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September 2006 - Article 3
 As with Goldilocks, my bear encounters are always too cold or too hot. When I was a kid, my dad took me backpacking in California (a state officially symbolized by a grizzly), at Yosemite (a Native word for grizzly), following trail markers of Smoky (a cartoon grizzly), through an area long devoid of grizzlies. Nevertheless, I lay awake all night waiting for Ursus Horribilis to appear and eat my father, an event that my childish mind expected to be both heartbreaking and cool to watch. Instead, we encountered a black bear so used to campers that he could light a barbecue grill and make sign language for “Please, no onions on the hot dogs, folks; they give me wind.” Recently, while hiking the Kootenays, the first blood-curdling growl came from a distant chainsaw; the second came from my girlfriend’s stomach; however, the third came from a cave guarding the only escape off the rock ledge we were scaling. Perhaps, I should start at the beginning. Landing in Castlegar, I sucked in mountain air and gawked at an elk herd grazing just beyond the runway. A black flyrod case hung on my right arm while a brunette flight attendant hung on my left. (Some days are definitely better than others.) We drove a rental car past a cliff-hugging caravan of big horn sheep to the Slocan River. Highway 6 shot us North thru the narrow valley cradling this gently looping, translucent-green glacial melt. Arrived in Passmore at lunchtime. Three stout Russian Doukhobor sisters served us borscht and rye bread. They were seamstresses, specializing in wedding dresses and coffin linings. Not as eclectic as it may seem. When the pacifist Christian Doukhobors fled Czarist persecution to Canada a century ago with the help of Leo Tolstoy, they came espousing communal landholding and withholding of communal data, like marriages and deaths, from the government. Our sewing siblings also explained how female forebears had fished the Slocan using only their headscarves. Back on the road, we soon stopped for gas at a co-op near Vallican. Unexpectedly, a glitter-and-rainbow van lurched down the forested hillside, jolted over the concrete embankment, and pulled up to a pump. The scraggly-bearded driver hopped out in tie-dyed shirt and overalls. I asked him curiously, “Why didn't you use the road?” He answered matter-of-factly, “I don't have a license.” To those who know the Slocan’s history, this almost makes sense. In 1846, The Oregon Treaty extended the 49th parallel border to the Pacific. Slocan area residents, of course, were neither consulted nor considered. Yet, their lives were forever changed. Relatives and trading partners along the North and South Columbia River were arbitrarily divided into Canadians and Americans. Strangers beyond the uncrossable Eastern and Western mountains became their countrymen and overseers. Furthermore, the Columbia River highway, which allowed BC surveyor Gilbert Malcolm Sproat to describe the Kootenays as nearly “the most accessible region in the province,” was blocked off. The Slocan literally became a backwater. Ever since, residents have had a tendency to take legislation from afar with a grain of salt (or even a pinch of marijuana). Thus, when hordes of draft-dodging American hippies showed up in the 1970s, establishing communes and fishing the Slocan with willows, few eyebrows were raised. Slocanites are a law-abiding people, but there is some confusion in the valley as to whose laws they are abiding. Local ways often prevail. In Winlaw, we had dinner at the Hungry Wolf Café. Ate too much, too fast. After this big bad wolfing, what could be more appropriate than for us little pigs to retire to a straw house? Actually, it was a dome-shaped straw-bale-construction house and things got totally inappropriate. The owner was a fortyish Scandinavian free spirit. She wore Daisy Duke shorts and a bikini top, behind which her unbridled she-appendages galloped like wild horses as she bounced around before us and sprawled across her unmade bed. The advertised B & B turned out to be the room she occupied, where we were enthusiastically informed the three of us could share everything. Driving away, I pondered kinky stuff B & B could stand for, while my airline honey harangued me in her native French for taking 1.6 seconds too long rejecting the threesome concept. Our road veered sharply upward. Cedar, fir, hemlock, and pine punctuated a left-side view of the valley floor receding to dizzying depths. A hairpin turn offered near-fatal panorama of a timber mill operating far below. Slocan Lake then appeared. This stringbean-shaped pool is 28 miles of bull trout and kokanee, surrounded by maples and cottonwoods, wedged between the granite flanks of the Selkirk Mountains. The jagged Valhalla Range lies to the West with the undulating Slocan Range to the East. My mind slipped into a state akin to worship. In Silverton, we rented a cabin. The immaculate log home, owned by Swiss “healing-crystal-importers,” housed the cast of Snow Falling On Cedars during filming. A fitting location for an Anglo-Asian tragedy. In 1942, politicians chose this valley to hide away over 7,000 Japanese Canadians who had been herded into livestock pens at Vancouver’s agricultural exhibition lot after having their possessions confiscated. Here, future environmentalist David Suzuki saw tall trees through a child’s eyes. Here, Dr. Hiroshi Kamitakahara healed patients and fished with a bamboo rod. Here, they waited for their country to decide they were no longer a wartime security threat and for jealous neighbors to decide they were no longer a hard-times economic threat. My heart slipped into a state akin to shame. The next day, I went angling in New Denver. Straddling a gravel bar, I worked my graphite rod back and forth, pushing a hand-tied sculpin farther and farther over the chilly abyss. My sinking line repeatedly pierced the realm where monsters be, but leviathans of the deep paid no heed. Over 200 meters down, miners once lost a boxcar full of silver. I figured if I were lucky enough to snag a bar of bullion, the Department of Fisheries and Oceans would likely make me throw it back. Prospectors also fished this spot—with dynamite. I decided to retain a little dignity and go with a dry fly instead. Good call. I unrolled my floating line down the shallows like a reptilian tongue, but instead of snatching an insect, planted a black stonefly between thick bulrushes and a dead log, like pizza delivery to the home