Not Since The Bear, by Lynne Curry, Amaretto coffee

 I hadn’t returned to the cabin—not since the bear.

Now, alder branches clawed at my sleeves as I climbed the ridge, snagging like they meant to stop me. The wind rattled through spruce needles, brittle with rime. Snow fell in hard, wind-blown flurries that needled my neck. The brush closed behind me, a trapdoor slamming shut—no path back, only forward. Cold chewed through my jacket and sank deep. Late May on the Kenai Peninsula never pretended to be spring.

I crested the final rise. The logging road lay buried under a crust of snow that softened the ruts, blurred the past. Like the road forgot what happened here.

I hadn’t.
Silence hadn’t either. It pressed close, thick as breath held too long. Waiting.

The trees thinned, and the cabin slouched into view—porch sagging, stovepipe jutting at an angle, crooked as a snapped wrist. The claw-gouged railing still hung loose.

My fingers curled tight around the 30-06 slung across my shoulder.

Back then, I hadn’t learned to shoot. Had refused to. “I don’t want to kill anything.”
“You don’t have to. Just know how to protect yourself.”
“That’s what I’ve got you for, right?”
I’d meant it as a joke. He’d laughed, pretending the joke landed.   

But no one protected him.

Memory slammed through me. The bear—bursting through the door, foul breath and muscle and hunger.

Inside, the cabin stank of ash and rot and ghosts. Cold clung to the walls. I dropped my pack beside the stove, struck flint with frozen fingers until a spark caught. Fed the flame, willing it to burn the guilt out of me. Heat licked the air.

I didn’t look at the floorboards.
Didn’t look at the stain.
Blood seeps deep—even after it’s gone.

Everyone swore it wasn’t my fault. Freak accident. Nothing I could’ve done.
Except—
I could’ve tossed Jack the rifle. Used the bear spray. Screamed.
Anything.

Instead, I’d curled into a ball in the upstairs corner.
While he screamed.

He’d gone out for firewood. No gloves, just that thin fleece, damp with snow. He’d brewed coffee. Could’ve become our morning together.

It became his last moment.

My first night back, I didn’t dream. Didn’t move. I slept like prey—small and still, hoping silence might keep me unseen.

By dawn, the sky bruised pink over the ridge. I dressed fast, brewed bitter coffee in the percolator on the woodstove, and slung the rifle—the same one I’d refused to touch last fall—across my back.

All winter, I drilled. Range days stacked, penance in lead and powder. Hands trembling, breath fogging the sightline. I learned to clean it, load it, shoulder the recoil. Learned to stand my ground. I hated every second. But I learned.

Outside, the cold slapped hard. Sharp as judgment.

I took the trail behind the cabin. Snowmelt glazed it in icy crusts, narrowing it to a deer track, but I kept walking. My breath smoked. My shoulders itched.

Three trees in, I saw them.

Fresh claw marks. Deep. Bark peeled in long curls, sap bleeding like the tree had been flayed.

I kept walking.

Then came the smell—rank and thick. Rotting meat soaked in fur and sweat. My stomach flipped. Scat steamed on the snow.

My lungs locked. Every shadow twitched. Every creak of wind sounded aimed at me.

A crack.
Brush moved.
Something stepped through.

Just like that—I was there again.
His boots on the porch. The low growl. The thud of the axe dropping.
His scream.
Mine—too late.

This time, I didn’t freeze.

I raised the rifle, its weight familiar, its rhythm mine. 

The bear emerged—fur slick with meltwater, muscles flexing, eyes locked on mine, all challenge and heat. It didn’t bolt. It advanced. Deliberate.

Snow crunched under its weight.
My heart kicked. My hands didn’t flinch.

The rifle cracked—sharp, echoing, a verdict. 
Recoil punched my shoulder. Smoke curled past my cheek.

The bear roared, then thundered into the brush.

It left. I stayed.

I stood in the churned snow, knees buckling, boots soaked, lungs clawing for air. Pulse pounded behind my eyes, buzzed in the spine.

Alive. Blisteringly alive.

Back at the cabin, I stoked the fire high. Fed it the glove he’d left on the woodpile—the one I couldn’t touch until now. Watched it curl, blacken, vanish into heat.

The floor still held his blood.
The porch still bore claw scars.

But I’d faced what wrecked us. And sent it away.
This time, I didn’t hide.
Didn’t run.
I stood my ground.

Jack once told me survival wasn’t about strength.
It was about remembering what mattered, even when you’re afraid.

So, I remembered him.
And remembered the woman who froze, then learned to fight.
I walked home, not to forget, but to begin.

About the author

Lynne Curry founded “Real-life Writing,” https://bit.ly/45lNbVo and publishes a monthly “Writing from the Cabin” blog, https://bit.ly/3tazJpW. She also publishes a weekly “dear Abby of the workplace” newspaper column. Curry has published seventeen short stories; three poems; two articles on writing craft, and six books.

Social media links:

Facebook: https://bit.ly/44CjOyy

https://lynnecurryauthor.com/

https://twitter.com/lynnecurry10

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