The bear naps for seven months and calls it a season. It builds the bed first, digs the den, lines it with grass, then disappears into it without telling anyone goodbye. Nobody checks on it. Nobody has to.

It measures territory in claw marks scratched into bark, high as it can reach, a signature nobody's allowed to forge. Salmon runs come and it shows up alone, takes what it needs, leaves. Some Indigenous traditions held the bear as a relative who chose to live apart, close enough to respect, never close enough to touch. They say if you meet one on the trail, the correct move is to back away slowly and speak in a calm, low voice — which is also good advice for meeting your uncle at Thanksgiving.

It doesn't hibernate to escape anything. It hibernates because the math says wait, and it trusts the math. Spring comes when it comes.

You don't get its attention by trying. You get it by leaving it alone, which is the whole point. This is a boundary with fur on it.