A SWIMMING BEAR
Once, crossing lake water between our summer cabin and a Forest Service boat ramp, my father eyed something in the water. Head just above the surface, sound of breathing -- intake, exhale -- it was laboring hard under sheer feat of bodily exertion. I hadn't known bears could swim. We used to see bears a lot at the cabin. As young child, I remember Dad clanging trash can lids together. He was holding the metal handles, playing a kind of symphonic scare-a-bear-away rhythm. It must have worked. I don't remember my father being afraid. Or me. This morning, walking my dog, I heard coyotes. They always sound closer than they are. Sneaky. And good hiders. But then their deeper instincts get the better of them. A siren wails out on the highway, and like little alcoholics, they can't help but call out for drink. This recent summer, during one of my Redding stays, a small frog from...