I was poking a long pole down into the deep snow.

I was trying to find the chimney of our house.

It was winter, a time of snow and ice. Snow and ice can be dangerous, but I remember a time when thin ice saved my life.

I know that the predicament was my fault. I know because I’m a husband. Things are my fault. I get the feeling that there is an instruction manual that everyone has read except me.

I was picking blueberries in a stellar spot in Alaska. I was gathering the berries in order to surprise myself. I love blueberries on cereal. I adore blueberries in yogurt, pancakes, shakes, smoothies, and scones. I was using the patented Batt Method of picking berries — for every berry that went into the bucket, five went into the mouth. I wasn’t paying attention to anything other than the blueberries. I had collected enough berries, but I couldn’t stop picking. It was greed. Greed is what makes a man think that 10 percent of a failing business is better than 5 percent of a thriving business. A greedy man should be as alert as the fans of a blindfolded javelin thrower. I was harvesting the best blueberries I’d ever come upon when an enormous bear stood up a few feet from me. It took the bruin 20 minutes to reach its full height. The grizzly was as big as a zip code.

I saw the bear and the bear saw me. The bear looked at me as if I would be the perfect dessert for a blueberry dinner. My brain bent. I forgot the words to the song “Tequila.” Janis Joplin, who had not even once been eaten by a bear, had taught my generation how to scream, and I employed that training. I yelled something in a language I did not understand. I suspected the bear could eat in any language. I knew that I shouldn’t run when I encountered a bear. I knew that I should have put my arms over my head and attempted to appear large and menacing. I knew that I wasn’t supposed to run, but I had neglected to tell my feet.

I began to run.

The bear chased me.

I ran faster than I had ever run. The bear was a fantastic motivator. I was getting more out of me than I knew I had in me.

The bear did not run as fast as it had ever run. It seemed as committed as a Kamikaze pilot on his 36th mission. Maybe it had corns or tight shoes. Perhaps it had a blueberry bellyache. Whatever the reason, the bear loped along instead of sprinting. That was a good thing. The bad thing was that I knew the bear could catch me any time it wanted.

My entire life flashed before my eyes. There were cartoons, newsreels, snack recommendations and the feature (I had hoped for “Casablanca,” but it was “Ishtar”), but there were no coming attractions.

I realized that my only hope was to run across Nearby Lake. Nearby Lake was a small body of water that was always close by. It had just frozen over. The ice was thick enough to support my weight. I hoped that it would not be able to do the same for a much heavier bear.

I ran onto the ice and immediately slipped and fell. I struggled to regain my feet. I could hear the bear coming nearer. It was so close I could smell its blueberry breath.

Then I heard a crack. The ice was breaking. I turned and looked back. I didn’t like doing that, as I am a disciple of Satchel Paige, the old pitcher, who said, “Don’t look back. Something might be gaining on you.”

The bear had that odd look that Wile E. Coyote gets right before he falls from a cliff.

The ice opened and the lake swallowed the bear.

I restored myself to the upright position and scrambled to safety. Just to err on the side of caution, I didn’t stop running until I hit British Columbia.

I was tired, but it was a good tired. I rejoiced in my escape. It’s a poor man who cannot find room for joy.

I know what you are thinking. You’re thinking, “Wait a minute, Al. You were picking blueberries when the chase started. That had to be at the end of summer. Then you ran across a frozen lake. I know the weather is cold in Alaska, but this story is hard to believe.”

You are thinking that because I neglected to tell you that the bear chased me from August until Christmas.

It’s a true story. If you don’t believe me, just ask me.

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.