Bears have been on my mind lately. A few months back Lily, one of the residents of the North American Bear Center in Ely, Minnesota, gave birth to cubs. Oddly, you could watch the action in real time via a den web cam. I didn’t tune in, as it struck me as voyeuristic, even for a captive bear. Our local public radio channel gave the birth plenty of coverage.
I have a complicated relationship with bears. In my neck of the woods black bears are some of the biggest animals around, putting them in the mega-fauna category. Unlike wolves, though, which are rarely glimpsed, black bears often get habituated to human food, and can become like oversized mice.
These stories are clichéd, but they are true, too.
We were windbound in a patch of thick alders on a river in northern Saskatchewan. Our canoe was half in and half out of the water, rocked back and forth by the whitecaps. I’m convinced the bear hadn’t smelled us when she nosed through the alders to our little clearing. She wheeled when she saw us and crashed back through the alders in the direction she had come from. My friend actually uttered, ‘she’s more afraid of us than we are of her.’ Which I believe generally might be true. But not this time. Not this bear. A minute later she approached from a different direction; we shouted and she again wheeled and ran off. This happened four or five times, the bear inching closer at every encounter. Finally, I grabbed the shotgun from the canoe. My friend stood his ground as the bear approached. He pointed the gun in the air and squeezed off a warning shot. I fully expected the bear to run off, but there was an eerie silence after the shot rang out. She hadn’t budged. Another deafening shot—BLAM—and the bear again stood her ground. She inched closer. My friend took aim, paused, and fired. The bear rolled backwards, stood up. He fired again and this time she was down for good…
The bear cubs have found the hammock in our yard; they paw at it, push it back and forth, test their weight against it. One climbs in, the hammock upends and the little cub tumbles to the grass. We sip our coffee, stare out the window, and laugh.
My wife and a group of teenagers are in a little cabin on the shores of Hudson Bay. They have paddled a river to the delta, and will be picked up by boat the next morning. In the middle of the night they were awakened by scratching. Polar bear? She grabbed the gun, cocked it, tensed and ready. The scratching continued, no more urgent than before. The group was edgy and tired. Hours went by. Nothing happened. The kids gave in to sleep. My wife kept vigil on an overturned five gallon bucket, gun across her lap. At the first light of dawn, she cracked the door and peeked out. The noise was a piece of tarpaper rubbing against the cabin in the wind.
Teddy Bear. Winnie the Pooh. Cold-blooded killer. We project so much onto bears. We are dismayed when they act like wild animals, and we are bothered when they don’t. We want them to be wild but not too wild. We might want to glimpse them, but we demand they be more scared of us than we are of them. When they are not, we kill. When they raid our garbage they are pests. We put them in zoos and give them beach balls to play with. They are both commonplace and awe inspiring. Much like us.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Place entry #4
35 degrees. Sunny and calm.
This is dangerous weather. The staccato dripping of the icicled eaves; snow slides off the roof with a hiss. The dirt road is a quagmire of brown puddles, deep ruts and mud. I’m in danger of letting my guard down, of being lulled into the belief that winter is on its way out; that the green shoots of spring are just around the corner.
I’ve lived around here long enough to know better. I cannot hope for spring; if I do, my heart will break when the snow falls again or the thermostat plunges, when winter wraps us up once more in its icy grip, as it surely will do. The best bet is to live in the moment, to take this day as a pleasant aberration and nothing more.
Today I will sit. Usually the woods are a backdrop to my body in motion. I hike and snowshoe, and swish past on skis. Part of this movement is born of necessity; it is usually too cold to sit still for long. Since today’s weather does not demand constant movement, I’ve opted for stillness.
I cut across the yard in my mukluks and head straight for the pines. The sun is as high in the southern sky as it will get. The pine’s shadows stretch out on the white snow. I walk to the spot of my future shack—woodstove, bookcase, desk and chair—a little octagon clearing hemmed in by red pines.
