One man’s wilderness (46 page)

He must have scented me at the last moment. Until then I do believe he had me pegged as another animal and meat on the table. I couldn’t stop shaking. The rest of the way down the mountain I lived those seconds over and over again. I was convinced that the ought-six would be standard equipment from this day on.

As I pushed out in the canoe, it started to rain. On the surface film of the lake were little bubbles from the size of buckshot to grains of sand, each with a transparent silver crescent within it. Did the rain trap tiny pockets of air as it pelted into the surface?

The rain had eased to a dimpling on the lake when I beached the canoe on my landing. I looked down toward the lower end. A silver line on the surface telegraphed a breeze.

I lay awake for a long time. My mind kept returning to the bear.

The Red Runt

This is the red runt’s country. I am the invader. Hardly a day passes that he does not remind me of that with his chatter, his mischief, and at times his downright vandalism. He makes his move and I make a counter move to block him the next time. In a way he is like a neighbor you would like to approach in an effort to settle your differences, but you find every attempt met with resentment and further misunderstanding until you finally give up the idea and make believe he isn’t there.

I remember how he seemed to enjoy trailing the toilet paper among the spruce branches. That called for a tin-can cover to prevent further mischief.

Instead of helping himself to some of the blueberries on the cupboard shelf outside the cabin door, he does not seem to be satisfied until he has knocked the container to the ground and scattered berries in all directions.

Many times he has interrupted the rising of my sourdough biscuits when I placed them outside the cabin in the sunshine. I have rushed out the door on the heels of a clattering, to find my solar oven tipped over and my biscuits sprinkled with dry spruce needles. That little scamp leaps to a tree, scrambles up the trunk, and peers down pop-eyed at the mess.

When the magpies stole his food with their clever teamwork maneuvers, and he raced after the robbers that skimmed over the snow just beyond his grasp, I almost wished he could manage a mouthful of tail feathers.

He was the first one to raid the poncho-covered sheep meat when I had it hanging high in the meat tree. He tunneled right into good eating.

After the cache was completed, I prided myself for a long time on how animal-proof it was. Then the little aerialist launched himself to the roof one day while I was at the lower end of the lake. He discovered a small space near the ridge pole and chewed out an opening large enough to let him in.

My first clue to this breaking and entering was some white goose feathers curling to the spruce boughs nearby. I climbed to the cache. When I opened the door, there before me on top of my winter sleeping bag was a goosefeather nest. He had cut through the drawstring with his sharp teeth and ripped into the bag’s innards. The result looked as though there had been an explosion through one side of the roll. He must have had feathers all over his whiskers.

One day while feeding my birds some meat scraps, I heard his scratchy approach down the bark of the big spruce. He was watching and seemed to be very interested. I held a scrap out to him. He moved toward it in jerks. How did he show his gratitude? He bit my finger hard into the nail bed and drew blood!

Why do I put up with the little scamp?

When I should have gloated over the weasel scaring him from his winter quarters in the woodshed, I found myself concerned about him.

His chewing shredded both my suspender straps so that they were hitched to the rain pants by threads. He gnawed the corner off my Styrofoam chest, leaving many popcorn-size chunks all over the ground. He bit through the clothesline before the wash on it had dried.

He has caused me no end of mending, many delays in my plans, and at times severe strain on my self-control. But in spite of all these things, in spite of his temper tantrum personality and his efforts to chase me out of the country, I continue to turn the other cheek. He was here first. I respect him as a resourceful member of the community, always making himself heard, full of mischief, forever curious—but always one to admire. He holds his own in all seasons with the best of them.

The Chilikadrotna

August 25th
. Clear, calm, and twenty-eight degrees.

White frost on the brush and on the gravel of the beach. The lake like a huge puddle, grinning with the reflections of the fall colors well along on the mountains. Today was meant for canoe travel. I would go to the lower end of the lower lake where the Chilikadrotna River begins its long, swift journey to merge with the Mulchatna and the Nushagak, to pour their combined cargoes into Bristol Bay. It would be a paddle of eight and a half miles one way.

It was a joy to travel the flat lake. I dug the paddle deep and the canoe slid along easily, furrowing ripples to either side. The blade lifted with a crisp whisper, and a few silver drops twinkled as they dripped from it.

Near the lower end of the upper lake I spotted a fine caribou bull through the binoculars. He was heavy-racked and double-shoveled, with a snow-white cape and a streak of white running the length of his dark flank. He wore white oxfords, a real dandy. He was a long way from me but curious just the same. He trotted back and forth along the beach. Then a rearing whirl, antlers laid back, and off he went in that effortless floating trot so characteristic of the caribou.

The current caught me and I was swept into the throat of the connecting stream. On either side the banks flashed by. Just a dip of the paddle now and then to keep on course, and I shot out over the gravel bar onto the curling apron of the lower lake.

There was the caribou again, below the mouth of Bonanza Creek. I angled toward him. Off he trotted down the beach, up the bank and into the timber. He soon appeared about a half mile down and close to the beach. He was acting strangely. When I saw him wade into the lake, it dawned on me that he wanted to go to the other side.

Surely enough, he struck out for the far shore, just loafing along. I poured some power into the paddle. At about 300 yards he turned in the water to see me coming on strong. The race was on. He would show me how fast a bull caribou can swim.

The lake at this point was about three-quarters of a mile wide. I was gaining slowly, but I was beginning to doubt I could get ahead of him before he hit the beach. At not much more than 200 yards from shore, I turned him. This gave me a chance to ready my cameras and take some shots. I pulled in along his left side, trying to angle him in to the beach, but he wouldn’t budge off course. I didn’t want to get too close in case he turned on me. He could overturn the canoe with no trouble, and I would be in a jackpot then.