There was only one problem: I’d been glassing the scene for the last three hours and hadn’t spotted anything larger than a sparrow. Where was the moose? I had a pit in my stomach. I wanted to see that long-faced, four-legged creature so badly, I could barely breathe.
I thought again about why this quest meant so much to me. Yes, I longed to experience the thrill of big-game hunting for the first time, to meet the challenge of bagging a moose with bow and arrow, and to share it all with my brother. But if I was honest with myself, there was another, deeper motivation that had also led me to this moment. It had everything to do with my dad.
It had been four decades since my father left our family. I had learned how to hide the terrible wounds I’d suffered that day from others, from Dad, and even from myself. Neither Dad nor I was equipped to talk about it and neither of us wanted to go there—so we didn’t. I simply pretended that the hurt didn’t exist.
Yet in my mind, I was constantly replaying the conversation that Dad and I had had in the car when I joined the air force. Even though I was almost fifty years old, before every opportunity I would subconsciously ask, Dad, will this impress you? Will this make you proud? I didn’t realize it, but the primary purpose of the moose hunt, along with so much else in my life, was to show my dad that I could fulfill the requirements of being a true man and be worthy of his love. I was on a never-ending chase for approval.
Despite this, Dad and I were close, to the point that I even thought of him like one of my best friends. He had left the California Highway Patrol and joined the Naval Criminal Investigative Service (NCIS) as a security specialist, the job he retired from after twenty-one years there. I didn’t see Dad often, since he still lived in San Diego, but we talked twice a week on the phone. When I told him about the plan to hunt in Alaska, he was encouraging and supportive.
Just a week before the trip, Dad had called to check in. I was in my garage reloading rounds for the rifles Matt and I would bring. “Are you about ready?” Dad asked. “Have you got everything packed and ready to go?”
I assured him that we were almost ready. Then he let me know that he had done some research and just mailed a solar charger for our phone and GPS batteries. We had a cord that plugged into the boat, but the solar charger would give us more charging capability. Leave it to you, Dad, I thought, to think of that one critical piece we can use.
At the end of our conversation, Dad said, “Hey, double-check your list and make sure you have everything. Pay attention to all the details, just like I taught you.”
I promised I would, told Dad that I loved him, and went back to work on the rounds. His words were still echoing in my mind as I measured the trim of the casings and the powder. For my rifle, I was reloading 200-grain Nosler Partition bullets. That was a big bullet, but I wanted something capable of stopping a huge animal if necessary. I was always careful, but after Dad’s advice, I took extra time to make sure everything was accurate and in its proper place. If he wanted me to pay special attention to the details, that was exactly what I was going to do. These rounds would be perfect. I even added a few extra grains of gunpowder to ensure the cartridges had additional power.
Those reloaded Nosler bullets from my garage were now loaded in my rifle and resting in a pocket of my cargo pants. I hoped I wouldn’t have to use them.
I fingered my bow again and thought about the shot I was preparing to make. Would the moose present me with a decent target? Or would I have to try moving into a better position without spooking him? I felt like a sharpened spear ready to hurl myself through the air. All I needed was an objective. Where are you?
While training to be a pilot, I had learned to scan sections of the sky in ten-degree increments so I wouldn’t miss anything. I applied this approach to my scouting through the binoculars. The scene remained unchanged, however. Thick expanses of pine trees. Stands of aspen. Heavy brush colored both green and gold. Above the vegetation, a band of shale and granite.
No moose.
With a sigh, I again shifted my binoculars to a view of the valley floor before slowly raising them to take in the trail. As before, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Then . . .
There—to the left, thirty-five yards away on the trail. Something moved!
This was it.
I hadn’t identified the source of the movement, but based on its location compared to the height of the trees, I knew it was big. It had to be a moose.
I wanted to be ready to shoot before I acquired my target, so I looked down and gently lowered the binoculars, allowing them to hang from their chest harness. I clipped my release to the bowstring, then gradually raised my head and the bow. I drew back the long graphite arrow to my cheek, peered through the bow’s sights, and slowly scanned the area.
Nothing.
My heartbeat had already shifted into double time. My mouth was dry. My eyes darted back and forth, straining to detect movement. Where is he?
Then I saw it—only this was no moose.
At the fork in the trail, between two pine trees, stood a monster. It was over eight feet tall and six hundred pounds. It was covered in fur, dark brown with brownish-blond tips. Everything about this creature was gigantic—the thick and muscled body, the powerful forelegs and claws, the head the size of a five-gallon bucket. It was a mother grizzly, the apex predator of this country, accompanied by two nearly adult cubs, each of them close to three hundred pounds.
The mother was standing at her full height, her nose pointed high, sniffing. The other bears were on all fours, but they also had their noses in the air. Each was staring in my direction. They were hunting.
They were hunting me.
I felt the blood drain from my face. Sheer terror washed over me. My first instinct was to jump up and sprint for my life, but I knew that was a mistake that would end badly. I fought off the urge to run. I fixed on the mother bear’s massive head, the powerful muscles in her enormous back. It wouldn’t be long before she saw or smelled me. I couldn’t get my mind to string two coherent thoughts together.
