The 2000 first edition of this book in paperback won the 2000 AWARD FOR SELF PUBLISHED BOOKS. After substantial changes, this second edition is even more exciting. Jim Wilson’s first reaction to the scene before him was—Deja vu! Several seconds passed before the haunting memory gradually slipped into the correct crevices of his mind. Yes, this was the place where his friend, Nat Trainor, had harvested an elk on that first morning of the hunt a few days ago. Now, standing in the open, between the cover of a large black spruce trunk and a group of small fir trees, he found his location to be very surprising—he hadn't realized he’d gained so much altitude. But yes—the gut pile from the downed elk would be just ahead and to the left, behind those two small evergreens.
A sensation of movement penetrated his peripheral eyesight, up the hill slightly and thirty yards away, behind more evergreens. It wasn't the quick motion of a deer flicking its ear or flipping its tail—it was more subtle, slower. His head didn't move as his eyes cut to the location. Gradually he turned to face the object. There was a presence that didn't belong to the shadows of the fir trees low in the tangle. His eyes fought to penetrate the dense foliage. Yes! Through one small triangle of an opening was a tan object.
If the animal stepped out before he got his bow flexed, he’d never be able to draw and shoot fast enough. It would be gone in a heartbeat. But, maybe—if he could just draw and hold—it might move out of the brush and offer a clear broadside shot before his strength failed.
He timelessly executed a task of shot preparation: quietly took an arrow from his quiver —nocked it on the string and placed it on the arrow rest—slid the release trigger up the string to its home position—raised the bow ever so slowly—and the hardest part, flexed it without erratic motion.
He was beginning to feel the physical strain of holding the bow at full draw when something in his sight picture went terribly wrong. The animal didn't step out as he expected—rather it stood upright, dwarfing the small fir trees, roared a challenge, squashed the trees, and bolted toward him. The scene burst on his consciousness with an explosion of motion and sound—not the side of a slow moving bull elk, but the front of a charging grizzly!
He had inadvertently blundered into the proprietary zone of the awesome creature, its ‘kill’ protection area—the gut pile. Head down, ears back, the bruin’s curled lips exposed long yellow canine teeth as it roared its rage at his trespass.
Primal fear gripped his mind. He stifled an almost overwhelming urge to scream, to run. But to where? The uselessness of such action slammed into his consciousness and reality broke through his stupor. It might be a false charge—or might be the real thing. He must wait to see. His breath slowed, leaving him strangely calm with ancient words of courage flicking somewhere in the neural networks of his brain: Stand still, feet. Arrow, fly true, arrow fly sweet.
He no longer tried deliberately to aim the bow. Eyes wide, instincts alive, the bowstring appeared as a blurred vertical line against the engulfing tan wall of hair, teeth, and claws. He held target position for eight inches below the V of the chin under the creature's mouth. This was no false charge. He fired his arrow when the juggernaut was eight feet from his face. He began to turn to his right as the grizzly slammed him like a runaway truck.
His breath exploded with shock, pain ripped through his shoulder and chest on the left side. Incredible force jammed his rolled jacket hood into his neck. Sound-obliterating roars assaulted his ears and the putrid smell of rotten meat invaded his nose—smothering. He couldn’t breathe. The blubbering snarls and growls were seemingly inside his head. The pressure on his skull was incredible grating, scraping, and they were the huge teeth of a monstrous grizzly bear.
A sensation of movement penetrated his peripheral eyesight, up the hill slightly and thirty yards away, behind more evergreens. It wasn't the quick motion of a deer flicking its ear or flipping its tail—it was more subtle, slower. His head didn't move as his eyes cut to the location. Gradually he turned to face the object. There was a presence that didn't belong to the shadows of the fir trees low in the tangle. His eyes fought to penetrate the dense foliage. Yes! Through one small triangle of an opening was a tan object.
If the animal stepped out before he got his bow flexed, he’d never be able to draw and shoot fast enough. It would be gone in a heartbeat. But, maybe—if he could just draw and hold—it might move out of the brush and offer a clear broadside shot before his strength failed.
He timelessly executed a task of shot preparation: quietly took an arrow from his quiver —nocked it on the string and placed it on the arrow rest—slid the release trigger up the string to its home position—raised the bow ever so slowly—and the hardest part, flexed it without erratic motion.
He was beginning to feel the physical strain of holding the bow at full draw when something in his sight picture went terribly wrong. The animal didn't step out as he expected—rather it stood upright, dwarfing the small fir trees, roared a challenge, squashed the trees, and bolted toward him. The scene burst on his consciousness with an explosion of motion and sound—not the side of a slow moving bull elk, but the front of a charging grizzly!
He had inadvertently blundered into the proprietary zone of the awesome creature, its ‘kill’ protection area—the gut pile. Head down, ears back, the bruin’s curled lips exposed long yellow canine teeth as it roared its rage at his trespass.
Primal fear gripped his mind. He stifled an almost overwhelming urge to scream, to run. But to where? The uselessness of such action slammed into his consciousness and reality broke through his stupor. It might be a false charge—or might be the real thing. He must wait to see. His breath slowed, leaving him strangely calm with ancient words of courage flicking somewhere in the neural networks of his brain: Stand still, feet. Arrow, fly true, arrow fly sweet.
He no longer tried deliberately to aim the bow. Eyes wide, instincts alive, the bowstring appeared as a blurred vertical line against the engulfing tan wall of hair, teeth, and claws. He held target position for eight inches below the V of the chin under the creature's mouth. This was no false charge. He fired his arrow when the juggernaut was eight feet from his face. He began to turn to his right as the grizzly slammed him like a runaway truck.
His breath exploded with shock, pain ripped through his shoulder and chest on the left side. Incredible force jammed his rolled jacket hood into his neck. Sound-obliterating roars assaulted his ears and the putrid smell of rotten meat invaded his nose—smothering. He couldn’t breathe. The blubbering snarls and growls were seemingly inside his head. The pressure on his skull was incredible grating, scraping, and they were the huge teeth of a monstrous grizzly bear.
