I've always been boastful. I’ve always had broad, thick shoulders, covered in coarse hair, and a roaring voice. I get it from my mother, she would even describe herself as brawny and robust. She taught me everything I know about anything. Especially with hunting, how to find water, how to follow it, how to find berries, which ones to eat, and how to always find my way home.

  “To be a predator is to be fearless, to be proud,” I remember her reiterating to me whenever I showed hesitation. 

  I never really stopped roaming after her passing, I just continued on, following the river wrapped in the mountains. I found myself observing all the little creatures that hold no significance to my life. I watch the salmon as they push themselves against the current and as the birds collect their twigs. I didn’t even notice when it got to the point of this being how I spend my days, following the animals seemed to blend my days together, as if it were making me feel less lonely. At some point, I think it started to become dull, and I found myself following the animals, chasing their tails and following their tracks, keeping me deep in the woods.

  “Be proud. Be fearless.” I continue telling myself, as my feet sink into the mushy, wet mud, swallowing my feet whole. I continue on this journey as a daring hunter, like how I'd imagine my mother would see me, or would’ve wanted me to be. I didn’t even notice the sun's absence until dusk sent a breeze. I look up to see an array of blackened trees blocking the cloudless gray sky. 

  I disregard the growing darkness and continue with the tracks. I don’t know if I’ve seen tracks quite like the ones printed into the mud, they’re long and slender, solid like a hoove. My eyes stay locked on the tracks, worried the darkness would wipe them away if I were to distract myself, so my head stays down. I continue even when the air gets bitter and the ground grows moist, determined to prove my mother right. I exhale heavily and watch the hot breath leave my mouth, my nose wet and runny as I keep on sniffling, when suddenly, I hear a breath outside my own. I break my breath and freeze completely, I dart my head up, wary of what’s also watching in these mountains with me. Without moving my head, I look left to see a reflection glistening off a barrel. Still holding my breath, I turn my body toward it, I watch as it exhales, his warm breath fogs from his mouth behind the barrel. 

  “What are you doing?” I ask, confused.

  His eyes grow wide, glowing in the blackened blue forest around us.

  “Hello?” I said louder, maybe he didn’t hear me.

  I hear him shaking as the shiny barrel rattles with him. I assume he needs help, alone and afraid in a place like this, with nobody, cold, and with no mama, I get it, maybe I can help. So I walk towards him, hoping to be of some support.

  “I can help,” I say, taking slow steps to get a better look at the poor boy. I take a couple more steps, slowly, growing closer to the light shining over his face. He was skinny and bare, had no hair but on his head, and his eyes glowed, widened, and big. He was tiny, you could tell even by his frail, shaky breaths. I took a step closer, curious about the creature. I lay my foot down slowly, shifting my weight, the leaves crunch. I look down, breaking eye contact with the creature.

 BANG

There’s a high-pitched screaming in my ear. I fall onto my back, the ground forcing all the air out of my lungs.

“I did it Paw!” I hear through the screeching in my ear.

“Go on, finish the job.” Another voice says.

The boy didn’t seem as tiny as he stood over top of me, his eyes now narrowed. I stare for a while, holding onto my breath. And as I stare, I feel fear consuming me. Mom would be so disappointed. 

The boy lifts the barrel to my face, I look away, turning away from my pride, and I look down to my feet. I look at the mud clumped into my thick brown coat, I look down to the wet mud and I peer at their tracks. I was supposed to be a daring hunter. I turn my head back and look to mine, and I see my tracks. I see the four prints of my feet and the scratch of my nails digging into the mud. I look down at my feet and I recognize the fleeting feeling of being fearless, as it was as short-lived as my mother. I look up at the skinny boy with the barrel to my head, and I lie in the mud, staring up at the trees that shelter my home.

BANG.

“Well there ya go boy, you’ve got you yer first bear.”