The Moose Jaw (11 page)
My old friend, the cinnamon sow with the two first year cubs, had claimed a narrow gravel spit in the middle of the creek a little below my camp, and I spent a good deal of time watching her show them the ropes. The cubs spent as much time chasing one another as they did fishing, and pilfered most of their meals from salmon their mother had dragged onto her bar. She tolerated their thefts, and stood by protectively while they ate, making sure neighboring bears didn’t encroach on her domain. When the cubs did get in the water and try to fish, it was interesting to note that they copied their mom’s technique exactly. I never actually saw either of them catch anything, but their enthusiasm made up for their lack of success.
The territorial lines between fishing holes were hard to distinguish, but the bears seemed to have spaced themselves roughly fifty yards apart, and they also seemed to alternate sides of the stream. There was really very little trouble during the two days of the first run. The fish were so plentiful everywhere in the creek it wasn’t necessary for the bears to invade each other’s territories. There was more than enough of the fat, oil rich salmon to go around. The bears didn’t have to work very hard for dinner. One old silver tip male would just wade out a little into the current, dip in a thumb, and pull out a plum. Then he’d slowly retreat to the bank, place a forepaw on the still squirming salmon, and start tearing off strips of red meat with his sharp, white teeth. All the bears enjoyed similar success. They gained weight by the hour, and each day they appeared fatter and sleeker, and their coats took on a healthy sheen.
On the first day of the second run the bears began spreading out a little. Most appeared to be moving downstream, perhaps to get the jump on their upstream rivals. A gap opened in their ranks along the top end of my bar, and I decided to take my rod down to the water and have a go at the salmon. It occurred to me at the time that it would be safer to wander upstream, above the landing strip. There were never any bears along the creek up there, even now during the Chinook run, so I could fish without the prospect of getting mauled. But, truth be known, I never felt all that comfortable up there either. Perhaps it was that “yega” thing Manning had mentioned. I supposed the Athabascan elders could have been on to something. Maybe that stretch of water was home to some sort of spirit that even the bears avoided. Each time I made my way downstream from the burn I had the feeling I was not quite alone. It was as if I was in the presence of, well – a presence. I remember experiencing a similar feeling on the battlefield at Gettysburg, and another time in Ireland, atop the Hill of Tara. It was as if those who had died there never completely left the place. So, I opted to brave the real, tangible danger of a bear attack, rather than the unseen, unknown “something” that inhabited that part of the stream.
I took up my rod and wandered down to see if I could join the fun without getting run off. The sow with her two cubs was my biggest concern, as she had proved to be a little more territorial than some of the others, and she was my nearest downstream neighbor. She watched me carefully as I waded a few steps into the water but she showed no sign of aggression, so I tried to remain calm and go about my business. This was more difficult than it sounds under her steady, watchful stare.
I didn’t begin fishing immediately upon taking up my position in the stream. I wanted to give my fellow fishermen a little time to get used to my presence. There were also two males upstream of me, one on each bank. Neither seemed to pay me much mind. They just kept to their rhythm of wading, dipping out fish, returning to the bank, and eating. I stood there perhaps five minutes before the sow lost interest in me and waded back out into the current for another snack. Just watching her power as she plowed, chest deep, through the water made me go a little weak in the knees. I recalled our first meeting, and realized how lucky I had been. I knew how quickly she could cover the distance between us if she chose. Grizzlies looked slow and cumbersome, but they weren’t. They could come out of the gate with the best of them. They weren’t long on endurance running, but they were hell on wheels in the sprint. One had been clocked at forty miles an hour over a short distance, while chasing a truck full of rangers.
After perhaps ten minutes I judged it safe to show a little more activity. I didn’t actually let out any line but I made several false casts, waving my rod overhead to replicate a casting motion. One of the boars upstream and the ever-vigilant sow interrupted their fishing to watch me. Neither started in my direction, so I continued waving the rod, slowly, back and forth. After a few minutes they both went about their business, and I breathed a sigh of relief. So far – so good.
