Aligning With Nature

Baiting is an effective way to attract the attention and movements of a target species. I fill, or bait, my bird feeders with sunflower seeds to help augment the bird’s diet during the food scarce winter months and to provide me with the joy of watching birds. I bait my weighted chartreuse jig with a lively leech to entice a walleye to strike. And so on.

We are often subjected to baiting in grocery stores. Consider the small squares of hot pizza that are offered by a smiling middle-aged woman at the end of the grocery store aisle. She hands me the bait while telling me of the special sale on this brand of pizza.  More than likely, I taste the cheesy offering, raise my eyebrows and emit a satisfied “mmmmmm.” The hook is set and it often results in me reaching into the freezer for multiple boxes of frozen pizza. Baiting. . .pure and simple.

With the wrap up of the 2011 Minnesota deer hunting season we are getting the final harvest numbers. Overall, it appears that the season’s kill is down slightly from last year. However, illegal deer baiting incidents were higher than ever before. If you choose to hunt deer in Minnesota, baiting is unethical, illegal, greedy and in my book, simply cheating. No real hunting is involved.

In Minnesota it is illegal to set out foods, such as apples, shelled corn, carrots, etc. to attract and hold deer to an area. According to the baiting law, “an area is considered baited for 10 days after complete removal of the bait or feed.”

Baiting is not about hunting; it’s solely about “getting.” On the other hand, in Minnesota, baiting is legal when hunting black bears. Consequently it is my opinion that we should change the activity to “bear-getting” rather than bear hunting. It requires a minimum of skill to sit up in an elevated stand over a pile of old doughnuts soaked in molasses and/or bacon fat.

While living in the Yukon Territory, bear baiting or hunting bears with dogs is illegal. Instead, they actually hunt bears. Whether it’s on foot, floating downriver in a boat or driving through bear country, hunters are glassing the countryside to spot a bruin. Once an animal is sighted, they have to begin a quiet and often arduous stalk. This is truly hunting since the hunter must assess the animal’s route, its speed, note the wind direction and then begin a quiet and often difficult stalk to put them in position to make a quick killing shot. And then begins the work of skinning and fetching the animal.

With hunter numbers decreasing in Minnesota and over most of the United States, the issue cannot be that there are too many hunters competing with each other. Instead, I wonder if the modern day hunter is simply becoming lazier and looking for instant gratification. . . the quick fix? I wonder if we haven’t put too much emphasis on securing a bigger buck than the next person. And why? I would argue that the motivation for many is simply the need to be noticed and highly regarded.

I suspect that if we were to look deeply into the reasons that hunters will break laws or even practice unethical hunting and fishing, is that these hunters/anglers are simply stuck in an immature level of development. Robert Moore, professor of psychology and religion at Chicago Theological Seminary, addresses male development in a book he co-authored titled, King Warrior Magician Lover.

Dr. Moore explains that “most men are fixated at an immature level of development. These early developmental levels are governed by the inner blueprints appropriate to boyhood.”  Clearly nobody has showed them what a mature man (hunter) is like. Consequently, their vision of “manhood” is skewed and is actually a pretense of manhood. Those stuck, in what Moore calls “boy psychology,” will practice unethical means to kill game. The problem is that no one has shown them how to be a noble, respectful and humble hunter. (I confess that my viewpoint is mostly gender specific in relating to males rather than females, but at this time males still make up the vast majority of hunters and I suspect they make up an even greater percentage of those found guilty of game violations.)

I fear far too many so-called hunters have not been shown or are not willing to put in the necessary work of paying attention and reading sign. These have always been attributes of successful hunters. More and more it seems we are creating a generation of hunters who will take whatever shortcuts or look for the advantage they can grab in order to bag their deer or shoot a limit of birds.

I stand in awe of the good hunters of previous generations who intimately knew the land and animals they hunted. They had no battery powered GPS, trail cameras, fiber optics, archery trigger releases, robo-ducks or charcoal-infused clothing. Perhaps the real blame on such shortcuts are the ads that hunters are faced with online, in magazines and even this newspaper. We are made to feel less than adequate if we don’t use their products. We are encouraged to out-compete other hunters and anglers. And if we can’t out-compete them we ironically turn on the natural world that we supposedly love for scapegoats. It’s far too easy to blame tree swaying winds, bitter cold, rain, too many wolves and coyotes and so on.

To increase profits each year, we are lured to new hunting and angling products that we can’t live without and promise you the “advantage” over the competition. Just as you can count on the ticking of the clock, you can count on new, “hot,” products for the coming fishing and hunting season. Space age lure colors, fantastical camo-patterns, electronic spying devices and hi-tech clothing items, new gun and rod/reel designs are introduced like bait to the hungry schools of hunter/angler consumers. Indeed, we are a gullible critter and easily take to piles of advertising bait that say“you-ain’t-good-enough-so-get-one-of-these-and-beat-the-rest-of-the-competition.” I get it, that’s called business marketing.

Are we such an insecure lot that our egos must be measured and displayed by what we bag and how many points it has, field weight or inside spread?