I turn in the direction I envision my window someday to be, towards a little rise that gives way to the neighbor’s property. Once the memory of my crunching footfalls recedes, I hear the birds. High pitched, squeaky and soft, they are diminutive sounds. I can’t spot them at first; I crane left and right at the volley of calls. Finally, there is the light scrape of claws on bark.
It is a black-capped chickadee; black head, off-white underbelly, grey wings, and puffy little chest. The songs are different in pitch and duration; some sound oddly electronic, like a phone ringtone. I spot a few more chickadees, flitting from branch to branch. I have been immobile long enough to feel completely unobtrusive, a feeling I don’t ever get banging around in the woods.
Suddenly a chickadee flits a little too close to my head. I duck and fling my hands into the air, but by then the chickadee is off on another branch. My heart is racing. I feel foolish to be startled by such a small critter. It hits me then that part of the reason I am so rarely still in the woods is because I want the animals to know I’m there.
Hiking through Yellowstone, scared witless of grizzlies, I played a kazoo incessantly, hoping to head off any animal encounters. But I’m not just fearful of ‘mega-fauna’. A chickadee is enough to set my heart fluttering.
I stay rooted in the spot, amongst the shadows and sunlight; I need to court stillness, to sit still. To overcome fear.
This is dangerous weather. The staccato dripping of the icicled eaves; snow slides off the roof with a hiss. The dirt road is a quagmire of brown puddles, deep ruts and mud. I’m in danger of letting my guard down, of being lulled into the belief that winter is on its way out; that the green shoots of spring are just around the corner.
I’ve lived around here long enough to know better. I cannot hope for spring; if I do, my heart will break when the snow falls again or the thermostat plunges, when winter wraps us up once more in its icy grip, as it surely will do. The best bet is to live in the moment, to take this day as a pleasant aberration and nothing more.
Today I will sit. Usually the woods are a backdrop to my body in motion. I hike and snowshoe, and swish past on skis. Part of this movement is born of necessity; it is usually too cold to sit still for long. Since today’s weather does not demand constant movement, I’ve opted for stillness.
I cut across the yard in my mukluks and head straight for the pines. The sun is as high in the southern sky as it will get. The pine’s shadows stretch out on the white snow. I walk to the spot of my future shack—woodstove, bookcase, desk and chair—a little octagon clearing hemmed in by red pines.
I turn in the direction I envision my window someday to be, towards a little rise that gives way to the neighbor’s property. Once the memory of my crunching footfalls recedes, I hear the birds. High pitched, squeaky and soft, they are diminutive sounds. I can’t spot them at first; I crane left and right at the volley of calls. Finally, there is the light scrape of claws on bark.
It is a black-capped chickadee; black head, off-white underbelly, grey wings, and puffy little chest. The songs are different in pitch and duration; some sound oddly electronic, like a phone ringtone. I spot a few more chickadees, flitting from branch to branch. I have been immobile long enough to feel completely unobtrusive, a feeling I don’t ever get banging around in the woods.
Suddenly a chickadee flits a little too close to my head. I duck and fling my hands into the air, but by then the chickadee is off on another branch. My heart is racing. I feel foolish to be startled by such a small critter. It hits me then that part of the reason I am so rarely still in the woods is because I want the animals to know I’m there.
Hiking through Yellowstone, scared witless of grizzlies, I played a kazoo incessantly, hoping to head off any animal encounters. But I’m not just fearful of ‘mega-fauna’. A chickadee is enough to set my heart fluttering.
I stay rooted in the spot, amongst the shadows and sunlight; I need to court stillness, to sit still. To overcome fear.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Place entry #3
Duluth, MN. 16 degrees. Wind: 17 mph. Overcast.
Today I recruited a self-described ‘expert tracker’ to go walking in the woods with me. I’ve been in the woods with him before, and have been impressed with his ability to spot things that I would otherwise miss. Unfortunately, like me, he’s often at a loss to provide context or explain what he sees. But his powers of observation alone make him a worthwhile companion.
