I stood. Suddenly my foot disappeared through the partially burned floor. I tried to recover my balance, but the weight of my air tank and gear pulled me backwards through one of the window openings. I fell ten feet and landed on my back, halfway down an outdoor staircase. It could have been much worse. After a trip to the emergency room, two weeks off, and six weeks of physical therapy, I was back on duty.
That would not be my last ER visit. Fifteen months later, during a night rescue of a trapped hang-glider pilot, the helicopter that arrived to extract the pilot dislodged a fallen tree from the cliff above us. The trunk struck me in the chest and sent me tumbling nearly a hundred feet down a steep embankment, injuring my back. This time I was out for ten weeks.
Despite the close calls, I had no fear. What mattered was getting the job done, saving lives and property, and showing what I could do. An incident the following year should have made me rethink my attitude.
It was a sultry August evening and I’d been assigned to Bellevue Medic 3. My partner and I had just finished a call and were headed back to the station in the medic unit, a red-and-white Chevy box van, when our pagers went off again. An elderly male was unconscious and unresponsive. I keyed the radio mic: “Fire Dispatch, Medic 3 is responding to the unconscious patient. Let’s also start Engine 87 and a BLS [Basic Life Support] ambulance for transport, please.”
My partner slammed the accelerator to the floor as I searched the map book for the street address. I glanced up and saw that the speedometer read sixty miles per hour. We raced north under a freeway overpass, our lights flashing and siren blaring. In the next instant, my attention was drawn to a fast-approaching intersection—and with good reason. From the east, a semitruck hauling a container loaded with apples barreled toward the intersection at fifty miles per hour, its tires locked up and smoking. We were on a collision course.
My partner yanked the steering wheel and swerved into oncoming traffic, barely avoiding a head-on collision with another vehicle. I tried to scramble into my partner’s lap while still buckled in my own seat. I didn’t get far. I looked to my right. The semi driver was pitched sideways in her seat, using every ounce of strength to turn the steering wheel and avoid hitting us broadside. The tractor cab began to slide sideways toward us.
Then it flipped into the air.
“Get over, get over!” I screamed.
Too late.
The semi cab and trailer landed on top of us and sent us into a slide of our own. The trailer ripped through the rear patient compartment of our medic unit. The exhaust stack of the semitruck plunged through our windshield, smashing the glass and filling our cab with exhaust. We kept sliding, off the road, until a berm of dirt finally stopped us.
Coughing, I tried to open my door, but the semi was pinned against it. Fearing that the medic unit was now on fire, I quickly disconnected my seat belt and belly-crawled through the patient compartment to the rear doors. Thank goodness, the doors still opened. Still on my belly, I crawled out the back doors and fell onto the ground. I groped at my head and body for blood and broken bones, but I seemed uninjured. Realizing that I was okay, I turned my attention to my partner. Still dazed from the impact, he signaled from his seat that he was all right.
I scrambled back into the medic unit, grabbed the aid kits, and hurried to the semi, which now rested on its side. After climbing onto the undercarriage and across the drive line, I pulled myself up to what was now the top of the cab. Stretching my arm, I reached to open the door of the semi and peered into a mess of Mountain Dew bottles and pizza boxes. The driver was there too, ghost white and scared to death, but unhurt. While lying on my belly, I extended my arm into the cab to help her out.
Though no one was injured in the accident, any or all of us could easily have been killed. For weeks after, I was plagued by dreams. In some, I faced headlights bearing down on me, accompanied by the sound of screeching tires, until I was jolted awake and found myself in a cold sweat.
I began to understand that I had chosen a dangerous profession and that I was not invincible. I could die on one of these calls. Yet even this knowledge was not enough to stop me from taking more risks and pushing myself beyond any reasonable limits. Something continued to propel me to be the best, to be the guy others viewed as capable of doing anything to help others.
In many ways I had already become that guy. The other firefighters knew from experience that when we walked into a hazardous situation, I had their back. I knew I’d earned their respect.
So why was I still unhappy?
