Michael Rourke crouched low in shoulder-high grass, his trigger finger ready.  He shifted his weight and the pungent smell of broken stalks filled his nostrils. The forest sparse around him, the majestic Alaskan mountains looming in the background, he watched the rushing water tumbling over rocks and boulders into the river and waited. Handsome beneath his two weeks of stubble, fiftyish, fit, tall, prematurely silver hair spiking in disarray from under his knit cap, he wore a khaki shirt and khaki pants with large zippered pockets and a camouflage sleeveless vest to help him blend into the environment.

A loud cawing screeched over his shoulder to the right, startling him. He turned, more of a jerk than a turn, his finger pressing, shooting—click, click, click—three times in quick succession. Refocusing the lens, Rourke watched as the raven circled around him warning its Alaskan forest neighbors of the intruder encroaching on their  land. He lowered his camera and whispered, “Shoo, shoo, little birdie.  You’re drawing attention.”

The bird swooped toward him.

Rourke cocked his hand and pulled his trigger finger, making the sound effects of shooting.

The raven pulled up and flew over the forest. 

“Just kidding,” he mouthed.

He watched the bird through his binoculars, a speck almost out of sight. Then he no longer saw the bird, nor the pure azure of the midday sky—instead he saw a helicopter looming on the horizon, coming closer, zeroing in—and he was the target.

He was no longer sniffing the air of a pine-scented forest, but crouched in a sparse jungle terrain surrounded by exotic bird calls and the smell of moss, decayed leaves and the sweat of fear . . . transported back to six years earlier in a Columbian jungle, watching as drug lord Francisco Marquez and his pilot chased him across a stream, bullets ricocheting off the boulders.

As they circled, he dropped behind a large boulder and pulled out his binoculars to see if they had lost him. The private helicopter darted about like a bird, skirting the edge of the forest looking for him. 

Rourke aimed his SCAR Mk. 16 rifle.  “Come a little bit closer, Marques.”

As if guided by premonition, the helicopter turned and swooped toward him. He could see Marquez taking aim as the pilot hung the chopper over him. Rourke shot first, hitting the engine compartment. The helicopter lurched and Marquez’ bullets missed. A trail of smoke rose from the engine and the bird seemed to lose power.

Marquez took one final aim and Rourke jumped up. In large strides he ran forward, hoping to dive into the dense tangle of jungle trees. A bullet grazed his bicep as he pumped his arms.

Hidden behind the trunk of a jungle tree, he pulled up his binoculars and felt Marquez’ stare pierce through the jungle growth, his look warning this isn’t the end!

Pulling the binoculars from his eyes, Rourke reminded himself he was no longer in the jungle, and this was not Columbia. He was in Alaska, and his weapon of choice was no longer a special forces issued rifle, it was a camera. And his prey was no longer enemies of the state, but wild animals, which he shot only images of and he no longer left destruction in his path but now captured peaceful nature scenes and images of real people in their real lives.

The problem was, that while he had changed, while his career had changed, there were still those who considered him their enemy—who might not be so willing to let him live in peace. His identity had always been protected, but occasionally security protocols were breached, and if that happened, he might be found.

Rourke scratched the divot under his nose and stood, stretching his long arms high above his lanky 6’2” frame. Rubbing his hand over his peppered whiskers, the sound of rubbing bristles on a brush, he then removed his knit cap and ran his fingers through his hair, buffing his scalp. His body was damp from reliving the tension of that day in the jungle, and he pulled his sticky shirt from his chest allowing the brisk breeze to cool him, swirling his musky scent about. He checked his enormous black watch, suitable for any adventure, and whispered, “C’mon, you can’t be still for three more hours? You’re getting’ soft—”

“You been out here too long, you’re talkin’ to yourself.”

“Shhh! Quiet. You’re scarin’ ‘way the wildlife.” “Right.”

The end of a long Alaskan summer soon the rich velvet green foliage would be snow-bound and the ruler of the forest he sought would be in hibernation. The wildlife he hoped to capture for this assignment had not yet shown, but they would.  They were known to trek through this part of the forest regularly, he had seen their droppings, and he would wait for as long as it took. He had learned to wait patiently for his quarry while sitting quietly in dried grass or flea-ridden sand for days if need be.  This was much more pleasant.

A caribou and her calf tentatively left the forest and ambled toward the water’s edge to drink. Fortunately, the wind blew his scent in the opposite direction.

Rourke dropped back to a squat. His digital Canon EOS 1D Mk. III to his face, his trigger finger pressing shot after shot. He changed lens and zoomed in closer, checked the settings and refocused his lens. Making easy movements, blending into the setting, agile and swift, he edged closer to the animals. Each shot a different type of exhilaration—a moment of healing instead of a moment of eventual demoralization. Quiet and methodical he crouched forward like a leopard, catching the awkward stumbling movements of the calf, it’s mother hovering nearby. A thought tried to enter his consciousness, something about family and parenthood, but he shooed it away to concentrate on the moment.

A growl, more of a grumble, shifted his attention. Farther down the river a large brown bear and her two cubs lumbered toward the river, looking for the last of the salmon fighting their way upstream. The caribou and her calf wandered farther away. 

Rourke’s attention diverted to the bears.  His hands fumbled through the various containers of camera lens he carried in his pockets, feeling for the right ones, changing swiftly as though reloading ammunition, shooting, circling closer.

The cubs frolicked, playing like two toddlers rolling and wrestling across the grass.  When they reached the water’s edge, they watched as their mother swiped into the river. When she pulled up her great paw, a large salmon lay spiked across her long claws. She flipped it to the cubs who each grabbed for it, tearing the salmon in half and devouring it in two bites. Eager to try, hungry for more, they bumbled to different spots on the edge of the boulder and leaned over the water, each swiping, neither agile enough. Their mother watched grunting instructions and encouragement, spearing another salmon for herself.

Rourke caught it all, frame by frame, marveling at this rare moment he was granted to observe. As a man who was addicted to the adrenaline rush, he pushed forward, closer and closer, now just feet from the bears, so close he could almost see the salmon sliding past the large Kodiak’s tongue and down her throat.

And then the wind shifted.

She dropped the half-eaten salmon and lifted her massive head. She sniffed and looked at directly at him. 

Rourke was not sure whether she could see him, but he knew she smelled him, sensed him, possibly heard him in spite of the roar of the rushing creek spilling over the rocks. He wondered if she had ever seen a man before, if his presence signaled danger or another meal.  What do you do when the prey becomes the predator?  He backed off, one limb, one joint at a time—no sudden movements. Each step his foot feeling for a secure hold for his retreat.

The bear growled and shot closer.

You either live in fear or you make the adrenalin work for you. Rourke turned to run, but misplaced his step onto a mossy rock. His heel slipped, throwing him off balance and flat onto his back.

The bear bolted upright onto her hind legs and bellowed, the smell of rotten food emanating from the maw of her throat and blowing over him. She hung just above him. He feared that if she dropped forward her 1000 or so pounds would land on his chest and crush him. He reached down to his ankle holster and grabbed the butt of his gun. He did not want this venture into a new life to end this way—to be the cause of death to an innocent animal—not when he was the intruder—but neither did he want to die.

“Awww to hell with it.” He let go of the gun and put the viewer to his face.  “Maybe they’ll find the camera in one piece.”

Enraged, the mother bear swiped her great paw toward him.

To be continued…

Please return for Part 2 of “Finding Home.”

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