Book Excerpt: Former QB Tests The Adage ‘Be The Bigger Bear’

The following appears in the November issue of California Sportsman:

Mike Pawlawski has always beaten the odds, from his early days growing up in Southern California, when lung problems made it difficult to breathe and he spent many days in doctor’s offices, to playing big-time college football at the University of California in Berkeley despite a local sports reporter calling him too slow to be the team’s starting quarterback.

“From the doctors who saw me when I was a kid and the people who saw me as a sickly kid, they probably think I overachieved,” says Pawlawski, now 55.

Still, despite the medical struggles as a kid – it wasn’t until his mid-20s that doctors confirmed he had cystic fibrosis – Pawlawski excelled in sports, earned his scholarship and won the starting quarterback job for the Cal Golden Bears and led them to one of their best seasons ever in 1991. The diehard angler and hunter went onto a long Arena Football League pro career, hosted two successful outdoors TV shows and now serves as both a motivational speaker and the radio analyst for his college alma mater’s football games.

Still, despite the medical struggles as a kid – it wasn’t until his mid-20s that doctors confirmed he had cystic

Pawlawski has also written a new book that both celebrates his love for storytelling and shares the self-help tips that allowed him to overcome his early roadblocks.

“Everybody thinks there’s a magic pill that you can take, and all of a sudden you’re successful. And unfortunately, marketing does that because human nature wants that if they can find it,” he says. “So from the perspective of someone who’s done it in sports and business and

in life, I thought it would be a big thing to get it out there for people to understand that there’s really a process, and the process is the same no matter which field you’re in.”

“It’s all about your belief structure, and if you believe that you can accomplish it and are willing to put in the effort and adapt, then you’re not overachieving; you’re just maximizing your human potential, which is really the point of the book. That’s the thing that people need to remember; we’re going to adapt as long as we’re willing to push against resistance if we’re willing to face the tough times.”

Having filmed outdoor adventures around the globe, one of Pawlawski’s memories that also doubles as a life lesson saw the Golden Bear come face to face with a grizzly bear in Alaska’s Bristol Bay.

The following is excerpted with permission from Every Day Great: The Playbook For Winning At Everything, by Mike Pawlawski and self-published by the author.

“If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself, but to your estimate of it; and this you have the power to revoke at any moment.” –Marcus Aurelius

BY MIKE PAWLAWSKI

August in Southwestern Alaska is a transitional month. The skies are mostly gray with intermittent rain as Old Man Winter hints at his approach.
The streams and rivers dissecting the tundra change color from their glacial green to take on a red hue, reflecting the glorious color of salmon that choke their banks on the annual upriver migration. Sockeye first, then kings, chum/dog and coho fill the inland waters, bringing nutrients back from the sea to deposit, either as dead flesh or in the form of poop from bears, eagles, wolves and any other predators or scavengers that make a meal out of the returning bounty.

Salmon are a cornerstone species in the cycle of life on the Alaskan tundra. They are retrievers that go to the sea to fatten up and bring much-needed nutrients back to an uncivilized and harsh wilderness that would otherwise be barren and lacking in nutrients to support all but the simplest foliage.

Moraine Creek is in Katmai National Park. It used to go by the name “Bear Creek,” which is what guides and fishermen name a river in Alaska when they’re trying to keep other guides and fishermen away. In this case, the name was appropriate. Moraine Creek gets a phenomenal run of sockeye salmon, and the word is out among local grizzlies. According to an Alaska Department of Fish and Game officer I interviewed, bears come from miles around to enjoy the feast. Many even make the journey all the way from the coast.

I’m here producing a documentary on an ill-advised copper mine a Canadian company is developing near Lake Iliamna (the Pebble Mine). Copper mining in such a fragile ecosystem threatens the wildlife that count on the annual salmon runs to survive. The smallest incursion of copper to a river can wreak havoc with the salmon’s navigational system, making it unlikely that they will find and return to their native spawning grounds. There’s potential for great harm if the people of Alaska aren’t extremely careful.

Float planes have helped tame the Alaskan wilderness. On our final approach, we came in low and hot over the creek, so close to the water you could see individual fish. Today, our pilot is Brian Kraft, a classic Alaskan bush pilot and owner of the Alaskan Sportsman’s Lodge, one of the finest lodges in Southwestern Alaska. Not only does Brian fly and operate the lodge, but he also played minor league hockey back in the day and has the swagger to show for it.

“Look at that!” Brian said in a tinny voice coming through my airplane headset. “Red gold!”

