The Bear That Made My Father Love Me Michael Gentry
My father shot two deer the day before Thanksgiving. In our southeast Alaskan logging camp, this wasn’t unusual. But the night set in quickly, and he was only able to pack one of the deer out before dark. He tied florescent pink engineering ribbon every 50 or so feet to guide him back to the kill site. I was 12-years old. My father made a point to take me hunting and fishing often. I thought it was so cool that my dad carried a .44 magnum. He carried it for protection. Admiralty Island was affectionately named “Fortress of the Bears” by the Tlingit. I’d jump at any opportunity to tramp through the timber in my father’s shadow. I never wanted to cut the heart out of a Sitka black tail or clean a king salmon, but I wanted to be with my dad. And, as a father, I now realize he could have gutted a dear or filleted a fish much more quickly and efficiently than I had. But, for him, it too was about the moment. He woke me before sunrise, and we set off in the dark to collect the second deer. It was Thanksgiving morning. The truck seats were cold, my breath visible. There were no logging trucks on the roads. In the darkness, it seemed all was asleep. We drove for about an hour along the winding, bumpy logging roads before we came to a pull off at the edge of some old growth. On the closest, tallest western hemlock was tied a pink ribbon. I assumed my father loved me. He tried to include me, spend time with me. But my father was not one to profess his love. In fact, I can’t recall a time in my youth when my father told
me he loved me. It wasn’t his nature. In fact, in fits of rage, I’d question his love. The rays of the sun poked through the trees, illuminating particles floating in the morning air. A fresh coat of snow covered the forest floor and the fallen timbers. I walked a few feet behind him, exploring deep into the woods with my eyes. The deep woods fascinated me, like a hidden world never before discovered. Every 50 feet we’d pass a pink ribbon fluttering in the cold breeze. About a mile into the dense undergrowth, we reached the second deer. My father promptly knelt down to quarter it and cut out the back straps. I picked up some cold stones and tossed them at a fungal conk growing about 30 feet up a nearby tree. “Was the other deer a buck?” I asked my dad. “Yeah, just a two point,” he responded without looking up. “Where’s the head?” I asked. “Oh, look around, you’ll find it.” After a few minutes of unsuccessful searching, my father looked up, realized I couldn’t find it, and got to his feet. We searched a small radius before branching out a little farther. My dad went one direction, me the other. Just ahead of me, completely surrounded by snow, was a mound of freshly worked dirt. “Dad,” I called. “Yeah,” his voice questioned faintly through the trees. “What is this?” I asked, a tinge of worry in my voice. He jogged over and immediately stopped, his eyes frantically searching in every direction. 21
