Greg J. Matthews - Wild Awakening: A Relentless Grizzly, a Near-Fatal Attack, and the Unleashing of the Warrior Within Us All

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Copyright 2019 by Greg J. Matthews

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First Howard Books hardcover edition June 2019

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Jacket photography @ Nate Luebbe

James Lund photography Steve Gardner, Pixelworks Studios, Inc

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

ISBN 978-1-5011-9453-5

ISBN 978-1-5011-9455-9 (ebook)

Dedicated to you, Dad, my best friend; my brother, Matt, the hero; and my anchors: my wife, Rhea, and my kids Casey, Benjamin, and Ciara, who gave me the strength to survive.

R azor-sharp fangs plunge into my side and lift me four feet into the air. The pain is excruciating. Im slammed onto the ground, but those daggers dont loosen their grip. I am dragged over dead limbs, leaves, dirt. My fingers dig trenches in the soil, but my efforts fail to halt our deadly progress. A river of red fills one of the furrows in the dirt behind me. Its bloodmy blood.

I am at the mercy of a monster.

Where is this thing taking me? Im sliding into the abyss of irreversible shock. Ive lost my voice. My strength to fight is all but gone. I think of my wife, Rhea, and my kids, Casey, Ben, and Ciara.

Then I think of God, the one Ive entrusted with my life, the one who has always come through for me. Until now.

Lord, how could you let this happen? I want to see my family again. Please make it stop!

Suddenly I am released. Where is it? Using up what little reserve I have left, I lift my head.

Mere inches away, angry, coal-black eyes stare into mine. Hot, foul-smelling breath washes over me. My ears fill with the sound of a low, rumbling growl.

For just an instant, I catch the glint of white fangs as they lunge for my throat.

With a jerk of terror, I sit up. Im in a bed, gasping for air, covered in sweat. Darkness surrounds me.

Where am I? Is this a nightmare or is it real?

What is happening to me?

They say that abandonment is a wound that never heals. I say only that an abandoned child never forgets.

MARIO BALOTELLI

I took a few stealthy steps and stopped. With each breath, white puffs rose from my lips into the crisp morning air. Ahead of me, stretching to rolling hills in the distance, was a mostly desolate landscape dotted with sagebrush, cactus, and sand as far as the eye could see. I was in the sprawling Mojave Desert. My grip tightened on the rifle in my hands and I slowly turned my head, straining my eyes for the slightest sign of movement. I was on safari, a mighty hunter at last.

It was December 27, 1974. I was nearly eight years old. My weapon was a brand-new Marlin .22. My quarry was the mighty jackrabbit.

I trembled with excitement. How many hours on how many nights had I lain in the upper berth of my bunk bed at home, staring at the posters of deer and bears Id put up on my wall, imagining this day? Yet the best part wasnt being in the outdoors or the anticipation of hunting game for the first time, though each of these was a prize in itself. Nope, the real reward was sharing this moment with the broad-shouldered man who stood next to me.

Dad.

Roger Matthews, son of a World War II air force veteran, was a former Marine infantryman who these days wore the beige uniform of a California Highway Patrol officer. He was an imposing figure: six-foot-one, with an athletic build, a military haircut, and gray eyes that often seemed to bore through you. In many ways, he led his familymy mom, Elizabeth, and my younger brothers, Shane, age six, and Matt, age threethe way a sergeant might lead his platoon. When Dad told you to do something, there was no discussion or negotiation, and youd better be getting started by the time he finished telling you. You addressed his friends and acquaintances as sir. If you werent fifteen minutes early, you were late. Good manners were required at all times. Dad wasnt mean and we werent in boot camp, but the sense of military structure was undeniable.

To me, this was simply who my father was. His disciplined approach to life and our family made perfect sense to him and to me. It was one of the things that enabled him to do a dangerous job. Each time my father walked out of the house in the morning, that seven-point gold badge on his chest and pistol holstered at his side, I nearly burst with pride. He was a man who could handle himself, a man who took on the bad guys each day and won, a man people could count on.

He was my hero. I wanted to be just like him.

By the time of our rabbit hunt in the desert, Dad had spent three years teaching me gun safety, how to aim, and how to clean a rifle. Id already joined him on many hunts for quail and jackrabbits. Some days hed pick me up early from kindergarten in his bright red Ford Bronco, drive out to a ravine on the back side of Big Bear Lake, and set up beside some boulders. My job was spotter and retriever. When I saw a flight of doves coming into range, I alerted Dad, who shot the birds out of the sky. I then ran into the bush to retrieve the doves and drop them into a hunting vest. Wed do that until dark. I was more like the hunting dog than the hunter, but I didnt mind. I loved those outings, just Dad and me and the great outdoors.

Sometime during the last few months, Id decided I was old enough to hunt with Dad using a rifle of my own. Every Saturday that fall, I walked to the local library and pored over the latest editions of Field & Stream , Outdoor Life , and Sports Afield magazines. I was searching for my weapon of choicea Marlin .22 semiautomatic with a clip. I thought if I found one on sale, it would be easier to convince Dad to buy me one for Christmas.

Id already made my wishes known. My Christmas list had only two items: the Marlin rifle and a box of ammo. Id set my heart on getting that rifle. I was like Ralphie, the boy who longed for a Red Ryder BB gun in the movie A Christmas Story . Im amazed no one told me Id shoot my eye out.

But Dad never gave me the slightest hint that he was thinking about it. Whenever I brought it up, hed say, Well, Im not sure about that yet. By Christmas Eve Id pretty much resigned myself to disappointmentit seemed the Marlin was not in my future. I tossed and turned in my bed that night. The numbers on the digital clock on my nightstand seemed frozen in place. I finally fell asleep at 2 a.m., then woke up three hours later. Fearing the worst but no longer able to contain myself, I crept down the dark hallway and into a room shimmering with Christmas magic.

My eyes first took in the five stockings tacked to the fireplace mantel, the material stretched and bulging from goodies hidden inside. Below, a gas fire was already glowing. Then I swept my gaze to the left and saw our Christmas tree, which was decorated with shining multicolored lights and surrounded by a mountain of presents. I quickly scanned the pile of packages. I knew the shape I was looking foronly it wasnt there.