Many of the stretches were so full of sockeye it seemed there were more fish than water. That kind of bounty, especially in a place as wild as Alaska, always brings out predators. Along the banks, either hard at work or jockeying for position, we saw several dozen bruins using various fishing methods to fill their plates.

After a final pass to check wind direction, we landed, unloaded and proceeded to film bears for two hours.

At times, I was so close to grizzlies going about their business I could smell them. The footage would add a lot to my documentary. We came to film bears, so now we could take our time on the float out because the planes were meeting us 7 miles downstream on Kukaklek Lake.

As I headed back to meet up with our guide, whom I will call Fletch, and my cameraman, Bill, I rounded the top of the island serving as my filming station for the morning and came face to face with two young grizzlies heading the opposite direction, a male and female from what I could gather. If I had to guess, they were twins. The male stood 3.5 feet minimum at the shoulder. The female was slightly smaller and had a narrower face.

I’d been in close proximity to bears all morning. I’d grown comfortable, though not complacent, toward the end. I wasn’t worried about this encounter. They headed to the creek to fish, and I just happened to cross their path at the wrong time. I stopped for a second and held my ground, and they veered left into the island brush. They looked a little annoyed but left me alone.

No harm done, I continued downstream, wading in shallow water on the left side of the island. The island was about 200 yards long. The bottom of the island created a shallow gravel bar that allowed access to the left bank where our raft was beached. About three minutes after my first encounter and just short of reaching the bar, I heard a ruckus in the woods. Suddenly, the two young bears I’d bumped earlier came crashing out of the brush 15 yards in front of me to my right.

On my left was deep water. On my right the island was nearly impenetrable for a human. I was trapped between a lake and a very hard place. They froze and I froze. We locked eyes. They looked panicked.

I could relate.

Bill, who had a higher vantage point, told me later a bigger bear had chased them off his fishing grounds and back into the woods. It just wasn’t their day. They were scared and nervous, and so was I. Once again, I was standing in their way.

I stood my ground again, putting my camera and tripod in front of me as if it would shield me from a bear attack. They hesitated, and I saw them weighing their options. The male considered coming right through me. His sister, though, being a good girl, quickly decided to hug the bank on my right and skirt past me. She tucked her tail and looked away, a sign of submissiveness in the animal kingdom, as she snuck through the gap 7 yards to my right. But now I had one bear in front of me and one behind. I couldn’t watch both.

The technical term for that is “no bueno!”

THE MALE HADN’T MADE up his mind about his next move. His posture was notably more aggressive. He stared at me, agitated, and swayed side to side on his front paws as a third bear appeared on the bank to my left. From the look of things, this was momma. She was bigger and fatter and seemed to carry authority. She surveyed the situation, made a low grumbling noise, and turned away. The young female ran to her while the male jumped in the water to my left and swam across to where she was heading.

“Holy sh*t,” I thought, as I suddenly realized I’d stopped breathing.

It’s fascinating how that happens. It was the thing that got me through my illness as a kid. It may have been slow or labored, it might have been difficult, but I never stopped breathing; breath is life, and when you’re breathing, you’re in the game.

“Breathe,” I thought as I took a deep breath. Then, I gathered myself and finished my walk downriver to the raft.

It was a great bear encounter. A story I could tell at parties for the rest of my life. The day I stared down two “griz” in the wilds of Alaska. One more amazing tale from my time spent in the wild.

Challenge accepted!

About a mile downriver sitting at lunch, we recounted the run-in as we laughed and ate like kings. Fletch cooked up salmon and rice with veggies. It was exquisitely seasoned and cooked to perfection. As we finished, the whole family of bears I had bumped before caught up with us. They began fishing just below our vantage point on a cliff promontory overlooking the river. They put on a show for the camera. They fished for half an hour before heading into the streamside brush 50 yards from our perch.

That’s when Bill asked Fletch, “How can you tell when a bear is pissed?”

Fletch responded, “They chuff and chomp their teeth, like this.” He proceeded to mimic a bear’s challenge verbalization, “Chuff! Chuff! Chomp,” making a reasonable impression of a ticked-off bear as he popped his teeth and gutturally grunted.
I’m no bear expert, but it must have been a pretty good impression because the young bear burst out of the brush 30 yards upstream.

And he was pissed! Oblivious to what was happening, Bill mimicked Fletch, and the bear heard it.

“Hey! Knock it off!” I said as I pointed at the young bear bearing down on us. “He’s pissed! And he’s heading our way.”

The reason I didn’t back down for our first two encounters is because you’re supposed to stand your ground versus a grizzly. If he intends to eat you, you’re screwed anyway. Griz can run 35 miles an hour in short bursts, and they can rag-doll you with one swipe of their massive paw. If you run, you become prey in their mind, and they’ll catch you.