We decide to skirt the edge of the property, to traverse the maze of wrist-thick poplars and young pines, an area I don’t often visit. My usual inclination is to cut straight across the open yard to the stand of red pines, the ‘big ticket item’ on my land The pines are mature--if not quite majestic--and spaced far apart, providing good walking and an uncluttered and pleasant view.
We stroll down the dirt road, to the edge of the property line, and clamber over the head-high snowbank. Before us a deer packed trail meanders through the snowy woods, which spares us the trouble of breaking trail. Almost immediately we arrive at a cluster of deer poop. Ever curious, my partner drops to his knees for a closer look. I follow suit. There are probably 30 or so pellets. They look remarkably like coffee beans, oily sheen and all.
We rise, brush the snow from our knees, and continue along. The trail cuts left and right, a series of flat switchbacks, the chosen path of least resistance. Above us branches clatter and sway in the wind, but at ground level all is still. The dense woods feel fort-like. I understand why animals often sleep in thick cover.
Some of the trees are splotched with lichen (or moss, I’m not quite sure—my partner is equally ignorant). One is the color of fancy mustard, a muted yellow with a hint of brown; the other looks like mold. Up close they resemble coral, with ridged and overlapping petals. My partner unsheathes his hand from his mitten and scrapes at the lichen with his fingernails. A few flakes fall off.
On the base of a dead tree two mushrooms are attached like barnacles on a ship. They look like half-opened Chinese fans, but the undersides are curved like seashells, like cupped hands. The tops are shelf-flat; each supports a little mound of snow.
We go out the way we came in. Before we are back at the road, in the last little clearing, we plop down in the snow to rest. I dig a thermos of hot cocoa from my jacket, unscrew the lid. The thermos exhales. My partner’s eyes grow wide. With mitted hands, I pass it over. He sniffs, registers the smell.
“Thanks Dad!” he says.
We pass the thermos back and forth until it is empty, and trudge back to the road.
Today I recruited a self-described ‘expert tracker’ to go walking in the woods with me. I’ve been in the woods with him before, and have been impressed with his ability to spot things that I would otherwise miss. Unfortunately, like me, he’s often at a loss to provide context or explain what he sees. But his powers of observation alone make him a worthwhile companion.
We decide to skirt the edge of the property, to traverse the maze of wrist-thick poplars and young pines, an area I don’t often visit. My usual inclination is to cut straight across the open yard to the stand of red pines, the ‘big ticket item’ on my land The pines are mature--if not quite majestic--and spaced far apart, providing good walking and an uncluttered and pleasant view.
We stroll down the dirt road, to the edge of the property line, and clamber over the head-high snowbank. Before us a deer packed trail meanders through the snowy woods, which spares us the trouble of breaking trail. Almost immediately we arrive at a cluster of deer poop. Ever curious, my partner drops to his knees for a closer look. I follow suit. There are probably 30 or so pellets. They look remarkably like coffee beans, oily sheen and all.
We rise, brush the snow from our knees, and continue along. The trail cuts left and right, a series of flat switchbacks, the chosen path of least resistance. Above us branches clatter and sway in the wind, but at ground level all is still. The dense woods feel fort-like. I understand why animals often sleep in thick cover.
Some of the trees are splotched with lichen (or moss, I’m not quite sure—my partner is equally ignorant). One is the color of fancy mustard, a muted yellow with a hint of brown; the other looks like mold. Up close they resemble coral, with ridged and overlapping petals. My partner unsheathes his hand from his mitten and scrapes at the lichen with his fingernails. A few flakes fall off.
On the base of a dead tree two mushrooms are attached like barnacles on a ship. They look like half-opened Chinese fans, but the undersides are curved like seashells, like cupped hands. The tops are shelf-flat; each supports a little mound of snow.
We go out the way we came in. Before we are back at the road, in the last little clearing, we plop down in the snow to rest. I dig a thermos of hot cocoa from my jacket, unscrew the lid. The thermos exhales. My partner’s eyes grow wide. With mitted hands, I pass it over. He sniffs, registers the smell.
