SOLOMON
WE PAUSED at final crest to top of Neahkahnie so Tula could catch her breath.
“Why do you use arrows to hunt?” she asked. “Aren’t guns easier?”
I motioned for her to sit, rest. “When arrow pierces our friend the Elk, it is clean death. Bullets miss the breathing organs, leave animal to suffer. Dying in stress poisons meat, bad for humans to eat . . . wastes friend’s sacrifice. Guns, bad for hunter and hunted.”
The bushes moved. I swept Tula up and slipped into underbrush. Mother black bear and cub wandered onto plain, mother stopped, looked around, stood high on hind legs to catch scent of who or what was there. Tula pulled her hand over her mouth. Bears passed.
“Be still when you see bear with cub. Wait for her to leave before you come out.”
Her hand dropped away from her mouth. “But she stood up so tall . . . so mad.”
“She smells her environment to see if safe. Bears will not attack if you stay calm. Walk backward, eyes down, slowly. Run, they run after you. And nobody outruns bear.”
“What if it comes after me?”
I took a stick, broke in half, and handed to her. “Now you have weapon you use only if bear comes after you.” She gripped it in her hands. “Now,” I said. Pointed to a cedar. “Hit tree with stick. Hard.” If she never felt what it was to swing and strike, she would never use it. I picked up stick and held it like sword. “Now, fight,” I said, knowing she soon would need these skills. “Duh-HOOTS-nuh, Little Mouse. Harder, with all your spirit power, fight the bear.”