Smokey Don’t Fly Fish

[FIELD ETHOS]

Smokey Don't Fly Fish | Field Ethos

By Braden S Knoop The river shimmered under the late afternoon sun, cutting through the dense pines of…

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By Braden S Knoop

The river shimmered under the late afternoon sun, cutting through the dense pines of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula like a silver vein. I stood knee-deep in the current, my fly rod balanced in one hand as I stripped line with the other. Hours had slipped by unnoticed as I lost myself in the rhythm of the cast. Out here, there were no distractions, no calls, no uniform. Just water, fish, and time to think.

The first sign that something was wrong came when the birds went quiet. Their chatter had been a constant background all day, but now, there was nothing but the murmur of the river and the occasional drip of water from my waders. I paused mid-cast, scanning the treeline. The stillness felt heavy, unnatural.

Then I heard it—a low, guttural growl, barely audible over the sound of the river.

Turning slowly, I scanned the far bank. At first, I didn’t see anything, just shadows and brush. But then I caught movement—a massive black bear stepped out of the trees, his head low and his eyes locked on me.

This wasn’t just a chance encounter. This was different. This bear was deciding if I was worth the effort.

My heart pounded, and I froze, the fly rod still clutched in my hand. You don’t run from a bear. You hold your ground, make yourself big, and yell if you have to. At least, that’s what the advice says. I slowly reached for the ever-present pistol holstered at my hip, my fingers clumsy as I fumbled with the release.

I yanked the pistol free. As I raised it, the water on my hands, the adrenaline pumping through my veins, plain old bad luck, or a combination of the three caused the damn thing to slip from my hand. Time slowed as I watched it drop, splash into the river, and vanish beneath the surface. My stomach sank with it.

“Perfect,” I muttered under my breath, now holding nothing but a fly rod against several hundred pounds of predator.

The bear huffed, his breath steaming in the cool air, and took a step into the river.

“Hey!” I shouted, my voice sharp and loud, “Get out of here!”

He stopped, tilting his head and continuing his evaluation of me. Then he took another step. The water rippled around his legs as he advanced, each movement deliberate.

The bear growled again, louder this time, and then charged.

Everything happened at once. I scrambled backward, the current pulling at my legs as I fumbled for the bear spray in my vest. My fingers found the canister just as the bear closed the distance, water spraying around his massive body in every direction. I aimed and pressed the trigger, releasing a bright orange cloud between us.

The bear skidded to a halt, shook his head, and roared in frustration. Swiping at the air, he sneezed and coughed as he retreated a few steps, momentarily disoriented.

I didn’t wait to see if he’d stopped for good. Turning, I stumbled toward the bank, slipping on the slick rocks as I tried to put distance between me and the bear. My waders felt like anchors, slowing me down as my boots caught on submerged stones.

Behind me, the bear roared again. He wasn’t retreating. He was regaining his resolve.

Reaching the bank, I climbed onto dry ground, my heart hammering in my chest. The bear splashed through the river behind me, his massive frame crashing into the brush as he pursued. I didn’t look back—I didn’t need to. I could hear him gaining on me.

Ahead, I spotted a rocky outcrop jutting from the hillside. It wasn’t much, but it was the only option I had. I sprinted for it, adrenaline pushing me through the pain in my legs and the burning in my lungs.

Scrambling up the rocks, I slipped twice, skinning my hands, but I didn’t stop. By the time I reached the top, I turned to see the bear burst out of the trees below, his black fur wet and matted, eyes fixed on me.

He stopped at the base of the outcrop, roaring loud enough to rattle my teeth. For a moment, he seemed to consider his options, then started climbing.

I scanned the ground around me, desperate for anything that could be a weapon. My fly rod was long gone, probably drifting downstream with the pistol. The bear spray was empty. That left one thing—a jagged rock the size of a football.

The bear was halfway up the rocks when I grabbed the stone. My arms screamed in protest as I heaved it over my head and hurled it down with everything I had. The rock struck the bear square on the snout with a sickening crack.

He yelped, losing his grip and tumbling backward. The sound of his body hitting the rocks was almost as loud as the roar he let out in response. He quickly righted himself and either shook off or shuddered. For a moment, the bear just stood there, staring up at me. Then he turned, lumbering back into the trees, disappearing as quickly as he’d appeared.

I stayed on the outcrop for what felt like an eternity, my chest heaving, and my arms trembling from exhaustion and adrenaline. My gun was somewhere in the river, a permanent and involuntary donation to the wilderness. My fly rod was gone, too, my waders were torn, and my nerves were shot, but I was alive. The forest was eerily quiet again as if the encounter had never happened.