Wild Awakening

by Greg J. Matthews

  The setting looked like every wilderness YouTube video and the pictures in every hunting magazine article I had ever seen. This was moose country. I was sure this was the place where I would have my chance to outsmart this North American giant.

  I scanned the area on the left while Matt glassed the section on the right. For many long minutes, as before, all was still. Then Matt stiffened. “I’ve got something, Greg. About three-quarters up the ridgeline in that stand of blueberries. I think it’s a bear.”

  I shifted my binoculars to the direction Matt was pointing. About three thousand feet above the lake, at the transition point between orange and yellow vegetation below and granite covered by a layer of purple moss-like growth, was a long band of blueberry bushes. With the help of Matt’s instruction, I found the exact spot he indicated. There was something dark there.

  Then the something raised its head. I took in the familiar rounded ears, the orange snout, and a frame that probably supported three hundred pounds of meat and muscle. No doubt, this was a black bear.

  The prize I most wanted was a bull moose, of course. But Matt and I had purchased black bear tags as well. I knew there was no guarantee we’d even see a moose in Alaska, let alone bag one. I also knew how much Matt and his family appreciated bear meat. If I could help provide for them for the winter, I was ready and willing. We still had eight days to find a moose.

  I had been waiting two years to scratch my big-game–hunting itch and now I had a bear in my sights. “We should get it,” I said. “Let’s stalk it.”

  Matt rubbed his chin and looked at the valley. “Well,” he said, “we might be able to get up there before dark. But after we shot it, skinned it, and quartered it, we’d be carrying it out in darkness. That is definitely asking for trouble from predators.”

  I immediately realized that my brother, the experienced Alaska hunter, was right. We were hunting in an environment where we were part of the food chain. Reluctantly, I agreed that we should return before first light and relocate the bear. We could traverse the ridgeline and be in position for the shot just as the sun was breaking over the mountains.

  Matt and I spent more time scanning the area in preparation for the morning. Although I was excited about the possibility of stalking the bear, my mind soon returned to the idea of hunting moose. I knew from what I’d seen through the binoculars that the terrain was rugged and would not be easily traversed. Sadly, moose preferred anything that was the opposite of easy. The thicker, wetter, muddier, and soggier the ground was, the more the moose liked it. If you really wanted to bag a moose, all you had to do was fight your way into the most inaccessible area possible, then wait. Of course, this decision had to be tempered by the fact that on your way through this inhospitable terrain, you would be carrying thirty to forty pounds of gear, water, and food. You’d be dirty, wet, exhausted, and covered with mosquitoes with the day barely begun. If your skills as a big-game hunter did pay off, your reward would be spending the next eight hours cleaning and hauling close to a thousand pounds of meat on your back through the previously mentioned muck. Not to mention that you wouldn’t be the only predator in the neighborhood that enjoyed moose meat. Both wolves and bears hunted moose as part of their regular diet. What better way to enjoy a meal than to let someone else kill it for you?

  As I continued to examine every detail of the valley, I counted the personal costs of making my way to that perfect hunting spot, conducting my hunt, and then, if fate would have it, shouldering my prize for trip after the exhausting trip back to the boat. I’d already invested over seven thousand dollars, and the physical effort that would be required was enormous. Yet for me there was no doubt that even having a chance at success made it worth it. Part of it was the opportunity to fulfill my dream of a triumphant big-game hunt in Alaska. Another part was the chance to test myself against one of nature’s iconic mammals with a weapon from centuries past, the bow and arrow. Still another motivation was the pure joy of sharing the adventure with my brother. In a way, it would complete the plans for outdoor adventure that Shane, Matt, and I had made in my room that summer so many years ago.

  I put down my binoculars and glanced at the front of the boat where my compound bow rested in a zippered case. I was going after a bull moose with a bow. Was this really a good idea? The animal I intended to confront might stand seven or eight feet at the shoulders and be armed with a rack of pointed antlers six or seven feet across. I had been practicing intensely to place an arrow in a fist-sized target from thirty-five to forty yards away. I hoped to be within twenty-five yards before I shot. I didn’t want the moose to suffer. I wanted a clean kill.

