Alpha's Prey

Chapter 2-2

Miranda

Oh holy mother of God.

The guy at the store was right. There is a crazy freaking bear up here.

Because I swear to God, it’s smiling at me right now. It must be nearly nine feet tall, with an intense, intelligent yellow gaze. Like it’s reading my thoughts.

My heart pounds, but logic takes over. The bear’s outside. Bear—my dog—and I are inside. As soon as I’m sure of it, maybe even before, my knees go weak at the sheer splendor of the animal.

I’ve never met a bear in person before. Sure, I’ve seen them behind the glass at the zoo, but this is totally different. I’m witnessing a bear in the wild.

“Ursus americanus. The American black bear,” I say in a mock deep voice like a narrator of a nature documentary—it’s one of my favorite games. A party trick I developed as an undergrad for laughs. “Named for its black fur, although the species’ coat can have variations of brown or blonde.” And this one is absolutely magnificent. He’s a black bear, but the size of a grizzly. Healthy—with a shiny thick coat of dark fur.

I continue lecturing my imaginary audience, “In the cold months, the bear’s metabolism slows to the point where the bear can enter a dormant state known as hibernation. The bear can conserve energy and weather the season when food is scarce.”

Why on Earth is he not still hibernating? We did have a brief warm spell; maybe it pulled him out of his cave early.

Poor bear. Tricked by nature.

God, I hope he can survive. What will he find to eat when the rivers are half frozen and nothing’s in bloom?

Well, I suppose that’s why he’s roaming around this cabin. Probably smells food.

Of course, I can’t feed him. That’s a terribly dangerous proposition, and it teaches bears to associate humans with food, which leads to bear attacks.

Maybe I can leave something out in the woods when I’m doing my research. But it will still smell like a human. And I recall that bears have an excellent sense of smell—300 times better than a dog or something crazy like that.

Too bad they can’t train a bear to hunt and seek. Maybe they’d find the women who have disappeared.

The bear tips his head to the side, eyes locked onto mine like he’s trying to read my mind. A tingle races across my skin. Now I see why the townspeople think the bear is crazy. There is something uncanny about it. It seems to have an almost human intelligence.

“Hey, big guy,” I murmur. “You’re beautiful.” Bear stops growling, following my lead. He sits but keeps his gaze pinned to the real bear in the window, ears c****d forward, haunches bunched and ready to spring into action.

The giant bear chuffs, fogging the glass.

I smile. I can’t help it. I feel so honored to catch sight of such a magnificent creature. As often happens in the face of raw nature, I’m filled with awe—overwhelmed with appreciation for the incredible beauty and largess of everything this Earth has to hold.

It’s why I became an ecologist. And I’m grateful for moments like these that remind me. This is what I need to remember when I’m overwhelmed by the sexism and insularity of academia.

When I was an undergrad, I spent a summer volunteering in Guatemala. My job was to build latrines. While I was there I felt an earthquake. Nothing huge. Just a tremor, or temblor as they called it. But in that moment I felt so helpless. I realized how tiny and insignificant humans are in the face of natural forces. It didn’t scare me—it humbled me. Renewed my respect for Mother Earth and all she represents.

It’s unwise—not because I’m in danger, but because I shouldn’t let this bear get comfortable around humans—but I step forward to get a closer look. To indulge my awe.

The bear chuffs again but doesn’t move. I advance slowly, taking in every detail of the beautiful creature. The unblinking golden gaze, the tan coloring around his snout.

“You are gorgeous aren’t you?” I croon.

I swear the bear smiles again, but then he drops away from view. I dash to the window and peer out as he lopes away. It’s insane how much territory he covers with just a few bounds, his powerful legs eating up ground like he owns it.

I guess he does. The bears should own these mountains. They shouldn’t be pushed out of their natural wilderness by the growing competition for space.

I hum softly to myself as I watch him grow smaller and then disappear into the falling snow and settling dusk. There’s a lot more snow than I expected—the weather app was wrong.

Lucky me. A giant black bear sighting. I’ve never seen New Mexico’s state animal before. I mean, outside of a zoo. That alone makes the entire trip worth it. Not that I don’t love coming up to this cabin. Spending time alone in nature is my favorite thing—even in the winter. I sort of love the solitary rustic cabin in the woods thing. I’ve been applying for research grants, dreaming that the department will let me take the money and just live up here, collect and analyze data for weeks or even months at a time.

From the time I first went camping as a kid, I knew the wilderness was where I belonged. I ended up getting my doctorate in ecology because I care deeply about nature, and I’ve developed a passion to protect it.

If I can prove climate change effects on the trees, it will contribute to environmental movements across the globe. That’s the real reason I’m out here in the middle of a snowstorm doing research. Not for proving something to Dr. Alogore or the glory of publication. No, this is for the planet.

I’m working hard to make a difference, and I believe I will.