Montana, Day Five: That Sound

We freeze in our tracks. A neck-prickling sound over too fast to process. A growl?

I want to hear it again to make sense of it, but I don’t want to hear it again.

Now I get why the elk femur disturbed me. Elk don’t just leave their bones willy-nilly. Somebody ate somebody. And licked their chops and may be hanging out in this happy hunting ground.

The smoke of the skewered pork may have traveled.

We taste like pork, we’re told.

“Fan out,” says Jim quietly.

We do. Not too far away from each other, armed with (useless) bear spray to protect our area, which, of course, belongs to other animals. It is not really ours at all. Can we still startle wild animals?

Wild is evaporating, wild untouched by humans, that is—which is why, while I hate the fear and discomfort I didn’t sign up for, I’m equally honored to witness, participate, breathe and have powerful emotions in what’s left of the wilderness.

We hear the word corridors now applied to wilderness. Corridors are the narrow, socially-challenging places we navigated in school, not fit accommodation for the diversity and majesty of wild species. This cellular tragedy fizzes in my bloodstream along with the knowledge I don’t belong here. But if I am here, perhaps I can speak of it and people will know to preserve it even if they can’t stand being there.

We hear it again, with length and clarity this time: an eerie skirling bellow.

“Elk bugle,” says Jim. Profound sonic gift. Collective sigh. Collective shoulders dropping. A little trash talk, a few jokes. We wend our way back.

“Too bad Dooley missed this,” says Jack. “He would had fun.”

“Or been a bear’s breakfast,” says Mike. “It’s too bad Seidlitz missed this.”

“We’ll tell him tomorrow night,” says Jim. “He’ll probably beat us to the campsite.”

That’s right. Seidlitz. Walking in to meet us. Walking us back to his car. Ice-cold beer waiting in his car for us at the trailhead. The end is in sight.

But tomorrow we’re back on the water.

“But this part’ll be so much easier,” says Mike. Jim and Jack agree. They are sensitive, good-hearted men. They’ve seen our distress. “When we meet up with the White River, the Flathead broadens. Fewer twists and turns. Plenty more water between the banks. Piece of cake.”

As I drop off to sleep, though, I wonder why that gut-clutch, that skin-prickle seemed familiar. Our family never camped, we were never near bears.

“Don’t be ludicrous! You don’t know what you’re talking about! What would you even know about fear?” And then of course I realize. That roar is like Skip’s voice, internalized.