The trees thinned and we came to a small clearing.
A massive black bear lay on its side. Alive. Breathing. Chained to an anchor sunk deep in the ground, heavy gauge links that had been chosen by someone who understood what they were containing.
This wasn't a hunt. This was a farm.
They rear them, I thought. Fresh blood. Sustainable. Not taken all at once. The bear's chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of something that had been through this before and had stopped fighting the routine.
"Heart's still strong," the young man said, approaching without fear. "We'll get thirty liters easy if we bleed it properly."
I looked at the chain. Then at the clearing. Then at the careful distance between the trees, maintained and deliberate, shade above and soft ground below.
"Who thought of this?" I asked.
"Can't tell you that," the young man said. "But we've been doing it since I was employed."