If I were the teacher, I would require that every beginning and veteran hunter and angler would be required to read three books: Sand County Almanac by Aldo Leopold, The Old Man and the Boy by Robert Ruark and The Earth is Enough: Growing Up in a World of Old Men and Trout by Harry Middleton. In my opinion, these books get to the core of what hunting and fishing is really about. And in the process of ethically and respectfully  pursuing your favorite game and fish,  we will recruit more young people into the field. And research, as cited in Richard Louv’s best-selling book “Last Child in the Woods: Preventing Nature-Deficit Disorder,” tells us that anytime we get kids outside for extended periods of time we increase cooperation, problem solving, innovation and a healthier lifestyle.

As I drove past the large pumpkin that graced the entry of a neighbor’s driveway, I noticed something unusual. A length of bushy tail was hanging out of the recently excavated Halloween fruit. I stopped the car and the tail whisked into the hole and was replaced by the head of an alert gray squirrel.

The rodent dashed for safety up a nearby bur oak. The squirrel had been mining the pumpkin for its treasure of flesh and seeds. No paring knife had sawed into this pumpkin to create a snaggle toothed smile. The squirrel incisors had opened a simple cavern for access and egress. Do squirrels assess the cost/benefit ratio when digging upside down on the bright orange stage of a pumpkin? Seems like a reckless and dangerous act to work with your head inside a hole while your backside advertises squirrel hams. Clearly, when facing the march of winter, the season of scarcity, a normally shy squirrel becomes bold and reckless in its foraging for food.

A few days after the squirrel was busted in its excavating, I stopped the truck and strolled out into a fifteen-acre field that had been covered with pumpkin vines and thousands of beautiful pumpkins. Now, with Halloween a memory, the piece of ground looked like a war zone. Thousands of pumpkins had been adopted by Halloween practitioners, home interior decorators and pie bakers. The remaining pumpkins literally never made the cut. They were the unchosen ones and now I found them broken and crushed in the field.

At first glance the site looks devastated, but then as I strolled among the shattered fruits, I could see that the field was actually an early holiday gift to the area wildlife. Deer tracks were most common but here and there I spotted a pheasant track moseying among splattered pumpkins. Tiny piles of rabbit pellets showed that rabbits had lingered here. On a nearby gopher mound a pile of coyote droppings held undigested pumpkin seeds. Each of these animals had dined on some portion of pumpkin.

By next June, the earth will be warm and countless microscopic beasties will have rendered the rest of the pumpkin remains into sustenance for next years crop of pumpkins, squirrels, pheasants, deer, coyotes and rabbits.

And I am left wondering how a pumpkin infused venison roast or pheasant breast would taste.

What is quiet? And the companion question that begs to be whispered is, “Where is quiet?”

Earlier this evening, I sat in my small sauna in the basement. I closed my eyes and strained to hear anything. Nothing. I was pleasantly surprised. Clearly the sauna’s insulated walls sheathed in white cedar  keep those faint or not-so-faint household noises such as the hum of the fridge, the blowing of the furnace or the disgorging of a flushed toilet muffled.

I fear that true silence is an endangered sense. We rarely take time to be quiet and it is getting more and more difficult to find those spots that aren’t tainted by some distant human-based noise.

After a 90-mile backpacking trek on the Lake Superior Hiking Trail last month, I was most disappointed that we could not find a campsite where human noises were absent. And bear in mind that much of the trail goes through or is adjacent to large tracts of state parks and Superior National Forest.  Whether it was a distant train, a pack of roaring Harleys on Highway 61, nearby ATVs or overhead jets, it was annoying and unexpected.

For most of last week, I made a daily hike from an old deer shack to a favorite deer hunting knob in Superior National Forest. I relished the thought of sitting quietly up in a spruce tree waiting for a deer to come by. In our household, venison is our primary source of meat.

When I’m up in a tree, the world slows way down and I get to inventory the sounds of a day from its dawning to sunset. Here I have the privilege of interpreting the croaks and gurgles of ravens or listening to the uninhibited play of wind through overhead branches. I swayed on a small portable stand fifteen feet up in a spruce while naked birch and maple limbs rattled against each other like a tireless battle of sabers.

Thankfully,  the third morning broke dead still. In the first hour of hunting, my anticipation and focus is most keen. All noises out here are accentuated in the calm. I turned my head to the left when I heard a faint tick. Over the next few mornings this thin fragment of birch bark clicking in the breeze would repeatedly grab my attention.

But the overall quiet is almost overwhelming. As a society we are awash in human-induced noise and it is only growing worse. How often do kids get to experience the awe of complete silence? Or would it be so alien that it might make them nervous or frighten them?

I recall a December day when, as a naturalist, I led a small group of sixth grade urban students into the snowy woods. Our intent was to practice observation. I told the group that I would drop off each of them along the trail and that they had to stay at their drop-off point for about ten minutes. I made sure that each student was out of sight from his or her classmates. Their charge was to sit or stand silently until I returned. Some were nervous and others were excited. I assured them that I would return.

