Wild Awakening

by Greg J. Matthews

  “Are you going to be okay?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah, we’ll be fine,” Rhea said. “We’ll be praying for you.”

  I stepped forward, squeezed my wife tight, and gave her a kiss. “I love you,” I said.

  “I love you too. Go chase your dream.”

  I grinned. “I’m so excited.”

  “I know you are. Just be careful. Please.”

  I grabbed my gear and stepped toward the sliding double doors that led into the terminal. Just before entering, I turned. Cars had lined up behind the Chevy, so Rhea was already pulling away. “I love you, sweetie,” I said under my breath. Even though she wasn’t looking, I blew her a last kiss. Then I walked into the terminal and headed for the gate. I could swear my feet weren’t even touching the ground. The moment I’d been waiting for had finally come. I was headed to the Alaskan wilderness.

  My love for hunting had not wavered since that day I shot my first jackrabbit with Dad in the Mojave Desert. I’d hunted deer, pigs, and coyotes for years, but I had never had the opportunity to pursue one of the largest game mammals in the Americas: an Alaskan moose. A male might stand seven feet tall at the shoulders, weigh over fourteen hundred pounds, and sport antlers that spanned six feet. Hunting this regal denizen of the wild was definitely one of my dreams, but as was the case for so many who’d discovered the price of a guided moose hunt in Alaska, my dream had seemed destined to remain just that.

  Then, two years before, I’d received a phone call from Matt. My baby brother had served his country in the air force for twenty years, including a deployment and additional duty in Iraq. His final duty assignment was at Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson in Anchorage. He’d retired from the air force and become a government contractor; he and his family were Alaska residents.

  Like me, Matt was an avid hunter. He’d shot caribou and moose in the wilds of his adopted state. He knew how badly I wanted to hunt a moose myself. Now he had an idea.

  “Greg, I think you and Shane and I need to go on a bull moose hunt up here,” he said. “I’ve already started planning. We can load up a river jet boat for a ten-day hunt into the interior. I already know the type of boat I want to buy. We can take a year to plan everything and then go the following season. What do you think? Do you want to head out for a big-game hunt and Alaskan adventure?” Matt paused for a split second. “Greg, I want the Matthews brothers to face the wilds of Alaska and test what kind of men we really are.”

  With every word, I’d grown more excited. By the time Matt finished speaking and asked for my opinion, I was nearly speechless. I should have talked to Rhea about it first. I should have considered the financial implications. But in that moment I only wanted to respond before Matt could change his mind.

  “Yes,” I nearly shouted. “Yes, I’m in!”

  Fortunately, once I explained Matt’s idea to my understanding wife, she gave it her blessing and support. I immediately dove into preparations.

  You might say that I am fairly intense about whatever I commit to. My family and friends would go further—they’d probably accuse me of having obsessive-compulsive disorder. I do like to be prepared for anything. Rhea still teases me about it. Even if my objective is only to take a shower, she says I’ll still have a plan A and a plan B. (In case you’re wondering, in a pinch, a warm washcloth can substitute for a shower just fine.)

  Now I had a new project to focus on. I spent all my free hours planning for every aspect of the trip: hunting techniques, navigation, communications, maps, equipment, water purification, food, transportation, licenses and tags, fuel management, first aid, physical conditioning, tents, kitchen setup, sleeping, hauling out the game, cleaning and field dressing, survival techniques, and emergency preparations. I made dozens of pages of notes in a journal, which included a list of every piece of gear I would bring to Alaska and how to operate and power it. Every night when I went to bed, the upcoming adventure was all I could think about.

  I purchased the Thompson/Center Venture rifle, as fine a weapon as I’d ever owned. It was matte gray, with a nylon slip-resistant stock, and used .300 Winchester Magnum ammunition. I outfitted that with a top-of-the-line, 4-16x42 Nikon Monarch BDC scope, which was deadly out to five hundred yards. I lived in San Diego at the time, so for practice, I hunted javelina and feral hogs in the mountainous terrain of Vandenberg Air Force Base on California’s central coast, as well as hogs, quail, doves, and rabbits in the desert region near El Centro, close to the border with Mexico. I needed to raise my hunting skills to the highest possible level.

