Untraceable

Survival Skill #41

To be camouflaged in the woods, cover up in mud, hide in vegetation, and move in the shadows.

~

The remote camp consists of several tents arranged in a U-shape. A huge bonfire roars in the middle of a circle of men wearing faded fatigues. Green bandanas cover their mouths and noses, allowing only their eyes to be seen. There’s an added strangeness when you can’t see people’s faces. It’s why I hate Halloween.

On one side of the camp, bear hides hang from the spindly trees. An assortment of ice coolers lie underneath stretched-out skins and alongside heaping buckets of what looks like salt. My dad’s articles come to mind. The coolers probably store organs, and the salt must be to preserve the skin.

Several dead bears line up along the ground like sardines in a tin can. A man with a machete marches up to one of the carcasses. Without hesitation, he chops off the paws in four quick blows. Then he reaches inside another bear’s stiff body and removes a blobby mass. An organ of some sort. After packing everything in an ice chest, he scribbles a number on the top.

My brain has a hard time reacting to the scene, refusing to process any of this in a way that makes sense. This is much larger than anything I could have imagined. A few grunts and roars echo through the area. What was that? I pull away from the horrific images and sneak along the cliff line toward the sounds.

Once I clear a clump of trees, a few large bears stand cramped in tiny cages. The bars of the cages dig into their hides, leaving open sores. Long, metal tubes protrude from their guts as a milky liquid, which I can only assume is bile, drains into large containers. At the end of the row, a large bear thrashes inside the small cage, banging his head against the prison. Others make horrible snorting sounds, gasping for every last breath.

A man yells over the crowd, and a group of men begin to gather in front of a large tent. A few pat each other on the back as if they’re meeting at happy hour for cheap beer. A man steps out of the canopy and whistles.

I instinctively duck when I recognize him. Chief Reed. I stare at his face in disbelief. A hush sweeps over the small crowd when he holds up a fat stack of money. “It’s payday, boys! Better to pass it out here than in town where someone can see us.” The men break into a cheer until Chief Reed whistles for them to quiet down. “Let’s run over our numbers to date.”

He glances down at a piece of paper. “So far, we’ve harvested a hundred and seventy-two bear paws and forty-three gall bladders. As some of you know, the gallbladders go for about thirty-five hundred a pop and around two hundred for each paw. Two pounds of bear bile is now going for up to four hundred thousand dollars. Do the math, boys. Better than last month.” The men high-five each other as Chief Reed passes out rubber-banded bundles of cash.

How could this happen in my own town? With people I know? Usually these kinds of extremists are whackadoos from other places. Florida or California. Not from here. I remain frozen on the hill. Afraid to move. Afraid to breathe. I can’t do anything but watch the merciless mutilation and killing of these animals. The same ones Dad and I worked so hard to protect.

Everything I’ve learned falls into place and begins to make sense.

As if that’s even possible.

This is a poaching ring. A big one too. These men are slaughtering bears and shipping them overseas for money. I know from Dad’s articles that bear claws, gall bladders, and bile are hot commodities in the Asian market. From what I read, some of these animals live in bear farms their entire life. Their parts are used in bear paw soup, bile medicines, bear bile powder, and claw jewelry.

I happen to know that only one or two percent of all U.S. poachers get caught. That means lots of people get away with the illegal hunting and selling of our wildlife. It was the main reason Dad worked as a game warden.