After I picked them up, we returned to the nature center for lunch and the kids then wrote in their journals about their solo observation time. The following day the teacher felt compelled to share with me a couple of the journal excerpts.

One girl wrote, “At first I didn’t see anything. . .  just snow and trees. But then I began to notice all the animal tracks. Some very tiny ones right by my sitting spot. I really liked it. I felt like I could see within myself.”

I smiled when I read a boy’s observation: “I heard a bird that sounded like a computer.” I was both saddened and not surprised that his perspective revolved around computers. I wish I had been there to tell him that his computer bird was likely a white-breasted nuthatch.

During the calm on my deer stand, I could close my eyes and hear the investigating pecks and flits of a small flock of chickadees and downy woodpeckers as they foraged for insects in the bark of nearby trees. But even this rise of boreal wilds is not shielded from human noise. A few gun shots, a distant ATV and eight, yes eight, commercial aircraft passed high overhead before noon. Their out-place roar was most obnoxious. And yet, how many of us simply tune out the background of constant noise?

It was mid-afternoon. I was still perched like a knob on a tree and it was still wonderfully calm. Then the silence was interrupted. I heard a slight rustling coming through the leaves directly in front of me. The noisemaker was screened by a mixed growth of balsam fir, birch and some maples. Suddenly I felt the tell-tale tickle in my throat that clearly wanted to grow into an out-of-place cough. I tried desperately to swallow the tickle. I couldn’t do it so as a last resort I tipped my head down and pulled the five layers of clothing from my neck up over my mouth and coughed gently down in the heated, muffled cavern.

For a moment all was calm. Nothing was moving. And then after a few seconds the red squirrel resumed its November chores. And in reasonable silence I could only smile.

According to some anthropologists, current humans are only four hundred or so generations removed from our hunter-gatherer ancestors. That’s not much time in the big picture. Their hearing was likely far more acute. I wonder which generation will find silence only an idea?

My blog has been dormant for over a year now. The brown fat of hibernation has long burned off and creative neurons are awakening from my right brain hibernacula. It’s time to write.

The last blog was written up at our Yukon Outpost, 2500 miles from our Minnesota Base Camp. I wish I could say I was beyond any computer range, say advancing on the Himalayas, paddling across the continent, or bushwhacking down the Amazon, but nothing quite that arduous.

I like to think of the blog-drought as a sabbatical while we tended to a full calendar year. There was a major kitchen renovation, Ben and Maren’s (my daughter) wedding, a long road trip to Boulder, Taos and Helper, Utah, a trip to San Francisco to visit my older daughter, Britta and her husband, Blake, three major writing projects (The Rocky Mountain and Southwest Editions of Things that Bite <http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field keywords=great+lakes+edtion+of+Things+that+Bite&x=0&y=0> are now at the printer and I completed  an informational brochure on the Anoka Sandplain.) Whew. . . just noting these mental and physical forays down makes me crave a nap.

It’s significant that my youngest daughter was married this past June in New Orleans because with both daughters married, I am in position to be a legitimate grandfather. I even turned sixty this past July and somehow that makes grandfatherhood more credible.

I can always use tutoring from a neophyte grandfather. It was time to go for a walk with my dear childhood compadre, Nels. He is at the brink of six decades, but unlike me, he has a young grandson, and I have been granted the title of “Uncle Tom.” Even though the linkage of Nels and Anderson DNA likely intersects centuries ago in Sweden, I am an honorary uncle by virtue of being a steadfast friend for a long time.

It was Nels’s idea to hike the 240-mile long Lake Superior Hiking Trail. The lovely trail climbs and drops and crosses many creeks and rivers. Its route is never more than a handful of miles from Lake Superior as it parallels the shore in a NE/SE course. <http://www.shta.org/>

Nels and I have shared an adventurous history together. It has included paddling remote Canadian rivers, numerous BWCA/Quetico wilderness canoe and winter camping trips, hitchhiking in Mexico’s Yucatan area and years of searching for the mythical whitetail buck, named “High Boy” in Superior National Forest. So it only seemed fitting that we shoulder our backpacks and head north.

As we carried our forty pound packs, hour after hour, I noted that this was a great base work out and that this kind of physical activity was key in being fit and burning calories. We stopped for a break to snack on my homemade “Save your Ass” bars and to rest the protesting shoulders. And there, beneath a tall white pine, we had a brainstorm for teaming up to write the ultimate diet book.

Every year there are scores, perhaps hundreds or thousands of new diet books published that promise “a new you.” And every year, those same diet books get put in boxes and carted to thrift stores or serve as a quick fix couch leg.

It was after a few more roller coast ascents and descents that I heard Nels offer a partnership of sorts. He wondered aloud if we should co-author a new diet book; a book that would make the Atkins Diet or South Beach diet books look archaic. Now I was surprised by the offer because I have never known Nels to be an ardent scribe. He is perhaps best known for his one sentence entry into his journal that he kept during a one-month Canadian sub-arctic canoe trip we shared in 1982. Printed neatly, barely taking up half a line, it said, “Left Andy’s at 9:15AM.”

