Salty Bear
Part Two: Stories From Quetico Provincial Park
The canoe glides across liquid glass, casting chevron ripples in our wake. The warbling song of a Loon pierces the near-total silence of the late morning as I dipped my paddle methodically into the water, leaving it trailing behind me. A flick to the right rudders the canoe in the direction of a distant island across the lake. Our group chose the place the night before after pouring over topo maps. We wanted a good-sized camp where we could “layover” for a day, bask in the sunshine, swim, rest instead of travel.
The sun hiking toward the peak of the sky bounced bright beams off of the water, tanning my face even under a brimmed hat. The Loon sang again, then plunged under as we encroached, popping back to the surface a safe distance from our boats. No one talked much. Sometimes a place leaves you speechless with its serenity. Sore muscles from the previous day’s paddle relaxed as we moved across the still lake through the boreal wilderness. A feeling bubbled up and settled down in my body. I belong here. Here in the wild on Planet Earth.
Quetico Provincial Park exists on Precambrian bedrock, the oldest exposed rock in the world. The lakes, however, are relatively young, only 17,000 years old, and were created when the Laurentide Ice Sheet retreated during the last ice age, leaving depressions that filled with water. Camping in Quetico means hanging out and sleeping on Earth’s oldest touchable stones.
I’m not sure how long it took us to cross the lake. When the mind lives in the present moment, all sense of time disappears. Mark hollered back from the lead canoe of our pack of three, “I see the landing! This is the place.”
In his twenties, Mark ran a wilderness school, taking young kids from Washington D.C. on camping and adventure trips. He and Jerry took on most of the organization, food planning, packing, and routing for our Quetico trip. Mark was a good scout. Jerry was cheerful and chatty and always kept us laughing. Cary was amazed most of the time, this being his first wilderness trip, and he wielded a mighty sense of humor - Jim Carrey style.
Sherri was a great paddle buddy, strong and confident. Her no-nonsense attitude about everything was refreshing, and I loved having her companionship on the adventure. Happy-go-lucky Chuck was up for most anything, loved to swim, and adored his red wine. He toted boxed wine all over that country just to have a sip every night by the campfire. It didn’t matter to him that it weighed his pack down. He’s Italian. Wine is worth it.
The canoes slid into a pebbled dirt landing on an island that looked like a forested hill sticking up in the middle of the lake. We lifted packs and gear from the boats at shoreline and sent them up the path on a bucket brigade where they lay in a heap near a large rock fire pit. Most of us grabbed tents out of our gear packs and set up home for the night, while Mark and Chuck grabbed snacks from the Duluth packs carrying our food. We sat on the ground in the late afternoon and ate lunch. Mark ran up the trail leading to the top of the hill to see where it led. By the time he came back, Jerry was sitting in his tent, removing his hiking boots. Sherri already lay prone in her tent, napping.
Mark and I set up two hammocks between trees near the fire pit. He laid in one, and I grabbed a box of Saltine Crackers and plopped down in the other hammock. Within minutes Mark was quietly snoring while I loudly munched on crackers, spilling crumbs down the front of my t-shirt. The exertion from the previous day’s battle with the wind on a large lake crossing got to me. I was too tired to put the crackers away, so I laid the box underneath my hammock and dozed off.
Somewhere far away, I heard a branch snap. I was half-sleeping but aware of the sound of lapping water against the rocks on the shore. I heard a rustle. My brain told me it was Mark turning over in his hammock. Go back to sleep. Someone crinkled the plastic bag of crackers nearby. Mark’s probably hungry. Go back to sleep. A series of quiet, happy grunts wafted into my ears. He must be having a great dream in that hammock. Go back to sleep.
Loud crunching, similar to my own when I mowed half a bag of crackers down, jolted me awake. The sound was close to my head. I was alert enough now to remind myself not to make any sudden moves and slowly opened my eyes to a mess of black fur. A stench hit my nostrils. I tried to breathe carefully and not move a muscle. Saying something to Mark snoozing nearby was not an option for fear of startling and bringing on the wrath of the bear who was close enough to rip my head off. It read my mind and lifted its head. The bear’s snout was about a foot from my face, completely covered with salt and cracker crumbs. It blew crumbs out its nose and showered me with disgusting soggy goo. I felt the animal’s foul breath on my face and commanded my eyes not to blink. It lowered its head beneath my hammock again, and I heard the cracker box slide across the dirt. The bear lifted its brownish muzzle with the cracker box lodged on its snout. He shook it off, sending it flinging towards the other hammock.
Mark heard it, said something sleepy, and rolled over. The movement spooked the bear, who lumbered off up the trail leading to the top of the island. “Bear! BEAR! Bear in camp. Get up, people, bear in camp!” I hollered to my friends lounging in tents scattered about the campsite. Mark flew into action, packing up the food we irresponsibly left sitting out on the ground after lunch. He grabbed some rope, and we hung our loot in trees out of reach of the marauder.
I’m not proud of this moment, believe me. It was a 101 beginner, amateur backcountry faux pas to leave any food unattended for any length of time. I learned the hard way that unattended food also means right underneath you in a hammock when you’re napping.
The bear hung out on the hill above camp for a bit longer, plotting his raid on our peanut butter. But we were on it now and made noise with pots and pans. Six of us ran around like squirrels gathering stuff, tightening up our scene. I guess the bear figured he was outnumbered and gave up. We watched him crash downhill through the brush, jump in the water, and swim across the lake to the mainland. Yes, for the record, a bear does swim in the water. Very well, in fact.
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Thanks so much for being here and reading! This series is really fun to write, remembering those trips in the late 90’s that shaped my life. We took photos, but with film cameras. Those photos on paper are buried in boxes somewhere in a storage shed. If this series turns into a larger collection, I’ll dig those pictures out. Until then, I’m using the beautiful work of other photographers who I feel capture the emotion and essence of the story. Feel free to click their links below and see more of their work. EXCEPT for Photo 3 which someone in our group took on this exact trip of Mark and Cary in camp. Thank you Mark for being more organized than I am, and emailing me this photo :) Check out Mark’s literary newsletter here.
What a great read and incredible memories of one of our treks. We always hopped to see wildlife on those trips but a foot away from your face is a scary lucky break. Great job. Thanks for bringing those memories back to life.