  Another important part of my preparation was studying what to do if the Matthews brothers somehow became the prey during our hunt. The possibility seemed unlikely, but I planned to leave nothing to chance. My focus was on two potential predators. The first was the wolf. Wolf attacks in Alaska were infrequent, but they did occur. In 2010, a schoolteacher was fatally mauled by at least two wolves near Chignik Lake.

  Wolves traveled in packs and could appear suddenly and silently. The plan was to always be on high alert, with one eye on what we were doing and the other on our surroundings. We would not be defenseless. In addition to carrying my rifle and bow, I would holster a .357 Magnum revolver and sheath a ten-inch KA-BAR knife on my hip at all times. Our best protection against a pack of wolves, however, would be a 12-gauge tactical shotgun loaded to fire eight rounds of three-inch Magnum slugs and buckshot. In a close-quarters encounter, our shotgun would discourage a host of unwelcome guests in a hurry.

  It was less likely that we would face the other predator on our list, though this one was even more dangerous. In Alaska, the king of the food chain was the North American brown bear, Ursus arctos horribilis, better known as the grizzly bear.

  A grizzly might weigh as much as 850 pounds, stand eight and a half feet on its hind legs, and run as fast as thirty-five miles per hour. It has a better sense of smell than a bloodhound and can sniff out food three miles away. What really gives any woodsman pause, however, is the grizzly’s powerful claws and jaw. With a single swipe of its paw, which includes nails up to six inches long, the grizzly can kill an animal as large as a moose. The brown bear’s jaw, meanwhile, contains fangs that range up to four inches in length. The force of a grizzly’s bite has been measured at more than eleven hundred pounds per square inch—enough to crush a bowling ball.

  To make matters worse, the grizzly is more aggressive than its cousin, the black bear. It is more prone to defending itself, particularly when the grizzly in question is a mama protecting her cubs. Environmentalist Timothy Treadwell and his girlfriend, Amie Huguenard, were killed and partly devoured by a grizzly in October 2003 after they camped close to a salmon stream in Alaska’s Katmai National Park.

  Grizzlies were more apt than wolves to avoid people, however, and more likely to go another way if they heard human conversation. If any animal would threaten us during our hunt, I was sure it would be a wolf. Either way, I felt prepared for whatever nature had to throw our way.

  I soon learned that I wasn’t the only one thinking about predators. One night when I was in my home office, Rhea appeared in the doorway and leaned against the frame. I was in the middle of tracing the contours of my revolver onto the foam padding of the weapons case. When I cut out the foam, the gun would have a snug resting place during the trip.

  My wife glanced at the room and all my packed equipment. “Wow,” she said, “that’s a lot of gear.” She noticed the .357 Magnum resting on the weapons case and nodded toward it. “Where did you get that one?”

  I finished tracing, then almost reverently picked up the revolver. “This is one of the first handguns Dad ever gave me,” I said. “It’s the same type of pistol that he carried on the highway patrol.” I pointed out the image of a highway patrol star located just behind the cylinder on the revolver. “This is what I’m going to carry on my hip for extra protection against bears.” As I held it in my hands, I thought about the fact that my dad had defended his life as a law enforcement officer by c
arrying this same weapon. If Dad could trust it, I certainly could.

  Rhea’s brow furrowed. “Are you worried about running into a bear?”

  “No,” I said. “Just in case, we’ve done a lot of preparation for a possible encounter. But I’m really not concerned about it. Although the one thing I do need to buy after we get up there is some bear spray.”

  Now Rhea looked puzzled.

  “Bear spray?” she said. “Is that like mosquito repellent? Do you spray it all over your clothes or something?”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “No, silly, you spray it at the bear’s face and nose. It chases him away, or at least that’s what the magazines say. The only thing spraying it on my clothes would do is season me like a steak.”

  We both laughed this time. I explained that bears have an especially acute sense of smell and would not care one bit for having the unpleasant odor of cayenne pepper sprayed in their face.

  “Does it work?” Rhea asked.