As we climbed another rise, he enthusiastically declared, “This book would be a guaranteed weight loss book and the best part is that we can complete the premise of the book in one or two sentences.” I smiled as I knew what was coming. “All you have to do,” he continued, “is to take in less calories than you burn.” And since this was a team effort, I added, “And to burn calories all you have to do is move your body more than snoring.”And there’s the book. Like his succinct journal entry of nearly thirty years ago, Nels still carries his skills at getting quickly to the point.

Even after we shouldered the backpacks again and steadily climbed another ridge, we chattered excitedly about the book that would likely allow us to each create a non-profit foundation for the causes we hold most dear. It’s amazing how enthusiastic brainstorming can distract pain receptors from growing watery feet blisters or cramping shoulders.

Three days later, we finished our walk. We were stronger, less soft in the middle and solid on the ultimate diet book.

Any comments or suggestions?

Sometime during a three-day span in early July, our adopted dock keeper, Ernie lost his balance during a strong blast of wind and was quickly washed downstream through the rapids that flows by the Outpost.

When Nancy and I returned from a canoe trip over that period, we were saddened by disappearance of Ernie. Ernie’s, companion dock sentry, Bert remained, standing stoically on the dock.

This past May we had found Bert and Ernie at the Annual Mt. Lorne Dumpster Dining Picnic at the local dump and recycling shack, called the “Free Shack.” This is a shack you can bring items that are too good to throw away or you are tired of and leave for someone else. Well on this day, when our eyes fell on the pair of faux stone Easter Island heads, both made from foam and painted stone gray, we whisked them to our truck.

Our monoliths were not twenty feet tall like the real stone giants on Easter Island. These were maybe thirty inches but no more. In short order our pair, christened “Bert” and “Ernie” were firmly wedged to the edge of the river dock. In an odd way the dock guardians looked perfect.

At the time of Ernie’s disappearance the river levels were still high from June snowmelt in the upper Watson River. Mounting a canoe rescue operation was too dicey.

The Watson is born well upstream in an area known as the Yukon Stikine Highlands ecoregion. Located in the cool rain shadow of the Coastal Mountains, this region is home to the greatest mammalian diversity in the Yukon. This area has historically been a network of trade and travel routes for First Nations people and later Europeans who entered the region to prospect gold and fur.

In three summers at the Outpost, we have not observed a single canoe descending the river. Two weeks after Ernie disappeared, my younger brother Scott arrived from Minnesota for a visit. The river levels had dropped and we immediately made plans to initiate a recovery expedition. We knew little of the river and its character. I had spoken with a couple of folks who had paddled it over twenty years ago. There was also a brief description of the river in a local paddling guide but the emphasis is on the lower river.

Canoeing is usually done as a recreational sport. But for Scott and I it would provide a means to accomplish a task. We would weave around river bends, drop through rapids, pull over trees lying across the river and do what we must to find the foam statue. How long this fragile statuary last in the wilderness was anyone’s guess.

So with packs of food and camping gear we waved goodbye to Miss Nancy. The following day she and two other women backpacker friends would shoulder their packs and take a 15-mile hike far up the Watson River to spend the night at an old trapline cabin before returning.

While a canoeing warm up is nice, Scott and I immediately had to contend with the boisterous rapids that pass our dock. We were so focused on the run, that we could not even salute the solitary Bert who forlornly stood on the dock as we passed him. Within seconds we rounded the bend and were feeling good about negotiating the first of many stretches of rapids.

Scott and I have each logged thousands of river miles in a canoe. Oddly we have never been paddling partners for a river trip so this was a rare opportunity. Scotts passions are his dog Dingo and messing around in a canoe. He is a very good bow paddler and does a great job in moving the front of the canoe around. A good bow partner makes an average stern paddler look good.

The time together was rich in conversation and observations and yes, even for brotherly spats. Being older and supposedly wiser I am quick to offer advice to my brother. I should have learned long ago that this is not a good strategy. But some things never change and consequently we had a couple of river miles of grumbling at each other and making accusations. Amazing how incidents from nearly half a century were still simmering.

And suddenly, a stretch of whitewater would show up and demand that we focus on more important issues. It worked. The wisdom of the river prevailed and demanded that we focus on the surroundings.

Both of us were amazed at the serpentine nature of the river. At times we swore that we had just completed a complete circle. We certainly covered each of the cardinal directions: north, south, east and west. Repeatedly I pointed out Caribou Mountain. During the third morning of the trip, Scott challenged my woods knowledge by asking, “Tom, this is the third day of passing Caribou Mountain. Face it you don’t know where we are.” He was right. . . kind of. Because the third day it was the real Caribou Mt. and the others were some other peaks.

There was usually an accompanying maze of timber piled on every outside river bend. We peered through the trunks and branches hoping to see the somber face of Ernie. No luck. We did see a few old pieces of foam insulation and I wondered if these were fragments of a rapids battered Ernie. Could there be some sort of DNA tracing of the chunks to Ernie?

