A river runs through me. Hundreds of red sockeye salmon swarm around my legs, spawning in the Mitchell River where they were born. Programmed to reproduce, they’ll expend their last breaths, ending life as bear bait. Sad and magnificent.

Warren and I have come to meet Doug and Teri Mooring, owners of the Cariboo Rivers Lodge, in Quesnel, British Columbia. Specialists in wilderness fishing adventures, they offer camping and float trips on 20 lakes and seven rivers.

Teri settles us into a spacious bedroom overlooking aspens and the serene Fraser River. In the Mooring’s serene Lodge, you have no idea how wild life is about to become.

“Sleep tight,” Doug calls. “Tomorrow we’ll head to The Bush.”

Next morning, we feast on Teri’s spinach quiche and fresh blackberries. Doug flies around the house, packing fishing gear, heavy clothes, gasoline, and bags of food.

“Let’s go go go,” he urges. “Time to hit The Bush.” The call of the wild beckons.

We pile into his truck, trailering his new 21 ft. River Hawk, with “so much horsepower it’s almost cruel,” Doug boasts. For the next two hours, he regales us with factoids on British Columbia’s bears, salmon, bald eagles, beavers, flora and fauna.

“It’s getting harder to find pristine wilderness in the world. But out here there’s just wildlife and stars. No people. Just sun up, sun down. Reeling in a trout or a salmon, then letting it go, gently, connects me to something so alive.”

Doug’s entertaining monologue of jokes and anecdotes continues as he speeds up and down winding gravel roads. No road signs, no houses, but Doug is on a mission. He knows the way to…where?

“Once we’re fishing on the Mitchell River, you’ll see maybe forty two grizzly bears,” he grins. “Bears are majestic. Strong. Regal. King of the food chain.

Ever hear one roar? Now that’s scary.”

So Warren and I are deep in British Columbia’s Cariboo Country in the hands of feral creature taking us to roaring grizzlies. I’m the bear bait, never to hug my friends again. I could be sipping tea on my back porch, but noooooo, I had to fly thousands of miles to be eaten by a Canadian bear.

Arriving hours later at our cabin on Quesnel Lake, Doug’s friends emerge to help unload the mountains of gear, luggage, and food.

“How’s the fishing?” Doug asks his buddies. Hairy, smelly, unshaven, they’ve been roughing it for three nights. No showers, no running water, outhouse uphill in the dense woods. They have that crazed caveman look guys get when they escape women, children, and work.  No Internet, phones, or TV. Just fish, bears and beer.

Suddenly I’m the only female at a bachelor’s party. Will I have to jump out of a cake tonight?

“Time to suit up, “ Doug announces. “Fish to be caught before sundown.”

Minutes later, the guys have dressed me in giant brown neoprene waders with suspenders layered over my sweater, fleece and rain jacket. Size 13 waterproof boots and a giant red life vest complete the look. I’ll never make the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue in this getup.

“Introducing:  Bear bait!” Doug says, pleased by my fashionable fishing attire. The guys applaud approvingly. I bark at Warren: Take my photo; I’ll see you in divorce court.

We climb into Doug’s lake flatboat and roller coaster up and down Quesnel Lake.  Not a soul around, just these feral fly fishers, and me, Bear bait.

“Ahhhhh, my favorite spot in the world,” Doug howls like a coyote.

“Fish, mountains, and bears. Do we need anything else?”

A suite at the Fairmont Vancouver, I think.  A bubble bath, seafood dinner and champagne. But I’m falling under the spell of this lonely place

Mountains and clouds reflect dark blue in the water, fuzzy beavers paddle to their dens. Bald eagles swoop low over our heads.

“When we see bears, I got a few tips for ya,” says Doug’s friend, Shane McCann. In his leather vest, snappy hat, tight waders, and dark eyes scanning the forest, Shane is the real Indiana Jones. Perched boldly on the boat’s narrow edge, Shane is “Warrior in charge of Wildlife appearances.”

“Rule No. 1: A Grizzly can travel 100 yards in less than nine seconds,” Shane advises. “So maintain at least sixty yards distance away, ok?”

“Got a yardstick I can borrow?” I ask.

“Rule No. 2: If a bear stands upright-they can be about 7 feet tall - that means he’s just smelling and checking you out.”

“Like the bar scene, right?”

“Rule No. 3: If he charges into the river to grab your fish: give it to him.”

“I’ll definitely hand my fish right over Shane, no problem.”

“Rule No. 4: Bears are King. They have no predators, except a man with a gun. And you don’t have a gun.”

“I’m not a man either, ha ha.”

Shane’s educated me in proper bear etiquette. And there’s no place to run.

“Jump out of the boat, Sharon, got something to show you,” says Doug eagerly. “Look down.”

 The translucent green Mitchell River swirls red with sockeye salmon. Hundreds of exhausted fish swirl around my knees, digging holes to lay their eggs.

“Just arrived from the Pacific,” he says, sounding relieved. “Survived whales, sharks, commercial fishing nets. Ya know, they smell the river where they were born. Find their way home to spawn. Incredible.”

Doug hands me a rod with his secret special hand tied fly called “Doug’s one eye dabbledorf” -  fly fisher talk for “don’t ask me secrets for my lucky fly.”

An 8-pound salmon immediately chomps the fly. We tango for ten minutes. She’s determined to escape. I’ve got to give her a message. We both tire. Doug scoops her into the net for a photo.

“Gently,” he says softly. “She’ll probably lay 30,000 eggs today. The next generation of salmon is in your hands, Sharon.”

As I kiss her slimy beautiful body, she leaps to freedom.

“Go create zillions of babies,” I whisper. “Congrats on your homecoming.”

“Tomorrow she’ll be bear bait,” Doug says, looking deep into my eyes. “That’s life in The Bush.”

Only a creature part fish, part bear feels the sadness and the joy. I was privileged to kiss one magnificent salmon. Hello. Goodbye.

As the mountains blaze crimson, grizzlies step out of the forest shadows. Time for their salmon feast.

C2009 Sharon Spence Lieb, Mt. Pleasant, South Carolina USA

Photos upon request by Warren Lieb: e-mail: sharonspence@cs.com