  “According to the advertisements it does. I’ve never had the joy of testing it. But it’s another layer of protection.”

  Rhea, still leaning against the doorjamb, crossed her arms. She didn’t look convinced that we would be safe, so I made another try at reassuring her.

  “Matt lives up there and knows the territory,” I said. “We have done a ton of preparation. Everything’s going to be fine. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

  * * *

  AFTER A YEAR OF INTENSE planning for the Alaska trip and only six weeks before I was supposed to leave, I realized I had to make a heartrending phone call. I’d been putting in long hours at my job in San Diego. Rhea and the kids needed more from me as a husband and a dad. So that I could spend more time with my family, we decided that I would accept a job in Plano, Texas. It would be a new start, with less of a demand on my time and attention. The problem was that my first day at work in fall 2014 was only two weeks before our scheduled adventure in Alaska. Shane had already reluctantly dropped out of the hunt. He had diabetes and feared that he would slow us down. Now I was delivering more bad news to Matt.

  I hemmed and hawed before finally explaining about the move and my new job. “I have done everything in my power to try to realign the timing of this change,” I said. “But I need to commit to this job. This is a big, big decision for my family. There’s not much that would stand in the way of me being there with you, but this is one of those things.”

  Fortunately, Matt was amazingly gracious. “You know what?” he said. “That’s okay. It’ll give me more time for preparation and to get things set here. I understand. I’ve had to make decisions for my family that impacted other things. We’ll just plan on going the same time next year.”

  Despite my brother’s kind words, I was deeply disappointed. I slipped into an emotional funk. To salve the wounds of this setback, I increased the intensity of my preparations. I reinventoried my gear, reread my journal notes, and refined my supplies. I also made an important decision—I would hunt the Alaskan moose with a compound bow.

  I’d always enjoyed the challenge of leveling the playing field between hunter and hunted. It forced me to be more cunning, silent, and stealthy in order to get in position for a shot. I had to learn to blend in, use the wind to my advantage, and understand where my quarry migrated, where they fed, and where they bedded down. For me, hunting wasn’t about the kill but about the one-on-one pursuit. If I took on the Alaskan moose with bow and arrow, it would multiply both the challenge and the satisfaction if I succeeded.

  Not long after arriving in Texas, I began spending hours every day in our backyard shooting arrows at targets the size of a baseball. I also found the perfect opponent for refining my skills. The Texas boar, also known as a Russian wild boar, is smart, with a nose more sensitive than a bloodhound’s and ears that can hear a snapping twig over a quarter mile away. A wounded hog with sharp tusks is dangerous, so when I hunted these wily creatures I had to combine stealth with an accurate shot. During multiple hunts in that second year of preparation I actually killed only two boars. Each time I drew back my bow, I imagined it was the one and only shot I would ever get at a moose. I often held my bow drawn on a boar for minutes at a time in order to help me learn to control my breathing.

  Back at the Dallas/Fort Worth airport, as I settled into my seat on the plane, I thought about those endless hours of preparation. It’s finally happening. I’m going to Alaska!

  After I’d fastened my seat belt, another memory filled my mind, one both heartwarming and bittersweet. My oldest son, Casey, was away at college, but my two younger children—Ben, age eleven, and Ciara, almost nine—were still at home. Since I’d needed to get up so early in the morning to make my flight, I’d said my goodbyes the night before.

  I had stacked all my gear near our entryway, then asked Rhea to send in the kids. They’d been doing their homework. Since it was almost their bedtime, they were in their pajamas, Ben wearing a T-shirt and flannel bottoms and Ciara in all flannel. Both had questioning looks on their faces.

  “Hey,” I said, “I’m going to be leaving really, really early in the morning for my Alaska trip, so I’m not going to wake you up. I just want to tell you that I love you and get my hugs and kisses tonight.”

  Both kids came over, Ciara on the left and Ben on my right, and placed their heads against my chest. I put one arm around each of them. Then Rhea joined in behind them, wrapping her arms around all of us. We tried to squeeze the air out of one another. Since I’d missed that with my dad, I made a conscious effort never to hold back affection from my kids.

