Close Encounters of the best kind by Leland Rucker McNeil
River Sanctuary, Kamishak Bay, Alaska
Creek Bear is just out of reach, about seven or eight feet away. I can almost touch
him, and the scars of his hard life are as visible as the mud and grass
caked up and down his mighty spine. Hes
squaring off against another eight-hundred pound boar in the riffles of Mikfik Creek. Im
in a trance, trying to take in the immensity of his immense,
disfigured
back, but I want to grab the camera at my feet even my point-and-shoot would yield
an unbelievable close-up. I begin to kneel, ever so slowly
until, about
half-way down,
my knee pops. Big,
resounding pop. All twelve of us hear it. Crrrraaaaccck. So does Creek Bear, who instantly looks around over his left shoulder straight into my eyes for just a nano-second before returning to his adversary. They
circle,
waddling
in the shallow waters of the gathering tide for twenty or thirty seconds, both salivating
and showing agitation, before Creek Bear sits down in the middle
of the creek,
a classic signal of submission, says
our
guide, Derek Stonorov, a ten-year McNeil veteran. He probably thought for that moment that you were another bear coming up behind him, he grins. Once he saw it was you, he was much more interested in the bear in front of him. And he laughs. Its
another
day at the McNeil River sanctuary. June
30
1999 The
adventure of our lives had begun in
Anchorage International Airport, sitting and waiting for our
10:30-ish Era Aviation flight to Homer,
and we
notice
a young woman several seats down reading the book about McNeil, River of Bears. As
our flight is called to the gate its open seating and we begin lining
up to board, I ask her if she is going to McNeil River, and of course, Molly Baumann is. A
marine biologist, Ted Mickowski, overhears us talking and says thats where hes
going, too, and he sits down next to Molly in the row behind us on the Dehaviland Dash-8
double prop for the flight to Homer. Our conversation catches the attention of David Cary,
a professor of finance at a California university, about three or four rows back.
Suddenly, weve become a group. Its
a thirty-five minute flight over the Kenai Peninsula, kind of cloudy but patches of ground
open below us, quick glimpses of thousands of small lakes glimmering in the morning
sunlight. By the time the hostess can serve us drinks and a cookie, were circling
into Kachemak Bay and the town of Homer. We
hail a couple of cabs to schlep us over to Kachemak Air Service, a family business on
Beluga Lake, a small body of water between the Homer Spit and town proper five
minutes from
the airport. There we meet Barbara de Creeft, who owns the airline with her husband, Bill;
its one of the oldest, best-known air-taxi services in the area, well recommended,
and rightly so. We
deposit our four bags and cooler of ice. David, Ted, Billie and I head over for lunch, our
final real meal for four days, at Cups, the place which once was the location of The Homer News, the place where Steve and Sharon,
our good friends in Anchorage, met. We have another pleasant meal and some good
conversation on the outside deck of this fine restaurant. Like us, theyre pretty
excited and anxious about our next four days. We
all pick up some last-minute stuff as we walk along Pioneer Avenue (wine for Billie, rum
for me, and for Ted, who spends half his time in the Alaska and the other half in Maui and
had just gotten his McNeil list when we got to Kachemak Air, a pair of hip waders (thirty
bucks cheaper and still better than the ones we bought in Boulder). By
the time we get back, Mary Gilson, a lawyer from Anchorage, and Jenny and Jon Pascal, from
Seattle, have arrived at Kachemak Air. Molly and the other two lottery winners, Dave and
Cindi Harper, are flying over on Beluga Air, just a couple of docks down the lakefront
from us. Well all be leaving at about the same time since theres a short
period of high tide at McNeil Cove, a window of opportunity that comes roughly at 5:30
p.m. today, when were able to land. Otherwise, itll be tomorrow. I
was concerned about drinking water out there, especially after reading the internet
posting of a McNeil traveler from last August that suggested the water wasnt
drinkable and that you should bring bottled water or,
like him,
spend a couple hours a day filtering water. So
I had an empty five-gallon container I had bought in a Fred Meyer store in Anchorage to
last us the four days, but Barbara quickly reminded me that if I filled it, it would
constitute 40 pounds of my allotted one hundred pounds each of carry-on. Besides, she
said, the water was fine out there. We
wound up only taking the ice in the chest and a couple of bottles of Evian I bought at a
convenience store within walking distance as a precaution. We boiled creek water from a
stream near the camp for our cooking, and when the Evian and ice in the chest ran out, we
drank the creek water itself the last day.) Barbara was right. Ken
Day is the pilot of the de Havilland Otter, a plane built in 1954 that has been owned by
Bill de Creeft for 23 years. Day is a middle-aged,
burly, bearded, no-nonsense guy, the perfect bush taxi pilot, and he gets us loaded up and
seated. Like
de Creefts other plane, a storied 1929 Travel Air S6000B Limousine of the
Air, the 55-year-old Otter is still a state-of-the-art airplane and an important
link in the history of Alaskan bush travel, able to haul seven of us and all our gear in
style, just as its shipped eminent photographers Galen Rowell, Kennan Ward and
Michio Hoshino to McNeil ahead of us. I didnt buy it, but there was a book in the
Anchorage bookstore on the planes history in Alaska. De
Creeft has painstakingly kept this Otter in perfect shape; it looks almost brand-new
floating next to the dock there on the placid lake/runway. (On
the way back, when
I
stepped out onto
the pontoon, Day chastised
me for stepping too
heavily and possibly denting the wood.
Thats how it happens, he says.)
It certainly lives up to its reputation in Days capable hands. The take-off is sweet
and smooth
and after
getting a glimpse of the bed and breakfast where well return four days hence, were
banking out of the bay south and west on a scenic, if noisy hour-long ride. Before
we take off, Ken gives us the basic
rules and doesnt say anything
else during the flight; wouldnt have made any difference if he did the sound
of that one enormous propeller makes it impossible to hear anything else. The
plane is equipped with headphones to deaden the noise, which is considerable. My favorite
feature, however, is a little thing that you pull out of the wall above you which gives
you air, just like in a jet, only its bringing in real air from the outside. Very
cool. Looking
down, Im thinking Im seeing whales or porpoises in the water below
among the whitecaps the water is that clear. Were
probably at about 1,500-2,000 feet, and as we move away from the Kenai coast, we begin to
catch nice southward views of some ghostly, shrouded, white peaks which I later determine
must be from Katmai National Park or perhaps Kodiak Island. The real eye-popper is a
close-up fly-by of Augustine volcano and the island its creating near the mouth of
Kamishak Bay. Utterly breathtaking is the volcano, a sentinel for the remote bay. The
Alaska Range is visible to the west; the Readout and Illiamna volcanoes
dominate the west side of Cook Inlet. Below, huge, dark chunks of rocks seem to lurch out
of the water. Sheer, dun, towering cliffs line either side as we head into McNeil Cove.
Im filled with anticipation as we get the first view of our campground area while
the Otter circles before dropping ever so lightly into the cove. Ken
works the plane over closer to the spit, finally walking in the water to haul it over near
the shore, where Brad is waiting to moor it while we unload. We had to wear our hip waders
in the plane, and now we know why; there are several yards of water to wade to get to the
sandy spit. The
sun is bearing down, and its really hot when we finally get our stuff on the sand.
From there we transfer it into a small motorboat, where Brad will haul on the last couple
hundred yards nearer camp. The Otter takes off again, and theres no turning back
now. After
months of planning and preparation, were here, baby. Its
Brads first year at McNeil hes a summer intern
from the university in Fairbanks.