10
* * *
BRING IT ON
Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.
—PROVERBS 3:5 NIV
5:35 A.M., TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 22
KENAI PENINSULA
The smell of bacon, eggs, and coffee still lingered in camp as Matt and I prepped our packs and weapons for the boat trip upriver. For the second day in a row, a thin sheet of ice blanketed the boat deck. Using bungee cords, we quickly secured the dry bags containing extra clothing, food, a trauma kit, and survival equipment, as well as the rifle and bow cases. We each made one final scan to ensure we had all of the necessary equipment and supplies. Matt slid the boat drive selector into gear and we were under way.
The return to Doroshin Bay would be slow due to the lack of light and the threat of deadheads, the large, water-soaked logs that floated just beneath the surface of the water. Nasty things could happen very quickly if the hull was breached; too many Alaska sportsmen had lost their gear, their boat, and in some cases their lives. Matt flipped on the running lights and I moved to the bow with a flashlight. We picked our way out of the lake cove and into open water.
My anticipation was so thick that you could have cut it with a KA-BAR. I kept glancing back at my gear on the stern. For two years, that equipment and those supplies had been piled in my office, waiting for this very day. I had all the tools I needed to step into the ring with North America’s largest predators. The outcome would be up to me.
Faint glimmers of light began to appear across the jagged peaks of the mountaintops, which allowed us to increase the boat speed. An hour later, Matt eased the throttle back and then killed the engine as we glided toward the shoreline of Doroshin Bay. He raised the engine out of the water, grabbed an oar and a flashlight, and moved to the bow, watching with me for anything in the water that could damage or sink the boat. I heard the familiar sound of sand and rocks scraping against the bottom of the hull. Moments later, the boat slid ashore. I looked up. The sky was absolutely clear. The temperature was thirty-nine degrees.
With our revolvers on our hips, we did a quick search for predators on the shoreline. Finding none, we offloaded the gear. The sun was in full glow along the edges of the Kenai Mountains. Shadows steadily disappeared from the ridgeline where we had spotted the bear yesterday. Matt and I sat in silence in the boat, riveted to our binoculars, inspecting every dark spot on the mountainside. After an hour of glassing and with the sun now clearly visible, Matt let his binoculars drop to his chest.
“The bear is gone.”
I had to admit that he was right. Now we had a decision to make. Should we take off after the bear in hopes that we could track and find it? Or should we travel up the valley floor to conduct our original plan to hunt for moose?
From our position, it was easy to see where we’d spotted the bear on the ridgeline the day before. Once we entered the forest canopy, however, all visual references would be gone. This meant we’d have to use a compass to shoot an initial magnetic bearing and, once in the trees, continue to navigate using a compass, map, and GPS.
I didn’t like those odds. “I came here to get a moose with my bow,” I said. “I think we should move up a mile or so into the valley and get one.”
Matt agreed. I looked closer at the trees and vegetation directly in front of us. The increasing light revealed a sight that sent a shiver up my spine. Forty yards from where the boat rested were
three huge piles of scat. Matt and I walked over to check it out. Most of the scat was bright red and orange with half-digested salmon eggs. It was accompanied by huge tracks.
This scat hadn’t been here yesterday. Sometime between the moment we’d left the bay the evening before and our return this morning, a bear had stood on this shoreline.
On our walk back to the boat, I reconsidered my decision to hunt with only my bow. Like any bow hunter, I wanted to travel light and with stealth, so I had already cut down the amount of gear I would haul into the field. Humping my Thompson/Center rifle would be cumbersome and tiring. I was here to match my skills as a bow hunter against one of the most sought-after game animals in the world. I didn’t want to shoot a moose with a rifle; I wanted to earn it with a bow like so many men before me. And I was already armed with a revolver and bear spray.
But would that be enough to stop a black bear?
