There is nothing like a gaggle of late-teen Explorer Scouts loose in the wilds of the Canadian backwoods. But there we were. Six boys, ages 16-18, and three adults. Following glacier-fed rivers, lakes, and streams over miles of lazy currents and down treacherous rapids. Surrounded by the deep Canadian forest and the creatures that live therein. Seventy-five miles from the closest building and… it was not a hospital.
The water was crystal clear. As was the sky.
A crisp bite of cold was in the air. It only served to invigorate the boys as we made camp. It was mid-afternoon and we had already reached our planned campsite.
Several boys wanted to go fishing for supper, so the adult supervisors and a couple of the boys volunteered to stay and set-up camp. The rest of us headed up-river to a small, sheltered cove.
The spot was ripe with cattails and Water Lilly’s near the edge of the water. This thick overgrowth extended fifteen or so feet into the lake and shielded the brush-covered shoreline from our sight.
I headed out with the others to catch some bass or muskies for our supper. It did not take long for me to get bored. It probably took ten minutes before I realized this activity was not for me. I hung in there for a little while longer, but I caught nothing.
It did not take long for me to head back to camp half-a-mile away. As I came around the bend in the river, I noticed activity in camp that indicated tents were still being erected.
As I watched I saw two boys wandering near the shore struggling to gather big, heavy rocks for our campfire ring.
Naturally, I turned back around before I was spotted and headed back toward the fishermen.
Before I reached the little cove I headed toward shore. For no particular reason, I intended to sneak up on the guys and spy on their fishing. I pulled myself forward by using the cattails and undergrowth.
In no time I and managed to locate a point on the shore where I could see the fishermen through the sparce water growth. The bottom was shallow, and I pushed the rear of the canoe onto a sunken log a few inches beneath the surface, a foot from the shore. Then I sat back against the stern gunwale, put my feet up on the other seat and dozed for a while.
Before laying back, I noticed a dozen or more enormous fish heads lying on the shore ten feet or so to my right. I figured bears had been slapping fish out of the shallows and consuming this feast in its entirety, leaving only the enormous fish heads as evidence of their visit.
This area was maybe ten feet to my right. I found it interesting but thought no more about it.
As I began to doze, I heard a crack of wood as something moved through the brush which, with all the sounds of the woods, I ignored. It was close but then the forest was full of sounds. Some near, some more distant.
I heard movement closer behind me, but I ignored it. I had already spent several minutes watching playing birds and squirrels when I had first arrived. The animals were not fascinating enough to hold my interest and I was in a comfortable position.
I was dropping into a nap when I noticed the smell. Strong, gamy, and impossible to ignore. Distracted, I began to rouse. The smell was too strong to not do something about. I was going to have to find a better spot.
Barely awake, I heard a loud crash right behind me. It sounded like the sound of a falling tree. I whipped around to see the cause. As I sat up and turned, I saw a Grizzly bear and two cubs standing behind me. She was huge.
I did a double take, having trouble believing my eyes. The reason I remember the double-take so well is because the bear did the same thing. Mama bear had evidently not heard or smelled me as, I imagine, I was downwind so she could not smell my presence and I was slumped low in the canoe.
As I whipped around in her direction, I instinctually took in the entire scene. The flipped hollow log, the cubs, Mamma Bear. As I noticed her, she noticed me, and turned her head in my direction. This was when she did a textbook double-take that exactly mirrored my own reaction.
This was where our behavior began to take on the characteristics of our own species. She rose onto her hind legs. My heart rose into my throat.
A great roar rang out as she reached her full height.
It shook me to my very bones, and I looked up at the bear that towered above me. It was at this point I realized if she fell forward, I would easily be within one or two steps.
Her open mouth could have held my entire head. I felt distinctly like an appetizer.
She took one step toward me, our eyes locked. I was petrified, unable to move, frozen in place.
She turned her head to glance at the two cubs, who were still oblivious to my presence, or at least not concerned by it.
Breaking our eye contact set me in motion. I threw one foot over the side of the canoe and pushed off against the log upon which I was anchored. I put paddle to water and did my best to put some distance between us.
I did not look back. I had no time.
I heard water splash and I accelerated, my fear overcoming any peace I may have still felt.
The other boys never saw the bear although they admitted to hearing the crash, the growl, and some splashing. Ron said if I could have kept up the effort I was expending when I shot out of the shoreline, I could have pulled a water-skier. They said the bow was pointed at the heavens and I was leaving a wake to my rear.
We headed back to camp in the gathering dusk. We kept to the center of the now narrow-looking river, quickly finding the center if we got too close to one shore or the other. After a short paddle we reached camp.
Since that day I have seen many bears and never felt the anxiety I felt that day.
Why? You may ask.
I will likely reply that I have determined that I no longer have those feelings because since then:
- I have not since been surprised by any bear, And because,
- They have all been in the zoo.