  But what if my shot was off the mark? A wounded moose was likely to charge in whatever direction he was facing, taking out anything that lay in his path, whether it was trees or men.

  Again, however, I knew that my answer had not changed. I wanted the additional challenge and risk of hunting with a bow. This was what being a man was about. I felt like a gunfighter in a smoky saloon at a dimly lit poker table. I was pushing forward a mountain of chips, unholstering my Colt revolver and laying it on the table, and then reaching into my vest pocket to flip my last twenty-dollar gold piece onto the pile. I was all in.

  About 5:30 p.m., the wind picked up and the temperature dropped in a hurry. We could have stayed longer to scout with our binoculars for game, but we knew we were already facing a headwind and whitecaps on the ride back to our base camp. Discussion soon turned to the pound-and-a-half rib-eye steaks waiting for us in our cooler and how good they would be with some fried red garlic potatoes and onions. It was time to go.

  Just before dark, we beached the boat near our camp and tied the mooring lines to a pair of trees onshore. Matt and I grabbed our headlamps and fired up the kerosene lamps. The camp came to life. All the hard work we’d put into planning our setup was now paying off. Matt threw a couple of logs in the fire ring. For the Matthews brothers, there would be no rubbing two sticks together to get a fire started. Matt picked up a propane roofing torch—the blue flame ignited with a pop. Within three minutes, the burning logs were putting out some serious heat. I reached into one of the kitchen bins under the table, pulled out a stainless steel barbecue grill, and laid it over the fire. While the grill heated up, I broke out the cast-iron frying pan, spices, red potatoes, and onions. I lit the two kerosene lanterns that were strung above the cooking table and before long the smells of ambrosia wafted across our noses. After basting the steaks with a light covering of olive oil, I rubbed them with a special blackened Cajun spice mix I’d concocted just for this trip. This would be a meal to remember.

  The evening was perfect. Matt and I sat next to the crackling fire and watched the steaks sizzle on the grill. The smell of the Cajun spices rose and mixed with the smoke of our fire into the stillness of the Alaska night. Once dinner preparations were complete, our camp was plunged into a silence interrupted only by the sound of smacking lips and guttural, carnivorous groans. Maybe it was being in the outdoors, but steak had never tasted so good.

  I went to bed that night feeling both satisfied and full of anticipation. Tomorrow our hunting would begin in earnest. Matt and I had so much to learn from each other. We both looked forward to the opportunity to reconnect and bond as brothers. Neither of us realized we would soon be forced to bond with each other in a way we’d never expected.

  9

  * * *

  REJECTION

  You are God my stronghold. Why have you rejected me?

  —PSALM 43:2 NIV

  “I need to talk to you.”

  It was nine in the morning on a cloudy June day in 1994. My shift at the fire station had ended, I’d just returned to our small home in North Bend, Washington, and I was reaching for the coffeepot. Mary Jo leaned against the wall a few feet away from me. My wife wore jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes, her casual housework attire. The hands on her hips and the look in her eyes, however, told me this wasn’t going to be a casual conversation.

&nb
sp; “Sure, let’s talk,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “I need a straight answer from you.”

  I stared at her for a moment. “Are you okay?”

  Mary Jo looked down. “No,” she said. She shook her head. “No, I’m not okay. I’m really not okay.”

  I took a deep breath. I had a feeling I knew where this was going.

  Mary Jo raised her head again and locked eyes with mine. “Think carefully about the answer you give to the question I’m about to ask you.” Her voice cracked as she struggled to get out the words: “Are we going to have kids together?”

  I swallowed. I knew how badly Mary Jo wanted children. How many times had we discussed it during our seven years together, especially lately? Her biological alarm clock was definitely ringing. Having a family and realizing the joy of motherhood meant everything to her.

