In the shallows, on the gravel bars and on the banks nearby, were the carcasses of countless decomposing salmon. Even the stream’s current and the falling rain had encouraged the blood from flesh and the flesh from bone. Regardless of who killed the bear, other animals had rapidly consumed it. Not wanting to do the paperwork, the shooter left it in the creek, knowing other bears and eagles would make quick work of it. The bear could have huffed or tried to bully someone and, after several warnings, been shot. Young bears are more likely to mess with people. A 100-pound sub-adult can maim or kill as easily as a 1,000-pound bear. Or maybe the little bear had approached a person. Or maybe someone had seen the bear at close proximity and overacted. Add alcohol and the seeming unaccountability of Admiralty’s rainforest, and it’s not too hard to imagine someone pulling the trigger. It was only few bends in the creek up from the cabin. There was also the chance someone had just wanted to kill a bear. Generally, when a bear kills, it drags its prey into the brush where it can feed with less worry of having its meal disputed. Because of where the carcass lay, it’s likely the killer was one of the more dominant bears on the creek. Instinctually, it leapt into the stream and attacked. Above the creek on a day bed, hidden in the brush, had been an adult bear. Pink salmon exploded the water with each step there were so many that the bear likely cherry picked, stripping skin and gulping roe. It’s easy to imagine the little bear venturing from the estuary, slowly plodding upstream, surrounded by dark woods. It was small, likely a 3-year-old that had been run off that spring by its mother. “Brown bear,” he said, cradling his rifle and studying the salmonberry bushes. I found my dad and took him back to the carcass. I threw rocks at her as she gasped and drifted down the current toward the ocean. I left the bear and waded downstream toward a cabin where my family was staying.Ī salmon who’d just laid the last of her eggs floated belly up. Pink salmon filled the stream and struggled to spawn. Ravens spoke their ancient language from the boughs of Sitka spruce trees. A bald eagle glided above and landed on a logjam. Giant trees rose on each side, offering the illusion of impenetrable walls. At the time - I was 4 or 5 - I wasn’t sure what I was looking at.

The first bear I remember was lying in a salmon stream on Admiralty Island, reduced to bones and tendrils of flesh.

Carcass cry of fear