A Bear for Lunch

Uncle Adam took my brother and wandered down the coulee to see if they could scare up an elk. Dad sat in the front seat of our Studebaker truck we called Buella.

He was eating from his silver-colored work pail. I had Dad’s thirty-odd-six and walked around to the front of Buella.

The old truck was parked about fifty feet from a slope that over looked Gold Bluff near the town of Orick. From there, Uncle Adam and Dad figured they’d be able to see any elk without having to walk very far.

The gun had a telescopic sight on it and I held it up and looked through it. I scanned back and forth looking through the tall grasses and into the shadows of the low-lying scrub. I saw nothing but the grass and trees.

Dad could be heard eating one of the sandwiches Mom had made for us the night before.

“It must be good!” I thought.

Then Dad’s lip smacking grew louder and louder. Then he grunted.

It was a strange-sounding grunt. I had never heard Dad make that kind of noise before.

It was low yet sharp like an animal. I turned and looked back at the truck and to where Dad was sitting.

My eyes were met with a surprise. Dad was sitting in the truck absolutely still.

His eyes were as wide a saucer plates. His cheeks were bulging like a chipmunk during acorn season and he was as pale as a winter moon at midnight.

In the seat next to Dad was huge brown ball of fur, which moved with great force, rocking the old Studebaker from side to side.

It took a moment for me to figure out what it was. It was a bear.

I stood there with my mouth wide open.

Dad just sat there with his eyes wide and un-blinking. The wild look on his face was a combination of panic and stupidity.

The bear on the other hand, continued to grunt and groan. He licked Dad’s face and stuck his nose against Dad’s head and took large noisy sniffs of him, then he’d return to licking Dad’s face.

The bear’s huge pink tongue was long and quick. It darted across Dad’s unblinking, unmoving face.

It suddenly occurred to me that I was holding Dad’s thirty-ought-six. I planted my left foot and slowly raised the rifle to my shoulder, pointing it more than aiming it towards the bear as it sniffing and licking Dad.

‘Click’ was the nearly inaudible sound of the safety being switched into the off position. I was getting ready to pull the trigger and I could see Dad’s eyes grow even larger at the thought of the rifle’s report.

‘Snap!’

Nothing happened as I quickly lowered it and drew back the bolt, sliding a shell into the chamber. The sound of all the clicking and clanking was enough to wake the dead.

It was so loud that the bear had heard it. He stopped nosing Dad and looked in the direction of the noise and me.

Again I raised the rifle and slipped my finger inside the guard. I held my breath and prepared to squeeze the trigger.

Suddenly Dad’s door popped open. And jus’ as sudden, Dad was laying on the ground, trying to kick the door shut. Dad had literally popped out of the truck with a shot.

He was flat and stiff like a piece of barn floor timber. He dropped to the earth with a thud.

Meanwhile, the bear jumped back with great surprise. In all of the commotion the door slapped shut behind him as Dad kicked the door in front of him closed.

He had no way of escaping.

“Maaw!” the bear cried as he continued to back up.

He quickly discovered he could no longer get out the way he came in and was trapped. His situation seemed to get worse as he continued to struggle to get turned around.

The inside of the truck was not meant for the largeness of a bear.

The bear had turned sideways in Buella. He was stuck and starting to panic.

The horn sounded adding to bears panic. His rear end got hung up on the gun rack and his face was mashed against the windshield.

Meanwhile Dad had made it to his feet and he ran to the rear of the truck. I stood still, pressing the rifle tightly against my shoulder and cheek, finger still touching the trigger.

The bear struggled wildly to get un-caught. He twisted his huge frame sideways in the truck. The old Studebaker rocked back and forth as the animal shifted his weight from side to side.

To me, the eyes of the bear seemed to bug out and his long nose flattened as it pressed into the windshield. His cries became more pitiful as he struggled violently against entrapment.

Dad came around and stood by me. I also became aware of the cold trickle of sweat tracing its way down my back and I shivered.

The muzzle of the rifle shook a little as I lowered it. I was shaking, but not nearly as hard as Dad was when we finally looked at each other.

Ka-pop!

The explosion of noise made us jump at the same time. I jerked the thirty-ought-six back up to my shoulder as Dad stepped back.

The sound of cracking glass echoed through the valley. The bear in his struggle had popped the windshield out of Buella and it crashed to the ground after sliding off the hood.

Within a breath the bear scrambled for his freedom, his claws raking at the green paint of the truck and then the green grass as he ran for his life.

Dad took the rifle from me. He slipped the bolt back gently and out jumped a bullet. He started to slip it into his pocket, but then he handed it to me.

Then he said, “For the one that got away, thank goodness.”