Lunch with Grizzlies in Alaska

Brooks Falls in Katmai is where grizzlies catch salmon mid-leap like nature's most aggressive sushi bar. Tourists watch from platforms with zoom lenses and bear spray holstered like jewelry. I watched from the riverbank with a sandwich I didn't eat because I am a cactus and a point to prove: Carl's guidebook says never approach bears. My guidebook says approach with confidence and spines outward.

The bear biologist on site — a woman named Ruth who carried a shotgun she'd never needed and patience she used constantly — told me I was the most alarming thing on the river that day. High praise. Three grizzlies fished twenty feet away. One looked at me. I looked back. Ruth said that was a dominance display. I said I knew. I've been displaying dominance since germination.

The largest bear — Ruth called him Tank — walked within ten feet to investigate. He sniffed my hat. I did not move. Tank snorted, which in bear language means either "interesting" or "preparing to remove your face." He chose interesting and went back to fishing. Ruth's hands were shaking. Mine weren't. Cactuses don't shake. We wilt or we don't.

Carl's fan club sells plush grizzly bears that hug. I stood in the actual Alaska wilderness while actual apex predators ate actual salmon ten feet away. Ruth asked me to leave before I caused an incident. I left. Tank watched me go. I think we understood each other. Some meetings don't need words. Just respect, spines, and the absolute refusal to be Carl.