Surviving Bear Island Read Free

off,dumped the water out of them, took my wool socks off, squeezed what water I could out of them, then put them back on, followed by my boots.
    Staying dry is one way to stay warm. Moving around is another way to stay warm. You lose a lot of body heat through your head.
    Hat and gloves. I got them out of the other pocket of my raincoat, and put them on.
    That image. The last glimpse I had of my dad bobbing in the waves kept replaying in my mind. His wet, hatless head and matted beard. My stomach clenched. It started to burn. I took a breath but it kept on burning.
    The popping, crackling fire shot sparks. It sizzled as moisture from the branches above dripped. Darkness came. I crawled back into my rain gear and scooted as close to the fire as I could without actually being in it. I wished this was all a bad dream, but knew it was a living nightmare.

CHAPTER 3
    THE NEXT morning my head was pounding. My face was inches from the coals, my mouth dry from inhaling smoke and ash. I tried to swallow, but my tongue stuck on the back of my throat.
    I sat up. With a stick, I dug into the black splotch of coals, hoping some were glowing.
    No luck.
    I stepped out of the forest and scanned the beach for any sign, scraps of the kayak, a piece of gear, the orange of my dad’s life vest. I could see for several miles across the water, but the cove I was in, bordered by steep, rocky points, cut off my view of the coast.
    I walked north, my clammy rain pants clinging to my long-johns, my kneecaps aching a little less than they did yesterday. My damp socks wrapping my lower legs and feet like soggy moss covering rotten logs. My head pounding with each step.
    At the stream, I recognized the wide, bright-green leaves that reached above my waist. Skunk cabbage, I remembered Dad calling it, saying, “Bears eat the roots and deer eat the leaves.” A whole mess of it crowded the small stream as it snaked back into the forest.
    I lay on my stomach, put my face to the stream and drank—my cupped hands shoveling cold water into my mouth. Each time I swallowed, pain shot up the back of my head like an electric shock.
    I rolled onto my back and covered my eyes. Yesterday’s accident flashed into my mind. I squeezed my eyes tighter until the scene turned black.
    I stayed like that until the cold ground forced me to sit up. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the survival kit. I unzipped the two Ziplocbags, grabbed one of the Meal Pack bars, tore the wrapper, and took a bite and almost spit it out.
    â€œYuck.”
    The bar tasted like modeling clay mixed with nuts and raisins. I ate the whole bar, and it seemed to wake up my stomach. It felt emptier now than before I’d eaten it.
    I kept walking north, reached the point, and cut back into the forest. My rubber boots slid on the steep slope as I switch-backed my way up, gripping tree branches and brush. Unfortunately Devil’s club was one.
    â€œOuch!” I yelled, as I jerked my hand away from a devil’s club stem. Pale green thorns dotted my left hand, just below the thumb. I pulled the thorns out and little red dots grew in their place. Then this stinging sensation crept into my hand. I sucked my palm, then rubbed it, trying to ease the sting but it kept on stinging, like it was on its own schedule. I kept going, pushing through the eye-level, foot-wide palm-shaped leaves, careful not to grab any more stems.
    I crested the ridge and worked my way toward the point overlooking the water. In the distance, maybe a quarter mile from shore, lay a series of rock reefs. Waves broke over the jagged rocks, exposing and then covering the spiky formations. In front of the closest reef I saw a head pop up, then another and another. Six sea lions swimming north against the waves. I tasted the Meal Pack bar at the base of my throat and swallowed it down.
    The waves. They’d pushed me south of the reef, way south. I mean, where I’d washed up looked four times as far as