He has some problems with the motor, and at one point, just as he gets ready to take off,
my foot gets tangled in a rope; I get it out of the loop just before it would have drug me
into the water. Whew. After
we get our stuff up in the campground area and pick our spots, we gather at the cook
building so Brad can give us the rules. When
we arrived at Brooks Camp last summer, we were marched immediately into a ranger cabin and
given a heavy-duty half-hour lecture that included a video about bear behavior and many
specifics about what we could and couldnt do, tips on storing food and an admonition
to stay at least 50-100 yards from bears. Brad
was a bit more succinct. If
you come across a bear, he said, move out of its way and let it pass. Bears
arent allowed in camp, he added. But anywhere else, including the luxurious,
grassy meadow strewn with wildflowers behind us where the outhouses are, they have
the right of way. If
one comes into camp, we should find Brad or another guide, and theyll chase them
out. All
cooking takes place and all food is stored in the wooden structure in which we are
sitting. Other than our daily guided walks out to the bear areas, we were only allowed in
two places out of the immediate camp. We could go north up the beach and out on the spit
or down to the creek to get water. Nowhere else. After answering a few questions about food and cooking, he also informs us that Larry Aumiller, head of the project for most of its existence, is going on vacation tomorrow, and he wont accompany any of our daily visits out to the bears. We also find out that the bears are at Mikfik Creek and havent moved on to the better-known McNeil River location yet. Im pretty bummed at both of these two pieces of information. I
had known that the time period we chose was a transition period, one where the bears
sometimes moved to McNeil and sometimes not. But the
news about Aumillers absence was especially depressing. Since hes one of the
worlds foremost authorities on bear behavior and the key person in this program,
Aumiller was one of the reasons we were looking forward to this adventure. His
quarter century here
qualifies him as knowing as much about bear-human interaction and behavior as anyone
alive, and
we both were looking forward to
learning
from him. Somewhat stunned, we pitch our tent in the afternoon heat, just as we had practiced the last month. Our work attracts mosquitoes and other nasty little aphids or gnats to our overworked sweat glands and makes it mighty uncomfortable. (Shit. Which bag did I put the Skin-so-soft in, anyway? It
was the lowest point of the trip and it was soon to change. About
fifteen minutes later our Streamside Four is up and secured to guy ropes on both sides to
help anchor it against this wind-swept dip in the beach. The new, stronger stakes we
bought after we heard about the high winds up here dont fit in the Keltys tent
holes, so we improvise and use those for the guy ropes, which works out better, anyway. I
have to secure it a couple of times after the overnight wind blew the stakes loose in the
sand, but our tent offers us a good place to rest after the long days. Full
disclosure: This is our first camping experience. A couple weeks ago we went with a friend
into the foothills above Boulder and spent two nights car-camping to learn to pitch the
tent and sleep outside. But other than my Boy
Scout trips in the fifties and a couple nights with the Old Goats more than a decade ago,
we are virgins. Not that we havent spent many hours getting ready, buying a tent,
finding just the right hip waders (an especially vexing and time-consuming task), but
its a first. Most
people get their tents up before we finish, and a group heads out to the beach and up
north, the
only area where were allowed to be away from camp.
Im kinda bugged that were so slow and that we cant join them, and
Im still finishing up the tent when movement catches my eye near the outhouses. The
brown movement in this lush green canopy can only mean one thing: Ive already
spotted our first bear. Two, actually; this sow has a spring cub, and Brad and a couple
other tent stragglers join us, sharing binoculars and spending ten-fifteen minutes
watching the mother and cub, which is so small it often gets lost from view in the grass,
foraging through the wildflowers about 50 yards away. Its the only spring cub
well see the whole trip, and finally the two come running through camp past our tent
and out to the beach. We
make our way over to the other side of the camp area, just
above
the tidal flats, which are already quickly receding and mostly mud. We watch the cub, now
less than six months old and no more than twenty or thirty pounds, clamber up on
moms broad back for a piggy-back ride across the tidal mud flats to the sandy spit. Soon
they head off up the beach north toward the walking group, which gives everyone their
first chance to follow Brads admonition as they pass on the beach some minutes
later. The
anticipation and frustration are long gone. Weve
made contact. Dinner
is a simple snack of Steves tasty, home-made smoked salmon with Premium crackers and
a rum and pineapple-orange juice drink.
Since were all pretty much confined to the cooking cabin, were all getting
acquainted, but its crowded with the folks in the group ahead of us, and its
already late by the time we finish. Were in the
tent in our bags
just after sunset, around 11:30, and a
half a chapter of Easy Riders, Raging Bulls
and Im out. July
One Were
up
at about 8 a.m., after I spend time with
the Gary Larsen bear cartoon gallery that Larry has taped on the inside walls of the
outdoor privies. Reading old favorites reminds me how much I still miss my Larsen jolt
every morning in the paper. I
am on the lookout for bears as I make my way out through the alder bushes, past the old
wooden cache and the winding path to the outhouses. I see nothing brown moving, but I did
admire the scratch marks on the outside of the door area of the john itself. Seemed pretty
fresh and recent. Maybe that female and cub we saw yesterday. Then
its over to the cook cabin, where Ive got to get our stove going to boil water
for our breakfast. Ive never tried the white-gas stove we bought in the Anchorage
REI, and Im pretty nervous about it.
Im much more filled with dread about working the stove than I am about heading out
for the grizzly creek. When
I enter I notice that Dave, from Montana, already has bacon frying on a pan on his stove.
The smell is great, but Im
intimidated
even more as Im stumbling about. I
had managed to get a little gas into the stove, and Dave, noticing my bumbling naivete,
good-naturedly helps me get it started, reminding me in a nice way that I should perhaps
read the directions first and maybe fill it completely with gas, which I somehow manage to
do from a container just outside the front door next to the woodpile. Back
inside, I dig out a pot from our stuff, fill it with local creek water out of the big red
hard-plastic containers on the wall and get it on the stove, which is burning bright blue
like its supposed to. Im pretty relieved. At
8:30 Brad comes over, and we decide to leave at 10:30 for our first daytime trip out to
the creek. Its pretty crowded in the cooking room, with the last group of ten people
still around tonight, along with several alternates from Homer. Its
Brads first time in charge of the daily operation, and were also joined by
Steve, a state biologist who knows a lot about bears but is enjoying his first visit here
more as observer. Though
the smell
of the bacon
is overpowering in this small cabin,
we are still approaching our oatmeal with some enthusiasm, since itll be our only
food until lunch out on the trail somewhere. Cindi
and Dave prove to be indispensable
when it comes to food and cooking.
