James Broyles, age nine, in the Absarokas, Wyoming

When I was young, I spent months humping a pack and an M-16 up and down the Annamite Cordillera in Vietnam. It took me years to want to go out in the mountains again, but now nature was my friend, a consoling, calming presence I wanted to share with my son. I could take the time to look at the wildflowers and wonder if that was鈥攜es, it had to be鈥攆ringed gentian, there with the lupine and sticky geranium, and wild irises in the damp ground, and columbine, their delicate petals trailing their fragile tails.

Still, in the high mountains of Wyoming, you didn鈥檛 just stroll in the woods. On casual walks and horseback rides we鈥檇 find wolf tracks the size of my son鈥檚 hand. At night we鈥檇 lie awake, listening to the howling of the Washakie pack as our dogs cowered under the beds. The wolves had killed an elk just outside our fence, and as James and I set out on our climb we stopped to examine the bones, which had been pulled apart by coyotes, picked clean by ravens, and bleached white by the sun. I cut the ivories out of the lower jaw with my Leatherman and put them in my pocket. They made good bandanna slides, and I always thought that something of the spirit of the elk would protect my kids.

James took the elk鈥檚 hip girdle, turned it upside down, and held it to his face, like a primitive mask. He made spooky noises and we laughed. He found one of the femurs and swung it like Reggie Jackson brandishing a bat.

鈥淧itch to me?鈥�

It was early in the hike to be playing bone ball, but when you came across a skeleton, you made use of it. I found some dried cow patties and pitched one to him.

鈥淪trike one.鈥�

And again.

鈥淪trike two.鈥�

On the third pitch, James swung with all his might. The pattie exploded in a cloud of dusty dung.

鈥淗ome run!鈥�

James smiled, thrilled with himself. Already the hike was worth it.

When I picked my pack back up, I realized I鈥檇 forgotten the bear spray. There were grizzlies up in the high country. A big male could be twice the size of a lion, weigh up to a third of a ton, and reach nine feet tall when it stood up. It could kill you and then eat you. You weren鈥檛 at the top of the food chain and you could feel it, the way when you went surfing in Ventura you could feel that sizzle in your spine that meant a shark was nearby, and you got out of the water even if the waves were good.

I always took bear spray, and usually I took my pistol, too, an old Colt M1911A1 .45 like the one I鈥檇 carried in the war. , but I liked carrying it. Bear spray was far better. It could make the fiercest grizzly turn and run, but only if you could get the canister out of the holster, pull back the safety, depress the trigger, and spray it in the bear鈥檚 face, all in a split second. I knew how fear could paralyze a man when he wasn鈥檛 hardened by daily contact with it. I hadn鈥檛 been that man in a long time鈥攖he man who could respond with skill to a sudden onset of fear鈥攕o I wasn鈥檛 sure that if a grizzly suddenly appeared I would be able to do any of those things. I鈥檇 started feeling like the mountains belonged to me. I鈥檇 gotten soft and lazy like civilians do.

鈥淲e鈥檝e got to go back,鈥� I said. 鈥淚 forgot the bear spray.鈥�

鈥淎w, Dad, we鈥檙e already on the way.鈥�

For a moment I thought about just heading on up. It was a ways back to the cabin, and we had about 3,000 feet of vertical to cover. If I鈥檇 been alone I might have let it go, but I had my son along. We headed back.

I grabbed the bear spray from another pack hanging by our cabin door, attached a canister to each of our belts, and quickly reminded James how to use it.

鈥淪ee, this is the safety. Pull it back, then squeeze down the trigger. Got it?鈥�

鈥沦耻谤别.鈥�

He didn鈥檛 look that confident. For a moment I thought of having him practice, but by now the sun was up, so we climbed back over our fence.

THERE WAS NOTHING between us and Yellowstone but a million acres of national forest. We were in the , near the big Wind River Indian Reservation. Unlike the Wind River Range, which is hard granite carved smooth and clean like Yosemite, the Absarokas are volcanic in origin and sculpted rough and rangy, more like a Gaud铆 than a Michelangelo.

The land we were climbing was rocky with flint, the meadows were dotted with sage, and in the meadows were worn-down clearings where sage grouse did their mating rituals, throbbing like tom-toms. Every now and then you鈥檇 surprise a covey of the big birds. They鈥檇 burst up at your feet with a shocking percussive explosion that chilled your spine.

Bare eruptions of sun-dried bentonite lay hidden among the grasses. Some of them were sinkholes that had swallowed up cattle, elk, and moose. Where a creek had carved out the side of one of the sinkholes, we鈥檇 found a buffalo skull. The surface looked like solid ground, but if you took a fence rail and poked it, the dried bentonite would jiggle. Poke harder and a gray, thick liquid would pour out like the earth was bleeding. Let go of the fence post and it would sink and disappear.