I felt like a child waking up from a nightmare. Don’t move the covers, don’t move an inch, just close your eyes and maybe it will all go away. Actually, that could work. I could hunker down, meld into the vegetation, and pray that I wouldn’t be discovered. The bears might walk right past me.
But what about Matt?
The thought chilled me. My brother was on the other side of the knoll. He couldn’t see what I was seeing. If the grizzlies moved down the trail, they’d be on top of him before he could defend himself. Matt wouldn’t have a chance.
No way could I take that risk. If I stood and startled them, maybe they’d scatter into the woods. Or if I had to, maybe I could get off a couple of shots and that would be enough to discourage Mama Grizzly.
Unless all three of them charge . . . What then?
The bears were sniffing more intently. I was out of time and options. I needed to make a stand. I couldn’t let them pass and get Matt.
I gently laid my bow on the ground and picked up my rifle. I dropped to one knee, raised the rifle, and peered through the scope. My hands trembled from the adrenaline surging through my veins. All I could see through the scope was brown fur—the magnification was too strong. I couldn’t identify where my shot placement would be and didn’t have time to adjust it.
I can’t use the scope. I’ll have to shoot from close range. I’ll get just one shot.
I lowered the rifle, rose to a low crouch, and stepped backwards over the log I’d been sitting on. I made my way around the pine tree that hid me and moved four feet away, onto open ground. When I flipped off the rifle’s safety switch, it sounded like a thunderclap in the still woods. The sow remained on her hind legs, sniffing the air, facing to her left. If that thing charges, am I going to have the composure to aim straight and keep from firing too soon? I leveled the rifle on my hip. To appear as large and threatening as possible, I stood on my tiptoes.
I took a deep breath and called ou
t in the deepest monotone I could muster: “Whoa, bear!”
The grizzly’s head snapped around. She dropped to all four legs. In a millisecond, her eyes shifted from round spheres to devil’s slits. Her ears tucked back and the fur running the length of her spine stood straight up. A huge muscle rose from the top of her head while every muscle on her neck and back flexed into attack posture.
On four legs, the beast looked as big as a Volkswagen. She lowered her head until it was inches off the ground. She coiled, ready to spring. Her bottom lip, black as night, tightened and curled. She stared right through me.
Then, with a terrifying growl, she charged.
In my hyper-alert state I was aware of everything, as if the unfolding horror was playing out in slow motion. With each lunge of the grizzly’s trunk-like legs, I observed enormous paws tear away swaths of moss and dirt that flew into the air behind her. As she barreled toward me, I heard “woofing” growls and the thud of her paws striking the ground. I felt the blood retreat from my extremities. My ears began to ring. I stood my ground, battling skyrocketing fear and a desperate urge to pull the trigger of the rifle at my hip.
Twenty-five feet.
Twenty.
My finger tightened against the trigger.
Fifteen feet. I tried to aim at the grizzly’s fast-approaching head.
I squeezed the trigger.
The shot must have hit her. The grizzly didn’t even slow down. The rampaging monster leapt at my face, her mouth open, exposing a black tongue and white fangs, daggers efficiently designed for their purpose: to bite, tear, and destroy.
To kill.
13
* * *
OUT OF AFRICA
Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward.
—PSALM 127:3 ESV
Rhea and I sat in her Volkswagen Jetta. We looked at each other for a moment, then I put my arms around her and we both began to cry. We were in the parking lot of an Everett medical clinic, where Rhea had just undergone a procedure to remove the remaining tissue from the miscarriage. Any trace of our baby might now be gone, but the hurt was only just beginning.
Adding to the stress of this heartbreak was the fact that we were scheduled to fly to Africa in two days. A pastor at our church had invited me to join a missionary medical team that would teach home health practices to village leaders in Uganda for two and a half weeks. Rhea had also signed on. I would be the team EMT and Rhea would be responsible for bookkeeping and logistics.
When Rhea and I arrived home from the clinic, I went into protect mode. “We don’t have to go to Africa,” I said. “I’ll call the airline. Maybe we can get some of our money back.”
Rhea stared at me. “So you’re saying that if things get hard we’re not supposed to remain faithful?” At that moment, I realized that my wife’s strength and faith were greater and deeper than I’d imagined. We talked further. We both believed that God had called us to make this trip. Even though it would be difficult emotionally, we decided we needed to go.
Though we were both mourning, it helped to be in new surroundings, and in a place where we might be able to make a difference. Once we arrived in Uganda, however, I’d quickly realized that I had little to do. My primary responsibility was to simply wait and be ready to treat anyone on the medical team who might get injured. Patiently sitting and waiting were not among my gifts.
After three days of watching the rest of the team conduct training sessions, I approached Margaret Nelson, the nurse who was in charge of the program. “Is there anything I can teach?” I asked. She agreed to let me offer a session on first aid, provided I used only indigenous materials. It wouldn’t do any good to show the villagers how to apply the splints and bandages I’d brought with me if they wouldn’t have those supplies once I left. Fortunately, during two days of searching in the jungle with some of the local children, I located reasonable substitutes: T-shirts and moisture-absorbent moss to use as dressings, banana fibers to serve as bandages to secure the dressings, and branches cut from trees for splints.
