During
the summer, whenever I need to get away - to get some distance
from my painting or just spend a few peaceful days alone --
I go to the cabin (a tiny refuge 14 miles across the lake
by boat or plane). On one of these visits last June I came
back from a hike to find the door to the cabin pushed open
and a huge still steaming pile of bear scat in the middle
of the floor. It was a little unnerving but when a quick look
around outside didn't reveal any actual bears, I relaxed and
started to clean things up.
Surprisingly
little was disturbed inside the cabin. I'd left a bowl of
tomatoes on the table. It was still there, upright but empty.
The quarter pound of butter left on the counter was also gone.
The covered water bucket had been knocked over - probably
because it was used as a stepping stool to reach the avocado
on the windowsill. The bear had taken a bite out of the avocado
but left the rest squished on the floor. My drawing portfolio,
which I'd left open on the sleeping bench was now closed.
I opened it up and there on a clean sheet of paper were two
perfect front paw prints - one of which had squished avocado
on it.
I
thought how much fun it would have been to watch this little
drama (from a safe distance). But I also felt very foolish
for leaving the door unlatched and for not bringing a rifle
or even bear spray. The wise thing to do at this point would
have been to close things up securely and fly home. Instead
I shouted a few "Hey bear, this is my place" noises
and settled down with my book.
An
hour later the bear was back. I made more loud noises and
banged some pots and it ran off into the trees. Half an hour
later back it came; this time materializing silently on the
deck and pushing its nose against the window. I shooed it
away again and took the old tin bathtub and stood it up on
its flat end just outside the door to act as a shield accepting
the fact that I might not be going out again that night. The
next time there was a noise outside I opened the door ready
to shout and bang on my shield and came face to face with
the bear a meter away. I slammed the door, flipped over the
the little bit of wood that secures it from the inside and
banged in a couple of the largest nails I could find for good
measure. This time the bear didn't leave. It just went a short
distance up the outhouse trail and stood up and rubbed itself
against a little polar tree. After pushing over the tree it
stood looking at the cabin for a while and then started nibbling
the bushes and turning over logs to look for grubs. Obviously
the noisy arm-waving little creature in the cabin didn't pose
much of a threat.
I
spent a scary night huddled in the loft with a bottle of bleach
and an axe listening to it padding around the cabin and wondering
when it would come in the door or a window.
The
next morning there was no sign of it but I felt sure it was
just sleeping somewhere nearby. So I packed up the rest of
my food, bolted the cabin door, told the bear (very loudly)
that I was leaving and flew home.
Back
in Atlin I had to face what could have happened. Friends reminded
me of the unpredictability of bears, of the terrible incident
at Liard Hot Springs a few years ago when two tourists were
killed by a black bear while a dozen unarmed people watched
in horror; of the outfitter's wife in Alberta who was picking
berries, her rifle leaning against a tree nearby, when she
was stalked and killed by a bear; of the two hikers in Kluane
Park who did all the "right" things when they met
a grizzly on the trail yet one of them was killed.The stories
are endless and the dangers are real.