I considered quitting while I was ahead, and going back to camp. But, since I’d gone this far, I decided to get a line wet. I freed my fly from the hook-keeper on the butt section of my rod, stripped off thirty feet of line, and cast upstream. My red streamer settled in the current, slipped below the surface and drifted down past me. I paid out a little more line and, when nothing struck, flipped the fly back upstream with a roll cast. It had just submerged when – STRIKE! My line went taut and I lifted the rod tip and pulled down hard with my strip hand. The hook set, and the rod bent under a heavy weight. I didn’t want any splashing and thrashing on the surface; that would attract the attention of the bears. I didn’t want them getting excited and joining the fun. I preferred to land this one by myself. I lowered the rod tip a bit and relaxed my grip on the line. The salmon took up the slack and ran upstream, but, much to my relief it stayed underwater. I let it run half way to the boars, then applied gentle pressure and turned it into the fast water. The tension went out of the rod and I stripped in line as quickly as I could without too much frantic activity. As the salmon came down the current and passed me, I tightened my grip again and the line, once more, went taut. The rod took the fish’s weight and bent under the strain. I gave him enough line to run halfway to the sow before turning him. I guided him across, then back up the stream. He was strong and I had to repeat this give-and-take for five runs before I could feel him tiring – all the time keeping mindful of the bears. On one upstream run, I let him go too far, and the boar on the opposite bank stopped his fishing and suddenly stood up in the current to look my way. I was ready to snap the line and make a dash for the camp, but he quickly lost interest when another salmon rolled at his feet and he plunged in after it.
When I judged the salmon to be tired enough, I eased him out of a downstream run and guided him into the shallows where I stood. He was still making swimming motions, but was listing a few degrees to starboard. Very good. Slowly now. As I took in line, a little at a time, he slid across the rocks of the bottom and rolled on his side - KERSPLASH!…KAPLOOSH!…KERPLASH! He started flipping and thrashing in the shallows.
I shot a quick glance both upstream and down. All three bears had gone still and were looking my way. I tried clamping a foot down on top of the frantic fish. It was no good, he was too slippery and he squirted out from under the tread of my boot, churning spray and clattering rocks as he did. I lost my balance and fell backward, sitting down hard in the shallow water at the stream’s edge, making an even bigger splash than the salmon had.
The boar on my side of the stream couldn’t contain his curiosity. All this splashing about was just too enticing. He began ambling downstream to see what all the excitement was about. I didn’t wait. Without bothering to get up out of the water I grabbed a fist sized rock and, unceremoniously, smashed it down on the salmon’s head. Then I took hold of the line a foot above the hook, snatched the quivering fish out of the water, scrambled to my feet and made a hasty retreat toward the camp. The sow didn’t move, but watched me with interest as I squished and sloshed my way dripping out of the creek, and up the bar, the salmon dangling, stunned and helpless from my hand. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn I saw amusement in those cold, steely, little eyes. There was no salvaging my dignity; at least I escaped with my catch.
When I reached the tent I took a glance back over my shoulder. The inquisitive boar now stood in the creek, water dripping from his chest and paws. All three bears, in fact, were still looking up at me. One of the cubs had even broken off mauling his sibling, and now stood over his vanquished rival watching me in wonder. Maybe I should take a bow. Well, at least my first day among them hadn’t gone unnoticed. My neighbors weren’t likely to forget that remarkable performance. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe they would accept my presence now and consider me a danger only to myself. I ducked into the tent, dropped the salmon on the dirt floor and stripped out of my wet things. The day was still young, and I’d have fresh salmon for dinner. All things considered, my little test-run with the bears had been a success.
Haywood came back in on the fourteenth day of July, Bastille Day for that insufferable French bastard, Gaspard. The bears were still having their way with the salmon, but they seemed to have spread out even more and most of them appeared to be moving downstream. I counted only five adults and two cubs when I took that morning’s survey. Haywood’s landing caused a bit of a stir in the bear community, but by the time we’d unloaded the plane and shifted the cargo back to camp, they had settled down and were, once again, intent upon their fishing.
It was wonderful to see Haywood again. I had, literally, jogged up to the landing strip to meet his plane. I had so much to tell him, I began talking his leg off before we’d even started unloading the cargo.
He laughed good-naturedly and held up his hands. “Whoa, Gus! The prop hasn’t even stopped spinning!”
I laughed too and gave him a bear hug. “You asshole. It’s good to see you.”
