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Back 3 a.m.
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  67. 3:46 a.m.

I point at the wooden eyesore of a boat. The boat is ten feet long and five feet wide. “That thing has been sitting out here for thirty years. You think someone is going to steal it in the ten minutes it took Opik to come get me?”

Meow.

“A bear? You did not see a bear!”

Meow.

“You did not scare him off twice already.”

I feel a tap on my wrist.

It’s Opik, tapping on my watch.

It is 3:18 a.m.

He knows I only have a little bit of time left. He wants to get a move on.

I nod.

Having Opik with us changes everything. If Opik knows half about navigating the river as he knows about fishing or foraging, then we are in good hands. With him at the helm, we could float the Yukon River and make it to the Indian village within two days. I can see the headlines of the Fairbanks Forager or Yukon River Daily now: THIRTY-SEVEN-year-old Man and His Cat Saved by Five-year-old Eskimo Boy.

Opik and I run back to the cabin and grab everything we can — map, honey, the fur hat and jacket — then run back to the boat.

The horizon is pink as we lay the items in the front, and I give the boat a quick inspection. That it is made of wood worries me, although I suppose boats were made of wood for centuries and they managed fine. It appears to be in working order and, as an added bonus, there is a wooden paddle lying in the bottom.

Opik and I position ourselves at the back of the boat. It is flat, nearly concave, and we both place our hands against the soft wood and dig our feet into the brush.

“Ready . . . Go—”

There is a loud roar and Opik and I snap our heads around. It’s just like the one in the pictures I’d seen. Back on its hind legs. Mouth open wide. Razor claws thrashing at the air.

Meow.

Yes, you did tell me.

“What should we do?” I plead to Opik.

Opik picks up a rock and throws it at the brown grizzly bear. This seems to upset the bear even more and he slashes at a small tree with his giant claws, cracking the trunk and sending the tree to the ground.

I judge the distance to the water. It will take us at least a five-count to push the boat to the edge of the river. Unlike the sandbar, where it gradually eases into the moving water, the river flows swiftly directly off the edge of the bank. When the boat hits the water, all three of us will need to be inside.

The bear is fifteen feet away. If it is the boat he’s after, and he sees us pushing it away from him, he might charge.

I think back to a joke my father likes to tell.