At the boat, Matt and I made a final check of our gear on the rocky shore. Did I have arrows? Did we have ammunition? Had we packed a first-aid kit? The GPS? The last thing we wanted was to backtrack over difficult terrain for a forgotten but critical item. Matt slung his backpack and rifle over his shoulders. I picked up my backpack and bow. Then, thanks to the improved light, I made another discovery—more large piles of bear scat right there on the beach.
I was sure Matt and I could handle the bear we’d spotted yesterday. Still, I was uneasy.
“You ready?” Matt asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s get going.”
Matt started walking. I took three steps toward the wilderness, my eyes on that bear scat, then shifted my gaze to my bow and sidearm, then back to the bear scat. I glanced back at the boat and eyed my rifle case.
Yeah, I thought with a sigh, I guess I should bring it.
I called to Matt to wait a moment, stepped back to the boat, and unzipped my rifle case. I lifted the T/C, chambered one of the three rounds in the rifle clip, and slung the weapon onto my shoulder. From a side pocket, I grabbed three additional Win Mag rounds and shoved them into a pocket in my cargo pants. I would haul the rifle but use it only as a last resort. Better safe than sorry, I thought as we began picking our way up the valley.
All that morning, my mind was filled with thoughts of moose and the black bear we’d sighted the previous day. The possibility that the bear scat had been produced by a much larger and more dangerous creature never even entered my mind.
* * *
THE WALKING WOULD HAVE BEEN difficult enough without gear on our backs, but lugging an extra thirty to forty pounds made it near impossible. In addition to the pond, we encountered frost heaves, mud pits, downed trees, and hidden holes deep enough to snap a leg in a heartbeat. Even so, we made steady progress.
On a game trail, Matt noticed fresh moose prints and scat that was still soft to the touch. I wasn’t surprised. The area offered everything a moose could want: cover, food, and ample space for bedding.
We decided to sit a spell, catch our breath, and watch the openings near the tree lines. The whole area was indescribably gorgeous. The valley floor was about three-quarters of a mile across and capped on both sides by towering mountain ridgelines. The land in front of us was flat but thick with vegetation and timber. Across the valley, as far as the eye could see, muskeg moss was laid out like rolls of plush green carpet. Rising from the sea of green, towering stands of cedar, birch, and pine trees strutted their fall colors and reached toward a deep-blue Alaska sky. The only sound was a whispering wind moving through treetops. I was in awe.
I released the binoculars from my chest harness, brought them to my eyes, and scanned the valley ahead. I was so excited to be in this very spot. Each time I brought my field glasses up, I tried to will an animal to step into view.
As I searched from left to right, my eyes caught something that took a few seconds to register. I shifted my view to the left again and gasped.
“What?” Matt said.
About three-quarters of a mile away, dead center in the valley, a streak of white stood out against a brown-and-gray background. It had to be white meat on a scarred pine tree—a fresh antler rub. Moose will use trees to help them shed the felt from their antlers. This rub was clearly visible. It had removed the bark from a three-foot section of the tree.
I told Matt about the rub and guided his view to the spot.
“Oh my gosh, you’re right,” he said. “That’s it.”
I grinned. “I knew there was game in this valley. I knew it.”
Finding fresh signs of moose activity was a dream come true. My hands began to shake in anticipation. Talking in whispers, Matt and I plotted our strategy. We decided to make our way along the trees at the extreme east end of the valley, to a point parallel with the antler rub. We would then traverse directly across and camouflage ourselves with pine tree branches in the vicinity of the antler rub and any game trails we might encounter. The wind was in our face, moving left to right, which ensured that if there was a bull hiding in the thickets, we wouldn’t be discovered by our scent. It would be a long and methodical trek to reach that spot undetected, but we agreed that this option held the greatest potential for a successful stalk.
Everything about stalking and hunting moose is slow. If you move too fast at the wrong time, you pretty much guarantee that the moose you never even noticed standing nearby will quickly disappear, like a ninja, into dense cover. Impatience is not your friend. Many a hunter has given up after sitting motionless for six hours, only to watch a moose go crashing through the brush as soon as the hunter exposed his position.
