The young bear thinks we’re stupid. He’s come right to the edge of the viewing platform over Anan Creek, near Wrangell, to get a better look at us.

The bear is four or five years old, maybe 200 pounds (90 kg), and his fur is a deep, rich black. Up close, he smells like a very large, very wet dog.

He cocks his head, as if posing for all the cameras aimed at him. But look into his eyes, you can see what he’s really doing is trying to say, “Um, guys, you know the fish are all down in the river, right? That’s where dinner is.” The walk up to the viewing platform at Anan Bear Reserve, a half-mile (.8 km) along a trail dusted with bear footprints the size of dinner plates, is better than any Tarzan dream a kid ever had. At every blind corner, we call out, “Hey, bear,” just in case. A surprised bear is an unhappy bear.

But this is the perfect place to be a happy bear, and as many as a hundred happy bears come here each year, to gorge themselves on a salmon run that can top a quarter-million fish. The creek, only a few feet wide, sheltered under dripping spruce and hemlock, is crammed with so many fish, there hardly seems room for water.

Anan is also one of the few places in the world where black and brown bears share the same stream. Still, when a brown appears, 800 pounds (360 kg) or so of pure muscle, the smaller black bears hide in caves, pop out just long enough to grab a salmon, feast on the fattiest parts—brains, skin, roe—and then run and hide again.

Everybody is eating: the bears, the eagles, the ravens, the seals, the porpoise. Even the spruce and hemlock trees that tower over the creekside depend on fish nutrients for fertilizer.

All we can do is stand and gawk, mouths hanging open.

And after a while, the bear gives up on us, and heads off for another salmon.