What’s the bravest animal you know? A wolverine? My dog believed she was a wolf trapped in a five‑pound Chihuahua body. She would charge a dog ten times her size. Brave, sure, but sometimes I would question her life choices.
My husband is also fearless … Ron, the lion‑hearted. And then there’s me — Theresa, the chicken‑hearted — especially when it comes to bears. Ron loves to fish for salmon near the Yukon border, where grizzlies also love to fish for salmon. I prefer to catch fish where the most dangerous wildlife are the grumbling consumers waiting in a snaillike checkout line.
One day at the U.S./Canadian border, an agent with furrowed brow, leaned out her window toward us. “Just so you know, where you are going … there have been grizzly attacks in the last few days.”
I turned to Ron. “Grizzly attacks? Maybe we should go somewhere else.”
He grinned. “We’ll be fine.”
“Fine? But you always say that.”
An hour later, a bear with a hump on his shoulders lumbered toward the road. “Maybe we can get a picture.” He rolled his window down as if this was a sightseeing tour.
“But uh …” My heart took off like a Chihuahua who just spotted a Great Dane. My composed prayers immediately turned into emergency dispatch calls to Heaven.
Meanwhile, Ron squinted at the ferocious predator. “I can see now that it’s only a black bear losing its winter coat. That’s what gives it a grizzly-like hump.”
“Losing its coat? That poor thing looks like his barber ate magic mushrooms. There has to be a more photogenic bear somewhere. Why don’t we keep going?” Our SUV moved forward as I watched the bear fade into the distance. I couldn’t look away until I was convinced we were safely out of its reach. Since marrying Ron three decades ago, prayer had become my faithful companion, and even more so on this trip.
On the second travel day, we passed a lonely house marked “One-Hundred Mile House.” For hours afterward, the road carried us through nothing but stark, untouched wilderness. When the next house finally appeared, a chill crept up my spine. Its sign read, “One-Hundred-Fifty Mile House”. They truly felt a hundred miles apart. Were we venturing to the farthest reaches of the world? My imagination, never one to miss an opportunity, pictured us running out of gas, stranded in the wilderness, and listed on the local carnivore menu as “Today’s Special.”
It takes two days to reach the Little Tahltan River, so we camped halfway. The campground showed no evidence of people — an unsettling sign in bear country. But the fresh breeze and the smell of pine were exactly what I had been anticipating. I drew it deep into my lungs.
After a short, windy walk, we headed back to camp. I clutched Ron’s hand and scanned every shadow for lunging beasts. Suddenly, a gust of wind kicked up and something let out a low growl. “Bear!” I shrieked, ducking down. Ron ducked too. We sprinted back to the SUV. Once inside, panting, we realized the “bear growl” was a tarp flapping in the wind. Relief washed over us, followed by laughter. Even now, I’m not sure why I thought crouching would save me.
The next day, Ron stood on the riverbank, fishing pole in hand, surrounded by a valley so green and peaceful it should have calmed me. Instead, planning an escape route kept me busy. “If a bear charges, let’s climb the bridge beams.” I pointed them out to Ron. “Someone would drive by eventually … or the bear might get bored.”
Ron glanced at me like I was from another planet. He hesitated and followed with a quiet, “Okay.” Immediately, he turned back to bait his hook.
Just as I started to relax a little, Ron reeled in his line. “The fish aren’t in yet. Let’s try somewhere else.”
I stared at him. “Like… somewhere with fewer bears?”
He shrugged. “We’ll see.”
We hadn’t seen another human in days. That made it feel like a real adventure — if you ignored the part where I was convinced we were alone except for every bear in British Columbia.
That evening, we reached a small lake, ate dinner, and climbed into our little fishing boat. I figured the middle of a lake was finally safe from you‑know‑what.
As darkness settled and the moist air lay fresh on my face, a moose appeared. But he stayed along the lake’s edge, dipping his head underwater for vegetation. Water lapped against our boat, gently rocking it. Crickets and frogs sang. Misty moonlight shimmered across the lake, reminding me of an old Jim Reeves song. So caught up in the moment, I launched into “In the Misty Moonlight” serenading my husband with all the vocal grace of a love‑sick goose battling seasonal allergies.
A wince flickered across Ron’s face before the corners of his mouth lifted, like he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or concerned about me. When I wrapped up the portion of the song I could actually remember, Ron said softly, “Thank you, Honey. By the way, you scared off the moose. And maybe a bear or two.”
“That’s not true.” I swatted his arm, grinning. “Although, I wouldn’t mind if it were.” And there, in the middle of one of my greatest fears, I stumbled into one of my favorite memories: just the two of us, floating in the quiet wilderness, and me pouring my whole heart into a serenade that was—let’s be honest—spectacularly off‑key.
That night, in the tight space of the back of our SUV, tucked under warm blankets, I thanked God for keeping us safe. Then it hit me. “Ron,” I whispered.
“Huh?” His voice, thick with sleep, drifted up from the dark.
“Are you awake?”
“Yeah. Now I am.”
“Oh, sorry.” I rested my hand on his warm shoulder. “Never mind. I’ll tell you in the morning.”
A sigh. “I’m awake. What’s the matter?”
“Okay.” I took a breath. “I realized that if I hadn’t married you, I wouldn’t have had so many exciting adventures, and I wouldn’t have learned to trust God like this.”
Silence … the kind where you can practically hear someone blinking. “You mean because of the bears?”
“Uh-huh. And being far from civilization. I wouldn’t have so many opportunities to witness God’s faithfulness, his power, and his love in the moments that scare me most.
“Through his responses to my prayers, God has shown himself to me.” I continued. “And when he doesn’t answer the way I think he should, I’ve learned he probably has a better plan — maybe one with eternity in mind.
“God loves all people. We can trust him, and he definitely has a sense of humor — because he paired a lion with a chicken and sent them into bear country. Ron, are you listening?”
Ron murmured, “I’m listening. I always listen to you … eventually.”
No sooner did a soft laugh bubble up in my chest, than deep, relaxed breathing drifted from the other side of the bed — Ron’s way of ending the conversation.
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Theresa Wise Author 