Dinner With Bears

by
Jerry D. McDonnell©2006

                                                     

Published in Dan River Anthology, 2006

                Fish guts, salmon and halibut. Hands slimed. The flesh vacuum packed. The cleaning table washed off with a hose. Tubs full of slimy fish guts and skeletons—carcasses—lay disemboweled in the tubs beneath the cleaning table. If it was war it would be worthy of a Matthew Brady photograph, a still of death, but there was no visible emotion. Like war, you handle it.

                That’s the way it is near the top of the food chain. Alaska is meat country. Vegetables are the luxury of people in Anchorage or further south in milder climates. Even Alaskan herbivores are a tough breed. I, being an omnivore, wanted to be a part of it. I couldn’t remember when it had started. Maybe when I was a little boy on the Mississippi River and saw that big catfish Grandpa caught. That fish was so big it could have eaten a little boy like myself. After that I only wanted to be a part of it. It wasn’t an obsession; it was a need. All things are relative to . . .

                 “You about done?”  Dave called from the deck of the lodge. “Two bears are coming across the flats, heading this way.” All the clients, binoculars glued to their eyes, were on the deck of the lodge admiring the bears.

              My thoughts on the matter were simply that I was tired. The battle today had been won. Forty or so salmon from the creek and off the halibut charter 680 pounds of white meat logged in on the scale. The halibut crew was elated; it was a record. They were having cocktails with the clients. I didn’t mind. Being alone was a preference. Talking to clients was okay, but it was near the end of the season; I preferred to be left alone. Take a hike up the valley and watch the sky move across the mountains. Just sit there on a high ridge looking up the valley I may never get a chance to walk into. A valley that people never went into, that probably no one had ever went into. Only bears and moose and other critters ventured into that valley. Thick patches of brush coated the valley floor and the lower slopes like shaggy body hair on a mountain-sized bison. If you squinted your eyes you could see the mountain breathe. You could feel the pulse. If that big ole bison decided to rise and shine all hell would break loose and the mountain would roar as it rocked, which considering that we were at the foot of Mount Iliamna, an active volcano,  the possibility wasn’t remote. From above, rock cliffed, steep mountain slopes fell into the valley offering no paths, no footholds. Where a bit of soil was offered, brush and skinny, wiry timber hung on like warriors fighting to the death. When the wind blew through the valley those tough trees sang a death song, but still they survived to fight another day. These mountain slopes and valleys were not hospitable to visitors, but they didn’t have to fight civilization; they could afford to take the punches and wait. Among themselves, like the armies of ancient times, they rested within sight of each other and met on the battlefield at an arranged time . . . like gentlemen. As you looked up that valley where the headwaters of salmon spawning began, surely there lie a magic land. A land where bears had parties, wore hats, sang songs, danced until dawn and slept all day dreaming of bright futures. A land promising a separate reality. A land of realized visions. At least I liked to think that. It was a thing you couldn’t tell anyone, least they think you were going native . . . whatever that meant. I once told that to Dave after a few too many and that is what he said, “You going native?”  Ever since then I caught him looking at me once in a while with a smirk on his face. Some things are only for certain people to know, and some things should always be secret.

                Most of the clients were practical people, realists, a product of Western philosophy, which had watchwords like “conquering nature, manifest destiny, wake up and smell the coffee.” They were conservative in their thoughts, called themselves “realists.” They looked at nature as a natural resource, meaning materials to be extracted and termed a shopping center or new housing a “development.” I figure the natural planet is a comfortable home that doesn’t need much remodeling. The neighborhood is doing just fine; the house don’t need fixing, are my watchwords. But most people didn’t understand that so I kept quiet. I only know I wanted to become a part of it.

“You need some help with that load?” Dave, the lodge owner, called again from the deck, cocktail in hand. “Those fish guts and carcasses aren’t going to get any sweeter. You had dinner yet?” Dave was beside himself over the pounds of halibut that he, as captain, had brought in today. It was a personal record. The halibut charter was Dave’s first love. Dave didn’t want to be a part of it; he had found his place. He appreciated it more than most and had been raised among the natives (who didn’t treat him kindly as a boy) but Dave had become a businessman. 

                 I realized I had been daydreaming again, in a trance actually, but they all thought it was daydreaming. They couldn’t know. I smiled up at Dave and shook my head. I hadn’t had my supper yet, but I didn’t want to be among people just now. As the sun began to duck down over the mountain, I snapped out of it and didn’t waste any time dumping the last load into the trailer. I didn’t want company. I didn’t want to have to narrate life to anyone tonight. Before Dave could look back over the railing, I had the three-wheeler pulling away from the lodge. The cart behind the three-wheeler was stacked to the gunnels with guts and carcasses. It definitely had an odor.

Once away from the lodge, I slowed down the machine. My 350 Remington Magnum rifle was slung across my back and my camera was at the ready around my neck.

