Chapter 4

This is a Beautiful Spot! (Or Is it?)

Dear Grands, Campsite 13 was big. There was a picnic table and a fire pit straight ahead, to the right a steep cliff, at the bottom, a pretty little stream. To the left were other campsites, almost all having trailers, made to withstand disasters. Only one site, not counting ours, had a tent. Two young men sat on the hood of their car, whittling with Bowie knives, their hound dogs sprawled out nearby.

Beyond the fire pit, was a forest, a deep, dense forest. A narrow path led into the forest… into the unknown.

As Grandma cooked burgers she said, “This campsite is a mess.”

“Yes, people should be tidier,” I agreed, feet up after finally erecting our little orange and green tent. (It fell over and trapped me inside only two times. Okay… three.)

“Well,” Grandma said, putting a hundred syllables into the single syllable word. (Do you know what a clue is? You may have figured out that Grandma was giving me one. Good for you, it took me a while.) Anyhow, using a big garbage bag, I picked up all the debris that surrounded us… the plastic, the wrappers, the empty cartons that had been licked out. And the bones… chewed up rib bones, chicken bones torn apart, other animal bones (at least I was pretty sure they were animal bones).

I thought I was finished but Grandma asked ‘what about the rest of the garbage’ which lay along the path that led into the deep, dense forest… into the unknown… the wild unknown. I took that path, all by myself, picking up plastic and wrappers and bones… a million bones. Chewed up bones. Crushed bones. Annihilated bones. It was a yucky job. Soon, the path narrowed until I was so far into the deep, dark, wild unknown that when I turned around, I could no longer see our orange and green tent.

Somehow I made it out alive. I was never so happy to see Grandma. And she wasn’t even wearing her orange and green bikini.

“This is a beautiful spot,” she said.

“Let’s eat before it’s too late,” I said, though I should have said, “Let’s get out of here before it’s too late.”

We’ll talk again soon, Grandpa.

(Here’s a picture of me going into the unknown.)

It's a Long Story

 Chapter 3. “I’ve got a bad Feeling”

Dear Grands, at Rock Lake Campground, we spoke with Ranger Granger (he wore a name tag) who told us, “It’s full except for Number 13. But… you see any bears on the way in?”

Which was when I began humming, ‘If you go to the woods today.’ Ranger Granger heard me and joined in, ‘You’re sure of a big surprise. If you go to the woods today, you better not go alone.’ I took the song back, ‘If you go to the woods today, it’d be better if you stayed home. Because, today’s the day that…’

“Be quiet!” Grandma yelled.

“Sure your husband’s off key but that’s not the point,” Ranger Granger said, “You see, people prefer not to use that campsite.”

“We’ll take it,” said Grandma, proving the ranger wrong about what people prefer.

“What kind of equipment do you have?”

‘That was rude,’ I thought but I didn’t tell Ranger Granger that. Instead, I said, “That was cryptic.”

While he reached for the dictionary, Grandma said, “A little orange and green tent.”

“Odd colour combination,” he said.

“It matches her bikini,” I explained.

“How big?” he asked.

“It’s a very small bikini,” I said, not that it was any of his business.

“I was asking about the tent,” he said.

“It’s tiny, too,” Grandma said, blushing… embarrassed about the size of our orange and green tent.

“Well, that could be a problem.”

Tired of the confusion, I said, “What’s wrong with campsite 13?”

“There could be danger,” said Ranger Granger. “And, you know - number 13… superstition.”  

“Look, we already said, we’ll take it.” Out of the blue suddenly, I felt brave… despite the foreboding.

“Just don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Ranger Granger said, piling on the forebodingness.

Love Grandpa. (This photo shows a bear-way into the wild unknown)

Still Bear Story 4

Chapter 2. Preparations

Dear Grands: When we first married, Grandma took me shopping with her all the time. At least shopping for an orange and green tent was ‘bear-able’ (Get it?).

