In reality he
was bluffing, and he stopped just out of sight. "Get out of
here!" I shouted in my deepest, most commanding voice. That
got the desired results. He turned and slowly moved away. I knew
exactly where he was when I heard him slip going up the cliff, because
I had slipped there earlier that day. Unlike me however, he didn't
make another sound until he was far up on the hill. "That's
right, keep going!" I yelled after entering through the trees.
I found my cooler still intact, and hoisted it up for safekeeping
while I scanned the area with the flashlight held in my mouth. 
Half way up and no bear it sight,
I felt a Quetico cocktail was justified, so I quickly dropped the
pack down again to extract a flask of "151 Rum" stashed
inside. By the time I added the rum to some hot cocoa, the northern
lights were out in force. "Bear, what bear?" I quipped,
as I loaded another roll of Kodachrome into the camera. "I
never did actually see him."
The next morning
I met a group coming out of Beaver while I was heading in. We did
the usual small talk but something one of them said made me uneasy.
I asked if anyone else was camping on the lake and he replied, "No.
Lots of bears though." "What, like a convention?"
I wondered.
The next few
days were comparatively uneventful. A cold front moved through and
it rained off and on, but I knew this was not sufficient to lift
the fire ban. I usually bring my stove simply to brew coffee or
do a quick freeze-dried dinner in nasty weather. The best meals
of my life on the other hand, have been prepared over an open fire.
Comparing a campfire to a one burner is like contrasting fast food
to a meal in a fine restaurant. At one you fill'er up and the other
you dine with atmosphere. Cooking all my meals on the stove however,
was an interesting change of pace, as it did allow more time for
exploring. The flavor didn't suffer at all, if you don't include
the English muffins I foolishly tried to toast.
What did I do
with the infamous bacon grease you ask?
It was poured
into a bag of cold coffee grounds and yesterday's garbage. I couldn't
help wondering what they would say at US customs when they came
across the main garbage zip-loc, so I decided to keep it even if
it rained enough to have a fire. Although I hesitate to blame the
bacon grease, I did have one more encounter of the black and furry
kind.
My last night
on Beaver was one of those incredibly calm, great to be there evenings.
Because of the one-to-one reflections I couldn't resist snapping
a few pictures of myself paddling into the sunset.
I brought an
extra long shutter release just for that purpose. Later, as I was
investigating one of the small charred islands, I noticed the moon
rising in a twilight sky. As I stood and admired the scene, the
sound of a large branch being snapped in two drifted ominously from
across the bay. I was too far away to be certain, but I thought
I could make out a dark form moving along the shore. I climbed back
into my canoe and paddled hard to get a closer look.
When I was near
enough to see it was a bear I eased up a little, trying to be less
noticeable. It was still moving along the rocky shoreline and didn't
seem to care whether it was on land or in water. It was sniffing
its way along, turning over rocks, breaking up logs or scratching
in the gravel. I assumed it was looking for good things to eat.
In any event it was making a whole lot of racket. As I approached,
it seemed to be involved in a major project. All that was visible
was the tail end of a very large bear, and the occasional splash
of flying debris. He had found something he liked. I found I had
glided in too close, and sculled back out to a safe distance. There
was little light left, so trying to get a picture would have been
an exercise in futility. I was content to just sit and watch, admiring
its determination and the power in those front legs.
It was grubbing
for such a long time I started to get bored, and my mind began to
wander. I imagined a public TV nature show where the camera is located
inside an ant hill. They show a big black nose snorting on the other
side of a tunnel. A huge paw scrapes by, then this long tongue comes
thrusting in, repeatedly lapping up dozens of ants. Suddenly the
sunlight blasts in and you see a hairy beast leave. At that point
I realized if, when finished, it continued in the direction it was
going previously, its next stop would be my campsite. I took a stroke
or two in that direction, so I might be in a better position to
dissuade it.
When the raider
moved on, I couldn't help sensing he looked pleased, genuinely happy.
He sort-of bounced along. Almost like a child "puddle-plooching,"
until he saw me that is. Then he froze and stared at me. I did the
same and a long awkward silence ensued. It seemed like he was trying
to ascertain exactly what in the world I was. I finally clued him
in with a boisterous "Hey Yogi!"
I'm not sure
if it was in shame or disgust, but Yogi put his head down and shook
it from side to side. He seemed to be thinking something like; "Damn,
it's a camper. I knew I should have been paying more attention.
How long has he been watching? Oh no, I was acting goofy. They're
gonna love this at the next lodge meeting. I better get outta here
and save what's left of my pride."
After looking
both ways he continued down the shoreline, only now his pace quickened,
he looked longer, sleeker, more bear-like. Every step was perfect.
He moved like a cat. He was silent. He was beautiful. He was heading
for my camp! I slapped the water with my paddle, and the echo seemingly
wrapped itself around the bay . . . the bay . . . the bay. I enjoyed
it so much I tried it again . . . it again . . . it again. He wasn't
impressed. I quietly said, "Yogi, shouldn't you be disappearing
into the woods about now?" He did. I heard the muffled sound
of branches brush his fur as he slipped through the trees, then
nothing; nothing at all. After that I couldn't tell which direction
he went and it worried me, so I talked to him as I approached my
campsite. I didn't stop talking to him until I had everything secured
and I was safely inside my tent for the night. I used my deepest,
most commanding voice. That worked.