Matt and I sprayed concentrated moose urine into the air in hopes of drawing in a bull moose. Then we slowly picked our way around mud holes, downed trees, and mosquito-infested marshes at the edge of the tree line. We focused on remaining quiet and traveling north up the valley along the tree line until we could spot the fresh antler rub. I was plenty tired from trying to keep my feet under me when Matt finally said, “There’s the tree.”
We rested for the next hour. It was now ten-thirty in the morning. The temperature had only climbed a few degrees. A thin layer of scattered clouds crept up the valley. Our trek had taken us longer than we’d anticipated. We guessed that even though it was late in the morning, it was still cool enough for moose to continue to feed. I knew that once the temperature rose a bit more, any moose in the area would seek the cool and protection of cover and bed down.
Matt and I spent the next hour in silence, listening, observing, and glassing every square inch of the valley. Just because we couldn’t see any moose didn’t mean they weren’t there. Slow movement was a primary mode of protection for the Alaskan moose. I’m talking molasses-in-the-middle-of-winter slow. You could look at one spot for half an hour before catching the flick of an ear or the glint of an antler. Bam, there he was. Nothing had changed except that the dark spot you were sure was nothing had suddenly moved. I was amazed that an animal that might weigh twelve hundred pounds could hide so well.
My brother and I finally re-shouldered our packs and in a low crouch made our way to the center of the valley. The rub we’d spotted on the tree was even more magnificent than I had envisioned. You have to be a hunter to truly appreciate the excitement of discovering a fresh rub. The bark had been completely stripped away from a large portion of the tree about five feet off the ground. This had to be a big bull. Mixed within the bark at the base of the tree were clumps of blood-soaked felt shed from the bull’s antlers.
I turned to Matt with an ear-to-ear grin. “This is the spot,” I whispered. A series of three well-traveled game trails led to the rub. The trails were heavily marked by tracks and fresh scat left by moose and bear. Some of the scat looked just like the salmon egg–saturated waste from the shoreline. I was pleased to see evidence of both moose and bear. Maybe this day would provide the chance to fill both my moose and my black bear tags.
We scouted the area further, moving north along one of the game trails while trying to remain as stealthy
as possible. Every couple of minutes, Matt or I would glance at each other with a big smile and nod. Everything indicated we were in the perfect location.
Once we’d surveyed the terrain, we knelt behind a small stand of willows and applied more scent control, a spray that would mask our smell, to our clothing. Then we discussed our game plan. We had come across a knoll that ran almost north–south, about fifty yards long and six feet high. A game trail that split off from one of the most heavily used trails ran south along the length of the knoll on the west side. We decided that I would set up my hide at the north end of the knoll while Matt positioned himself near the south end. When Matt started his moose calls, it ought to lure an animal off the main trail and straight to the north end of the knoll where I’d be waiting with my bow.
We synchronized our watches. I would have fifteen minutes to reach my hide before Matt started his first sequence of calls.
Matt gave me a last thumbs-up. “This is it, Greg. Be ready.”
I moved one slow step after another to reach the place I’d picked out for my hide, which was between a pair of pine trees at an elevated point at the front of the knoll. Using pruning shears, I trimmed a few small branches to clear my shooting lanes. Next I found a bleached-out log partially covered with muskeg moss and dragged it into the trees so I’d have a place to sit. My field pack was to my left and my loaded rifle leaned against a log to my right. By the time I had donned the rest of my camouflage gear, placed a couple of green pine-tree branches to increase my cover, and pulled a camouflage head net over my eyes, I had only three minutes before Matt’s moose calls would break the silence of the eerily quiet valley.
I still had time to arrange gear that I would use during the hunt. In front of me on the ground, I laid out binoculars, a moose call, my archery release, gloves, and a battery-powered range finder. The next step was to use the range finder to calculate the distance to various objects in my field of vision. The accuracy of the bow sight I would use to direct my arrow depended on these readings. I was proficient at hitting targets up to fifty yards out. If a moose came into view on the trail, it would be well within my kill range.
Wild Awakening Page 8