The Bear At Dusk
A True Wilderness Encounter In New Brunswick
Karen Pojasek
©
Copyright 2025 by Karen Pojasek
|
Photo by Mike Bender/U.S. Fish and
Wildlife Service
at Wikimedia Commons. |
The
forest held its breath as we moved through the golden light of late
afternoon, our boots whispering against the carpet of fallen leaves.
I was seventeen that autumn, still new to the vast wilderness of New
Brunswick, and every excursion with Michial, my host father, felt
like stepping into another world. He moved ahead of me with the quiet
confidence of someone who had spent decades reading these woods like
a book, his rifle slung casually over one shoulder while his sharp
eyes scanned the ground for signs of life. The air carried that
particular crispness unique to Canadian autumns, mingling the scent
of pine needles with the damp earth beneath our feet.
Michial
had been teaching me the ways of the woods since I arrived from the
city six months earlier. “Hunting isn’t about the kill,”
he’d told me repeatedly, his voice always patient but firm.
“It’s about becoming part of the forest’s rhythm,
understanding when to move and when to stay still.” That
afternoon, as sunlight filtered through the maple leaves in broken
patterns, I was about to learn this lesson in the most visceral way
possible.
We
had been tracking a white-tailed deer for most of the day, following
faint impressions in the moss and the occasional broken twig. Michial
would pause every hundred yards or so, kneeling to examine the forest
floor with fingers that seemed to sense things mine couldn’t.
“See how these leaves are turned just slightly?” he
murmured at one point, pointing to nearly imperceptible disturbances
in the woodland carpet. “That’s our deer, moving slow and
careful. We need to be slower.”
As
evening approached, we reached a small clearing where a creek cut
through the trees. While Michial refilled our water bottles, I
noticed something that made my pulse quicken – deep, five-toed
impressions pressed into the soft mud at the water’s edge, so
fresh they hadn’t yet lost their sharp edges. “Michial,”
I whispered, pointing. He crouched beside the prints, his calloused
fingers tracing their outline without touching.
“Black
bear,” he confirmed quietly. “Young male, probably two
hundred pounds. Passed through here within the hour.” He
glanced up at me, his weathered face serious. “We should be
extra quiet now. He might still be close.”
I
nodded, but secretly hoped we’d catch a glimpse. The thought of
seeing a bear in the wild thrilled me in a way I couldn’t
explain. That excitement, I would soon learn, was dangerously naive.
The
forest changed as dusk settled in. The birds’ evening songs
faded, replaced by an eerie quiet that made every rustle of leaves
seem amplified. We were moving through a particularly dense section
of spruce when Michial suddenly froze, his hand snapping up in a
silent warning. My breath caught in my throat as I followed his gaze.
Twenty
yards ahead, partially obscured by young saplings, stood the bear. He
was smaller than I’d imagined – maybe shoulder height if
he stood upright – but the power in his compact frame was
undeniable. His glossy black coat rippled with muscle as he dug at
something in the ground, completely unaware of our presence. I could
hear the wet snuffling sounds of his breathing, see the way his
nostrils flared as he worked.
Then,
as if sensing our eyes on him, he lifted his head. Time seemed to
stop as his dark eyes locked onto mine. In that endless moment, I
understood something fundamental about the natural world – this
wasn’t a zoo exhibit or a documentary subject. This was a wild
creature in his element, and I was an intruder.
Michial’s
voice, when he spoke, was so low I almost didn’t hear it.
“Don’t move. Don’t run.” The bear huffed
loudly, a sound that vibrated through my chest. He took one step
toward us, then another, his head swaying from side to side as he
tested the air. I could see the intelligence in those eyes, the
calculation. My muscles tensed, screaming to turn and flee, but
Michial’s warning held me in place.
Then,
just as suddenly as he’d appeared, the bear wheeled around and
crashed off through the underbrush, his powerful body disappearing
into the gathering darkness with surprising speed. Only when the
sound of his movement had completely faded did I realize I’d
been holding my breath.
The
walk back to the truck passed in silence. It wasn’t until we
were safely inside, the engine rumbling to life, that Michial finally
spoke. “That,” he said, his voice gruff with unspoken
emotion, “is why we respect the woods.” That night around
the campfire, he shared stories of other encounters – bears
that had bluff-charged, moose that had turned aggressive during
rutting season, the time he’d come face-to-face with a cougar
on Vancouver Island. Each tale carried the same lesson: in the wild,
we are guests, and forgetting that can have consequences.
As
I lay in my sleeping bag that night, staring up at the dark canvas of
sky sprinkled with stars, I replayed the encounter over and over. My
heart still pounded at the memory of the bear’s stare, the way
time had stretched in those moments of quiet confrontation. But more
than anything, I felt a deep shift within me—an understanding
that went beyond mere words.
In
the years that followed, I often found myself drawn back to the
wilderness, each time with a newfound reverence. The lessons I had
learned from Michial echoed in my mind as I moved through different
landscapes—forests, mountains, rivers—always reminding me
to walk with care. The bear encounter had been a turning point, not
just in my understanding of the natural world, but in the way I
approached life itself. There was wisdom in patience, strength in
stillness, and humility in recognizing that nature is not ours to
command. That single moment in the fading autumn light had imprinted
itself upon me, shaping the way I saw the world and my place within
it.
*****
I am a 17-year-old girl, from Austria,
Vienna. I still go to high school and when I am done with school I
want to become a lawyer. In my free time I love to write. Hope you
like my story.
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