The Book: let's begin writing it right here

It occurs to me that I can start writing my book right now, right here on the blog. When Brenda and I retired two years ago from Bow Narrows Camp after 26 years as owner-operators and a 56-year history at the camp, many of our friends implored me to write about that experience. I joked that a good title might be Wilderness Plumber, considering how much time I had spent at that trade over those years. I realize, however, that folks might like using the plumbing but really don't want to hear much about it. So I probably will call the book something else, eventually. Right now I'll just refer to it as The Book.
Here's a bit of a bio about my writing resume: I graduated from the University of Wisconsin-River Falls in 1979 with a double major in biology and journalism. I then spent about 10 years at the  Chronicle-Journal, a daily newspaper in Thunder Bay, Ont., where I worked as a reporter, photographer, outdoor columnist, editorial writer, editorial page editor, wire editor, city editor, weekend editor and managing editor. I also worked for four years for a forest products company in Thunder Bay in the public relations department where I wrote the company's employee monthly newspaper as well as press releases and advertisements. In addition I was the company photographer.
Brenda and I returned to the camp in 1992 and soon afterward I started the Bow Narrows Camp Blog. By the time I quit writing the blog in 2017 it had over a million views.
I like writing. In addition to the stuff above I have written a couple of dozen songs and poems. I think my writing bent comes from my beginnings. When I moved to Red Lake in 1960 with my mother and father at the age of 7 we did not have television. It barely existed in the town and was only available for a few who could afford such luxuries. That definitely didn't include us. During the summers at camp we didn't even have electricity for many years and in the winters we stayed at another camp in Red Lake that did have power but no running water. Needless to say I did a lot of reading. During the long winter nights I read absolutely every book I could find. By the time I was 10 I had read almost all of Ernest Thompson Seton, Mark Twain, Zane Grey, Jack London and Ernest Hemingway's works.  I read romance novels, spy thrillers and murder mysteries. One time I even read the complete Instrument Flight Manual for pilots. I'm sure I could have passed the test if anyone would have given it to a 12-year-old.
With all that writing and reading experience under my belt I have a strong hunch that despite some great plumbing stories from camp to relate I should begin my book with something more exciting, for instance, how it almost never came to be.

Chapter One 

Holy smokes that was close!

In an instant I knew I was about to be charged.

The animal was staring directly at me and had its ears pulled back so far it was like it had no ears at all. Every creature I’ve seen attack has first slicked-back its ears -- sheep, deer, dogs -- but this was none of those. This was a black bear and it was really close, maybe five yards away.

They say your whole life flashes through your mind when you are facing your death. That didn’t happen exactly but what did flash through me were all the mistakes I had made that led to this predicament.

The year was 1996 and I was placing out bear baits for the fall hunt at various locations near our remote fishing-hunting camp on Red Lake in Northwestern Ontario. My first mistake had been in picking this particular spot.  A week earlier I had walked up an old gold mining road to where I had found a game trail. I was probably half a mile away from the lake -- so far back in the bush that a bear could not have heard my outboard motor when I drove up.

Mistake No. 2 had been in following the game trail until it led to a “clearing” where I had tied a plastic pail containing fruit, meats and sweets about four feet up in a jack pine. The “clearing” was actually covered in waist-high bushes and ferns. Because of them I couldn’t see if there was a bear at the pail from a distance and, more importantly, it couldn’t see me coming.

My third mistake had been not making noise as I approached.  Despite the isolated location I would have been fine had I only whistled or sang or tied a can with some pebbles in it to my belt – anything.

Now here I was walking through the tall ferns when a bear suddenly reared up on its hind legs right in front of me.  And if that wasn’t bad enough, a split-second later, two tiny cubs climbed a tree right beside her.  

It had been such a sweet afternoon too. I had left camp about 2 p.m. with my 16-foot Lund boat full of bait pails. It was late August and the temperature was very pleasant, probably 15 C or about 65 F. The sky was clear and the wind was light – perfect for running around the shoreline of expansive Pipestone Bay with a small boat.