At one point, during a break, I slipped into the spruce forest to make my way upstream to cut a leaning spruce trunk that was bulging in mid stem with a softball-sized burl. I cut the burl and an accompanying two-foot section of the trunk and carried it back to the canoe. Proudly I showed Scott my future sauna water-dipping ladle. No Ernie, but I had a souvenir of spruce.

The river became a boa of bends, slowly drawing us further and further along. Each sand bar was riddled with moose tracks, beaver sign was abundant and here and there we saw where bears had been digging for tender roots. On one bend Scott pointed out a massive shed moose antler so we stopped and fetched it. Still no Ernie, but we had a handsome antler.

As we turned one tight corner and looked ahead, we spotted a pale orb in an upcoming logjam. We drifted towards it puzzled as to what it was. Only when we were within a few feet of it could we tell that under the coating of mud and grime that it was a soccer ball. I splashed water over the ball to wash it off and in the process discovered its name. Franklin. Still no Ernie but we had found Franklin.

After scores and scores of river bends, enough to hypnotize a swimming beaver, we suddenly found ourselves at the brink of a major gorge where the water roared its deep throaty challenge for us to enter. No way. Quickly we got to shore and were faced with a nearly vertical scramble up a very steep climb of fifty or so yards through spruce and brush.

Scott was not happy. Not at all. He let me know and in the process taught me a new word. ““This is idiocracy! If I’d had know this was here I would have not agreed to this trip.” Tired, we settled around the campfire as our supper cooked, sipping on the last feeble ration of Yukon Jack. Still no Ernie but I had been issued a new word to take home.

The third morning broke as a blue-sky repeat of the previous two days. We finished the portage and paddled into the river current below the gorge. During a pee break, we discovered large wolf tracks prancing around the point of sand. Looking up we discovered the reason for wolf giddiness. There was a trail of dry moose bones strewn along a trail. We wondered how many wolves did it take to kill the cow?

We rounded another bend, perhaps our 168th bend, and found ourselves facing the mother lode of all logjam. It spanned the entire river. We groaned about the work that lay ahead of us. Luckily we discovered that the right side of the jam was partially open next to shore. With the help of a camp saw and pushing some logs out of the way, we were able to heave the loaded canoe over partially submerged logs. We cheated the ragged jam that was easily six to eight feet over the water. We looked all over and around the jam for Ernie. He could have easily been buried under the tons of tangled logs. Nothing.

We knew there was a lower river gorge to deal with and while we heard tales of canoe carnage inflicted there. But we had also heard the set of rapids was runnable. Not long after the logjam, we rounded a corner and suddenly the river accelerated hurrying us towards a canyon of steep granitic walls. There was no choice but to quickly read the water and slalom our way through three bends of whitewater. We got hung up on a rock less than forty yards from the bottom. Quickly the current spun the canoe around, like a compass needle spinning north, and suddenly Scott was facing upstream. “We’ve got a problem!” he called out. I yelled for him to turn around and I did the same. And just like that we had changed paddling positions. I stepped out with one leg and pushed off a rock to free us and we finished the canyon in fine style. We earned our lunch.

Just downstream from the lunch spot, we entered another set of rapids and I mistakenly called out “Right!” I actually meant the other right. There was confusion and Scott blew up. This was our third spat in three days. This was the third of three brotherly verbal sparring matches. I was scolded in a rather biting way. Scott hissed accusations that he was tired of a lifetime of me telling him what to do. Of course, I hissed back at him which only added fuel to the argument.

Silently we paddled the next two bends. Sullenly I considered his biting words. He was right. It was no longer necessary for the older brother to watch out for his little brother. And to a degree he was right. I should lay off. But I love him and I will likely fail in not making future suggestions to him.

Suddenly we discovered that we earned the last river bend and the world opened up into Bennett Lake. After a half-hour of vigorous paddling on the windy lake we beached the canoe in Carcross where the truck was parked. We raised our hands and high-fived each other. We had made it. Alas, there was no Ernie. But over the two and a half days we had engaged with a river shaped like a series of question marks and discovered an antler, a unique burl and recovered Franklin, and perhaps the greatest treasure, a bonding of brothers.

(Written: August 18, 2010)

Not long after we returned to the Yukon this past spring, Nancy and I took up prospecting. One would think that with gold prices at record highs, over $1000 an ounce, we might have started the search long ago. But no, it was not gold we were after; we were looking for another rock. In our world at the Outpost, the rock had no name. Though I took a semester of geology in college, any knowledge on the subject has weathered away long ago.

We wanted rocks with strength and beauty for replacing the steps down to our river deck. The steps were beams salvaged thirty years ago from the old Annie Lake Road bridge. The foot high steps were too much of a leg lift and they were rotting. We wanted hefty rocks that had flat surfaces for stability and smooth, or mostly smooth, treads. We had been told by a long time Yukoner that flat rocks are a rarity in the Whitehorse area and that the best flat rocks are found several hours north. We began by searching the area close to the Outpost. We drove down a remote road, past the terminus of road maintenance, to some outwash areas that resemble deltas of rock spilling down off the mountains.