                Bears. Lots of bears. Alaskan Coastal Brown Bears. Twenty today I had counted since sunrise. Some from the travels to and from the fishing hole and the one guided bear viewing party I took out. We had named many of the bears: Patches, Little Bear, The Twins, Momma and the half-growns, Peaches and her cubs, Gloria and the trips (for triplets), Hershey, Lumpy to name a few. But every day new bears showed up we had never seen before. The berries were ripe, the grass in the meadow was green with protein and the salmon were running. It was summer in Alaska and each year on this stretch of coast, the Cook Inlet on one side and the mountains of the Alaskan Peninsula on the other, it was an annual reunion.

                I was iffy about naming the bears. I was sure they already had names that they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell us. That’s another thing you don’t want to tell people who aren’t able to be a part of it.

Getting from the lodge to the trail you couldn’t space out. The short dirt road doubled as a runway and a road for the three and four-wheelers. Most of the airplanes—Cessnas—landed on the beach at low tide, but all three neighbors had an airplane and they always landed on the road. A fella had to be watching for aircraft landing and for bears coming out of the trees. Fortunately, we only had three neighbors and the man who flew in our clients always landed on the beach: the rest was wilderness, officially named as Lake Clark National Park and Preserve. A good thing was no cars or trucks, just the airplanes, the 3 and 4 wheelers and the boat motors, which was enough. Today, all three Cessnas were parked beside their houses.

               Where the road takes a ninety-degree turn toward the beach, the trail begins. The trail is an entrance. Most people couldn’t realize that. People only see what they want to see. Leaving the road and the lodge behind takes work. You have to see it, want to become a part of it. If you don’t, it will look just like everything that everyone else sees. It will look just like those photographs of wildlife that everyone takes and puts on calendars and in magazines. You have seen them: bear standing at top of waterfall, mouth open, salmon leaping out of water in front of bear’s mouth.

                 Less than a half-mile down the trail a large boar brown bear was walking on the trail toward me. He was several hundred yards away, walking real slow like they often do when they are on a break. The breeze cooled the back of my neck. That bear knew where he was going. I slowed down the engine and was putting along, he walking toward me on the trail, me putting toward him. He was a big fellow, almost a golden color. I had seen him before, but hadn’t named him. I once took a picture of him sleeping on the edge of the timber. I had three clients with me that day. They got their pictures too. Since then I had seen him a couple more times, always in the same place. Bears guide their day with forethought. This bear knew what he was doing. The distance between us was closing, 50 yards now between him and me, the load of fish odor passing over my shoulder into his nostrils. I cut the engine of the three-wheeler and focused the camera. He was still too far away for a good picture. He kept walking, slowly, lazily, head dropping but ears up. I think he was in a trance. Twenty yards and closing. I took one picture and the camera was out of film. Dang! I turned the three-wheeler around, retreated up the trail about 100 yards and then turned around again. The bear was still coming, strolling. I reloaded the camera. It was decision time. What do I do if he keeps coming? Again, 20 yards and closing. He was a handsome bear. Mostly all golden with a high hump that shinned bright in the sun. His head was not a wide as some bears, presenting chiseled features and a strong jaw line. It is always hard to tell the age of bears, but he looked like an older boar. I put the camera down and looked him directly in the eye, something that is not recommended by some. In that moment we communicated. We knew we would not harm each other. There was an understanding in this time and in this place that we were not enemies. Not at this moment. He stopped. Time stopped. Then he turned and walked back down the trail, stopped once, looked back at me over his shoulder and then continued. I let him take the lead. I followed him, putting slowly, oh so slowly, behind him down the trail.

                   A mile or so down the trail, on the edge of the creek, is where we dump the carcasses. The bear turned off the trail to the dumping site. I stopped on the trail. The bear went directly to the dumping site 30 yards off the trail, turned and looked at me, then stepped 10 yards or so off to the left of the dump site and sat down facing me. I drove in, dumped the load, went back to the trail and turned off the engine.

                   That evening I had dinner with the bears. Four other bears were already coming out of the woods. Soon, three other bears arrived. A hundred yards to my left a large, very black, brown bear rose on its hind legs, and out of the grass two other slightly smaller coal-black bears joined her. It was Momma and the Half-growns as I called them because they were second year cubs and now almost as big as their momma. They came lickity-spilt at full gallop toward the dinner. A couple of bears tried to hold their own against the threesome, but didn’t give it much effort and soon the other bears starting munching on the grass in the meadow making due with salad for now. After having some entrail delicacies, Momma and her kids carried away a carcass each and the other bears came back. I now counted eleven bears within a hundred yards. A couple of small cubs were playing in the tall grass of the meadow, many of the others were grazing like cattle on the grass and a few were cleaning up the carcasses.

                    I took an energy bar out of my daypack and leaned back on the seat of the machine. A breeze off the Cook Inlet blew through my hair and the screech of an eagle drifted from down the beach. Momma and the Half-Growns walked away from the site; they were soon swallowed into the woods. The big golden bear, which had started the party, looked at me, nodded his head and walked toward the beach. I sat there until it was very dark. I could hear bears all around me. In the twilight, one laid down not 15 yards from me. It had been a long day; we were all home; we were all civilized. I unloaded my rifle. After a good night’s rest, another battle would be fought tomorrow.

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