But… and it’s a big but… if a bear is being defensive or territorial and you stand your ground, you stand a chance of winning the bluff game.

The saying is, “Be the bigger bear.” Sounds good when you’re at the lodge in front of the fire sipping whiskey. Everybody has big balls in the lodge. Outdoorsmen, in particular, love to tell stories of their bravado. Like most things, though, when the bear scat hits the fan, it’s a little tougher to execute.

This bear was closing fast. He was done with our tomfoolery, and he was gonna let us know. Soaking wet and glistening, he closed to within 20 yards. Head lowered and shoulders back, he was on a mission. He’d been challenged and was going to show us he was up to it.

He came to a stop and stood upright on his hind legs. We gasped.
Though he was young, this SOB looked massive.
“He couldn’t be any more intimidating,” I thought. Little did I know I was wrong.

Apparently, Bill didn’t get the memo about standing your ground. Seeing that bear at full height was too much for him. Our situation went from scary to a direct threat in Bill’s mind at that moment. Even though my full attention was focused on the bear, I couldn’t miss Bill’s escape as I saw him shoot past the camera from left to right and down toward the raft.

THERE’S AN OLD JOKE among fishing guides: Two fishermen are standing on a river, and they spot an angry grizzly approaching. Immediately one fisherman starts putting on his running shoes. The other fisherman looks at him and says, “What the hell are you doing? You’re never gonna outrun that bear.” The first fisherman looks up as he finishes tying his second shoe and replies. “Nope. But I am gonna outrun you!”

Bill was the first one out of the blocks. Smart. Just in front of me, on my right, and closer to the raft, Fletch was still hanging in there. His identity as a hardy Alaskan guide would be seriously challenged if he ran first.

The bear had breached that invisible barrier, where all wildlife encounters feel too close, as he dropped to all four and chuffed. “Chuff! Chuff!” We could almost feel his intention, chomping his teeth. “Snap! Snap!” He was looking to intimidate us.

It was working!

My nervous system was at DEFCON 1. Heart pounding and dry-mouthed, I knew my waders were waterproof from the outside, but I was about to test out whether they worked versus an internal leak.

My stomach had bats, not butterflies, and my jaw felt as tight as a snare drum. My breath came shallow and choppy, and I could feel the weight of the world on my chest as the blood pulsated through my ears. My face was hot and flushed, but I could feel the cool breeze across my skin. My body was screaming to do something!

He looked massive and soaking wet. Somehow, that made him look way more menacing. Sister and Mom were nowhere in sight, and he was clearly pissed!

Almost in unison, something triggered Fletcher and I. “Go on, Bear!” we commanded, trying to bluff like we were in charge.

The bear wasn’t having it. He chuffed again, “Chuff! Chuff!” and then gnashed his teeth and scowled. His version, I assume, of “Go on, humans!”

Somehow, the intensity ratcheted up, and Fletcher and I once again repeated, “Go on, Bear!” as we put our arms in the air to look big.

This was a standoff.

The bear chuffed again. “Chuff!” and snapped his jaw.

That’s when Fletch reached his breaking point. The stand-your-ground thing wasn’t working for him anymore either, so he bailed off the rock down to the raft 10 yards to our right. Not much of a retreat, but out of the line of fire.

I couldn’t blame him and probably would have done the same if I thought I had a chance. But I knew turning my back and running down the trail to the raft below at this point would immediately make me seem like prey in this bear’s mind, and he would be on my ass in a blink with gravity and a full head of steam to assist him. There was no chance he would stop. Whether he wanted to eat me or just mess me up, it would happen at the bottom of that trail if I turned and ran at this point.

The bear noted Fletch’s escape and then looked back at me as if to say, “It’s just me and you now, buddy!”

I exhaled and thought, “Well hell! Now what?”

The thought crossed my mind, “At least the camera’s rolling so my son, Casey, can sell this as a viral video when this bastard eats me.” Then, sickly, I chuckled.

As if the bear could hear my inner thoughts, he lowered his front shoulders and dropped his head to assume a charging posture. That move made it very real for me. If I had a gun, I would have emptied it into this bear at that moment. But we were in Katmai National Park. It’s a federal preserve. No guns allowed. I was trapped.

This was crazy!

THIS WAS THE FIRST time I stood toe-to-toe with a challenging grizzly, but the feelings were somehow familiar. Fear is fear, whether it’s a griz or a game. Your nervous system doesn’t differentiate. I felt it on the sideline at Cal when I was sure I couldn’t play and before that as I lay separated from my parents inside the oxygen tent as a sickly kid. It was the same feeling in the tunnel before every game, the Alaskan Outback, and the pediatric ICU. It had a name. It was my stress response, and it was on blast.