In our search we discovered a particular kind of rock that had an intriguing color and pattern, though it is rarely flat. The rock was black and splotched with irregular white to cream colored splats. The color like a reverse Dalmatian dog: white spots on black. All the specimens were rounded and smooth, indicating that over the millennia they had been tumbled in water.

Over the course of three or four trips down that part of the valley we would stop and pick rock for the truck ride back to the Outpost. Eventually we had a fair-sized rock pile on the riverbank. These included a couple of very flat rocks we had collected up in Keno. Keno is an old mining town, mostly deserted now, nearly six hours north of our place. I had also grunted a couple of reasonably flat stepping stones into the truck that I had spotted along the Alaska Highway.

The old beam steps mostly crumbled apart as I dug them up. Then I dug another three steps into the bank so that the rise was more gradual. Two days later I nudged the last flat rock puzzle piece into place. I spilled washed gravel into the joints of the placed rocks and danced up and down the steps to check for stability. While I had used some of our speckled rock in the treads and risers I still had quite a few left so I placed them down along each side of the steps to serve as sloping retaining walls.

Visitors commented on the fine workmanship and the pattern of the rocks. No one seemed to know what the speckled rock was called. One friend suggested I bring a small sample to Whitehorse to the Yukon Geological Survey staff.

So the next time we went to town for supplies, I took a golf ball sized sample rock and made my way into the sunlit foyer of the downtown building. I figured I was in the right room when I found the reception counter bearing a worn bumper sticker reading, “If it can’t be grown it’s gotta be mined.” This proclamation is to remind us that most everything we have and everything we use comes from our natural resources. And there are only two basic industries and those are agriculture and mining. Whether you like it or not, the economy north of sixty degrees is primarily driven by tourism and mining.

Luckily one geologist was on hand while all the others were at lunch. The well-tanned, strong looking woman, named Daniele, had an easy smile and was eager to see what I had found. Her first question was going to make her job easier. “Where did you find it?” Rocks can be like a signature to a particular locale.

She pulled out her small magnifying loupe to peer more closely at the rock. She began by explaining some simple geology, “Well this is clearly an igneous rock.” She peered over the loupe at me to see if I understood. I nodded and she continued. “It is a granitic rock that formed deep in the crust and slowly cooled under the crust of the overlaying material. These are called plutonic rocks.”

Scanning the surface of my sample rock with the rock held inches from her eye and magnifying loop, she continued. “You can see the large crystals. That is a good clue that tells of a slow cooling process.” She handed the lens to me for a look. Sure enough the small rectangular crystals were very evident. She went on to explain about the iron rich and dark colored blend of minerals called hornblende and the more abundant blend of minerals called feldspar.

And then I learned that over 700 types of igneous rocks have been formally described. How can I possibly retain the little bit that Daniele explained about my pocket sample when I am surrounded by a landscape of rock hard questions?

So if you come by our place I will gladly show you my new steps made up of a handsome collection of what I will continue to refer to as “no-name rocks.”

“You’ve got bear spray?” is a commonly heard query in the summer.

Recently we picked up our truck from Rick, a mechanically inclined neighbor some three miles down the Annie Lake Road from the Outpost. We had just told him we were off to head up the Alligator Lake trail on our mountain bikes. The plan was to ride six or seven miles and then rest our “bush ponies” as Nancy calls them, and hike to the summit of Goat Mountain. We assured him that we had a couple of cans of the potent pepper spray.

Pepper spray, also known as OC spray (from “Oleoresin Capsicum”), OC gas, and capsicum spray, is formally known as a lachrymatory agent. This is a chemical compound that irritates the eyes to cause tears, pain, and even temporary blindness. It is frequently used in riot and crowd control, and personal self-defense. The pepper spray used on bears is far more potent than the human deterrent.*

In writing the series of regional books, Things That Bite: A Realistic Look at Critters that Scare People, I have consistently found that across the continent, there is an overriding fear of bears. (The book is available online, in most major book stores, Amazon or through Adventure Publications.)

I believe there is a deep-rooted, primal fear of large carnivorous animals. Somewhere in our brief history we were prey to larger animals that sometimes found our flesh tasty. These included alligators, sharks, large cats and bears. Most people believe that all bears are inherently dangerous and consequently many bears are killed without a charge of guilty.

Let’s set the record straight. The wild critters that cause more human deaths every year than any other beast in North America is the honeybee and other stinging wasps and hornets. And the only reason they sting is that when they feel threatened they will sting to protect themselves and their home colony. Two percent of the human population is allergic to their venom and could go into anaphylactic shock. Without proper diagnosis or medical attention the person who has been stung can die of breathing complications.

