Post by Roe on Mar 27, 2016 11:44:51 GMT -4
Salvation of the Twins
It was a bit before midnight on September 11th and I was heading north for bear camp. The highways were conspicuously deserted, even though I was still an hour south of that five mile ribbon of concrete and steel that spanned the iridescent blue waters of the Mackinac Straights, the crossing of which announced arrival in God’s country. My thoughts should have been filled with visions of bruins, past, present, and future. Instead I was morose and sullen, trying to make sense of all I had heard and seen over the last 16 hours. Shortly after arriving at work this morning, I listened while the unthinkable had played out on the radio, as surreal as that infamous Orsen Wells broadcast. It wasn’t until just a few hours ago that I was able to view the horrors on television that far surpassed those that had been building in my mind’s eye. For today wasn’t any September 11th…it was THE September 11th.
Compounding the mood was the fact Bucky and I had gotten our signals crossed some months ago, he applying for the first week’s hunt, while I put in for the second. I was heading up half a week early so we would have a least a few days overlap, my season wouldn’t start for another four days. NPR radio droned on with updates and suspected body counts and it would be another 8 hours before I would pass the orange gate with the sign that read “Welcome to The Jungle”.
The following days were a blur. Everyone was edgy and out of sorts and focusing on the task at hand was difficult and unrewarding. Even the bruins seemed to be affected, bait hits were inconsistent and bear sightings were all but nonexistent. The nightly campfires were hollow and solemn. By the end of the week and his departure, Bucky had yet to see a bear and the few other regulars in camp had no better luck. I began my hunt on my regular bait, one I’ve claimed squatter’s rights on and repeatedly expressed the wishes, only half-jokingly, that when the time comes my ashes be scattered here. Over the next 5 days, this highly productive bait proved to be as inactive as all the rest this year and with one day left to hunt I needed to make a decision.
Bucky’s bait had been ignored since he had headed home. Trapper spoke of a nice 300 pounder that had been visiting that site before the start of the season and I headed there this morning with a fresh bucket of bait to see how things looked. A few hundred yards short of the bait, as I slowed for another long section of muddy ruts, I spied the recent tracks of a single bear, their size and depth a good indication they were left by the bruin Trapper had described. With renewed vigor I reached the bait and found the huge, hollow, white pine stump cleaned out. I rebaited, jamming a number of five foot long, eight inch diameter logs in the mouth of the stump to keep smaller scavengers at bay, then high tailed it back to camp to prepare for that evening’s hunt.
Arriving back at the bait at 3:00 PM, I quickly settled in and took stock of my surroundings. The “blind” was just a few yards inside the woods and I was sitting behind nothing more than two young maples with a light screening of brush between them to act as cover. The shooting lane was only 35 yards long, ending at the massive stump, the ATV trail intersecting it from the left no more than five yards in front of me. To my right front was a small overgrown clearing, a long abandoned lumber staging area. An almost imperceptible breeze came from my left front, carrying my scent into the mature timber behind me. The stage was set and I was resigned to sit like the proverbial stump.
Quite often there is no warning a bear is coming to the bait, it seemingly materializes out of thin air before your eyes. This bruin was like that. One second there was nothing, in the next blink there was a glossy black silhouette in front of the stump that looked suspiciously like a bear. Without conscious thought, my hand slowly moved towards the .350 leaning against the maple by my right leg as I sized up the bear. It was quickly obvious this wasn’t the big guy, rather the body shape and head size indicated it was a sow, near 200 pounds in weight. But before my hand could close on the rifle, two small black forms popped up on the top of the stump.....cubs! My hand retreated to my thigh and I leaned back in the chair to enjoy the show. This was the first time I was honored by a visit from a family group.
The cubs scampered around the top of the stump voicing their impatience as the sow sauntered directly towards me down the shooting lane. The closer she got the more I lowered my head to shade my face and eyes from her gaze with the brim of my boonie hat. She walked up to the intersection with the ATV trail just 5 yards away, turned broadside, and peered up the track, her nose constantly testing the air. A long minute clicked by. She was close enough I could see her long eyelashes. Quite a comely bruin, I thought.
Satisfied all was well, she ambled back to the bait, climbed the left side of the stump and began to open the bait, the cubs dancing with anticipation along the rim. She grabbed the cover logs with her teeth, effortlessly pulled them out of the stump, then with a flick of her head tossed them clear. As soon as the last log was out she went in head first, just her ample rump showing above the rim. The cubs began squalling, surprising me with their volume, obviously angry they were being blocked from the tasty morsels below. Just as quick as she went in the sow was back out and dropped off the stump as the cubs literally dove in head first.
She stood in front of the stump, nose up and head swiveling as she tested the air, then began to walk the shooting lane towards me again. This time she didn’t stop at the ATV trail but continued on a few more yards, put one front paw on a log later measured at 11 feet from the toes of my boots and looked past me, through me, into the timber, that nose never stopping its search. My head remained bowed, watching her from beneath the camo brim. She turned to my right, sniffing, sniffing, and I mentally checked the wind. It was still at 10:00. She took a few steps, stopped to sniff, her head held high, then gradually began to circle clockwise as she moved away to my right, stopping every few steps to test the wind. I slowly swiveled my head to keep her in my vision and began to calculate when she would hit my scent stream, wondering how she might react when she did. She never made it, turning a few yards short and shuffling off into the clearing to be swallowed by the waist high grasses and vines. I could track her progress for a short while, until I could no longer hear her push through the tangle. I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding and focused my attention back on the cubs.
Shortly the twins were back on the rim of the stump where they spent the next quarter of an hour laying on their backs or sides licking their paws and grooming, lazy and content, their bellies noticeably distended. I cursed the fact I had left my camera in camp and tried my best to burn the idyllic image into my mind. Suddenly both cubs jerked to attention and stared off in the direction their mother had exited. I didn’t hear it, but she must have called to them, probably a clopping sound made with her teeth or a tongue click, subtle vocalizations a sow will make to keep in contact with her offspring that can be heard for quite a distance. The cubs sprang to their feet, jumped down from the stump and scampered off into the brush to join her.
I waited a half hour to be certain they had left the area, then quietly slipped out and walked back to my Honda, even though there was nearly an hour of shooting light left. I didn’t want to ruin a perfect evening and for some reason shooting a bear this night, even the 300 pounder, just didn’t seem all that important. I very leisurely made the long trip back to camp. The shadows may have been getting longer but the gloom and darkness had lifted, and when I caught a small clump of mud in the teeth, dislodged from a front tire no doubt, I realized I was even smiling, the first time in well over a week. I gave a quick prayer of thanks. No matter what was happening in the real world, the bears would continue to be here, the solitude and wonder would remain, and there would always be a fine place to scatter my ashes.
Roe
