The cool rain lands squarely on my upturned face, runs across my forehead and sluices along my eyebrows, sheets over my cheeks and finally trickles down my neck, diluting the sweat soaked into the shirt beneath my rain jacket. I don’t care enough to turn my head. I only shut my eyes and try to ignore my aching shoulders and back. The ocean is in sight, but I’ve learned the views on Kodiak Island are deceiving. There is still a mile of alder and tussock to go, and as I lie surrounded by 2-foot-tall yellow grass, I question whether I am going to make it.
I can think of no better way to invite a brown bear into my lap than by slowly carrying who-knows-how-many pounds of bloody caribou on my back as darkness falls. Signs of the giant bears—fresh tracks on the beach this morning, worn trails through the undergrowth, the pile of scat I passed a couple hundred yards back—are all over this land. Yesterday I saw two of them. I remember the words of a friend who hunted Kodiak a few years ago: “Whatever you do, make sure you’re on the beach before it gets dark.” I realize with growing trepidation that’s not going to happen.
The narrow beach below the hill on which I’m resting is, hopefully, where I’ll meet Capt. Gabe Linegar of Alaska Hunting Pros (), the transporter