We took a break after carrying everything from the plane down to camp. Haywood had brought in several heavy items on this run: a collapsible camp bed, two roles of roofing felt, two rolls of tarpaper, roofing nails, five more gallons of gas for the chainsaw, a cooler full of beer and another, full of ham, bacon, eggs, butter and cheese. There was a twenty-pound sack of onions and another of potatoes and a third of carrots. As if this were not enough, he also presented me with four warm cases of beer, a case of wine and six bottles of Tullamore Dew. He even remembered the hooks and dubbing wax. You could count on Haywood to get it all right.
I opened the cooler and took out a couple bottles of the cold beer. It was a big cooler and he had two cases iced down in it. He’d surprised me with Heineken this time. I developed a taste for it while working in Europe. We toasted, and he sat on his favorite stump and I sat on the cooler.
“O.K.” he said, firing up one of his huge stogies. “Now, I’m ready. Tell me about your first stretch in solitary confinement. Looks like you must have been loafing – I don’t see much progress on the cabin.”
I pointed to the logs stacked below us on the bar and told him about the fifty I’d stockpiled up at the burn. He was impressed. Then I filled him in about getting the roof on the cache and fitting it out with a rope escape ladder. He puffed and nodded his approval. He asked if the bears had given me fishing rights, and I told him about yesterday’s debacle. He laughed until he choked, and held up a hand for me to stop until he could recover.
“So,” he gasped, “what you’re saying is you only caught one fish?” This killed him and he had a relapse of gagging and choking. Tears ran down his cheeks. I hadn’t thought it was that funny. I changed the subject.
“Wait till you hear this…” I paused for effect.
He took a deep, shuddering breath and dried his eyes with the back of a hand. When he was fully recovered, and I knew I had his attention, I told him about the spring.
“No shit!” He was as excited as I had been when I’d discovered it. He jumped to his feet.
“Show me!” He is, after all, from Missouri.
I led him up to the tree line and a few paces back into the trees. I had dug away all the loose sand and gravel from the bottom and sides of the spring, and lined the resulting catch basin with flat rocks. I’d left a little depression in the lip, so the water could run over and down the slope, into the swale. Haywood looked at it with undisguised enthusiasm. It was as if I’d discovered a gold vein.
“Ah, now, isn’t that lovely. No more hauling water up from the creek.”
“We’ll need some pipe, of course,” I told him. “I paced it off. It’s just over a hundred yards. Three rolls of one inch black plastic should do the trick. How about adding that to your list for your next visit?”
He was clearly excited. “I’ve half a mind to jump back in the plane right now and head for the hardware store,” he said. I believe he was serious.
“Too late.” I reminded him he’d already been into the beer. “It will wait until next time; there’s plenty to keep us busy. How long can you stay?”
He gave me a big grin. “Four days! Bastille Day, don’t forget! Took a long weekend
in honor of all things French – fine wine, shapely legs, stinky cheese, and work stoppages.
Don’t have to be back until Wednesday evening, or Thursday if worse comes to worst!”
I was delighted. With that much time, we would be able to move all the logs downstream. When we returned to camp from the spring, I showed him the furniture I had built, which all fit inside the tent with room to spare for his collapsible camp bed. He laughed and slapped me on the back.
“Hell, Gus,” he said. “All you lack is a good woman and…” He stopped in mid-sentence and grimaced. “Ah, shit Gus, I’m sorry. Just take me out and shoot me.”
“It’s alright, Haywood,” I told him truthfully. “I’m over it.”
We accomplished a good deal during his visit. We rafted all the logs down from the burn, and cut a few more to boot. Considering the salmon run was well under way, Haywood was astonished to find there were still no bears along that section of the creek, except those near camp. I, of course, attributed their conspicuous absence to the bad juju up there, reasoning that the bears sensed it too, and avoided the place. I considered mentioning it to Haywood, but he seemed oblivious, so I didn’t trouble him with my foolish superstitions. I did, however, suggest we scout further upstream to see how much of the creek was bear-free, but Haywood said we should just count our blessings, and get on with the logs before they decided to move back in. We’d been a little concerned how we’d get the logs downstream if we had to run a gauntlet of grizzlies on the way, so the bad vibes, or whatever it was, made our work a lot easier. I agreed to leave well enough alone.