For one,
theyve learned the art of cooking outside and in camp, and their hot bread in the
mornings becomes a part of the whole experience. For another, they
have coffee bags, a concept that somehow had eluded me before we left, and theyve
got plenty more than they need and willing to share the bounty. Since I thought we were
going to go without caffeine for a few days, our daily hit of Folgers tastes
heavenly, good
to the proverbial last drop. Im
still pretty amazed that were allowed to take food out with us on our daily hikes to
Mikfik Creek. We can eat right there while were in the midst of the bear population,
which seems bizarre after reading stories about the olfactory powers of bears, that they
can smell food MILES away. But it doesnt worry
me; if its OK with the guides,
its OK with me. Wonder if they like Snickers? We
settle
into a morning routine. While I cook oatmeal and get water for coffee, Billie fixes us a
peanut butter and jelly sandwich each and tosses in some fruit, Snickers and trail mix,
for the field trip. It takes awhile to get our gear for the day together, and except for
water, we do a good job of it all four days: cameras, film, lunch, our new creek chairs,
extra shoes and rain gear that we never wind up using. We
get to meet Larry Aumiller. Hes shy but friendly. He admits that even though
hes eager to see his wife and young daughter, he knows hell be missing things
he doesnt want to miss with the bears every day hes not out here. Still
excited, 25 years later; hes totally
committed to the program and his point of view that it is possible for humans and bears to
co-exist, a notion that many people, even some of his superiors in the Fish and Game
division, still find abhorrent and scary. When
asked
if hed like to write a book about his experiences
and feelings about bears, he
says that he would like to do something, only hes no writer. He does admit that River of Bears is a little too antiseptic, and he
would like a chance to offer his real feelings about bears. (Id like to ghost-write
that one.) When
I ask if he has seen the web page that shows a picture of him apparently stopping a bear
from getting too close thats captioned The Man Who Says No to Bears, he allows that
hes heard of it but quips, I wish it said, The Man Who Says Yes to
Bears. Hell be gone tonight along with the last group, at around five thirty,
a couple hours before well get back from the creek. We have brought copies of the
book for him to sign, which he does after we take off. The
walk out to Mikfik Creek begins with a few hundred yard stroll down the beach from camp.
With our binoculars I can count off 10-12 bears up to a half mile away in this enormous
green field of sedge grass. When I scope them, they look much like buffalo grazing in
Yellowstone in the scope. Were all having fun trying to count how many we see out
there. There must be at least fifteen or twenty. After
we cross a creek, its tidal mud and sedge wetlands pretty much the rest of the way.
Here is where the hip waders come into play, and though Billie falls the first
time we hit the heavy gray muck and has some problems with her knees, with a little help
from our friends we
manage to get out
to the
riffles, a rocky shoal area along
the creek with
gentle, five-foot
banks. As
were walking below a ridge, we pause to watch the brown shapes, and you can see
easily that theyre not bison, even though theyre mostly munching away like
buffalo, looking around or stopping to sniff the air or move along before returning to
their grazing. They
are enormous Alaskan brown bears. Brad
stops us after he notices one that weve passed has
decided to walk
behind
us on our path.
So he motions for us to back against the moist wall of the ridge, which is leaking
water from some spring above. The
bear, a beautiful brown color, strolls by on the path about 12 feet away. She swings her
head our way a couple of times but never wavers in her gait. Brad thinks its Teddy,
a 20-year-old sow that we will see plenty of in the days to come. Its our first real
close-up,
but certainly not our last. And, a bit surprisingly, Im not scared in the least.
She could come closer and I wouldnt mind. We
are here because chum salmon, a favorite food of the bears, are migrating to
a lake a
couple miles upstream. The bears are grazing in the sedge grass for the most part, but the
sound of the fish splashing as they hit shallow spots brings them loping into the riffle
areas, where they employ various ways to catch the salmon, an important, high-protein item
in their diet that can help swell a male to more than a thousand pounds by the time
theyre ready to den in the fall. Later
the bears will move over one drainage to the more famous McNeil River falls site, the one
you see in most of the Discovery programs on
Alaskan brown bears. But during our four days here, about 20 or 30 individual bears are in
the Mikfik drainage going about their daily lives, their
paths crossing again and again, as close to a bear social gathering as you can get. We
cross the creek in a shallow area the tide is low this morning and position
ourselves along the banks where the bears fish. We find our places between the trail and
the stream bank, and we set up equipment and get our stuff out. Were mostly just
going to be sitting, observing the bears lives for the next four days. It
doesnt take long before a couple of bears walk over near us, and our cameras lenses
are snapping like sharks at hunks of meat. Brad
identifies a few by name; they use names here
not in an anthropologic sense, but just
to keep track of individual bears over the years. Sometimes,
there are several bears around; other times not. We get used to the ebb and flow of bear
life. Things dont happen quickly here; this is no amusement park ride; the thrills
happen at the pace of real life. As Larry
put it in an interview:
This isnt Disneyland. This is bear life, and we are only here to watch, learn
and munch our Snickers bars in wonderment. We
get our first look at Creek
Bear,
who
passes in front of us at about 15 feet. This
big bear, pretty ugly by bruin standards, is
salivating. We
know its Creek Bear because of the big scar across his nose, the result of some
long-ago quarrel with another bear. Teddy is about 30 yards ahead. But
though he walks close by us, hes got Teddy, the female bear we saw a couple hours
ago at the other end of the valley, on his mind. Creek
Bear catches up with Teddy, sniffing her butt. Teddy, Brad tells us, is probably the
daughter of White, one of the best-known bears since
the sanctuary phase began. We know a lot about Whites life and her children, which
means that throughout her life
shes seen twelve people every day from June through August, walking her paths,
talking, walking, sitting, munching and clicking cameras. The
reasons
it all works are
pretty simple
and basic.
Since we all do the same things,
day in, day out,
never offering a target for food or disturbing their
fear detectors, year in, year out, Teddy or any of
the other bears have no reason to think of us as anything but wallpaper, no
more dangerous than alder
thickets. And since each bear has its own comfort zone, we try and allow them each to
establish that distance. Soon
theyve moved
across the creek
and are munching grass, giving us the opportunity to observe
the hump behind their shoulders that,
along with their cupped faces,
is the most significant visual sign of a grizzly. Its a well-developed muscle, and
its simply enormous
The
first fish catch is right in front of us, a bear watching the fish move along the surface
of the shallow water and finally just running it down. He eats every bit of it right there
on the spot. Its early in the season, and hes
thin enough to imagine that he
probably needs everything he can catch. Three more bears seem
to come out of nowhere from every direction,
but two of them wind
up wrestling and cavorting right
in front of us, nuzzling,
grabbing each other. A later
attempt to mate,
however,
is unsuccessful
A
bear comes up to about 15 feet. It pauses for a short while, makes a little grunting
noise, and moves back. Then we notice, for the first of many times, a mother with three
cubs. Its Rollie
and the trio
up on the cliffs near Elephant Rock that rim one side of the Mikfik drainage, walking
along the edge and looking down. Soon she is nursing her cubs, yearlings, three of them,
right there along the edge
A
big, nasty-looking boar, a foot-long open wound at his right shoulder blade and lots of
other, smaller red abrasions all over his gnarled, patchy hide, appears to the left and
walks along the sedge between the bank were sitting on and the water. He seems
older, moving slowly, gaunt rather than fat, with a slow, deliberate gait. He makes Creek
Bear look like Tom Cruise. He could have walked around, but he parades in front of us
instead. Well see him a lot today. Brad
doesnt know its name, but I call
it Gnarly Bear, and other
people in the group came up with other descriptive nicknames for a bear that, like Creek
Bear and Teddy, we would become pretty familiar with during our time there. Even though he
was scarred, he was sort of looking for trouble with other bears most of the time. Seems
to have as big a chip on his shoulder as the wound is deep.
