“It is definitely a bear.”

We stood over the track. Shoulder-to-shoulder, strung fly rods in hand, we blocked the trail as we observed the depressions in the mud. It was most certainly a bear. Or someone had taken their very large and very ill-proportioned dog on a walk in the mountains.

“Well, it is also definitely a black bear.”

Stating this truth was really  a question. He was asking me if I concurred with everything he had ever heard, read, and seen about black bears being more scared of you than you are of them. I did concur. It is a fact. But it is also a bear. When you round a corner on a trail it isn’t “just” a black bear. Waking up to something sniffing around your tent your heart doesn’t slow down because it is “only” a black bear. It is a bear. It is hundreds of pounds of muscle and claws and teeth.

“Onward and upward?”

We kept walking the trail. Our destination was the beginning of a long set of riffles and runs that consistently produced fish. We would routinely fish up through this stretch, starting in the afternoon. A few hours of leap-frogging each other and we would end up at a pool where two smaller creeks came together.  The day would end with one of us, alternatively, casting into the deep hole.

“Have you ever seen a bear… a black bear in this part of the forest?”

The bear questions weren’t incessant. But they were persistent. It wasn’t unlike a child dropping hints about a desired birthday gift. He’d talk about other things, but the topic of bears would always pop back up. Sometimes the segues were organic (“Huh, look at that scat.”). Others were much more transparent (“I had been thinking about getting bear bells for my fishing vest.”).

“I’ll start here. Don’t get eaten.”

There were enough caddis flitting over the water and sporadic rise forms to get excited about the evening’s fishing. Bears and other trivial worries slipped away. It was all fly selection, knot tying, and casting. Over the next few hours daylight gave way to dusk. A number of healthy brown trout were caught. They were striking aggressively. We speculated they were either chasing the caddis as they were emerging or while they were skittering across the surface.  Regardless, the trout were playing ball. It was already a good outing by the time we reached the pool that marked the end of the day.

“Who is up?”

We thought back to last week’s trip. I had made a bad cast. The line hit the water with the force of a bullwhip. A few more casts were made with his commentary that I might be able to snag some of the trout I had stunned. Thus, it was his turn today. As we determined who would close we observed a few fish rising at the head of the pool. To get a proper drift, he’d have to cross the creek and move upstream enough so that the belly of his line wouldn’t get pulled by the main current. A towering rhododendron was the only obstruction. He began edging against the bush while delicately staying out of the water to avoid disturbing the surface. His first casts were short. He moved. His second position put the fish within range, but the current caused his first presentation to get whipped out from in front of the trout. Nearly ten minutes after his first cast, he pressed upstream against the rhododendron and lifted his arm to cast.

“SHHHHEAAAAHHH!!!”

His guttural yell  was virtually simultaneous with the explosion from the forest floor. I assumed that because his focus on casting was so acute his senses were heightened. If that was the case, then the cold water filling his waders was probably overwhelming. The grouse seemed slightly less flustered, but it didn’t stick around for questioning.

“Maybe you can buy an upland bird bell. You’d hate to get one that is grouse-specific and get attacked by a woodcock.”

He took comments like these in stride as we walked back to the car in the near dark. I walked. He squished back in his water-logged wading boots. It was all an interesting study in human behavior, though. We can focus on what we want to focus on. Bears more than trout; trout more than bears. It can’t be everything all the time. When we need to give something our all the rest sort of fades into the tertiary. Usually this doesn’t mean getting mauled. But getting feathered and muddy is a good reminder of our limitations.

“Alright. Got everything? Don’t want any pheasants to come by and steal your wet socks.”

I didn’t let up as we got into the truck. He wouldn’t want me to, anyway. Plus, I thought it would be better for his mental state than it would be had I pointed out the fresh bear tracks behind the tailgate.