Rick, the mechanic, went on to say that in his thirty plus years in the Yukon he had never seen so much bear sign as this year. Other long time residents have been echoing Rick’s observations. Indeed we likewise had noted the abundance of piles of bear crap alongside the road. And no, there was no distinct odor of pepper spray nor any bear bells in the feces.

When we get visitors from Minnesota, they almost always ask about bears and usually show real concern when we venture out for a hike. While Nancy and I are out mountain biking, backcountry hiking, canoeing or camping at least three times a week, we have yet to spray our bear spray. This summer we have had two encounters with grizzly bears and one night while I was on my mountain bike I suddenly found myself less than ten yards from a husky black bear. Both of us looked surprised. I kept pedaling, no faster and no slower, the bear simply stood and watched me moving on.

Two years ago we had a very blonde and very adult grizzly come ambling down a hill towards our campsite while on a canoe trip in the remote country of the Wind River of the northern Yukon. The bear came within 35 yards of us; six of us all huddled together to make ourselves look large and ominous. It was a sudden flap of the tarp in a gust of wind that scared that bear away.

Three weeks ago we were taking a break from hiking up in the alpine area above Fraser Lake in northern British Columbia, when we spotted a very large grizz ambling along swinging its massive head back and forth as it munched on the abundance of wild produce. It was about 300 yards from us and we simply sat and watched. With a breeze blowing towards the bear, it suddenly stopped, lifted its snout skyward and sniffed our presence. In the briefest of moments, the bear swung around and took off running. We watched the bruin gallop for at least a mile.

Then yesterday we were up on top of White Mountain in the alpine area. We hiked over s a slight rise and there was a grizzly bear about 150 yards from us. The bear paused to look at the four hikers and three leashed dogs. I might add that the dogs stayed silent but they were straining at their leashes. The handsome bear did not dally and it turned an about face and loped away.

Seeing grizzly bears is a tremendous highlight but we have learned that the best deterrent is to simply be aware of where you are. You are in the bears “house.” It is best that you do not slip in quietly. You should be making noise.

Last summer I interviewed Rick Sinoff, a wildlife biologist from Anchorage, Alaska. He is very aware of bear/human issues. “You don’t want to ever surprise a bear. You should make noise, sing a loud song or whatever it takes to make your presence known, particularly while in thickly vegetated areas.” Most bears will do their best to avoid you if you let them know you are in the area.

And traveling with others is a good idea. Sinoff noted, “Grizzly bears rarely attack groups of 4 or more people. Because almost all brown bear attacks are defensive, often involving cubs or food, and contact is rare, the best way to avoid an attack is to talk to the bear, increase distance without running, and play dead only when contact is made. Black bears are usually much less dangerous. They tend to avoid people. However, if a black bear follows you or approaches closely, the bear is not behaving defensively, so be prepared to fight it off. It’s too late to wish you had a can of bear spray in your hand when a bear charges or approaches very closely: much better to carry it with you within easy reach.”

Just this morning Nancy and I walked downstream through the brush along the Watson River hoping to find two plastic chairs that blew off our river deck during a recent blow. While we didn’t find the chairs, we did find some blueberries.

And yes, we carried the bear spray and chattered along the way.

*In the past few years the US Fish and Wildlife Service conducted a study comparing the effectiveness of bear spray to firearms. The following is a synopsis of that study:
When it comes to self-defense against grizzly bears, the answer is not as obvious as it may seem. In fact, experienced hunters are surprised to find that despite the use of firearms against a charging bear, they were attacked and badly hurt. Evidence of human-bear encounters even suggests that shooting a bear can escalate the seriousness of an attack, while encounters where firearms are not used are less likely to result in injury or death of the human or the bear. While firearms can kill a bear, can a bullet kill quickly enough — and can the shooter be accurate enough — to prevent a dangerous, even fatal, attack? The question is not one of marksmanship or clear thinking in the face of a growling bear, for even a skilled marksman with steady nerves may have a slim chance of deterring a bear attack with a gun. Law enforcement agents for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service have experience that supports this reality — based on their investigations of human-bear encounters since 1992, persons encountering grizzlies and defending themselves with firearms suffer injury about 50% of the time. During the same period, persons defending themselves with pepper spray escaped injury most of the time, and those that were injured experienced shorter duration attacks and less severe injuries. Canadian bear biologist Dr. Stephen Herrero reached similar conclusions based on his own research — a person’s chance of incurring serious injury from a charging grizzly doubles when bullets are fired versus when bear spray is used. Awareness of bear behavior is the key to mitigating potential danger. Detecting signs of a bear and avoiding interaction, or understanding defensive bear behaviors, like bluff charges, are the best ways of escaping injury. The Service supports the pepper spray policy of the Interagency Grizzly Bear Committee, which states that bear spray is not a substitute for following proper bear avoidance safety techniques, and that bear spray should be used as a deterrent only in an aggressive or attacking confrontation with a bear.

Yukon residents generally keep to themselves but our neighbor to the west, Watson, must never sleep. Always restless and on the go and always, always making noise.