We made it past the sinkholes and climbed across a narrow bentonite saddle that spanned a deep ravine. You had to be careful on bentonite ridges. If they got any moisture, they would be so slick you could stand still and slide off. Sometimes in the bentonite cliffs we鈥檇 find the petrified teeth of ancient crocodiles. They gave off a spooky kind of aura when you held them in your hand.

We followed a narrow game trail around rock outcroppings. Up ahead were yellow fields of arrowleaf balsamroot tucked into the aspen where the sage brush gave out and the grass was green and rich. We surprised an antelope calf that bounded away on spindly legs, whistling for its mother. The mother circled around and bleated at us. I moved between her and my son. You never knew what an animal might do if it thought you were threatening its young.

In the war, I鈥檇 walked all day up and down the mountains, carrying a 100-pound pack with only a couple of C-ration crackers and some peanut butter in me. No Gu or Clif Bars or electrolytes, just running on fear鈥攆ear and the quiet force of the others. You wanted to quit; it made no sense to walk into the mountains where men waited to kill you. You wanted to hide in the safety of your foxhole. But you didn鈥檛; you went into the mountains because the others were doing it, and you couldn鈥檛 be the first to quit. So we all kept going, and most of us came back.

We鈥檇 been climbing a couple of hours when I realized we hadn鈥檛 seen any black bears this spring. Usually, if the black bears were here, the grizzlies weren鈥檛. But if the grizzlies moved in, they would often kill the black bears or chase them away. Predators don鈥檛 want other predators around. The silence up on the mountain felt different now.

I鈥檇 started coming to the cabin when my older son, James鈥檚 brother, David, went off to Iraq. He鈥檇 enlisted after 9/11 and became an Air Force pararescueman, a special operations medic. Each time he went to Iraq or Afghanistan, I couldn鈥檛 watch the news, I couldn鈥檛 answer the phone at night, I was racked with nightmares. I was helpless to protect him. I knew no one with a son in the war. All the people I knew went on with their lives as if on another part of the planet men and women weren鈥檛 dying and killing every day.

My parents had been through the same thing when I was in Vietnam, and I imagine my father鈥檚 parents also had in World War II, and my grandfather鈥檚 parents in World War I, going back through the Spanish颅-American War, the Civil War, the Indian Wars, the Revolutionary War, and all the wars my family鈥檚 men had gone off to, mostly for reasons long since forgotten. My parents built their own cabin on a remote East Texas lake and retreated there, with no phone or newspapers, just as I had to my cabin up the East Fork.

At any hour of the day, anyplace, the nightmare visions come to me: my children kidnapped by serial killers, swept off the sides of mountains by avalanches, bucked off my horses, hit by a cab on the streets of New York. Their parachutes don鈥檛 open, their blood doesn鈥檛 clot, the ambulance doesn鈥檛 arrive in time. And always, I can鈥檛 do anything about it. When that fear came upon me I wanted to hold my children close, keep them in my sight. I wanted to get away from everything that reminded me how far away my son David was, how little anyone else even knew or cared.

I could still see the tiny dot that was our cabin far down the valley. It looked safe.

鈥淟et鈥檚 go down,鈥� I said.

鈥淣o, Dad, please. I want to see Butch鈥檚 cabin.鈥�

鈥淚t doesn鈥檛 feel right. I鈥檓 tired.鈥�

I didn鈥檛 want to tell him I was afraid I couldn鈥檛 protect him.

鈥淧lease, Dad. We鈥檙e almost there. I鈥檒l carry your pack.鈥�

That made me smile. I thought about what I was doing. Because I was afraid for one son, I was about to treat the other son like a fearful child and not the confident young man I wanted him to be.

鈥淥K, let鈥檚 head up.鈥�

THE WOODS THE TRAIL went through seemed to shimmer. I didn鈥檛 want to go into them. I turned and led us off-trail.

鈥淲e can bushwhack a while.鈥�

I was looking for a shorter way to get to the high ridge, where the trees weren鈥檛 so thick, but we had to go through thick deadfall to get there. The pine beetle had invaded the high forests. Not only the limber pines but also the big old Douglas firs were dead. , the needles turned red, then gray, then fell to the ground. The dead needles were dry and crisp under our boots. It was like walking through a graveyard. A mule deer stared at us in a small clearing, then bounded away.

In the shadows I lost my bearings. There鈥檚 nothing like the feeling of being lost in the woods, especially when people are depending on you to know where you are, and even more when you are scared. In the war, I鈥檇 once been so lost that when I called in a spotting round of white phosphorous, I scanned the hostile mountains for miles and couldn鈥檛 see a thing. I was in charge of 50 men, and every single one of them knew I didn鈥檛 have a clue where we were. I couldn鈥檛 call in artillery, I couldn鈥檛 call in a medevac, I couldn鈥檛 get us rescued. I was lucky I didn鈥檛 get us all killed.