“Thanks Dad!” he says.
We pass the thermos back and forth until it is empty, and trudge back to the road.
Friday, February 12, 2010
prompt entry #3
I am both connected and estranged from the boreal forest.
When I think of intimacy I think of connection, a sense of easy rapport, a comfort born of a long association. To be intimate is to trust. To risk. To know a thing deeply on a level that transcends language. Intimacy can be felt in the bones, at the very center of yourself. To court intimacy is to throw your body and mind in the fray, to offer yourself up unbidden, and to accept what gets flung back in return.
My connection with the boreal forest is a connection born of my body, consummated through movement, punctuated with stillness. I have bashed my shins to pulp hauling a canoe up shallow rapids; have hooked thrashing fish in calm black pools, and filleted them on flat rocks—blood and offal left for the gulls. Like the caribou I have been driven wild-eyed and scrabbling in a frenzy of thrumming mosquitoes, have run heedless and panicked through the blown-down woods in search of some small reprieve. I have cowered in the wet woods as rain lashed down in undulating sheets, as trees bowed and the lake churned, as lightning flashed its forked tongue across the blue-black sky; I have sprawled naked on a flat rock as the sun beat down and the river rolled by, rock-heat and sun-heat coalescing to where I didn’t know if I was flesh or rock or sunshine.
I cannot name the molting birds pushed downriver by our advancing canoe, a caterwauling mass of feathers and futile wing beats. Wolf prints etched in the sand, our first discovery upon waking. What else have we slept through? We are forever churning downriver, marking progress in the tent at night by inches advanced on the map; our human need to schedule and push onward, a marauding army that takes but does not give.
Once, we misjudge a set of rapids; we scout from a cliff-side a hundred yards off, determine the pitch and swell is run-able, the distance so great, in fact, that the whole scene is rendered static, a snapshot. In the end, the depth and distance betray us. The seething river delivers us into the maw, a sickening seesaw of crest and trough, before the canoe lurches and tips. Floundering, we paw our way to shore as our lives drift off downriver. Along the rocky bank, our clothes hanging like chainmail, we gather up the wreckage. It is then we know we are foreign to this place. We are a lunar expedition whose radio is blown, a downy newborn doe whose ears prick at the howling of wolves.
When I think of intimacy I think of connection, a sense of easy rapport, a comfort born of a long association. To be intimate is to trust. To risk. To know a thing deeply on a level that transcends language. Intimacy can be felt in the bones, at the very center of yourself. To court intimacy is to throw your body and mind in the fray, to offer yourself up unbidden, and to accept what gets flung back in return.
My connection with the boreal forest is a connection born of my body, consummated through movement, punctuated with stillness. I have bashed my shins to pulp hauling a canoe up shallow rapids; have hooked thrashing fish in calm black pools, and filleted them on flat rocks—blood and offal left for the gulls. Like the caribou I have been driven wild-eyed and scrabbling in a frenzy of thrumming mosquitoes, have run heedless and panicked through the blown-down woods in search of some small reprieve. I have cowered in the wet woods as rain lashed down in undulating sheets, as trees bowed and the lake churned, as lightning flashed its forked tongue across the blue-black sky; I have sprawled naked on a flat rock as the sun beat down and the river rolled by, rock-heat and sun-heat coalescing to where I didn’t know if I was flesh or rock or sunshine.
I cannot name the molting birds pushed downriver by our advancing canoe, a caterwauling mass of feathers and futile wing beats. Wolf prints etched in the sand, our first discovery upon waking. What else have we slept through? We are forever churning downriver, marking progress in the tent at night by inches advanced on the map; our human need to schedule and push onward, a marauding army that takes but does not give.