A
particularly distinctive marked bear that is exceptionally dark on his upper back and
light underneath gets the name Ranger Rick from Brad after the kids magazine hero
We
sit for ten or fifteen minutes without a bear in sight. So we decide to walk to the upper
falls area, another half-hour hike that takes us away from the riffles, through a
wonderfully lush, thick, overgrown alder underbrush, across the creek and up a steep hill
so were looking down at the creek. We
walk up and down the hill tops above the creek for a couple hundred yards, trying to avoid
all the bear poop in the path (always a reminder that were treading upon their pathways), before we find our spot above the
falls area where theres a good view of anything that might develop. We have to wait
just a bit for a bear to vacate the pad area. Another
bear across the river and at least 100 yards away, spots us and immediately takes off in
the opposite direction up this long draw. Its still rolling
at
top speed as it dashes out of sight several hundred yards away, and it isnt looking
back. Obviously, some bears havent become habituated. Bear comfort zones are as
different as their individual appearances
Creek
Bear is by himself fishing at an especially narrow point at the bottom of the falls.
Its almost more a sluice than falls; I cant believe the fish can make this
jump, and it takes a while to understand that they do it in stages. Which means an ideal
location for one, or perhaps two if theyre tolerant, bears to catch a lot of fish in
a short period. Sure
enough, Creek Bear, the small scar over his right eye, goes five for seven, then seven for
ten, just swatting at fish trying to make it up to the next little pool. Three
or four bald eagles are standing on cliff areas, in their waiting stance, much like us,
sitting, watching. The gulls are even closer, and Creek Bear doesnt eat a certain
part of the fish, leaving some entrails at his feet. Several
hungry gulls
edge their way down to the fish guts,
moving out of the way when Creek Bear looks away from his fishing, but trying to pick up
the little red pieces. When Dave tells Brad how exciting
he finds this, Brad grins:
Boy,
this group is easy. We
all get a good laugh, and were getting to know each other even better
A
mother and three yearlings go by munching grass at about 15 feet, paying us no mind. Must
be Rollie, but this is a long way from the ridge and the sedge field downstream where she
hangs the other three days
We
have some lunch at the falls, but after awhile we hike back down the trail to the riffles
area. By this time the tide is coming back in, and soon the fish and the bears and eagles
and gulls, we hope, will follow
Looking
across the valley, I can now count 11 bears, some in the grass, some plunging their bodies
into the river like little kids at the neighborhood pool. There are at total of five cubs
in two groups along the river. Suddenly
theres action everywhere. A fishing bears splashing alarms Rollie and the
three cubs. Farther down, a mother shares her kill with her cub
Its
fascinating to hear them masticating the grass they sound like cows chewing their
cud, and they take in great amounts at one time. Bears
and humans are much alike in our eating choices. Like
most
humans,
bears are omnivorous,
but contrary to perception, bears diets are mostly grasses this time of year, and
berries when they ripen later in the summer and fall. The
love rancid meat, of course, and all junk food, and theyre
opportunists
who will eat anything to put on that fat,
but mostly theyre grazers, vegetarians
The
sky is full
of birds. A bald
eagle swoops down and snatches a piece of fish. At least 30 gulls become interested and
bomb around, screaming
at the top of their lungs, but
the eagle is much more
agile.
Another eagle is swooping around as well, and at one point, the first eagle loses his grip
on the salmon gut and the second comes around to grab
it in mid-air and take off for the goal line as
deft and smooth as a hand-off from Elway to Davis
Winnie,
with her two cubs, comes right up over the rise to take a look at us. The cubs seem really
curious, and they make their way closer and closer to Ted, whos at the end of the
line of people taking pictures behind his big lens
and tripod. The one cub gets about five feet away from the tripod when Brad decides to
shoo them off; theyre that close!
As
we observed last year at Brooks Camp, the bears are experts at what I call studied
indifference. Bears like to look away when theyre in social situations, like they
really arent paying attention. Kind of like what we humans do when were in an
elevator. Look around, look up, just dont look in their eyes. For
the bears, its an artifice; often they do it just before a bluff charge or when
another bear gets too close for comfort. Part of a game of intricate, often subtle body
language that seems to help prevent more violence. Its not easy being a bear out
here
Late
afternoon. Just over the rise down the trail were sitting on, there are about six
bears in easy view, all fishing in a small area where a run of fish has gathered. Winnie
and her two cubs, the same ones who were so close awhile back, leave the area as other
bears approach, heading back up the trail toward us, stopping about 15 feet away from us. Just
as I can make out the mud on her back and the wind blowing through her coat, I can almost
see the gears turning up there in moms head. Which way should I go? Gotta keep
away from that male to the left that challenged me yesterday? Wheres a fishing spot
where I can go and still watch the twins?
The only thing she didnt have to worry about at that point was us she knew
wed just be chatting and taking pictures. I
would give my record and compact disc collection to be inside this bears head at
this moment, feeling what shes feeling right now. It wont be the last time
Ill want to do that this week
Im
struck by how much the bears appear to try to avoid conflict. Not that they wont
fight when they have to; there are plenty of visible signs cuts, scratches, scars,
open wounds that these bears wind up in brutal conflict with each other. In
order to take advantage of the fish they all need, theyve confined themselves to a
relatively small area here. Though theyre often portrayed as loners, their paths
cross often while theyre at Mikfik. And
mostly, as we see so often, they try to avoid troublesome encounters, either by running
away, avoiding each other, using body language or their status on the pecking order (which
seems to be in flux at this time of year) over actually drawing blood. A lot of hierarchy
scuffles, movement and the little grunts and pushes and butts that are part of bear
behavior with each other.
Mike
Tyson rules apply here: no penalty for biting
We
watch a male fishing, pretty much by himself for awhile. He just plunges into the water
again and again, for perhaps 15 or 20 minutes, without catching a thing, getting more
frenzied all the time. It looks futile, but the odds are actually better than they seem
from our vantage point. Bears,
in many circles considered to have poor eyesight, can see these fish, or at least their
movement, in the water. And when there are big numbers of fish waiting to move upstream
gathered in a small place, the bears smack those deadly paws into the area hoping to pin
one against the sandy bottom. This
bear is getting stressed out; hes hungry. But an hour later we find him happily
munching on a couple of fish he catches
Norma
Jean is perhaps the most beautiful female we see; shes a beautiful golden silver color
with no scars. Watching with
the sun behind her, she shows why some have called the grizzly the silvertip; the hair
along her back is a translucent silver-brown texture. Her
single cub looks almost exactly like her, theres the same silver tint to its coat.
They run into Winnie and her two cubs down the creek and quickly change direction,
backtracking toward us and walking past again to avoid the other female and family.
Females can be protective of their young and have been known to snatch other bears
cubs and kill them just as males do. Its a hard world out here at McNeil. But
we have Snickers
Late
afternoon, tide at its highest, and there are 13 bears that we can count in the area,
including many fishing right below us. The eagles are sitting on the ridge above across
Mikfik Creek, two within fifteen feet of each other. Standing at attention; in the scopes
they look like serious little bald men, military types with permanent scowls. Politicians.
The kid in The Sixth Sense. The gulls scream in
anxious anticipation. The tension is palpable; the tide on the move up the creek. Lots
of action in any direction. Teddy is mating with a bear across the creek a hundred yards
off we cant tell who it is, and copulation goes on and on and on, often with
hardly a movement. (We find out that it often
takes 45 minutes.) They seem asleep much of the time. Boring. Its
much more fun to watch them fish.
