Dear Grandkids
Here is… Bear Story 2. Or How I Escaped the Great Bear Invasion of 1971
In the summer of 1971, your Great Step Uncle Terry and I planned to bicycle across Canada, agreeing to meet up with our friend Mike on the way in Calgary.
Well, Terry chose to play baseball over riding a two wheeler to the west coast. So, I hitched a ride with my friend Nelson who was moving to Saskatoon and shipped my 5 speed by train. And that’s where I started. (Fifty years ago, travel in the west was mostly by wagon train and the buffalo often chased me into the ditch.) Quite bravely, and even though my route was uphill all the way, I arrived in Calgary ahead of schedule to find that my friend Mike had sent me a letter. He changed his mind. He fell in love or something dumb like that back home, in Windsor. Mike was a farm boy. There’s no accounting for their behaviour.
Undaunted (being quite brave and all that) I set out for the Rockies. I could see these mountains up ahead. They were so high they’d interfered with the satellites (had satellites been invented by that time.)
The road was so steep and the headwind was so strong that sometimes I went backwards even while peddling like a crazy person. (It’s hard to keep your balance on a bicycle that’s going backwards.)
Eventually, I arrived at the Lake Louise campground. Because it was so cold, that night I decided to sleep in a picnic shelter where there was a wood stove. Two girls who drove a Bug thought that was a good idea as did a weirdo in buckskins who when asked his name said, ‘Goldman’ something he made up on the spot. (He gave himself a new name everyday.) The girls didn’t have names. Their parents forgot to do that. (Unless I just forgot – 50 years is a long time.)
Anyhow, we cooked hotdogs and beans on the woodstove and stayed warm around it, drinking tea (using the good china) and telling jokes. Mostly the knock-knock kind. Later we unrolled our sleeping bags in the far corners of the shelter.
My sleeping bag was as warm as a grocery bag, so I got up at six in the morning to feed the woodstove. Sitting on a piece of firewood and blowing into the stove, to get it going, I thought I heard something. Something inside the picnic shelter.
Spooky. But, as already noted, I was quite brave.
It sounded like a 500 pound WWF wrestler with asthma. I figured Goldman was congested. (And thought I should check for a throat lozenge in my knapsack)
Then along with the heavy breathing I heard something else. You know what a dog sounds like walking on cement, nails clip clopping. That’s what I heard, only louder. Much louder. Maybe, I thought, Goldman was getting up to go to the bathroom and he didn’t remember to pack toenail clippers.
I looked around the corner of the stove to say ‘good morning to Goldman’ but instead of Goldman, there, looking me in the eye, a little arrogantly as I remember, was a ten million pound black bear.
Being nose to nose with a black bear is an unusual thing to happen to a city boy who didn’t pack enough socks for the trip. But never mind that. The point is – have you ever been so surprised that you can’t talk? That’s how surprised I was. Otherwise I would have asked the bear to leave. Even though the shelter wasn’t private property, I was there first.
As we looked at each other, I was thinking, ‘How hungry is he?’ The bear was thinking, ‘Skinny runt, no spare meat on his bones.’ At least, that’s what I hoped he was thinking. After a time, I concluded, ‘This can’t go on, staring at each other. You have to do something.’
What I decided was to say, ‘Shoo,’ and ‘go away,’ but not too loudly because bears are easily annoyed if they are shouted at.
The bear shrugged (It was like he was bored with the conversation) and turned, clip-clopping to the door. (Bears don’t use toe-nail clippers either.)
I jumped up and warned the girls. ‘Bear,’ I yelled. They screamed. Though perhaps they thought I said, ‘Bare’ because it turned out Goldman didn’t own pajamas.
Anyhow, in response to my warning, Goldman had jumped out of his sleeping bag, wearing not a stitch of clothing, not even a hat.
I said, ‘No, really, there’s a bear.’ That’s when Goldman and the girls caught a glimpse of the rear quarters of Pooh’s third cousin once removed, leaving the shelter. More screaming ensued.
We gathered at the window openings and looked outside. (Goldman now wore a pair of pants, which was the polite thing to do. The girls were fully dressed. As was I. Even though this was the early ‘70s.)
Here comes the scary part - a bear raid was now in full swing. Bears were everywhere, tearing apart ice boxes, jumping on picnic tables, stealing romance novels and peeking in tent doors, asking if anyone had spare change or something like that. After a while, the bears finished scaring the campers, happy to eat most everyone’s breakfast.
Calm now, the girls, Goldman and I cooked up another feast of hotdogs and beans… food always tastes good whenever bears have paid a visit.
And that’s how I escaped the great invasion of black bears circa June 1971.
The end
By Grandpa Hundey… to the best of my recollection.