  I wanted to say yes to her question, I really did. Mary Jo would be a great mom. But me, a dad? I was convinced that no matter how good their intentions and no matter how hard they tried, fathers brought pain to their children. Dad had done it with me. I knew I would do it too.

  Since completing my air force enlistment and joining Eastside Fire and Rescue, I’d seen it with my own eyes. It was only two weeks ago that I’d waited down the street with a medic unit while police officers and county sheriff’s deputies responded to an incident at a residence. The family, we were told, had a history of domestic violence.

  After fifteen minutes, a deputy had stepped into the middle of the street and frantically waved us in. His eyes were red. We donned our gloves and protective glasses, grabbed our trauma kits, and rushed inside. A metal lunchbox, unopened, sat on the kitchen table. A second officer stood nearby, rubbing his eyes with his head down.

  We were all too late.

  The scene was brutal—blood everywhere, three bodies in the living room, and a fourth in a back bedroom. A quick check confirmed that the three in the living room—a mother and two daughters—were dead. They’d been stabbed to death. The fourth body was still breathing. It belonged to the murderer. He’d passed out after completing his evil deeds.

  This was the husband and father.

  I was a professional. I had to push aside my feelings—my heartbreak over a mom who had lost everything, over girls who would never grow up to be moms themselves. My rage at the loss of innocence. My strong desire to kill the man responsible.

  Another family story had ended in tragedy. Surely this man had entered marriage with high hopes, with dreams of a good life and becoming a commendable husband and dad. Yet he had literally destroyed his family with his own hands.

  Violence wasn’t in my family background. I had no fear of creating this kind of carnage. But I certainly felt capable of causing terrible emotional pain. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if my kids had to experience the silent darkness that I went through—that, to be honest, I was still going through. I just couldn’t take that risk. I wasn’t convinced that I even knew how to show love.

  I’d never shared my childhood pain or my fears of fatherhood with Mary Jo—or anybody, for that matter. That would reveal weakness, and men are supposed to be strong and protect their families, right? I also hadn’t talked about the murders of two weeks earlier. How could I expect my wife to understand my fears and feelings? It would only cause her heartache.

  But now heartache was here, right in front of me. I knew my next words would devastate Mary Jo. And it seemed there was nothing I could do about it.

  “Babe,” I said, as gently as I could, “I was certain something inside would click and say, ‘Greg, it’s time to become a father.’ It just hasn’t happened.”

  Her hazel eyes welled with tears. “You lied to me. You promised we would have a family.” She began to cry.

  It was true. I had promised her. I’d thought that someday my feelings would be different, that somehow the fear would subside.

  “I just—I just can’t have kids right now,” I said. “Maybe someday. But not now.”

  With tears still on her face, Mary Jo’s eyelids narrowed. When she spoke, her words were ice. “You either tell me right now that we are going to have kids together or we are done.”

  The silence seemed to stretch longer than our marriage. She had her answer. Mary Jo turned and walked slowly down the hall and into our bedroom. Quietly, she locked the door behind her.

  * * *

  A YEAR LATER, I SAT alone in a sparsely furnished studio apartment and riffled through the mail. The bare walls tried to reflect light from the dim glow of the single fluorescent bulb hanging from the ceiling. I’d moved here ten months after that fateful conversation in our kitchen. Our divorce was only a month away from becoming official.

  I couldn’t believe that I’d lost my marriage. It had been my idea to move out. I felt betrayed, that Mary Jo had chosen kids who didn’t even exist over me, that I wasn’t enough for her. But I knew she felt betrayed too. Now my mood fluctuated between anger, guilt, and grief. I didn’t even want to think about God’s disappointment in me over the divorce.

  At least I had my career to focus on. I was still firefighting. Even better, I had hope that things were going to look up. I believed that God had given me a calling.