One bear is in salmon heaven, running that way and then that, snagging
one fish, noticing another
grounded on the rocks and taking
off up the bank with both of them flopping in his mouth. To
our right, about 50 yards up the path were on, one bear is chasing another, closing
fast. Theres no time to move. Suddenly Brad steps past me, cocks the shotgun and
says in a loud voice, Ho. The bears scatter off the trail back down into the
riffles. Its
the only time a guide will move quickly, and the only time a rifle is cocked. Nobody has
ever fired a shot at McNeil in defense since this experiment began, and as Brad says
afterward, Derek Sonorov, who will be taking us out the next two days, would probably have
reacted differently in the same situation. I think Brad feels he had probably
over-reacted, and perhaps he did,
but
I think we are all thankful
he was watching out for us. His first day is a big success
Tide
back down, and about eight oclock we cross and trek back across the creek, sedge
fields, tide flats and the beach before falling into camp. First things first: Off with
the fucking hip waders. Down a cold Coke
with some ice from the chest. Best
Coke Ive tasted in my whole life. After
checking the Gary Larsen Gallery, its into the cook cabin, heat up some water for
dinner.
We
get another meal out of Steves smoked salmon and crackers, prolonging having to actually
cook
anything
for
another night. I also manage a couple of small rum drinks mixed with some pineapple-orange
juice I had bought at the last minute before we left. Theres
a lot more space in the cook cabin with the last group gone, and were quickly
getting acquainted, and getting along pretty well, too. We all have in common that we had
to win a lottery to get here, and it certainly seems that everyone else has been thinking
and planning this as carefully as Billie and I did. We all came to take full advantage of
this chance to see bears, and sticking together seems to be the best way to manage it. We
all had
the same anxiousness, and judging
from the stuff we all brought along, we were all expecting the horizontal rain
we had read about.
Anybody who read River of Bears remembered that
picture of people heading out to the river in full rain gear and prepared accordingly. Im
noticing what everybody is eating, and its apparent were low on the camp
cooking scale, which goes from Cindi and Dave, who are having steak tonight, and
Mary, who has something hot she mixes up in a pan each night, down to Dave, who
doesnt have a stove and is cadging hot water from everyone for his freeze-dried bag
mixes. But
the salmon is salty, the rum drinks still have ice, the conversation is good, and before
we know it, its almost midnight, and Im too beat to think about the sauna, the
only real accommodation
at the sanctuary. The sun has just passed behind the mountains to the north and west, and
its indescribably beautiful and romantic. During
the night and through the morning Im beginning
to
notice the lonely, three-syllable song of the golden-crowned sparrow and the equally
memorable chirping yellow warblers that seem to follow the sparrows mournful song
with a
more upbeat one of their own. The
sparrows song expresses perfectly the remote nature of this place, and the
warblers reply a sense of the excitement
and adventure
of the moment. Whenever I hear either of these two sounds, or see a Larsen bear cartoon, I
will be back in McNeil Bay. July
Two I
think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contained I could
stand and look at them long and long.
Walt Whitman, 1855 Were
up between 7:30 and 8 a.m. to boil
water for oatmeal
and make
the 8:30 meeting, where we
decide once again to leave
for the creek at 10:30.
Derek is going to be our guide today. Hes been here for nine years and knows the
bears almost as well as Larry. Hes laid-back and unflappable, as advertised, and
extremely patient as we pester him with questions. Derek knows a lot about bear behavior,
Steve knows a lot about their biology, and Im determined to pick their brains dry
while we have the privilege of spending time with them. When
we get to the riffles, two bears are playing, and we watch at least 20 minutes of
roughhousing, with
a third one joining the fun
for awhile. As we noticed last year at Brooks Camp, they look a lot like dogs at play
during these kinds of activities. And
this is an animal that is considered anti-social or asocial, interjects Derek while
we watch; he loves to offer blanket contemporary wisdom comments like this as
we watch something that contradicts long-standing
bear knowledge. Thats why McNeil River is such a radical experiment. There are many
people in the Fish and Game Department here in Alaska who would just as soon shut down
this program. But were learning things about bears that challenge long-held,
even ancient
beliefs what could be more important?
Its
quiet on the bank where were sitting, when, about 80 yards below us, the fish start
to splash along the surface
as they surge through
a shallow area. Suddenly three bears are heading full steam, making a commotion of their
own, churning the waters, leaping into the water and pawing the waves
Brad
had told us that Derek knew of a bear path which had been worn down by the bears
paws so that each one followed in the same footsteps, day after day, month after month,
year after year. We ask Derek before we head for the falls, and he takes us a ways off the
regular
path so we can walk along it. This
is as touchy-feely as I get, he
warns us as we trod along it, our feet walking along trying to keep up with the
bears longer stride. At
the upper falls: Even from up on the hill, I can see the salmon circling in the pool below
the falls in my scopes. You have to think that Teddy, who is snorkeling around the pool,
softly blowing bubbles, can see them, too. But she never takes off underwater after any of
them; she seems content with padding and bubbling at the surface. She
moves up to the spot where Creek Bear was so successful yesterday and begins her patient
vigil, whacking a fish against the bottom, grabbing it and walking up the hill to a bare
area about 30 feet below us, sitting lazily and chowing down in the sun. Her
reverie is short-lived. Here comes Creek Bear, and hes picked up the females
estrus scent again. She gets up, runs across the creek at the narrow place at the falls
where she had been fishing and heads up a steep dirt path to the top of the opposite bank. Derek
has already told us a story from last summer. In full sight of a group sitting where
were at, Creek Bear chased Teddy and her cub, Toughie, up to a cliff on the other
bank and pushed them over it into the creek bed 50 feet below. Both survived, and Teddy
seems to be none the worse for wear. The cub, Toughie, however, we will see later, walks
with a distinct and troubling limp. But
now Creek Bear, this time in an attempt to mate with her, is waddling along behind her
right up to the same cliffs. Teddy hangs a left up to the very spot. Were hollering,
telling her not to go that way (not that she can hear us with the wind and the sound of
the falls, or that she would understand, anyway), but as she reaches the crest of the hill,
she veers off to the right and disappears into the bushes. Whew! Creek
Bear, perhaps thirty or forty yards behind, climbs the path in slow but steady pursuit and
follows her away from the cliff. A couple minutes later, Teddy has made a circle back
above the falls and finally disappears off into the alder thickets. Totally
engrossed with the action as Creek Bear is in Teddys smell, we havent noticed
that another large male bear, Waldo, is watching,
too.
We look behind us, and hes about 20 feet above us, contemplating the Teddy/Creek
Bear saga just as we are.
Hes probably been there awhile, too. I
think everybody had a camera or video in
their hands and ready
at that point, and we all shoot Waldo as he comes crashing down through the alders just
six or seven feet right past our pad, making his way down to the falls, where he begins
his own fishing ritual at the spot abandoned by Teddy a few minutes ago. Creek
Bear comes rambling out of the thicket to the top of the hill and seems to have lost track
of Teddy, whos out of sight. He looks down at Waldo and edges down the side of the
hill toward him. This obviously disturbs Waldo, and he leaves his fishing spot and walks
up the hill directly at Creek Bear, who retreats. When
Waldo gets to the crest, his head already lowered in agitation, he begins spreading his
back legs apart, pissing all over himself and getting himself all lathered up in the
process, working his way into what Derek calls the cowboy stance. Indeed,
the maneuver is well named Waldo has become the bear version of Lee Marvin in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, bow-legged, in a
foul temper; all he needs is a pair of shining 45s strapped on his broad hips to complete
the cowpoke-on-steroids image. This
is a maneuver, Derek explains, where Waldo is not messing around with Creek Bear; he is
clearly establishing dominance. The maneuver works; Creek Bear, who we cant see very
well, backs off and finally disappears into the brush. Waldo stays in position for awhile
before finally unloosening his legs this takes awhile since hes really dug
himself in and heads back down to fish by himself
After
lunch, were back down at the riffles. Gnarly Bear has Teddys scent this
afternoon, and he eventually mates with her across the creek (the slut, we
observe;
shell do it with anyone).