Side note - the tent had to be orange and green to match Grandma’s new orange and green bikini.

Another side note - I was always glad to help pick out running shoes for Grandma, hoping she would join me in jogging. But, Grandma always said she wasn’t a jogger unless she was ‘jogging my memory’ with remarks like, ‘the floors haven’t been vacuumed since your vacuuming injury – surely it’s healed by now,’ and ‘the dishes won’t put themselves away.’

Anyhow, with new tent stowed in our little brown Toyota, the next question was ‘where to pitch it?’ My thought was ‘the back of the closet behind all the other stuff we didn’t use,’ thinking of the dangers ahead. Sometimes, it’s better to keep your thoughts to yourself.

You’ve been to Algonquin Park right? Well, that’s where Grandma decided we should try out our little orange and green tent. (We still have that tent. You can borrow it. You might wonder ‘how did you fit in?’ But, it was fine for Grandma and me. We were the size of Munchkins at the time.)

Once at the park, we got a park map at the main gate. It was a good map but it neglected to show the location of ‘bear country.’ Turned out the map-makers decided not to mark out ‘bear country’ because those words would have to be plastered all over that darned map… which nobody bothers to tell you. Maybe they do now. But not in 1974. Here’s the thing - The map also did not identify the ‘bear convention centre.’ Turns out the human name for the centre was ‘Rock Lake Campground.’ Wouldn’t you know it - that’s where we were headed.

Writing this story, even after all these years, gives me the willies. I think I’ll take a break here to catch my breath.

Here’s a picture from bear country. You may think that’s a bear. Easy mistake. Same colour and all.

Love Grandpa.

Cape Breton Island.

Bear Story 4. Hey, What’s that Bear Doing to that Little Orange and Green Tent?

Chapter 1. How We Got There

Dear Grand kids:

After we got married your Grandma and I moved to Toronto and rented a small downtown apartment with a view of an alley. (It was a pretty nice alley. Alleys are under-rated. I will show you some of Exeter’s nicer alleys when this virus goes away.) I was hired by the Premier of Ontario, Mr. Davis (though I called him Bill. As a joke he used to say, ‘Who are you again?’). I laid out big bucks for a mattress although Grandma did ask where the rest of the bed was.

We bought a car right after we bought the rest of the bed (sometimes the man doesn’t win the argument.) Your Grandma said she might need the car for a quick getaway, which I didn’t understand – it wasn’t like she was a bank robber.

The car was a 1974 Toyota Corolla. It was brown and it cost $1,400 brand new. Grandma wanted a red car to coordinate with her favourite outfit but ‘red’ paint would have cost an extra $5.00. We needed the extra $5 for food… such as gummy bears. Which I refused to eat because gummy bears always bring back the trauma.

I should mention that it was good having a car because I was tired of using the subway. (Fun fact – did you know that the Toronto subway was not built by a sandwich company?)

We stayed in Toronto until I got lost one night while jogging. I was gone for hours. Luckily, your grandma found me. Unluckily, we were now both lost. But at least we were together… lost together (which is our theme song). 

Left with no other choice, we moved to London, where right away, Grandma told me “Let’s buy a tent. I want to go camping.”

That’s when I discovered that Grandma was unaware that bears have it in for me.

Love Grandpa.

(That’s Grandma and me 1972.)

Getting it Right

Thanks go to my son Tim and daughter Beth for shooting and reshooting my cover photo until they got it right and to Ben Forest for awesome design work. The Devil’s Elbow, my fifth Jack Beer mystery, is finally out in a limited print run. E-book version soon. This is the photo we picked for the cover, depicting ‘the green lady of the swamp’ at the devil’s elbow, some time before 1980. (Sorry to all who are unfamiliar with local folk lore).

Email me if you want a paper copy. Stay safe everyone.

The Devil's Elbow

Working on the cover for my new Jack Beer mystery with Ben Forrest and selected this picture taken by my son Tim for the back page, because I believe it makes me look intelligant.