  I was nineteen when Top Gun, the popular movie about navy fighter pilots training in San Diego, was released. I’d dreamed of being at the controls of a plane ever since. After my air force commitment ended, I began training as a pilot and earned my fixed-wing license. Then Mary Jo and I served in Oaxaca, Mexico, on a three-week outreach trip with a Christian organization called Mission Aviation Fellowship (MAF), where I saw firsthand how missionary pilots flew in pastors, medical teams and equipment, and food and other supplies to those who needed them. From the air, some of the dirt landing strips looked like little more than walking trails. The wreckage that lined a few of the landing sites showed that there was little margin for error. Naturally, I was intrigued. After Oaxaca, I grew excited about the prospect of combining my interest in flying with missionary work. Even though one door in my life was closing, I felt the Lord was opening a new one.

  I believed God was directing me to become a pilot and mechanic for MAF. I earned my private fixed-wing pilot’s license and worked on qualifying for my instrument rating. I hoped that, despite the collapse of my marriage, I still had an important role to play in this world.

  The only potential obstacle to my new calling was a statement I’d recently read in MAF literature that raised concerns about divorced pilots. I was certain God would work out the details, but I also wanted to clear up any uncertainty, so I wrote a letter to MAF asking for clarification. Now, as I sat in my apartment sorting my mail, I came to a letter from MAF. I held it to my chest and prayed: “Lord, I know you have called me to be a missionary pilot and I lay this in your hand. I will accept this letter as your answer to pursue this or to lay it down.”

  My hands shook as I slipped my finger underneath the seal and tore open the envelope. I felt that my hope and my future depended on the letter inside.

  I was three-quarters through when I saw the words: “We view our pilots in the same way as ordained pastors. Unfortunately, to answer your question, we are currently not accepting applications from pilots who have gone through a divorce.” I had to read it again before the meaning fully sank in.

  My eyes filled with tears. I’d been wasting my time. I had no chance of fulfilling the Lord’s call on my life.

  I crumpled the letter and threw it across the room. Lord, because of my divorce, I’ve fallen short again, haven’t I? I must be such a disappointment to you.

  It seemed as if I was destined to lose everything and everyone that mattered to me. Dad had chosen to walk away when I was young. Mom had died from ovarian cancer in 1992. I’d lost my marriage. And now my dream of becoming a missionary pilot was dead.

  The hopeless feeling I’d battled too often before was back.

  * * *

  WITH NO OTHER FULFILLING OUTLETS left, I poured all my en
ergies into firefighting. I may have been broken as a boy, might have failed as a husband, and might be a disappointment to the Lord, but I knew I was good at my job. I figured if I became great at it, maybe God would see me in a new light.

  Maybe I would too.

  I expanded my training, becoming a meth-lab technician who entered drug dealers’ booby-trapped houses to render safe their deadly laboratories. I was the first to volunteer to go over the side on high-angle rope rescues. I also wanted—needed—to be the first firefighter through the door at working structure fires.

  That was the case at a house fire in the town of North Bend in December 1997. As our rig pulled up, we were met with the sound of shattering glass. Flames from the blown-out second-floor windows filled the sky. Thick smoke that reminded me of black cotton erupted from the rear of the two-story, split-level home.

  I tapped my partner on the shoulder. “Mask up,” I said. “We’re going in.”

  We’d already stretched a hose up the stairs to the second-floor deck and called for water. I knelt at the door that led inside. The heat blistered the paint on the door as smoke pushed out under pressure from the frame. I put on my mask, slipped on my Nomex hood, adjusted my hose stream, flipped on my helmet flashlight, and radioed Command that we were making entry.

  After our safety checks and giving my partner the thumbs-up, I kicked the door open and was hit by a blast of heat. I rolled onto my back and directed a fog stream from my hose at the ceiling of the heavily involved living room. My partner and I moved in and quickly knocked down most of the flames. I backed away until I was next to what had been floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the rear of the house. The fire had blown out the glass.