![]() And now, four days of riding from my goal at the Arctic Ocean, my body has had enough. I have carried them 800 miles across Alaska, through mountain passes and snow and then-90 degree sun that teased the Arctic tundra with warmth. Sixty-four pounds of fears and hopes rolled up in the sleeping bag and tent, stuffed between the soiled clothes, siphoned through the water filter into liquid I can drink, safely. These bags contain the essence of the past few weeks of my trip. I push my bike forward, its overstuffed rear panniers knocking against my leg. ![]() I try to remember what I’ve been told-that I should move away slowly and make a lot of noise if the bear follows, I should stand my ground. I can’t ride my bike or run, having injured my knee, so I stand and watch him in return, though he is barely a hundred feet away. He is a slow, lumbering giant, a world-weary emperor with golden fur and tiny eyes that squint at me with myopic curiosity. ![]() And not just any bear, but the first one of my trip. I would like to know what brings me to such moments of irony: When I am least able to flee, a bear comes. National Geographic Webpage for This Article ![]()
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