One summer evening, I was hiking a trail near Marias Pass in Glacier National Park, returning to the car after a few hours of wildlife photography at a lake— nothing but deer and mosquitoes to show for it—when I noticed something blondish-brown moving toward me. It barely registered. I felt relaxed, though, truthfully, I’m never fully relaxed.
And then we were on top of each other.
A grizzly cub, big as an overgrown Saint Bernard. I was fascinated—until reality hit. The mother wouldn’t be far behind.
“Hey, bear,” I shouted, my voice cracking. The cub woofed an alarm and took off to my left, a dark blur swallowed by the forest.
I turned toward the trail ahead. And—boom—there she was. Running at me, big and fast and flat to the ground.
I grabbed the bear spray strapped to my chest, fumbled the can free, and held it out like a pistol. She closed in. I could see the whites
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