A Yankee in the Canadian Bush - Bugs

Old Cabins 1 and 2 surrounded by long grass

Chapter 14

Job No. 1 when my parents took over Bow Narrows Camp was to deal with the bugs. The black flies and mosquitoes in the yard were intolerable. It was impossible to sit outside without being devoured. So what to do?

The answer was to create those conditions that the insects avoid and eliminate the ones that they prefer. Small insects like black flies and mosquitoes fear drying out. They avoid bright, windy areas and hang back in the shade.

Bill Stupack would cut the grass around the cabins once or twice a summer with a scythe. That long grass was a bug heaven. So was the dark bush which surrounded the camp. 

The Lawnboy lawn mower we had brought from Pickerel River was a godsend. It was exceedingly sturdy, suffering strikes against hidden rocks and stumps without bending the driveshaft. Dad was meticulous in cutting as close to the cabins and trees as possible, eliminating these small but important shade spots.

Next, he started clearing land. Eventually, after he had bought the property all the way down the lakeshore to Cabin 10, he opened up everything as much as possible, letting the west wind sweep down the peninsula from Trout Bay. The difference was like night and day. Having a shade tree here and there was fine, as long as we were able to cut the grass beneath it regularly. You didn't want enough trees to make a windbreak as that would become a bug breeding ground.

Before the clearing program, Dad and I went outside the old lodge -- now Cabin 3 -- one evening just before dark. We were still right at the door when Dad spotted a really big bear (another reason to keep things open -- you can see the bears). The immense bruin started right for us, its head low to the ground. It was the most blatant example of predatory behaviour I have ever seen.

"That boy's got to go, right now," said Dad. "Quick, get back into the house."

Mom and I closed all the windows, even though it was July and stifling hot.

Dad loaded his .308 and doused himself with Off, then stepped outside the door to wait for the bear. He was back inside in just minutes; the mosquitoes were so thick he couldn't breathe. They droned so loudly you couldn't hear anything else.

Dad got a can of molasses which he poured on the ground right in front of the window in the hallway where I slept. He slid the window open.

"You get up on your bed with the flashlight and when the bear comes to get this molasses, I'll give you the word. Shine the light over my shoulder, across the gun sights and onto the bear. I'll shoot right through the screen. It will just make a little hole that we can patch with a piece of tape."

Even with a big nasty bear at hand, Dad realized the importance of the screen against the bugs in the hot weather.

We probably saw the bear a dozen times, his long legs letting him stride quickly around all the cabins. He never stopped moving, probably because of the mosquitoes. It was dark now but there was a bit of moonlight.

There was no one else in camp but Dad, Mom and me, which was a blessing.

At long last, the bear came right to the molasses and Dad shot, never telling me to turn on the light. The bear was only four feet away, he said later. He couldn't miss.

The sound of the gun inside the little room was incredible. There were two guitars hanging on the wall behind me and they were ringing like the bells of Notre Dame Cathedral.

The bear ran and Dad opened the door and went after him. I was right behind with the flashlight.

We found the bear, dead, at the bush line. I could still hear the guitars ringing. Dad opened his mouth but couldn't make any sounds. 

"What?" I tried to say, but I couldn't make any sounds either. I saw Dad mouth the word, "What?"

We were both totally deaf.

The mosquitoes were eating us alive so we hurried back inside. Dad grabbed a roll of electrical tape to patch the .30-caliber hole in the screen. To his chagrin he found that in addition to the little hole, the muzzle blast had blown three sides of the screen off the window. It was hanging like a flap. It wasn't until midnight that the guitars stopped ringing in my head.

The next day we went to look at the bear. It looked like a black polar bear -- very long body and neck and a small head. In the middle of the summer like this it's hide was worthless. There was nothing to do but throw the bear away.

We wished our guests could have shot it during hunting season but we had no other choice.

It was the most dangerous bear I have ever seen.

 

Following the trail once most-travelled

 When we retired five years ago after operating Bow Narrows Camp for 26 years a lot of our friends thought we looked forward to finally being able to go fishing. I do like fishing a bit but after cleaning about a million of them in my time and listening to our guests talk about fishing continuously for years, it was really the non-fishing things I wanted to do. I think Brenda feels the same.

Like what? you might ask.

Well, I would like to find and put on a map some of the First Nations trails that once crisscrossed this country. When I was a kid growing up at Bow Narrows, the native people could walk from place to place just about as fast as they could paddle a canoe.

One time Brenda, my Dad and I had just come into Red Lake in early May, ready to fly by floatplane from open water at the Chukuni River to a hole in the ice at the narrows in front of camp. It was warm and sunny and the ice in the entire lake was probably only days away from disappearing. 

