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The trail into the woods led to Syd's place, but she wouldn't pester him this early in the morning. Instead she followed it a short way through the trees, and then she left the path and set out for the creek down in the ravine. The summer birds—thrushes and warblers and ruby-crowned kinglets—were returning after the winter, and they fluttered and trilled through the birch and spruce boughs. She had to climb over a storm-fallen spruce tree, but the wild grass was still low to the ground and the devil's clubs hadn't grown to their full, spiny height, so the walking was fairly easy. When the mosquitoes found her, she pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her head. Even with her ears covered, she began to hear the murmur of the creek before she could see it.

It was only as she was fighting her way through an alder thicket that she realized she'd forgotten her rifle. She'd fallen out of the habit of carrying it on her walks because there was no need in the winter. But the bears would be out of their dens now. She stood quietly in the dense brush, held her breath, and listened. There was only birdsong and the creek, and farther away, the low, steady roar of the Wolverine River.

"Hey bear!" she shouted and clapped her hands. Just in case.

Most often, bears behaved the way you expected, when they came around at all. They avoided people and, when they heard your voice or caught your scent, they gave you a wide berth. Black bears were often spotted on the hillsides, grazing among the soapberry bushes. The more mischievous among them would raid the garbage bins behind the lodge. A shot fired into the air was usually enough to chase them off. The larger, more fearsome grizzly bears were rarely seen, leaving only paw prints or piles of scat in the woods. But now and then, a bear would surprise you. They were too smart to be entirely predictable. Jules lived just down the highway from the lodge, and several years ago a black bear had stalked her as she walked along the power line picking cranberries. Whenever she turned her back to the animal, it loped more quickly at her. When she faced it, it stopped and paced side to side, as if trying to build up the courage to go after its prey. This went on for more than a mile, and Jules said it was like a hellish version of red light, green light, with the bear steadily gaining on her. She was only saved because Stan heard her shouts from his house and came out with his .375 and shot the bear.

Jules had told and retold that story, and others would pipe up with their own. It was a favorite pastime at the lodge, telling bear stories. Part of the fun was frightening the wide-eyed tourists who might overhear, but in truth, you were an idiot to not be somewhat afraid. The most terrifying stories were about grizzly bears, because of their astonishing size and force. Hunters told of grizzlies circling their camps at night, huffing and clacking their teeth in displays of aggression. A surveyor said it was like being hit by a silent freight train when he was attacked by a sow near Alpine. He still bore the scars on the back of his neck and scalp where the bear had clamped down on his head and shook him fiercely, before running off with her two cubs. Just last summer, on the tundra north of the Wolverine Lodge, a grizzly bear had dragged an elderly man from his tent, killed him, and partially eaten him before caching the body under a pile of moss and dirt.

All these stories ran through Birdie's mind as she waited and listened. But how many times had she hiked through these woods and seen nothing more than a spruce grouse or porcupine? Not once had she come across a bear near the creek. In her entire life growing up along the Wolverine River, she had seen only a few, mostly at a distance through binoculars.

Just 'cause you don't see them, doesn't mean they aren't around, Grandma Jo would say. And she'd argue an alder-choked creek is the worst kind of place to be without a firearm. The brush is too dense to see far and sounds are drowned out by rushing water. Nothing is more dangerous than a startled bear in close quarters.

If Birdie turned around and hiked all the way back to get her rifle, though, the morning would be lost. Emaleen would wake up. Birdie would take a shower, then they'd go over to the lodge cafe for breakfast. In no time at all, Birdie would be back at the bar for the evening shift, her head still hurting and her brain in a sick fog.

Birdie pushed on. Once she'd gotten clear of the alders, the trees were sparse and the land gently eased down to the creek. The fiddlehead ferns were just beginning to uncoil. The lady ferns on their thin stems seemed to float like pale green lace just a few inches above the ground. If there was a bear nearby, she would be able to see it.

The creek, which flowed out of Juniper Lake and into the Wolverine River, was narrow enough for Birdie to leap from one side to the other as she followed it downstream. A month ago, there had still been ice at the water's edge and snowdrifts along the banks. That was all gone now, and among the moss and boulders, tiny white-and-purple bog violets bloomed.