three cartridges I had hand-loaded with 400-grain bullets. In my right-front pants pocket I carried three additional cartridges point down for efficiency of reloading. O ne morning after an early start I temporarily got separated from Carol and CJ, and blissfully hiked through the forest with Kelsall trotting alongside. The pleasant morning and isolation from my companions freed my imagination to invite thoughts and speculations of times past to mingle with the present. I imagined the prospectors with heavy woolen clothes, canvas-covered backpacks, oil-skin rain slickers, and small, sheathed, single-bit axes strapped to their packs. In my search for history, I walked where pioneers had walked and imagined the hardships and hopes, crushed and fulfilled, they'd endured. Then Carol yelled from the hillside above, breaking my reverie. She called out, "Al, you have a bear running at your back!" I chambered a cartridge while turning, and at first I saw nothing unusual. Then, at a distance, a blond bear emerged from the timber and into our lives. It quickly cleared the top of an elevated windfall with a front-leg thrust and a powerful hind-leg kick that launched it airborne. It hit the mossy forest floor in perfect stride with eyes locked on me. Then she yelled again, "There's two!" And a second later, "There are three!" As quickly as one bear cleared the log, the next one followed. I had no choice but to accept that three adult brown bears were simply hunting me as a pack of wolves would hunt a deer. Although not aware of the transition, my survival instinct had kicked in and altered my perception of time. My powers of observation moved to a keener awareness that turned time into a surreal, animated