Norma Jean and her cub are sitting where we were earlier, so we move downstream to the
Driftwood area, a spot at a high place where theres a lot of old fallen driftwood
that allows us to sit with our backs propped up against the logs a nice touch. We
watch a couple of bears walk past and begin to play when they catch up to each other.
Another one joins the play for awhile before running off
Were
back in camp at about eight thirty again, and while most of the group stops to watch a
mother and cubs in the tidal flats from one end of the campsite, Billie and I have
discarded the damned hip waders and nailed our final Coke each with the very last of the
ice. The smoked salmon depleted, were down to actually cooking some of this
freeze-dried food we brought along tonight. Neither
of us can remember
what we cooked this night, but we mixed it with some freeze-dried peas that made it
better.
I do recall that we tried the F-D
tirimisu
for dessert, and just as Billie predicted I had higher hopes it was just
awful, sandy, gritty, more like granola than a creamy, light Italian dessert. Suddenly
its almost midnight,
and we have a long day ahead. We dont hit the sauna Ive pretty much
decided that four days without bathing isnt the worst thing that can happen and I
want the experience. Besides, Im beat again. The
wind is up tonight a couple of times during the night in a half dream I think
its gonna pick up the tent and blow it out to the outhouses. Dorothy and Toto at the
McNeil River, on the other side of Oz. But
its just spectacular, not really dark
at midnight, though the sun has just set behind the mountains to the north and west. In
the scopes, you can see a couple of bears perhaps a mile or
more away,
tiny
out
on
the mud flats out in the cove
at high tide. The sounds of the sparrows and the warblers, the azure blue-red of the sky,
the smell of white-gas stoves and the tidal flats and the outhouses, with the bears out
there, too. Another perfect McNeil day. July
3 We
find out this morning that a bear wandered into camp last night and got a bit interested
in Jon and Jennys tent. It snapped off one of the tent poles and left a huge amount
of slobber around the immediate area. By the time they looked out of the tent, it was
vacating the area through the alder thicket. Its a North Face yellow tent, and I go
over and take a couple of pictures of the broken tent, which, to North Faces credit,
is still standing. (Had it broken one of our two poles, the tent would have collapsed.)
This means that well take air-horns into our tents, and though I dream the next
night that our air-horn doesnt work, no one has to use them. (Im still waiting
to hear if North Face reimburses Jon for his new tent.)
We
have just crossed the little creek past the
beach at the beginning of our 10:30
a.m. walk out to the riffles, and over to our left, about 50 yards off in a field of
waving sedge grass, is Norma Jean and her cub; the sow appears to be digging beneath a
log, but the grass is too high to really see. Derek stops us, and we stand there awhile,
watching. NJ
seems to lose interest in the log, and they begin to walk in our direction until
theyre just across the stream, chewing on sedge and interacting with each other in
great affection. Perfectly placid and self-contained. When
she gets about 50 feet away, Derek suggests that we cross back twenty feet or so, moving
slowly, staying together and being quiet. Sure enough, even crossing the stream
doesnt bother the bears as they forage. The cub moves away from mom as they reach an
area thats more mud than grass, and it almost seems that its looking for a
small patch of grass to chew on so it can move closer to us. The
wind is blowing in from the bay, and the sedge looks like fields of wheat or grass in
western Nebraska, or Kansas, or eastern Colorado. The strong breeze also blows the hair in
their thick coats, and the colors change just as they did yesterday when they get between
us and the sun. Again I get that silvertip texture down Norma Jeans back; shes
as photogenic as her Hollywood namesake. Were
shooting away, breathless. The wind breathing across the sedge. Then Norma Jean looks over
near the edge of the field, stands on her hind legs and spots a male bear at the location
where we first saw them 15 minutes before at the log. Now
remember that shes been just 15 or 20 feet from us for twenty minutes. But she huffs
under her breath quickly, moving the cubbie to strict attention. Without any of the usual
bear hesitation, NJ and cub begin running in the opposite direction toward the beach, and
they dont stop until they get there, putting a good 150 yards between them and the
other bear. They head on up the beach and out of sight, looking back as they walk. As
the undulating sedge indicates, we were far upwind; Norma Jean didnt smell the
stalker more than 50 years away. It was a visual sighting. And
this is an animal known to have poor eyesight, its Derek with another of his
dry aphorisms as we move on back across the stream. Soon were past the alder thicket
and in the mud moving toward the creek, avoiding bears as much as possible. We
sit at the riffles for awhile, but theres not much activity. Rollie, with her three
cubs, is again visible above Elephant Rock on the cliffs. Derek suggests that we head over
to the driftwood area, where she can see us. Ill bet if we go over there and
sit on the driftwood, theyll come down and walk by us, he says. Sure
enough, after we get settled into the Driftwood area, Rollie and the cubs cautiously make
their way down the cliff, but not before giving the lot of us a good case of the
heebie-jeebies by taking what we considered the toughest possible path down. Of
course we had the advantage of being able to see the whole cliff area, and we kept gasping
as they headed down what seemed to be an impenetrable, slippery and precarious path while
an easy passage was no more than 20 yards to their immediate right. We had already seen
them use that way. Couldnt she remember? Rollie,
all four or five hundred pounds of her, would get to a spot in the gravel, pieces of rock
falling around her feet into the sedge below, square her body and look downward with that
massive head. Sometimes
that head wouldnt move for a couple of minutes, just looking downward like a
baseball pitcher looks to the catcher for a sign. It reminded me of Panda, a huge male
bear we saw last summer who would gaze from his spot at the middle of Brooks Falls down
into the salmon wanting to get past his jaws, or Whitey Ford looking in for the sign from
Yogi Berra in Yankee Stadium during a long-ago World Series.
Were talking serious
concentration. Then she would traverse another small section, the cubs behind her almost
squealing at her not to take this route. They
make it OK, though Rollie has to slide on her paws backwards to make the final ten feet.
