He swept aside the branches of a gnarled spruce and heard a metallic clank to the north. A hundred yards ahead, chains rattled and tires spun. Might be someone who needs help, he thought. John hiked towards the noise, the Black flowing in the canyon to his left. Vibrant leaves crunched under his boots. Then the sound of chains and tires stopped and so did he.

A man cussed, and something growled.

Maybe these weren’t people in need of help, but rather people he needed to avoid. Slowly, and engine roared to life and then dissipated.

Up ahead the stink of diesel permeated the air. Soon he came across a detached trailer, which looked like it had been used for boats and converted to a flatbed. Orange spray paint marked the side rail, spelling out PRIVATE PROPERTEE. A filthy khaki tarp covered the trailer, square shapes bulging underneath the fabric.

John moved closer. As he did, a growl emitted from under the tarp. Could be hunting dogs, he thought. The U.P. was famous for bear hunts, and this specific area was no exception. Over the years he’d seen plenty of hunters driving these woods, hounds caged in pickup beds waiting to be released. He stepped quietly to the trailer and a deep growl emitted once more.

John took a deep breath, set his fly rod against a maple, and unclasped a bungee cord from a corner of the trailer. A scratching sound came from below the tarp, followed by a whimper. John flipped the filthy tarp backwards on itself, revealing three steel cages. As the tarp flipped over, balls of fur wobbled away from him, some letting out growls, others whimpering and cowering.

John stood there, blinking. It took him a moment to realize what exactly he was seeing.

Unbelievable, the thought. Each steel cage contained a baby black bear. John clenched his fists. The bears looked emaciated and their hollow eyes dominated their faces. No food or water had been left inside the cages and two of the bears were panting. All of the bears were cubs.

Where the hell is their mother? he thought. Halfway through that thought, he had his answer. At the head of the trailer a large, dead bear lay, her chin resting on wood planks, her legs tucked to her sides. The cub in the closest cage pawed and whimpered at her.

While they were indeed cubs, they were also at an age where they might survive on their own. John imagined they’d be pushed away by their mother this season as she sought another mate—if she hadn’t been gunned down by slobs.

John clenched his fists and spit.

The cubs seemed to relax just a bit, as their soft, leathery paws pattered on the cage floors. It was strange, but he felt they sensed he meant no harm.

You better, he said. I’m here to rescue your asses.