Once, we misjudge a set of rapids; we scout from a cliff-side a hundred yards off, determine the pitch and swell is run-able, the distance so great, in fact, that the whole scene is rendered static, a snapshot. In the end, the depth and distance betray us. The seething river delivers us into the maw, a sickening seesaw of crest and trough, before the canoe lurches and tips. Floundering, we paw our way to shore as our lives drift off downriver. Along the rocky bank, our clothes hanging like chainmail, we gather up the wreckage. It is then we know we are foreign to this place. We are a lunar expedition whose radio is blown, a downy newborn doe whose ears prick at the howling of wolves.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Place entry #2
Today I am studying burls. I’ve seen burls on some of the pine trees on my property, but had never known what caused them or, for that matter, what they were called. After years of ignorance, I finally decided to investigate—online and in the woods.
Burls are like tree goiters—round masses of wood and bark. And, like goiters, they stand out unnaturally, an unpleasant deformity. Almost any time I am out hiking with someone in my prized woods, they invariably ask, with a mixture of curiosity and mild revulsion: ‘What is wrong with your trees?’
Not knowing why the trees are bulbous and distended, I casually shrug my shoulders, though inside I feel a wave of mild embarrassment, as though the burls are growths on my own chin. What is wrong with my trees, anyway?
Well, burls are in fact a sort of deformity, a reaction to stress. Most often they are formed in response to mold or insect infestation—a sort of tree scab. The good news is that, in most cases, burls are merely a cosmetic issue; most trees with burls are otherwise healthy.
The ones in the woods behind my house vary in appearance. Some wrap all the way around the base of the tree, enclosing it like a Christmas tree stand, while others bulge out from one side like a cauliflower ear. The red pines appear to be unaffected; the burls are only apparent on the handful of jack pines. One burl in particular gives me pause. It is one that wraps around the base of the tree. There are two spots where the bark looks split open and wound-like, revealing lighter wood inside. Have deer been scraping their antlers against the burl? Did the pressure build up to the point where it split like a popped balloon? Furthermore—how could I have not noticed this before—the tree is needleless and seemingly dead, as though the burl has already choked the life out it.
Ironically, given their appearance, burls are much coveted by woodworkers due to their (potentially) unique grain. They are considered rare and valuable. Burls are best 'harvested' when the tree is dead, as removing a burl from a live tree is likely to kill it.
Burls are like tree goiters—round masses of wood and bark. And, like goiters, they stand out unnaturally, an unpleasant deformity. Almost any time I am out hiking with someone in my prized woods, they invariably ask, with a mixture of curiosity and mild revulsion: ‘What is wrong with your trees?’
Not knowing why the trees are bulbous and distended, I casually shrug my shoulders, though inside I feel a wave of mild embarrassment, as though the burls are growths on my own chin. What is wrong with my trees, anyway?
Well, burls are in fact a sort of deformity, a reaction to stress. Most often they are formed in response to mold or insect infestation—a sort of tree scab. The good news is that, in most cases, burls are merely a cosmetic issue; most trees with burls are otherwise healthy.
The ones in the woods behind my house vary in appearance. Some wrap all the way around the base of the tree, enclosing it like a Christmas tree stand, while others bulge out from one side like a cauliflower ear. The red pines appear to be unaffected; the burls are only apparent on the handful of jack pines. One burl in particular gives me pause. It is one that wraps around the base of the tree. There are two spots where the bark looks split open and wound-like, revealing lighter wood inside. Have deer been scraping their antlers against the burl? Did the pressure build up to the point where it split like a popped balloon? Furthermore—how could I have not noticed this before—the tree is needleless and seemingly dead, as though the burl has already choked the life out it.
Ironically, given their appearance, burls are much coveted by woodworkers due to their (potentially) unique grain. They are considered rare and valuable. Burls are best 'harvested' when the tree is dead, as removing a burl from a live tree is likely to kill it.
I am struck by my own ignorance. I've walked past those burls hundreds of times without so much as the language to name them. Burls are not goiters after all; they are rare pearls.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Prompt entry #2
To stick your hands into the river is to feel the cords that bind the earth together in one piece.
-- Barry Lopez
What sets a canoeing expedition apart is that it purifies you more rapidly and inescapably than any other travel. Travel a thousand miles by train and you are a brute; pedal five hundred on a bicycle and you remain basically a bourgeois; paddle a hundred in a canoe and you are already a child of nature.