  I gave Ciara a big kiss, then grabbed Ben, held him tight so he couldn’t wriggle away, and kissed him on the neck about ten times.

  “I love you, Daddy,” Ciara said. “Please be careful out there.”

  I took in the image of my family—Ciara, concerned, and Ben, reveling in his dad’s hugs and kisses, both looking up at me, and Rhea, enjoying this special moment—until it was burned into my consciousness. I would never forget the love in their eyes.

  “I promise I’ll be careful,” I said. “We’ve been planning this for a long time, so we’re ready. Daddy will be just fine.”

  I was so excited to start my adventure, but I would miss these three in my arms more than they would know. I was also concerned about leaving them on their own for two weeks. I was their protector. Once Matt and I reached the Alaskan wilderness, we wouldn’t have cell phone service. I’d never been out of contact with my family for so long. As I held them close, I prayed silently for God to take care of each of them.

  On the plane, my concerns quickly receded to the back of my mind. The hunt and my pursuit of a long-held dream were finally in reach. I couldn’t wait to get started. I had no idea, of course, that it wasn’t my family I should have been worried about. Or that my survival would soon depend on my memory of that snapshot in time, the life-giving image of my wife and children, their arms wrapped around me in an unbreakable embrace.

  3

  * * *

  SUMMER DREAMS

  All in all, it was a never-to-be-forgotten summer—one of those summers which come seldom into any life, but leave a rich heritage of beautiful memories in their going.

  —L. M. MONTGOMERY

  I knew what was coming.

  For two weeks, more than a dozen eighth-grade boys had lined both sides of a hallway that lower-grade students had to pass through to get to their lockers and classes at Pepper Drive Elementary in El Cajon, California. For the younger, smaller students, it was like running a gauntlet. As they moved past, the eighth-graders slapped at their heads, spun books and yellow Pee-Chee folders out of their hands, and taunted them. It was an all-too-common exercise in adolescent humiliation.

  I knew all this because, in 1979, I was a seventh-grader at Pepper Drive. I was one of those younger students.

  On this particular day in May, I had just finished geography class and was walking up the concrete steps on our terraced campus with my frien
ds Craig, Wayne, and Jon. Our pace slowed as we neared the dreaded left turn. To get to our lockers and math class, we had to pass through the hallway of doom.

  “Hey,” Craig said, “maybe we could go around the other way.”

  “No,” Wayne said, shaking his head. “Then we can’t put our books in our lockers. We’d have to haul ’em everywhere.”

  We were at the top of the stairs. It was decision time.

  “All right,” I said, “let’s do this. Let’s just press on through.”

  Although I expected it, my heart still sank when I turned the corner and saw the eighth-graders back in their familiar rows, ready to disgrace us yet again. The leaders were Aaron, Steve, and Scott—big, athletic guys with long hair, each wearing a T-shirt and Levi’s 501 jeans. It seemed to me that their eyes gleamed when they saw us. They were like predators taking measure of their prey.

  I’d escaped unscathed my last few times through the line. I tried to be optimistic. We have a bunch of guys going through at once. Maybe they’ll leave us alone. We plunged in. By ducking and dodging, I managed to avoid any blows. I saw I was near the end, Steve on the right, Aaron and Scott on the left. Scott wore a T-shirt with a lightning bolt across the front. I quickened my pace.

  I thought I was going to make it, but I was so focused on the hands aiming attempted blows at my head that I missed what was going on at my feet. A leg was extended. I ran right into it, tripped, and fell as if in slow motion to my stomach. Pee-Chees, books, and my body slid across the concrete floor.

  The eighth-graders hooted. One called out, “Don’t you know how to walk?” That line drew laughs from the gang. My friends were silent.

  I got to my knees and slowly started picking up my books and papers. What everyone in that hallway surely saw was a meek and humiliated seventh-grader. What they couldn’t see was the fury building inside me. I’d been angry that whole year—at what exactly, I didn’t know. I’d beat up guys a couple times earlier, students who were picking on my brother Shane. Dad had taught his sons how to defend themselves and one another. The Matthews boys would not be victims.