of Mr. And Mrs. Kokanee. Several catches later, I paused for a bite myself. On this particular day, I was practicing the highest form of angling: catch and release into a skillet full of butter. Drank one Kokanee Beer for each kokanee salmon to maintain essential carb/protein balance. Right away, a slightly overcooked fish on the edge of the pan spoke. No, really. I bent down next to his charred body (sort of like that scene in The English Patient), as he confided a longing for his lost Pacific cousins beyond those Columbia River dams. Now, two things occurred to me hunched over listening to that frying fish: 1) my hair smells kind of funny when it catches fire and 2) we should probably give rivers more of the protection they give us. From Doukhobors fleeing political persecution to suburbanites fleeing spousal criticism, rivers have always offered refuge. Plus, from East Coast Celts to West Coast Natives, we’re descended from people who listen to rivers, so why not a talking fish? Somewhere back in the mists of time, Native fishermen paddled into this remote valley and called it “Slocan” or “place of bull trout.” I, too, had ventured in and reported a fair amount of bull. Nevertheless, I write this in earnest: police cars gather and news copters circle when urban freeways snarl up for minutes, so maybe it isn’t extreme to note the long-term blockage of the arterial waterways draining our continent or even to hope that someday these emerald currents will flow again unhindered to the sea. At sunrise, mademoiselle and I stood on the Slocan Lake shore. Shining waters lapped against our boots. On the opposite side, an ancient aboriginal painting adorns the sheer rock face ascending from the glossy deep; thick red ochre portrays an enraged bear accosting two people. History would soon repeat itself. We set off along Carpenter Creek to Sandon. This ghost town lies in a crevasse prone to wildfire in summer, avalanche in winter, and a minute or two of sun each day. Still, thousands once lived here. Why? Because silver-bearing galena ore was thrust up on the site 140 million years ago. Then, American Jack Seaton and Frenchman Eli Carpenter stumbled onto it in 1891. The bonanza was on; the partnership was off. From Sandon, we hiked up Idaho Peak. A weathered forestry watchtower creaked in the summit wind while mountain ranges wrinkled away as far as the eye could see. I was awestruck. In such a place, the myth of human importance erodes faster than any structure. Coming back down into thick brush, we heard heart stopping bear sounds—some bogus, some real. One thing I’ve learned from bears is to keep my distance from other large predators, which we did. (By the way, you can learn a lot from bears. Ursine biologist Greg Risdahl tells me that they adapt not just winter hibernation but also summer snoozes to their environment. Sleeping by nature’s rhythms can help people too. Remember early to bed, early to rise, makes you healthy, wealthy, and wise? Think about it. Natural lighting fights infection and depression, dawn rising promotes early bird productivity rather than night owl consumption, and sunrise watching fosters a spiritual sense of one’s niche in the world. Yes, only geeks go to bed early, but healthy, wealthy, wise geeks can seem pretty hip. Risdahl also points out that bear and human teeth reveal natural diet. Molars and premolars are for grinding grains, fruits, vegetables, legumes, and seeds, not milled flour, fruit juices, veggie bars, soy milks, and oil blends. Waste not, want not. Canines and incisors are for tearing lean meat such as venison or trout, not fat-packed sausage or pre-ground hamburger. Bears who trade forageable fare for human-processed garbage suffer ill health. Ditto for people. In Tolstoy’s War and Peace, Count Bezukhov credits his transformed vitality to meeting a man so close to nature he is part of it. We’re all part of nature and we’re all omnivores. Meat lovers attempting to live as carnivores risk stroke and heart disease; vegetarians attempting to live as herbivores risk atrophy and diabetes. Respecting nature means embracing its blueprint and accepting our place in it.) We spent the rest of the afternoon trekking across ridges and ravines to an ethereal blue glacier. Sat too long by the glowing ice field, till dusk began to fall. Alas, the dumbest word in all of wilderness travel: shortcut was uttered and agreed upon. Leaping from boulder to boulder checkerboard style, we advanced down an old rockslide, barely arresting our momentum at a precipice. Peering over the edge, I watched a steady stream of gravel trickling into oblivion, like the blood draining from my face. We crawled sideways along the lethal drop-off till reaching another dead end. Our only way out was back up the long descent with an alpine night fast approaching. As we turned to face this lone dismal option, a previously unseen hole in the rocks transformed gloom into horror. A territorial growl began as a low rumble. I was quite sure my lovely companion would smell tasty to a bear; I only hoped my hiking socks would neutralize the appeal. Looking around for ideas, I saw nothing but fresh berry-laden scat. Grrrrrrr! I trembled visibly and whined softly, “Oh ursus…oh Jesus…oh help us!” If I’d been cad enough to try out-running the agile Kimberly-Marie, I couldn’t have. If I’d been chivalrous enough to lay down my life, she’d simply have been left on that stone pantry-shelf for a later meal. There was nothing to do but inch our way up to and beyond the den mouth. With each noise, we froze. Otherwise, we moved at approximately the speed of tree growth in a desperate attempt to give the grizzly no particular motion worthy of a charge. After what seemed like only a year or two, we were safely away. That night, I discovered Kimberly-Marie was not just physically fit; she knew her astronomy too. As we lay down to sleep under the stars, she exclaimed passionately, “Uranus is cold and surrounded by gases!” To show respect for her expertise, I commented, “I’ve met only a few women who respond with such enthusiasm to a heavenly body.” Her expression was confusing, but I guess space buffs are an odd bunch. She insisted we leave. As I drove off toward Kaslo, an enormous bear lumbered onto the road before us, moseying obliviously down the middle at an excruciatingly slow crawl with his glorious backside lit up in my headlights. Well, that’s the end. Quite a tale. No buts about it, I was really bummed. Guess when it comes to grizzlies, hindsight is always better than… |