As I traced the slides of otters in a vacant stream running to the river, I stumlbed across the steps of a bear. My darling had often warned me not to frolic in the parts I was frolicing. Remembering his warning I froliced my way back to his side. He carries the gun, a nuisance that is also a necessity here. In most moments the protection of a bullet isn't needed, but in the few instances it is such an item can spare a human life. We were off in a venture. He had been collecting mammoth bones that often wash up on the banks of the river in our area, but our actual goal was in the sparce trees where the steps of the bear lead. We wondered anxiously through them, aware of every snapping branch. We never caught sight of the leaver of the prints. Even so we walked with careful steps. The fear is beautiful in a sense. You're not afraid of the animal itself, but more so the power it holds. For the footsteps it leaves behind are twice the size of your own. Just the knowledge of it's existance is enough to cause alert. And it creates respect, awe, even in a way love. For although the clash of two souls is inevidentally tragic, the distant admiration of one another is beyond exhilerating. Adrenaline in it's finest natural form.