“What the hell am I doing here?” the nasty little voice screamed inside my head, looking to blame someone.

I shifted my weight, and gravel crunched under my wading boots as the low sound of the ancient river to my rear mixed with the whirring of wind across the tundra. Like a classic Hollywood Western, it punctuated the moment. I felt like I witnessed the moment in slow motion rather than experienced it.

A morbid curiosity about what would happen next crept into my mind as I tried one last time.

“Go on, Bear! Git!” I yelled louder, still without the courage of my conviction. Then our eyes met, and time froze.

Something changed.
He snarled.
I drew a sharp breath.
Then everything went silent, and he charged! ASJ

Editor’s note: Order Mike Pawlawski’s book, Every Day Great: The Playbook For Winning At Everything, at amazon .com/Every-Day-Great-Playbook-Everything-ebook/dp/B0DHPRKFV3. Follow the author on Instagram (@mikepawlawskicoach).

SIDEBAR: CATCHING FISH UNDER ALASKA’S MIDNIGHT SUN

As an athlete, Mike Pawlawski was a good enough baseball catcher at Fullerton, California’s Troy High School to be scouted by the Kansas City Royals, and in his senior year of college football for the California Golden Bears in 1991, he led his team to a 10-2 record and a No. 8 finish in the final national polls. Pawlawski then quarterbacked the Arena Football League’s Albany (New York) Firebirds to the 1999 league championship. A second career spent hosting Outdoor Channel shows Familiar Waters and Gridiron Outdoors saw him film fishing and hunting adventures around the globe, often with standout football players and coaches like Jared Goff, Ronnie Lott, Urban Meyer and the late Mike Leach. But of all the exotic ports of call he’s docked in, it’s been difficult to top Pawlawski’s multiple trips to Alaska’s Bristol Bay.

“It was so different from most of the things that we’re used to. I did outdoor shows for 20 years. I’ve been used to being in pretty remote places. But Alaska has this magic that’s all its own in the wildness,” he says. “It just seems that all the experiences there are just more powerful, deeper. Because it is so untamed that it’s pretty magical. New Zealand, with all of its charm, it’s pretty fantastic. But it’s still not quite Alaska.” His first trip to the Last Frontier started auspiciously. Pawlawski landed in the Bristol Bay area to film an episode of Familiar Waters, and in an apparent mixup with the lodge on Lake Iliamna arrived a day early.

“They said to just take the boat and row to the top of the lake and hit the (Arctic) char run. ‘You’ll figure it out,’” he recalls. “We get the boat to the top of the lake and we are hammering char with streamers. We’re having a great time, we’re filming and getting great underwater footage, and all of a sudden one of my camera guys said, ‘What time is it?’ I looked at my watch and, holy sh*t, it’s 2 a.m. We were there on June 21 and it was still bright outside. That was my this-is-Alaska moment.”

The rainbow fishing in the region’s Copper River – the lesser known of Alaska’s two rivers of the same name – has also been spectacular in Pawlawski’s four trips to the Last Frontier. He fished the Copper, one of the rivers that flows into Lake Iliamna, and had an experience like few others in his travels.

“Everything in Alaska is like 40 percent more wild and the rainbows were all of that. I think the average size of the fish we caught was like 22 inches. And we caught several in that 30-inch range. It can be insane, which is why you go. It’s just a spectacular experience.” Chris Cocoles

SIDEBAR TWO: PICKING THE BRAINS OF RUGBY LEGENDS

Of all the fellow football players and coaches Mike Pawlawski shared fishing and hunting adventures with during his career hosting the Outdoor Channel show Gridiron Outdoors, he had a special connection with Mike Leach, the late, larger-than-life coach who passed away in 2022.
While filming a tahr hunting episode in New Zealand, Pawlawski and Leach met the country’s three-time World Cup-champion men’s rugby team, the All Blacks, so named for their iconic uniform colors.

“You learn from everybody if you’re smart. You never know too much to learn. I learned that in New Zealand with Mike Leach,” says Pawlawski, who was close friends with Leach until he died of a heart-related issue while coaching at Mississippi State University.

“We were sitting with the All Blacks and we wanted to hear about them, and all they wanted to do was quiz us about what we do about getting ready for a game: preparation, training – all those things. They’re like, ‘Look, you’re never too smart to learn,’ and this is from the greatest rugby team in the world. And people do things that we may not know about to learn (from them). So I always took that approach. ‘What can I get from this that can help me?’” CC