Page 50 of Double Exposure

Chapter Fourteen

Jade Choi

At two in the morning, I’m unable to sleep, and lie in bed thinking about how to set up, an equipment list, and transport. How close to get, how far away to stay. Too close, and the scope creates fuzz—to far, details are lost.

The bears may also have already left. This may be a big nothing. I stare at my phone. I might as well just go.

It really is a last-minute decision. I don’t really plan it, but suddenly my mission is clear: scrap the distance shots and get to the cave. It's important to me to prove to my father I can do this. What better way than to just go do it, and finish a job he was forced to abandon. Like he said, he’d have to wait another year for this kind of opportunity.

I leave silently, extraordinarily pleased I can be so quiet. I’ve got everything I need.

I leave the scope behind. Long distance shots are not part of the deal I just cut with myself. Instead, I’m going to finish the job he started. I have infrared equipment, three lenses, and I can shoot video on my phone with a app for night work.

΅

Outside, the snow crunches loudly and I throw everything in the back of the rental car, a four-wheel drive Subaru. It’s a full moon tonight. No clouds in the sky. No storm. The landscape is silver.

I can do this.

On the forty-minute drive, I go over everything I’ve researched. The biggest issue is not startling them—it can be fatal to the bears. I keep flashing to the map on the passenger seat next to me until I have it memorized. Luckily, the trailhead has been plowed out since the storm and parking is easy.

My father, with his meticulously detailed map, even drew it to scale. Like most nature photography, the goal is to become part of the environment—or as my dad likes to joke: “a piece of furniture.”

My mind goes over everything as I hike along, the camera banging into my chest, the small pack with equipment, slung low over one shoulder. It’s so bright out I really don’t need a flashlight to see the map. Plus, Dad drew it in black pen, so it’s easy to read.

Through the exchange of dark trees and silver moonlight, I see a place to make a hard left and start to wind down along Sweet Milk Creek. Under moonlight it’s clear why the name has stuck: the minerals that leave the creek slightly white in appearance are lit at night with moonlight. The creek is a white ribbon hugging the base of the mountain.

Another forty minutes, I’m facing a gaping black triangular crevice in the mountain about two feet wide and six feet tall. These are talus caves, formed when boulders from above break and tumble down the mountain. They are not that deep but bears use them for dens.

This is it.

I listen at the mouth of the cave. I hear nothing. No groans. No grinding teeth. Just a snort and even breathing from several individuals. They're actually asleep.

I move slowly and methodically. The mouth of the cave is larger than I thought. Moonlight turns to twilight at the entrance. I don't want to use a bright light. I take the pen light out to see and shade it as much as possible with my other hand, pointing it toward the ground. The last thing I want us to wake them with bright light.

There’s an “S” curve near the mouth of the cave—good to remember if I have to make a quick exit.

The second curve is blocked by a shelf about hip high. I maneuver around it rather than over it and then instantly plunged into true darkness. Turning the pen light off, I then flip it around towards the ceiling and press it back on.

In the faint light it’s clear the cave is filled with bears. My heart flutters. Massive animals loom from the dirt floor—there are at least six of them. This is exactly what my father wanted.

The pungent smell of fermented fruit wafts from the sleeping animals. It's actually almost sweet. People think bears stink, especially when they go into torpor. But before they hibernate, they eat a lot of fruit and other vegetation and the result is this sweet, almost tangy smell.

The cave is warm.

The higher I hold the pen light up, the more I can see.

The top of the ceiling is low, maybe only three feet towards the rear.

As my eyes adjust, I lower the pen light. The dark mounds of fur are curled up on themselves to conserve heat.

Glancing around, I try to decide where to sit and unzip my bag quietly. To the right, is another small shelf. If I pitched myself there, I could work above the sleuth of bears and be in an excellent spot to see them all.

As my eyes continue to adjust to the light, it’s clear there’s a mix of bears, colors, and ages here. Two have collars, so they’ve been tagged in a registry someplace. Another, though grown, is noticeably smaller than the others. One is blonde, the others a mix of black and lighter brown. I confirm six in all.

I’m quietly securing a lens when I hear a sound I did not expect—a mewling sound and one of the smaller brown bears shifts. She rolls, throws a leg in the air, kicks her hind legs and stretches. Holding stock still, hardly daring to breathe, I'm desperate to lift my camera, but I know I shouldn’t move.

Even the rustle of cloth could fully wake her.