Within five minutes, they are strolling past us at about 15 feet, walking on the logs
Derek says that they love to walk on logs and glancing over at us, Rollie
with that adult studied indifference and the wide-eyed cubs with what I call immense
curiosity. She
catches the scent of two males playing someplace below us on the river bed, huffs to the
cubs, who immediately fall in order, and they walk on upstream. The two males come into
view out in the water, and we watch them nuzzle each other, put their paws up on their
faces, fall into the water, pushing each other, all indications of what Derek calls part
of their ritualized play. They
splash for fish in that bear way, looking for movement underwater and then blasting into a
school, hoping to pin the slowest fish against the shallow bottom. I
look around in the opposite direction, and heres a boar walking directly towards me; hes about 75 yards away
and closing in. I slowly grab the binocs and observe his pigeon-toed gait as he gets
closer. It
was a situation last summer similar to this that had ignited our bear imaginations. Unlike
that time in Brooks Camp when Billie and I had our first close-up bear encounter, there
are no hairs raising on my neck, no palpable increase in my heart rate, no pounding sound
in the back of my head. For some reason, all I can think this time is that I hope he comes
closer. I notice Derek behind, standing, watching, grinning. If Derek isnt worried,
Im not worried. He
closes in to 25 yards, 20, 15, his gait unwavering, deliberate. At about 15 feet he moves
left and walks in front of the group sitting along the logs, heads down the bank and on
upstream. Wow. The
two bears who are playing are interrupted by a bigger boar who appears out of the sedge
across the creek, and as he crosses to our side, they scatter, clambering up the sides of
the stream. The boar seems satisfied with that and heads off into the alders behind us. Rollie
and the cubs have slowly circled back, and we watch them just eating grass below the
cliffs for a long while. When its quiet, you can hear their jaws masticating all
that green stuff. Then they decide to climb to the top again, which they do as we gasp at
their bravado, up to a ledge at the top that Rollie seems to have dug out for herself. As
they get higher upon that ledge, the sound of cattle echoes from the heights. But
its not a herd of cows, its the cubs crying for their supper. Rollie
isnt having it until they get to the top, and its a strange sight watching her
get into place in her little dug-out area with her legs hanging out over the edge while
the cattle sound is replaced by the intense humming of the nursing process. Theyre
so close to the edge that part of Rollies back left leg is out over it
Creek
Bear is back again, first time today, walking downstream toward us. As he hits the rise in
the trail where were sitting, he checks us out, moves over about 15 feet, lies down
for a bit and finally mosies on downstream. A
huge well-known bear, Woofie, is the alpha bear in this country. Hes the giant
standing on his hind legs in the famous Larry Aumiller picture in the River of Bears book. Befitting his stature, he
never comes close, stays, in fact, on the other side of the river when he walks through
the sedge, a big scar on his right side and a new cut, probably the result of some other
male contesting him, over his right eye. Bears are scattering all over the place as he
approaches. His
mouth looks like Jack Nicholsons in Batman,
Derek says while bears are dispersing in all directions, some at great speed who
dont stop running until they reach the alders several hundreds yards away
We
can hear Rollie nursing again, her three cubs fighting for position near the edge of the
cliff above Elephant Rock, humming away like an electrical generator---triple cub voltage. Out
in the water, another bear is the picture of domesticity, his head above the water, and he
scratches his noggin, checks his feet for awhile, his head and feet both out of the
shallow water. He looks like a bathing cowboy in one of these outdoor tubs in a western
movie. Its
quiet. Rollie and the cubs have scrambled down the cliffs, for once at a place that
doesnt seem so dangerous to crawl down. An actual path. Theyre grazing at the
edge of the sedge. Then,
just as quickly, there are a dozen bears in the area. Woofie, across the stream again, is
loping along at a kingly gait, sending bears in every direction. Creek Bear is back, this
time following Teddy, but Woofie breaks it up, and another bear arrives between us and
Rollie and the cubs, moving them quickly back up the cliff again. Four
other males are on our side of the water, grazing, but soon theyre scattering at the
sight of Woofie, whose dominance is pronounced. We
move upriver to the riffles as the late afternoon sun begins to warm our necks
its damned hot out here! Creek Bear has lost interest in Teddy for now, and he has
the entire creek area, which is full of running fish at this high tide, all to himself.
Even though hes not particularly quick on his feet, hes doing quite well,
catching six or seven in a short 20-minute period before defecating and moving on to
graze, though he manages to chase another fishing bear who tries to steal his fish. Another
subadult hears the splashing and cry of the gulls, and he runs right past Billie into the
creek, only to be chased away by Creek Bear. In
a short few minutes, there are seven bears moving into these close quarters. Creek Bear,
his jaws popping in that odd sound that seems to indicate tension, is in the midst of the
action, and he starts waddling after one of the bears, while another one across the creek
watches, waits and heads out to fish as CB and the other one head away. CB loses interest
and sits down over about 20 feet off, his long nails protruding out in front of his front
paws. Teddy
comes up to within five feet of Billie, who wakes up from a nap in time to watch Teddy
watch her. Creek Bear picks up her scent and begins to stalk Teddy again. He passes at the
same place and circles behind us and back again. Billie leans over and says,
Dont wake me up unless they come within five feet, and drops off to her
nap again. By now we trust these bears. So strange, yet so right
One
of the things that Derek mentions often is that the more still you become, the closer a
bear will come to you. Its hard to remain still, and Brad had told us that a bear
actually came up and touched Derek out on the McNeil pad. So
I ask him flat out: Has a bear ever touched you? He says that it didnt
happen, but Im betting that Derek has gotten closer to bears than even any of us on
this trip, and maybe even held still enough to let one nearly touch him, a move that would
perhaps step over the edge. But he is so obviously at home in this situation. He speaks of
Teddy almost as a friend. Im sure, he says, that if you sat down
next to Teddy while she was eating her fish, she wouldnt mind. That image,
sitting alongside Teddy looking out at the sunset, like so much else Im seeing here,
will always be with me
We
move on upriver, following the tide. There are no bears in sight, and we get to witness an
eagle feeding frenzy while a
school is
running in front of us. There are seven eagles in the area, and innumerable gulls crying,
but the eagles, with their strange squawk, are holding their own. Theyve
got their talons into
a couple of beached salmon, and a
mature and immature male are
fighting each other and jumping around to throw each other off balance long enough to get
a few bites. Both Brad and Derek say that eagles will eat so much at this time that they
have trouble flying, and you can see why. But
the gulls cries have brought a bunch of bears back downstream. Soon, the screech of
gulls, the sound of furious splashing and the bones of red salmon being crushed
between powerful jaws are the only sounds
On
the walk back
to the campsite,
I talk with
Derek about his
involvement. He says its kind of a political dance, but that the current
sanctuary rules,
which deem that the bears needs come first and any human impact or any changes in
sanctuary
policy must be evaluated with that in mind, are in place and would be hard to change at
present especially with Aumillers presence. When
asked whether or not he plans a book, he says he isnt a writer and directs me to a
video based on his research of bear behavior. We picked up Way of the Grizzly in Anchorage
after we got back,
and it is indeed an excellent film with great footage from McNeil. He says that though he
and Larry have spent years observing these bears, they have completely different opinions
about them. Id love to record their conversations for a book. Tonight,
our last night, Billie and I each have a freeze-dried entree, she a chicken-pot pie and I
the chicken and noodles, and they are both quite
good or perhaps our tastes buds have become delirious by this time.
Everyone
is quite comfortable,
the wine bottles are open, tin cups filled with rum drinks (no ice)
and the conversation is,
again,
very good and
the laughter plentiful at
the picnic tables. July
4 A
bear has left its own deposit right in front of the first outhouse. But I dont see a
thing beyond the Gary Larsen Gallery. This
morning were going out with Brad and Steve, and itll be a different day; we
have to be ready to board the Otter at 7:30 p.m. (the tide is thankfully late today) for
the return trip to Homer. We discussed going out to McNeil River to see the more famous
location. Billie and I arent nuts about crossing the mud flats on the way over to
McNeil River, but as it turns out, we dont have to go through that rough part. After
discussion and a great display of solidarity in the group, we decide to begin the day over
at Mikfik and later in the afternoon hike over to McNeil, even though all indications are
that no bears have arrived over there yet. And, even better, Derek will pick us up in the
boat and take us across to the spit and not have to walk the flats on our way back
Occasionally
wed pass a day bed, a circular area in the grass beaten down and sometimes dug out a
bit by a bear to form a place to sleep or nap. Often they are situated right along the
abundant bear paths that criss-cross the entire area like the paths that
proliferate across the
University of Colorado campus. We find two or three beds where the path crosses Mikfik and
heads steeply up the hill to the upper falls. Apparently, bears sleep when they want to
and for
short
naps
rather than long periods of sleep
We
come across a wounded bald eagle on the trail. We had seen it earlier on our way hiking to
the upper falls, having trouble trying to fly as we approached. We thought it might just
be too fat to fly. But this time, we notice that it has a wounded wing and is seriously
agitated at our presence. Finally we leave the trail and give it a wide berth. Another
reminder of
the unforgiving
nature
of this beautiful country
Theres
a timelessness at
Mikfik. Time stands still here; the bears dont celebrate Y2K or think
about retirement
or the
latest pop
culture
fad.
