Staredown

This was the moment on my first trip to Katmai when photographing brown bears stopped feeling like an adventure and started feeling very real. We were with a smaller group than usual, which already made the encounter a little more precarious, when we found a massive bear fishing in a small, still pool along the edge of the river. He was completely absorbed in the hunt, so we watched from a ridgeline above him before deciding to carefully make our way down to his level.

As I moved toward the river to circle around for a better vantage point, my foot slipped on the muddy bank and I went into the water with a splash. Almost immediately, I heard the sound I really didn't want to hear: a tremendous amount of splashing and crashing coming from the direction of the bear. I assumed the opportunity for a photograph was over and started making my way back toward the landing where the rest of the group had gathered.

That's when I saw him.

The bear had come straight up the riverbank, climbing more than 50 feet up an almost vertical slope. He was now standing completely still, staring directly back at us. Water was dripping from his muzzle, and every bit of his attention was focused on our group. There was nothing subtle about the message: he'd noticed us, and he wanted us to know it.

We stayed together and stayed calm, giving him space and making no sudden movements. For what felt like a very long time, we simply stood there watching each other. Fortunately, he eventually decided that we weren't a threat—just an annoyance. A few minutes later, the tension broke as he scratched his ear and wandered off into the tundra, seemingly unconcerned about the whole encounter.

The photograph is called Staredown because that's what it became: not a picture of a bear hunting, but a record of the moment when the bear and I finally became aware of each other. It was also a good reminder that in Katmai, I'm a visitor in their world, and the bears get to decide how close the encounter really is.