As always, I was unarmed. The only firearm I could have carried legally would have been a long gun and that would have just gotten in the way when carrying the pails. Also, I just never felt like I needed protection. Oh, I saw bears alright. In fact, at some of the bait stations I saw them every time I was there. Basically they were waiting for me. They knew I was bringing food for them and that was one reason I had nothing to fear. If they scared me they weren’t going to get fed. They seemed to realize this and would, politely, stay back in the shadows. If I looked long enough into the trees I would eventually spot their beige noses and beady eyes. I usually spoke to them in a friendly voice.

“Hey there, Mr. Bear. You’re going to like what I brought today. I’m leaving you a whole pail full of apples and plums. Can you believe it? See you again in a few days.”

They never moved until I started up the outboard and was driving away. As I looked back I would sometimes see the dark shapes step out of the trees.

I had been around bears all my life: dump bears and camp bears, mostly, but also bears you just encountered while crossing portages or out for hikes. I had also helped bait bears with my dad when I was just a kid back when there was still spring bear hunting. I was totally at ease around them. When you are feeding them they just want the food and when you are traveling though the bush they will avoid you as long as they know you are coming.

But this was something new. True, I was bringing food but I had done so in a totally stupid way. I had seemingly snuck up in silence on a mother with cubs, a creature whose motherly instinct to protect her young ones has been well-documented.

And silent it was. I remember trying to identify the calls of unseen songbirds as I walked along the game trail. “I think that might be a red-eyed vireo,” I was saying to myself, scanning the tree tops when, POP, the bear rose up out of the ferns, nearly at my feet. She was silent too. The only sound came from the cubs’ claws on the loose bark of the pine tree.

Looking back, I believe it was the fast action of the cubs that saved me. Years before I had been in a couple of situations while out walking where I had encountered mothers with cubs and as long as the cubs were safely up a tree the sows had been cool and had run off.

One time, in fact, I just came across a cub up a tree.  I looked around carefully for the mother but didn’t see her and figured she had heard me coming and fled. So I took out my camera and tried to get a shot of the cub. The problem was it was evening. The meter in my 35 mm indicated I didn’t have enough light for the shot so I moved right to the base of the tree and tried to silhouette the cub clinging to the big poplar about 30 feet up.

It was then I heard a little sound and looked down to see the mother standing on all fours about 30 feet away. She wasn’t acting aggressive but was just standing in a spot where a few seconds earlier there had been nothing. At the same time the cub decided it wanted to go back to mom and just let go of its grasp on the straight trunk. It basically fell down the tree and actually brushed the camera in my hands. It then ran to its mom and the two of them beat it into the bush. Although I never felt threatened I made a mental note to stay away from a tree with a cub up it.

The difference then was the bears had heard me coming. The cub went up a tree and the mom hid in the bush. This time I had surprised the mom and her babies and we were all just steps apart. I understood that difference in a blink, what my mistakes had been, how the sow would feel and why at such close quarters her instinct would be to charge.

I had been walking forward at a slow pace with a bait pail in each hand and despite the sudden shock of her appearance I instantly started backpedalling with the same motion and speed.  I also started talking to her in what I hoped was a calm, soothing voice, kind of like talking to a baby that you are rocking in a chair.  I said something like this:

“Oh, I didn’t know you were here. Sorry about that, mama. No problem. I’ll just come back another time. You’re fine. Nothing to worry about. I’ll just leave a pail right here on the trail and you can get it later. You’re fine. You’re fine.”

Nobody make any sudden moves, I thought, and slowly kept putting distance between us, nothing threatening about my actions, just getting farther away every second.

I knew that the worst thing would be to run. A human cannot outrun a bear and my running would just trigger the bear’s chase impulse.

I put one pail on the path in the faint hope its alluring smells might distract her. I kept the other because it amounted to my only weapon. I couldn’t hurt the bear with it, of course, but if it came to a standoff, maybe I could fling tasty things around and get her to go after them and buy some time.

After a dozen backward steps I turned calmly around, so I didn’t trip over any fallen trees, kept my walking motion the same and also repeated my little message over and over, “You’re fine. You’re fine.” As I walked away I kept my head turned to see if she was coming. She hadn’t moved a muscle. Finally, at 50 yards, I lost sight of her but kept up my singsong and slow retreat.  I eventually hit the old road and it was then I broke out in a cold sweat and started to shake.

Whoa! That had been intense.