A few minutes later, James and I reached the top of the ridge and worked our way down toward Alkali Basin. The woods were quiet, the deadfall had thinned out, and on the trail we could move smoothly and let our thoughts wander. But I was still scanning, looking for the pattern that didn鈥檛 belong. In Vietnam you learned to stare into the jungle, looking for that patch of color, that sharp angle, that nature never made. A friend of mine was ambushed in a clearing wreathed in the most beautiful flowers he鈥檇 ever seen, so beautiful he didn鈥檛 look past them. It took him a split second longer than it should have to register the sound of the AK-47鈥檚.

We came out in the Basin, a high green meadow with a spring that became a creek winding lazily through banks of wildflowers. The ground was soft and mushy from the snowmelt. Our feet were wet, but we didn鈥檛 care. The basin was a vision of an iconic, unspoiled western Eden. Marlboro Man commercials were filmed here back in the 1960s.

Butch had set his cabin far enough back in the woods so you couldn鈥檛 see it from the basin. There was a trick to finding it. You had to look just off the meadow for the ruins of an old wickiup in a stand of limber pine. The Shoshone had made it out of tree trunks. A few poles were still left, leaning into the crook of another tree. Every year there were fewer poles, and it was harder and harder to find.

鈥淗ere it is!鈥� James called out.

鈥淓虫肠别濒濒别苍迟.鈥�

鈥淗ow many steps north, Dad?鈥�

鈥淔辞谤迟测-迟飞辞.鈥�

James began to step them off, taking giant strides, the size he imagined mine were.

I followed him, relaxed now, and happy. It wasn鈥檛 long before we turned into the woods. The shadows were dense, and it was cold out of the sun. At first we couldn鈥檛 find the cabin, then James spotted the ruins of the old corral. We pushed deeper into the woods, and there the cabin was. The logs had been crudely cut and laid together at the joint. The chinking was long gone, if there鈥檇 been any, and the roof was fallen in. But you could stand in the cabin and look out through the door and have a good firing position in case anyone came too close. There was something safe about it.

We sat down on a sunny log in front of the cabin and ate our lunch in pleasant silence. The log was damp and soaked our trousers, but we didn鈥檛 care. After a while, James looked over at me.

鈥淪o, Dad, did Butch really die down there in Bolivia? Like in the movie?鈥�

鈥淭hey say so.鈥�

鈥淒o you say so?鈥�

鈥淲ell, a lot of people say they saw Butch and Etta Place years later, that they鈥檇 come back and started a store over in the Oregon badlands. Minded their own business.鈥�

James thought a little.

鈥淚 hope so.鈥�

鈥淢e, too. But it doesn鈥檛 make as good a story. You really couldn鈥檛 end the movie with Butch giving change to kids for candy canes.鈥�

鈥淚鈥檇 like that ending better.鈥�

鈥淵ou鈥檇 like the candy canes.鈥�

James smiled. 鈥淪o they died of old age, then.鈥�

I smiled back and stared off into the woods. That had been my own prayer, back in Vietnam. Dear Lord, let me die of old age. And let me die before my children do. Amen.

WE PACKED UP our trash and headed over to the saddle that led down to our cabin. I was feeling safe and content, so I decided we鈥檇 go back down the main trail. We jumped the rivulets of snowmelt, keeping our eyes on the ground to avoid the wettest patches.

Suddenly something moved in front of us. Something big, followed by two smaller movements.

It took a moment to realize what they were, the same way it takes just an instant to realize that you are being ambushed, or your car is fishtailing on ice, or you鈥檙e having a heart attack. This isn鈥檛 happening to me, that鈥檚 always the first reaction. And then comes the cold fear.

Yes. It is.

The big movement was a grizzly sow, and the two smaller movements were her cubs. I pushed James behind me, ripped my bear spray out of its holster, and pulled back the safety.

The bear spray was like the CS gas we鈥檇 used in the war. When they trained you with it, they filled a container with gas and sent you in with a gas mask on. Right away your crotch and your armpits started to sting, and then they pulled your gas mask off and told you to sing the Marine Corps hymn, and before you could get out 鈥溾�� you gagged, and your lungs and eyes were on fire, and there was nothing human left in you: no intelligence, no poetry, no music, no love. You just wanted to get out of there. That was what I was counting on.

I spoke to James without taking my eye off the grizzly.

鈥淕et your bear spray.鈥�

James fumbled to pull it out of the holster.

