The Meadow Meeting
A short story about mutual respect in bear country
he morning mist hung low over Elk Meadow like a silver quilt, threading between stalks of wild lupine and the feathered tops of beargrass. The sun had barely climbed above the ridgeline when Huckleberry poked his nose out from behind a thicket of huckleberry bushes — his namesake and, not coincidentally, his breakfast.
Huckleberry was a two-year-old black bear, roughly the size of a large dog and still clumsy in the particular way that young bears are clumsy: all shoulders and curiosity, with paws that seemed a size too big for his ambitions. His mother had pushed him out on his own the previous spring, and he was still learning the rhythms of the mountain — which berries were ripe, which logs hid the fattest grubs, and which sounds meant danger.
This morning, a new sound caught his attention. Not the crack of a branch under elk hooves, not the scolding chatter of a squirrel. Something rhythmic. Something humming.
He lifted his nose and tested the air. The scent was sharp and strange — sunscreen, nylon, and something sweet like dried mango. Huckleberry's ears rotated forward like two fuzzy satellites. He rose onto his hind legs, swaying slightly, and peered over the bushes.
There, at the far edge of the meadow, walked a hiker. She had trekking poles that clicked against stone, a wide-brimmed hat, and a bright green pack. She was humming a song — something tuneless and cheerful — and she hadn't seen him yet.
Huckleberry dropped to all fours. His heart beat a little faster. His mother's lessons echoed in some deep corner of his brain: big creatures on two legs are trouble. But trouble was also interesting, and Huckleberry was, above all else, curious.
He took three cautious steps into the open. The dew soaked his belly fur. A grasshopper launched itself off his nose and he flinched — then felt embarrassed about it, the way only a young bear can.
The hiker stopped. She saw him.
For a long moment they regarded each other across sixty yards of wildflowers. The breeze carried the meadow between them — grass and pine and the faintest hint of snow from the peaks above.
The hiker spoke. Her voice was calm, low, almost musical. "Well, hello there, little bear. You're a handsome one, aren't you?" She didn't shout. She didn't run. She slowly raised her hands so she looked a little bigger, and she began stepping backward, one careful foot behind the other, still talking in that easy, steady tone.
"I'm just passing through your meadow. It's a beautiful meadow. I'll be out of your way in a minute."
Huckleberry sniffed once more. The strange scent was fading. The creature was leaving, just as his mother said the good ones do. He flicked his ears, turned his head to check for the grasshopper (it was gone), and then ambled back toward the huckleberry bushes. Breakfast was, after all, more interesting than anything that carried trekking poles.
The hiker crested the ridge ten minutes later. She paused, looked back over the meadow one last time, and smiled. Somewhere below, a young bear was eating berries in the mist, and the mountain went on being the mountain — vast, patient, and shared.
🐻 🌲 🏔️ 🌲 🐻