The next morning, six adults and an interpreter showed up for my first training session. I taught them about the heart and the circulatory system. I traced the path a drop of blood travels through the body. Then, with Rhea acting out the part of an injured patient, I showed the villagers how to apply direct pressure to a wound with a dressing to stop the bleeding and how to elevate the wounded area.
Suddenly, my audience started talking to one another in agitated voices. “What’s the matter?” I asked the interpreter. “Did I say something wrong?”
“They do not believe you,” the interpreter said. “They do not believe that can happen.”
“Why would they think that?” I asked.
“Because if this is true, it means that they have watched people die when they could have done something to help, but they did nothing because they did not know how.”
It was sobering to hear about potentially needless deaths. At the same time, however, I was so glad that I’d spoken up and asked to teach. What I considered basic first aid was revolutionary here. It would save many lives in the future.
Once the villagers calmed down, they expressed their gratitude for the new information. Word about our class apparently spread. For my session the next morning, I had forty new and eager students.
While flying back home two weeks later, Rhea and I agreed that we’d made the right decision to keep our commitment and make the Africa trip. We’d had our hard moments, but we’d also fallen in love with the people of Uganda and contributed to making a difference in their lives. I later learned that, just days after our visit, a woman who’d attended my class used the Heimlich maneuver I’d demonstrated to save her child who was choking.
As fulfilling as that trip was, the best news was yet to come. Just two days after we returned home, I walked into the house after my first twenty-four-hour shift. I was exhausted and ready for bed. Rhea met me almost at the door.
“You’re not going to believe this,” she said. “Do you think after this long that my body could still give a false indication of being pregnant?”
I stared at Rhea. “Why do you ask that?”
“Well, for some reason I decided to try one of those cheap pregnancy tests again. It says that I’m pregnant. That isn’t possible . . . is it?”
I didn’t think so. “Did you try more than one?”
Rhea held up three blue sticks.
I wasn’t about to rely on a discount test again. We immediately drove to a drugstore and bought a “real” home pregnancy test.
“There’s no way,” I said. “We’ve been bitten by mosquitoes and probably have malaria or something. We’ve been taking all these medications. Your body’s been through too much. No way should you be able to get pregnant that fast.”
Back at home, Rhea went into the bathroom and took the test. She returned a few minutes later.
“I’m pregnant.”
Once again, I was stunned. “It’s a miracle,” I finally said. “The only way this makes sense is that we remained faithful and still went to Uganda even though we were hurting so much. God has blessed us with another baby.”
This time, fear and terror weren’t even part of the equation for me. I was completely on board and dove into preparations. I painted the baby’s room. I bought and assembled a crib. I bought a mobile to hang from the ceiling. Even though it wouldn’t be necessary for months, I secured our electrical outlets and babyproofed the house. I also read up on all the things that could go wrong medically and what could be done about them. I was going to be ready for this baby.
In November, we learned that our baby was a boy. We eventually decided to name him Benjamin, a Hebrew name which means “son of the right hand.” In Hebrew, the right hand symbolizes strength. Rhea and I both liked that.
Fortunately, Rhea didn’t have any complications this time around. We had a date scheduled for doctors to induce labor if contractions hadn’t begun yet: May
17, 2004. Rhea hadn’t had contractions when that morning arrived, but the hospital didn’t have a room ready for us, so we waited. Then Rhea did start having contractions. We were both emotional wrecks by the time we finally got a room at the hospital in the late afternoon. Once a doctor induced labor, things moved fast.
Rhea and I had decided that I would be the first to hold our son. When it was nearly time for Ben to enter the world, I stood next to the doctor, watching his every move. A nurse asked if I wanted to take my shirt off and go skin to skin with Ben as soon as he was born. Of course I said yes.
I watched Ben’s delivery with amazement. The doctor handed him to me and I drew him close to my chest. I even had the opportunity to cut the umbilical cord. Suddenly there I was, holding my son: Benjamin Josiah Matthews. When I gazed into his beautiful green eyes, I started bawling. It was as if there was no one else in the room. How could I have ever feared this? It was a magical moment, one I would never forget.
I don’t know how long I stood there lost in a haze of wonder and joy. But it was long enough that Rhea had to work to get my attention. She cleared her throat. When I didn’t react, she cleared her throat again.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Can I hold my son?” Rhea said with a smile.
“Oh,” I said with a laugh. “I’m sorry. Yes, of course.”
After Rhea held Ben for a few minutes, the nurse used a washcloth to help me give him his first bath. Even while learning how to swaddle my newborn son and change his diaper, I was still crying. I couldn’t get over the idea that I now had a son.
I was not done with the delight of welcoming a newborn to our family. A little over two years later, on November 18, 2006, I cradled my baby daughter against my chest: Ciara Elizabeth Matthews. The elation and gratitude I experienced was just as strong as it had been with Ben.
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