Frustrated, the bear let out a low growl and swiped at the bark, sending splinters flying. He started working the ropes with his claws, moving with a precision you wouldn’t expect from a thousand-pound predator. He was trying to shred the knots holding my arms. His movements were surprisingly careful, as if he knew one wrong move would take my arm off at the shoulder.
That’s when I saw it. A long, jagged scar ran down his left flank, partially hidden by thick fur. My heart skipped a beat as the memory flooded back. Three years ago, early in the spring, I’d found a cub shivering next to its mother’s carcass in a remote ravine.
Poachers had taken the mother and wounded the cub. The gash on his side was deep and ugly. I’d brought the little guy back to my ranger station and spent two weeks nursing him back to health—cleaning the wound, stitching him up, and bottle-feeding him until he was strong enough to survive on his own.
When he was healthy, I’d released him back into the wild. I hadn’t seen him since. “Buddy?” I croaked, my voice cracking from thirst and shock. “Is that really you, big guy?”
The grizzly’s ear flicked. He stopped chewing the rope and looked me in the eye. There was a flicker of recognition there—a bond that hadn’t faded with time. The wild animal leaned in and nudged my cheek with his wet nose…
