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••• S L E E P I N G W I T H T H E G R I Z Z L Y Dusk filters through the ragged branches of lodgepole pines as thirty horses stumble along a narrow, rocky trail. The riders ahead slump, hitching one knee over the swell below the saddle’s horn to rest weary legs and blistered thighs. As our trail crosses a stream at the edge of a broad meadow, the horses silently separate. Dropping their heads, they slurp loudly, taking deep, gusty breaths. We haven’t crossed water since the noon break. Saddles and leather pants creak softly as riders dismount to loosen cinches. B. Joe, our guide and outfitter, grins over his shoulder at us, white teeth bright under his hat in the falling darkness. “We’ll camp in the trees,” he says. Pulling hard on the lead rope, he rides across the narrow end of the meadow to a group of pines. Five mules tied nose to tail behind him carry supplies we couldn’t fit on our horses. B. Joe piles the panniers in a heap near a rock fireplace before brushing the pack mules. One rider, still on his tired horse, peers into the water as the animal drinks. All day, this man has shattered every silence with his loud jokes and singing. When he utters a hoarse cry, I grimace, expecting another chorus of “Roll Me Over.” The loud man is pointing at the creek bottom and flapping his lips, but no 1 3 2 Hasselstrom/113-156 6/13/02 10:51 AM Page 132 sound emerges. He clears his throat and tries again. “Grizzly track. Big one. Fresh.” Meager words compared to the racket he made earlier. The watchful man beside me grunts; his blue eyes flick left and right. He loosens his belt and reaches inside his jacket to touch the pistol beneath his arm. Deliberately, he turns in the saddle. Crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes tighten as he studies the trees behind us. Another man unbuckles a rifle scabbard. Several check the loads on heavy black powder pistols. The new bride squawks and clutches her husband’s mighty arm. We stare at shadows under whispering trees. When our horses finish drinking, we lead them toward the loud rider, now standing in water nearly to the tops of his black thigh-high boots. Bending, he places his hand on the creek bottom beside the grizzly print in the mud. The track is twice as large. We knew at the time we signed up for that summer ride in 1987 that we’d be in grizzly country. All day, we’ve seen tracks in the dust. Scratches on trees beside the trail—higher than any of us could reach—made us more vigilant. The sight of this track close to our camp at dusk silences us. I glance across the meadow toward B. Joe, the wrangler. Last night at the campfire he entertained us with tales of rampaging bears shot to defend unwary campers. His voice was soft, his manner modest. He’s thrown a rope over a short tree limb ten feet over his head and is hoisting a food pack. Grizzly country, indeed. The horses toss their heads, work the bits, scratch their heads against our legs. I slide my hands under Ginger’s bridle to rub her cheeks, and talk softly to her. The loud man bellows, “That son-of-a-bitch comes into camp, I’ll shoot his ass.” He pats the big-bore twin pistols hanging from his hips. “Old Marvin and Betsy here will blow his skull apart.” The new bride giggles shrilly. “We’ll camp close to you, then, but I’m not worried. Big Slim will take care of me.” She gazes up as her massive husband pats her shoulder. I allow myself a tiny vision of a grizzly, attracted by the perfume and makeup she wears even to bed, licking her face. The quiet man, who has spoken only ten words in two days, glances toward my husband, George, who has been silently scanning the trees. Grinning at each other, they raise their bridle reins and mount. The horses snuf- fle and fling water as they trot toward camp. s l e e p i n g w i t h t h e g r i z z l y • 1 3 3 Hasselstrom/113-156 6/13/02 10...

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