They live in the same way as they did when they first crossed the land
bridge thousands of years ago, and quite successfully. The
technological advances of our century make no difference to them at all. As Whitman said,
placid
and self-contained. The
view every morning is quite memorable;
Walking
along one cliff edge, the waves of blowing sedge grass undulating across the valley; the
brown bears munching their way along; Elephant Rock and the cliffs on the other side; and
the creek itself and the couple hundred yards of riffles where we do most of our
observation and activity. The sound of our boots splashing through the mud and sedge is
the only sound
While
were sitting at the upper falls, two bears spook as soon as they notice us, taking
off at full gallop, while another one takes up residence and fishes awhile, snorkeling and
sitting in the pool below the falls. Far
away and out of sight, perhaps over the hill opposite us, I can hear gulls screeching in a
kind of frenzy. I wonder if the bears can hear it and are thinking of moving over to
McNeil. Three
unmarked planes bank in over our heads and roll over west to east, seeming far below the
2,000 foot level allowed in the sanctuary. Two others follow about three or four minutes
later
Back
at the riffles, its hot, and there isnt much activity. Rollie nurses at the
top of the cliff and then decides to come down, once again along the difficult path. I
watch as she seems to contemplate every move, her body squared downward, before moving off
sideways to another safe spot. Still, its a struggle for all of them get down,
especially with two of the cubs playing and fighting each other every step. Why cant
she remember that path?
Norma
Jean and her cub avoid a confrontation across the creek, moving to a position in front of
us, then dealing with a subadult that moves in too close for her own good. On her way back
around, she skirts us at about 12 feet, the cub following her but looking over at us, too
We
walk down to the Driftwood area to watch Rollie more closely, and she and the cubs,
walking on the logs whenever possible, cruise right by us again, not 12 feet away, then
settle in the grass between 15 and 20 feet at the top of a rise. We just sit in a state of
marvelous enchantment for awhile. A
bear that I cant see because of the rise in the bank apparently starts moving toward
them. Rollie chuffs, pops her jaws, and the cubs fall in right behind her. The sound is
weird, but its more proof that we dont pose any threat. I mean, here we are
sitting about 15 feet away for awhile, snapping pictures and whispering and gasping in
wonder, and she pays us no attention. But
another bear, even though farther away, riles her enough to move eventually to the cliffs,
again right past us. I dont want to read too much into it, but it appears that they actually enjoy our presence, or
if thats too strong a thought, at the very least they are comfortable with us. Its
a weird feeling; a mother grizzly cub and her three children, considered the most
dangerous situation in human-bear encounters, and here we are
Im
propped up again against a big piece of driftwood. (The creek chair I bought for the trip
broke on the third day, cheap piece of shit.) My point-and-shoot camera is within reach,
as are the binoculars. Im eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, contemplating
Ivans magnificent hump as he slowly ambles toward me, grazing. Hes had his
head in the sedge for almost 45 minutes, by my count, and the hump and his shoulders rise
several inches above as he lowers his massive head, chewing large clumps of grass between
his teeth, masticating noisily
After
an hour on the cliffs, Rollie is restless again, and she and the kids clamber down and
amble over to the creek, where she actually lets down and plays a little bit in the water,
letting her guard down ever so slightly when no other bears are in sight. One of the cubs
tip toes into the water, a childlike gesture, while mother splashes her feet in the water.
Its hot and there isnt much action today the bears are looking to beat
the heat
To
get to McNeil River, we have to walk from the driftwood through the sedge field toward
Elephant Rock and around a beach area. As we mush our way through the slushy wetlands, I
feel for the first time like Tim Treadwell in Among
Grizzlies. (Treadwell camps several months every year somewhere close to here
in fact, hes probably there right now living in close proximity to bears, and
Among Grizzlies is his account. Though I think
hes a little nuts, I cant argue with his goals to protect grizz and
promote bear education and his experiences of living among bears certainly ring
true with our own here at Mikfik.) Rollie
and her cubs are grazing along the cliffs 50 years off, and Norma Jean and hers are
equidistant from us at the water. Other bears are grazing nearby. Were walking
between them, trying not to cross paths, stopping and starting and waiting for bears to
pass in front of us. Its
a great moment for me, but all too quickly were past Elephant Rock and walking under
the cliffs along the beach. We stop to take pictures of the huge bear tracks in the tidal
mud. Dave puts a quarter down and then his handprint to show how huge the paw prints are
there in the mud
A
short walk around the cliffs and were heading up to McNeil River. We
climb out of the beach and up onto a plateau. The Friends of McNeil River helped put in a
wooden walkway out to the falls this spring, and we get to take our hip boots off for the
pleasant, half-hour stroll out to the falls. Its a beautiful walk; after we get up
the hill, we can see our camp across the bay, Augustine volcano shimmering in the distance
beyond it and the other mountains around us sharp in the clear atmosphere. We
can hear the falls before we can see them, and my first impression is that this is a
wilder river than I expected from watching the films. Too, a movie camera always distorts
to a certain degree, generally making things look further away, and the falls area is
tighter and not as wide as I expected, either, Im estimating seventy feet, about the
same as Brooks Falls. As
we arrive at the tiny 20-8 pad where humans witness this late-summer feeding
frenzy, we can see salmon already gathering in the pools below to make their try to jump
the formidable falls. But there are no bears yet. Theyre expected, says Brad, any
day now. The
falls area has a lot of grass, but on both sides you can see the worn-out areas where
bears rest and eat their catches. There are literally dozens of bare spots on both sides
of the river. On
Day Two a National Geo photographer
named Daniel Zatz was putting finishing touches on a Bearcam that hes installing for
the magazines website. We can see the solar panels on one side of the platform, and
at one end of the viewing platform is a clever box that holds two cameras that from, from
a distance at least, looks like a pile of rocks. The pile was designed by a wildlife
artist. The
platform seems man-made, different from the natural setting at Mikfik. And, like at Brooks
Falls, youre mostly looking down at the
bears, instead of being even with them at Mikfik. All
of a sudden, one bear along the other side becomes visible below the falls on the other
side. It seems eager to get there, and soon its leaping into the pools, running
along the rocks and rolling in the falls. It catches nothing and tires of the sport after
awhile. After
about ninety minutes, we walk back to where Derek is waiting in the boat, toss in our
waders and head across to get ready to go. Once we get across, we have about thirty
minutes before our flight is due, and were all madly dashing around, packing our
final items, saying quick goodbyes and schlepping our stuff to the spit. Daves
plane comes in first. Hes chartered a plane to take him from here to Brooks Camp.
Then the red Otter comes into sight, and suddenly were loading out the next group
and loading in our gear and were in the air, circling once so we can catch the
mother and spring cub above the camp area and another larger bear near where we had just
spent the day, past Augustine Volcano and across Cooks Inlet. Jon pops Credence Best-Of into the stereo, and were
back in Homer by eight-thirty, in time for the fireworks that never went off. |