Pulp Fiction

You’d think the old noir detective thrillers would be a writer’s gold mine… to stir the imagination… to spark plot lines perhaps… to help with character development. Nope - false trail though I love the covers.

(Scroll back to story 1.) True Stories shouldn't be posted on April 1st

Bear Story 3 (Part 2) Why I am not Fond of Bears

Dear Grand-kids… my next episode

It was very dark when the girls parked at their campsite. No one winked at me so I went to look for my tent. But darn it, I didn’t have my flashlight with me. Not that it was in my tent either. No, my flashlight was in my desk, in my bedroom, back in Windsor, along with other stuff I needed, like a warm sleeping bag. And a change of socks.

I wandered around blindly looking for my tent. I didn’t know where it was. It didn’t know where I was either.

Lonely and forlorn in the mountains, I was about to give up when I bumped into some people who may have been some of those hippie types. They were drinking something called Newfoundland tea. I agreed to try some, mainly because the fire was warm and I was lost. The tea tasted like bird bath water so when these hippies weren’t looking, I dumped my mug out.  One of the girls winked at me so I decided to leave.

An hour later (or it could have been a week), I found my tent. It was torn to shreds. And there was a note pinned to it. But I didn’t have a flashlight, as I mentioned - I couldn’t read the note. So, I crawled under what was left of my tent and went to sleep.

In the morning, I read the note. It was signed by a park ranger. It said that a bear had tried to get into my tent looking for food. As it was only a pup tent, the bear was too big to use the tent flap. Which in any event was tied closed. (I understand bears aren’t good at untying knots). That was why the bear went through the top. But it got tangled up in the nylon and made a mess of things. Darn bears seldom clean up after themselves.

I felt the ranger’s implied criticism was unfair. I would have explained that I didn’t keep food in my tent but the ranger was not there to hear my rebuttal.

Now that I was awake, I needed to find the restroom. I rummaged around looking for my toothpaste. Turns out the bear ate it. (I guess some bears are worried about bad breath after all).

To conclude, I am not fond of bears.

Love Grandpa.

PS In case you are wondering, these are ‘exactly as it happened’ stories, the kind you’ve heard about. Do you think this would make a good documentary?

Note: This bear habitat is my painting, selected by my orthodontist 7 years ago for his contest calendar. The rest of the pictures weren’t nearly as good though to be fair the other entrants were in grade school.

Bear Story 3 (Part One)

Dear Grandkids – Here’s another story:

Bear Story 3: or I Should Never Have Gotten in the VW Bug with Those Nameless Girls. (Part One)

You will remember that in story 2, two nameless girls, Goldman and I narrowly escaped from the great bear invasion of the summer of 1970. (You should try to find the newspaper coverage. Google ‘strange but true events that happened to Grandpa before he met Grandma.’) The real truth is, I rescued those girls and Goldman but was too modest to say so in story 2. Of course, Goldman would have helped if only he was wearing pants.

That morning, after the bears left, I had to decide whether to get back on my bicycle and carry on for the west coast or to stick around. It was a beautiful campground and the park rangers hadn’t kicked me out, so I decided to stay one more night. Besides, I didn’t know where the bears went. For example, if they were heading for the west coast as well, would I bump into them along the way? And is a five speed bicycle faster than a four legged bear? (There are no three or five legged bears, by the way). I did know that a five speed is faster than a pack of coyotes, something I discovered back when I was on my way through the prairies.

So, having decided to stay one more night, I actually pitched my tent at a campsite because I deduced that the picnic shelter was actually a bear club house in disguise. But, what to do with my day, I wondered. That was when the two girls with no names came up with an idea. “We’re going to take a drive to Banff. Want to come along?” One of them winked at me.

Interesting side note - Today, Banff is a tourist town. Back then, it was home to ten million hippies. I was not a hippie. Even though some people accused me of that. Okay, I had long hair and a scruffy beard. But, I wasn’t wearing bell-bottomed jeans. Or love beads either. (I lost them when I fell down a cliff earlier that week.)

