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 my sister's garden found its way into the house. Big house. And some strange cosmic lottery brought it to my room. It had crawled a wall, had been resting behind a book on the tall dresser near my bed. For no discernible reason I can think of, it suddenly felt compelled to jump. On me. Like the bear and the trash can lids, I wasn't afraid. I don't think the frog was either. Not in that moment. I cupped it in one hand. I was gentle. I was aware of my power, how easily I could crush it at will. Walking through the house -- hallway, living area -- out into a midnight dark, I felt its futile squirm. I imagined what it must be like to be frog -- small -- pressing against my curved and human fingers with all its strength. I quickly attuned to its exhaustion. I released it into an oasis of potted plants and a dog dish with sides high enough for shelter.  I wished it luck. For I believe all things hold spirit.

Are we good Gods? Humans. We harvest or shelter our weaker beings at whim. We take advantage of our situation, the power we've been gifted over the vulnerable.   

That day, that surface, that bear, my dad idled the boat a little closer. He was respectful. We all were. It was an awe we felt as we heard this creature's gulps at air. We saw the spray and blow just in front of its snout. We were aware of its intense  power. We were close enough to see its panicked eyes -- catch whiff of its musked, now wetted scent. I don't know what had made it decide to cross that stretch. It was beelined for a cove, shoreline. I'm sure it hadn't counted on observers that summer evening it made choice to immerse itself into such an ocean.  

We stayed distanced. Dad cut the motor, and we watched as this bear's huge and clawed paws made their purchase with mud, as water shed violently off its back. The bear had to be exhausted. I imagined its lungs, pained and taxed, much as mine felt in P.E., doing burpees or running laps.  

The bear didn't look back.  At us.  

Instead, it called upon its organs and muscles and willed itself -- a burst -- up the bank and into a tree line, which swallowed Him  whole.