Ed Paishk, who along with his brother, Tony, worked about every fall at camp as moose guides, kept following my Dad everywhere he went in town. Ed was drunk and was slurring his words so badly none of us could make out what he was saying. In all likelihood, he wanted to bum some money for more drink as this was the custom of most of the guides.

We were in a hurry as the plane was waiting over at the river. It was about 9 a.m.

"Ed, we've got to go but you can tell me all about it next time I see you," said Dad, getting into his car and driving off, leaving Ed weaving down the street.

We got out to camp by about 10 and slowly worked all of our possessions and food boxes up the hill into the lodge. Around 4 p.m., Ed came walking out of the bush from behind the camp.  He might have gotten a ride out to Madsen, but would have had to hoof it from there. This was before the Suffel Lake Road had been made. It was at least a 16-mile walk and would have meant walking completely around Trout Bay, then down the four-mile peninsula that has camp at its tip. Ed had made the trip in about six hours and had sobered up on the way.

"Hey, Don," said Ed. "I was charged for a sleeping bag last fall but I left mine in the bunkhouse."

Ed had his payslip from last fall in his hand. Dad would buy all the guides sleeping bags and charge for them only if they took the bag with them at the end of hunting season. Dad owed Ed $16. He took out his wallet and paid him.

"You want to stay here overnight..." he began to ask but Ed was already disappearing back into the trees.

Another time Dad had all the guides into camp the week before moose season and wanted them to scout around for moose sign. Some of these men had never been to camp before but finding their way just didn't seem a problem for the Anishinaabe.

There was a big map on the wall and Dad pointed to a lake on it and asked two of the newbees to go check it out. A creek ran about a mile from the little lake into Red Lake. One of the guys was tracing his finger along the creek, making a mental picture of the map, when Tony Paishk spoke harshly in Ojibwe to him. I think the gist of what he said was, "Only a dumbass slogs through the swamp and tag alders. There's a ridge right over here. Follow it north until it ends, then go east to the lake." The man nodded.

Tony had been born not too far from this place and probably had been to this and every other lake in the whole region from every direction many times in his life.

I was probably 13 or 14 at the time and somehow managed to weasel my way onto the scouting trip.

When we put our boat ashore at the end of the creek, the two men and I climbed our way up the rocks to the top of the ridge. We hadn't gone far, just picking the easiest places to walk when we hit a trail worn into the moss. The trail would disappear at times but we would eventually pick it up again. Finally we came to the end of the ridge and the men looked around until they found the trail down. From there it was nothing but swamp and tag alders a couple of hundred yards to the lake. It would have been a miserable place to hunt. We retraced our steps and this time, found the easy trail off the ridge, not far from the boat.

Dad asked me later what the trail had been like.

"I'm not sure it was even made by humans," I remarked. "I think it might just have been a game trail."

"Well, they're not mutually exclusive," said Dad. "Everything takes the easiest route."

That lesson came to mind one time when I was hunting with my brother-in-law, Gord, down near Thunder Bay. We were going to take a compass route back into a lake. I was following Gord because he was a whiz with a map and compass, having done it all over Canada since he was a high school kid working for a mineral exploration company.

We were heading straight south when we came upon a moose trail. Gord immediately followed it. It was easier walking for one thing. The problem was it was headed more or less west, right-angles to where we were going. After awhile it swung south again. I was getting worried. I caught up to Gord.

"Gord, I thought we were heading to that lake," I said.

"We are. I think the moose trail is going there," he replied.

"What makes you think that?" I wanted to know.

"Where else would it be going?" he said. "Moose have some place in mind when they make these trails."

Five minutes later we came out on the lake.

Just call this the predator crossing

 

Two timber wolves

Coyote

Lynx

Gray fox

A warming scene this winter

 

'The tracks of my deers'

 

Every mark in this field was made by whitetail deer

Winter has been easy on the woodpile

 

Oh, well

 

I'm so mad, I could spit

What took place in the U.S. Capitol on Jan. 6 was reprehensible. Until I can speak again

without spitting, I am only going to post photographs.

Checkout this comment for gray, red foxes

 Rob Foster left an illuminating comment about gray foxes and red foxes on one of this blog's postings from 2018. In particular he gives a link to a DNA study that shows there have always been red foxes in North America.

Another cougar filmed in Thunder Bay area

 A man in Slate River Valley, about 10 miles from Nolalu, got a video of a cougar on one of his trail cams, Dec. 31. It is the second recording of the big cats in the area this winter. The other came from Kaministiquia, also about 10 miles from here but in a different direction.

I really think now the big cat I saw a couple of months ago was likely a cougar. It was a couple of hundred yards away in our field and seemed the length of a big German Shepherd. It was tawny in colour and moved like a cat. But since I never saw a tail, I put it down as a humungus lynx at the time.

Here's a link to CBC Thunder Bay with the video