The bear turned and saw us. It was upwind, which was why it hadn鈥檛 caught our scent. The sow stood up on her hind legs. She was enormous, magnificent, terrifying. The cubs circled around her legs, watching their mother. I had my son. She had her cubs.

I thought of charging the bear, running at it with the bear spray, yelling and pulling the trigger, hoping I鈥檇 startle her and she鈥檇 run. But she鈥檇 never retreat without her cubs. And besides, I鈥檇 only run into the spray myself, choke, and be helpless.

I glanced down at James. He had the bear spray pointed back in his own face. Damn that I hadn鈥檛 made him practice! I鈥檇 assumed that today would be a normal day, that we really wouldn鈥檛 need the bear spray, like we鈥檇 never needed it before. The bear scanned its head side to side but didn鈥檛 take its eyes off us. I thought of telling James to run, but the . I stood still. And the bear stood still. The cubs huddled at her feet.

She鈥檚 going to charge, I thought, and this thought like the others was nothing rational like I write it here, not the methodical sorting of options, just a cloud of flashing synapses, fragmentary hesitations, and each moment I stood still took the choices away. I cursed myself for coming here, for going back to the mountains, for putting my son in danger.

I wanted my pistol. I reached with my other hand for the .45, but the holster strap wouldn鈥檛 come loose. I鈥檇 have to put down the bear spray and lift it off with my other hand, but I couldn鈥檛 abandon the bear spray to do that. I鈥檇 have to chamber a round and it could jam and it would be too easy to miss or to wound the bear and make it madder.

The bear dropped to all fours and took a step toward us. It could be a false charge, to scare us away, but I didn鈥檛 think so. She had those new cubs, and she was still hungry and mad from the winter, and we were a threat. I kneeled down to make myself smaller, and pulled James down beside me.

The breeze picked up and blew in our faces. The bear spray would be useless. All I could do was pray that the bear would pull up right in front of us. But I knew that was unlikely, and once it had tasted our blood it would maul us both. If it didn鈥檛 kill us, there was no way we鈥檇 get back down if we were hurt. We were off the grid, the way I鈥檇 wanted it. There was no way to contact anyone for help. It was just me, my son, and the bear.

Mountain climbers call this an objective hazard, something out of your control, like an avalanche or a storm, or a hold on the rock that breaks. In the war, you could walk over a booby-trapped 105 round, and the next man walked over it, too, and the next, and then the fourth man stepped on it. Why him鈥攚hy not me? There were no answers. Somewhere in the brain of this beast, a decision was being made. Would we live or die?

The next few moments exist for me out of time. My memories are fragmented, my recollections perhaps altered by imagination and nightmares. I do remember holding my son and turning away from the bear, and knowing that my part in this was over. The bear had center stage, but I didn鈥檛 see its star turn. I heard something crashing across the brush, I felt a beastly power rolling toward me, I smelled a foul rank mist, and then I remember鈥攏othing.

Once, when we were ambushed in the mountains west of Da Nang, I could see twigs and leaves flying off branches, I could see big pocks ripped out of the nearby mud, I could feel vibrations in the air, but I couldn鈥檛 hear a thing. The intensity of the experience had turned off one of my senses. The bear鈥檚 charge wasn鈥檛 exactly that, but it was close. I chose not to look. I wanted only to feel my son鈥檚 body against mine.

鈥凄补诲?鈥�

I heard James鈥檚 voice. If he was talking he was still alive, and if I heard him so was I.

I looked down at him, just then realizing how tightly I was holding him.

鈥淚 think it鈥檚 gone,鈥� James said.

I turned and looked and saw the grizzly lead her cubs into the woods. For a long moment I sat on the ground with my son. Neither of us wanted to move. Finally, we stood up.

鈥淭hank you,鈥� I muttered, barely able to speak. I hadn鈥檛 realized I鈥檇 been shaking so hard.

I gently took James鈥檚 bear spray and turned it around.

鈥淵ou aim it like this.鈥�

Next time we came to the mountains we鈥檇 be ready, not that it would make any difference. We hadn鈥檛 earned a next time. The bear had given it to us. Grace came as a gift from unexpected givers. And if you weren鈥檛 grateful, if you didn鈥檛 thank God or nature or the Great Spirit for your life, your children, for being granted the moment to walk on the earth, then a bear might as well eat you and shit you out as a green puddle.

You could get a big house and an expensive car, send your kids to the right schools and give parties for people like yourself, but there would always be that booby trap on the path, the ambush from the flowers, the grizzly in the woods, waiting for you.

We made a wide circle away from where the grizzly and her cubs had gone into the woods, crossed the saddle, and headed down the mountain, walking fast. I couldn鈥檛 wait to get back to the cabin.

We鈥檇 be safe there.

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