Back to the story… “What about Goldman?” I said.

“We’d ask him,” they said. “But what if he didn’t wear pants?” One of the girls made a gagging noise. It was hard to question their reasoning. Besides I believe they thought I was cute whereas Goldman had that bad habit of his – you know, not wearing pants. Anyhow, I climbed into the backseat of their VW beetle (aka VW Bug.)

Another interesting side note - Back home in Windsor, your Great Uncle Ian and I had a red VW Bug and a black one just in case the red one wasn’t working. (Ask Grandma about why it was a good idea to wear Wellingtons in the passenger seat of the red one, especially when it was raining.)

Back to the story - The day was sunny and the mountains were brown and green and mauve and blue with snow caps. They were beautiful. And the day started out beautifully too. Cruising along the Trans Canada.  But then, up ahead one of the girls with no name spied a traffic jam.

“What’s wrong?” asked the other girl with no name.

“I don’t like the looks of this,” said the first girl with no name. She was the one who winked at me, earlier that morning.

We came to a stop at the end of a long line-up of cars. I got out, even though it’s a struggle getting out of the back seat of a VW Bug when the front seats are occupied. The first girl with no name helped by giving me a push. I think she pinched me too. But I can’t be sure. This was almost 50 years ago.

I walked ahead a ways and soon learned what the hold-up was. A bear was in the middle of the road. Just standing there, defying the world. The world-defying bear started walking toward me. I thought, ‘Oh no, is this what my life is going to be like from now on? Bears bumping into me, day and day out, until I’m an old man?’ As you may know, that is not how my life turned out. Other than, I am an old man.

Even though early that morning, I scared away the bear that came into the picnic shelter, I wasn’t sure I could pull off such a feat a second time. So I retreated to the car. And I squeezed into the back again. This time, I was sure the first girl with no name pinched me.

“Turn the car around,” I said.

The first girl with no name looked over her shoulder. “We’re stuck here. Everybody’s stuck.” Then she winked at me.

The bear was still coming. And his brothers and sisters and maybe his first and second cousins had joined him. It was like a whole army of bears. And they were coming straight for us. The captain of the bears, the first one I saw, was now at the front bumper. He slowed down. He spotted me. I would have crouched down but it was too late.

I learned then that some bears are bullies. Out of all the cars and trucks in the traffic jam, this bear decided to pick on our VW Bug. It’s so little. Not much bigger than the bear himself. This bear (I’ll call him ‘Bruno.’) stood on his back legs (not that I’ve ever seen a bear do a hand stand) and plunked his front paws on the roof. The little Bug shook all over (worse than Elvis Presley).

Luckily, the first girl with no name had already rolled up the window because bears are known for having bad breath. Bruno pushed. The VW leaned. Bruno jounced, which is something your Great Grandpa used to do to the bed to wake up Grandma Jane in the morning, (she was a little girl at the time) though this kind of jouncing wasn’t nearly as much fun for us.

Bruno shifted two steps over and looked through the back window. I couldn’t scootch over because the girls’ gear was in the way. He licked the window. I deduced it didn’t taste very good because he only licked it once. I tried to stare Bruno down. Bruno stared back and jounced. While Bruno and I were busy in a stare-down contest, the girls screamed their heads off.

Whether it was the screaming or my staring, Bruno eventually got back to all four legs and sauntered away, strutting along like the king of the castle. He stopped at the next car, to make the man behind the wheel turn prematurely grey.

In the end, the bears left the scene. Likely there was another party to attend. And so, we made it to Banff and spent the day, returning to the Lake Louise campground after sunset.

The End…. But just for today. This saga wasn’t over. Well, it was over for the girls with no name. But not for me. So, watch for Part Two. ‘Bears Can be Dastardly.’ (By the way, the PEI critter pictured is not a bear.)

Bear Story 2 for the Grands

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.