--Pierre Elliott Trudeau
Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing- absolutely nothing- half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.
-- Water Rat from Wind in the Willows
In the same way I briefly ponder what my life would be like had my wife and I never met, I wonder if I would have discovered my love for the boreal forest without the canoe, or if I would have been wooed and won over by another landscape. Or none at all.
A recurring image: I recline in the stern of the canoe; my wife sits in the bow. My paddle lies in repose across the gunwales. The river is wide but not so wide as to be impersonal. The current sweeps us along, past poplars and birch and gnarled stunted pines. A breeze keeps the bugs at bay. I close my eyes and feel the gentle rocking, a rhythmic yaw as ripples gurgle beneath the hull. My world is framed from beneath a wide brimmed hat; a shard of bright cerulean sky, gauzy clouds, blue water, rocky shore.
The gap between us is filled with gear—tents, sleeping bags, pots, skillet, books, journal, map, sunscreen and bug spray, noodles, pancake mix, crackers and jam. Each item stowed neatly in canvas Duluth packs—everything in its proper place. That is the first gift of a canoe trip; the winnowing of stuff, the flotsam of life pared down to the essentials. The knowledge that one doesn’t need to be bloated and bursting with things, that life can be simple after all.
Each night we make home anew. We find a flat spot for our tent, with a rocky outcropping sloping to the waters edge. We unload the canoe, set up the tent, and gather armfuls of firewood. We peel off clothes and plunge into the water, rinsing off the exertion of the day. Later, after supper is cooked and eaten, the dishes rinsed, the food packed up and stowed away, we sip tea as the sun sinks below the far horizon. Tomorrow we will do it all over again, an act of repetition that remains more ritual than routine.
Rivers, lakes, forests, canoe, my wife and I. Those are the ingredients of home, of the best of what life has to offer.
-- Barry Lopez
What sets a canoeing expedition apart is that it purifies you more rapidly and inescapably than any other travel. Travel a thousand miles by train and you are a brute; pedal five hundred on a bicycle and you remain basically a bourgeois; paddle a hundred in a canoe and you are already a child of nature.
--Pierre Elliott Trudeau
Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing- absolutely nothing- half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.
-- Water Rat from Wind in the Willows
In the same way I briefly ponder what my life would be like had my wife and I never met, I wonder if I would have discovered my love for the boreal forest without the canoe, or if I would have been wooed and won over by another landscape. Or none at all.
A recurring image: I recline in the stern of the canoe; my wife sits in the bow. My paddle lies in repose across the gunwales. The river is wide but not so wide as to be impersonal. The current sweeps us along, past poplars and birch and gnarled stunted pines. A breeze keeps the bugs at bay. I close my eyes and feel the gentle rocking, a rhythmic yaw as ripples gurgle beneath the hull. My world is framed from beneath a wide brimmed hat; a shard of bright cerulean sky, gauzy clouds, blue water, rocky shore.
The gap between us is filled with gear—tents, sleeping bags, pots, skillet, books, journal, map, sunscreen and bug spray, noodles, pancake mix, crackers and jam. Each item stowed neatly in canvas Duluth packs—everything in its proper place. That is the first gift of a canoe trip; the winnowing of stuff, the flotsam of life pared down to the essentials. The knowledge that one doesn’t need to be bloated and bursting with things, that life can be simple after all.
Each night we make home anew. We find a flat spot for our tent, with a rocky outcropping sloping to the waters edge. We unload the canoe, set up the tent, and gather armfuls of firewood. We peel off clothes and plunge into the water, rinsing off the exertion of the day. Later, after supper is cooked and eaten, the dishes rinsed, the food packed up and stowed away, we sip tea as the sun sinks below the far horizon. Tomorrow we will do it all over again, an act of repetition that remains more ritual than routine.
Rivers, lakes, forests, canoe, my wife and I. Those are the ingredients of home, of the best of what life has to offer.
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