Silence, real silence, is difficult to secure. Even in the wee, dark hours of a new day, any home might sound quiet, but true silence is nearly impossible. Granted, such noiseless moments are more difficult for those who live in urban areas or near a highway or hospital with its string of sirens. And if you live in a rural area you will likely find that long after the lights and bedding have been turned down and all seems quiet, you can focus your fading attention to the simplest of whispers. In some houses it is the quiet hum of the fridge or the seasonal blow of cool air-conditioned or heated furnace air.

Here at the Outpost, only seven miles inside the power grid that allows me to type these words and listen to my own fridge, we are always in the company of a lively neighboring river titled Watson. Some would argue that even a formally named neighbor who constantly drones on in liquid tones would be tiresome.

How is it that the music of moving waters, whether they are hurried downstream by gravity, splashing over rocks, boulders and sheets of gravel settles my inner being, lowers my blood pressure and carries away tensions? Or how can wind-heaved waves cast onto lake and ocean shorelines draw my attention and then peacefully hypnotize me? Even small drops of a steady rain on a roof or tent will inspire me to pause and anchor to rest in my quiet place.

What is the magic hold, the power to stop us, to slow us down from pretended urgencies, that moving water has on us? I wonder if it is a primal calling. A calling us home so to speak. That would put us in the company of the salmon that are called home from the ocean to the very stream from which they were born. Powerfully, they swim, leap up hefty rivers and subject themselves to a gauntlet of nets, claws, teeth and talons as they are determined to drive on towards their home waters.

Does my homage to the moving water align me with the ancient waters from which our evolution as a species might have come from? After all my own blood is more like saltwater than freshwater and it could be that I carry my birth waters within my humble frame.
Or could it be that the fondness for water symphony is not unlike the internal watershed of our own circulatory system? Perhaps our nine months, or in my case seven months, of floating in our mother’s amniotic pool and surrounding circulatory flow has left an indelible emotional bookmark, an affinity towards songs of serenity delivered by moving water.

From spring through fall and even into early winter, no matter what the weather is, Watsons ramblings are the first thing we hear when we step outdoors. We often stroll, coffee in hand, to the small section of dock that is perched over the river. The river’s movement and score of music demand our attention so we often sit in silence and just watch and listen. We are not alone in our attraction to Watsons neighborliness. One day a mink hurried by as it bobbed expertly through the rapids in passing us. More recently, a trio of red-breasted mergansers dawdled, preening themselves on a mid-river boulder that sits at the river bend just upstream from the dock. Was it the river’s restful noise that attracted a mid-May cow moose and her newborn, gangly calf to the river’s edge near the merganser resting rock? And even bears have left clues of their riverside dining in the diggings of succulent roots located just feet from the river.

Spending enough time with Watson has made us keenly aware of the river’s cadence and signature song. So it came as no surprise when we suddenly became aware of a new sound coming from the river. Curious I went down to investigate and discovered that Watson was being retuned.

I am married to a fine musician. Nancy loves jamming with other players and does so weekly. While she adds her lively fiddle to the mix, I sometimes will join them by contributing some simple and tentative percussion. We have found that a cylindrical Scotch container housing a handful of rice makes a good shaker that almost sounds like raspy snare drum. Or beating our five-gallon blue water container adds an amazing variety of percussion tones. While mindlessly beating or shaking, I like to watch the real musicians. The guitarists, usually a pair of them, will often affix a clamp, called a capo on the neck of their guitars, compressing the instrument’s strings to raise the guitar’s tone.

Down at the river deck, I looked upstream towards the merganser’s boulder and discovered that Watson now had its own capo. A long, smooth log had floated downriver during the late spring high water period and had jammed itself up on the boulder. It had now swung on its rocky pivot point and stopped perpendicular to the river’s flow creating an instant small ledge from which new river notes were coming. Like a metronome, the log slowly rose and fell in the surging current, as if it were tapping its thick trunk in time to the music.

I wondered if I were to brave the cold, mountain-born waters and wade into the river and roll some of the large rocks into new positions if I could, in fact, be a composer of sorts. I would argue that such a task would make me a songwriter of liquid lyrics.

The capo log has not gone unnoticed by another neighbor who lives north of the Outpost. The other day, ten-year old Anthony urged me up Pulpit Hill to look down on the river. Excitedly, he pointed out the recently stranded log. I loved the fact that he had found this newsworthy event worthy of neighbor news. Earlier in the day I had noticed that the log had also attracted the attention of a passing spotted sandpiper that paused and bobbed its tail up and down as it inspected the river log. I like to think it stopped to take in the new music, raising and lowering its tail in time to the rivers beat, rather than look for small invertebrate tidbits on the log’s surface.

Our bed is less than forty feet from the river. During the we often open the window above our heads. When my head settles into the pillow, the river never fails to lull me to sleep. In the evening, Watsons flow sounds like a distant applause that rises and falls but never tires.

Good night Watson.

******

ADDENDUM TO LAST WEEK’S RIVER QUEST BLOG

Nancy and I made the trip to Dawson last weekend to watch some of the River Quest Canoe and Kayak Race come into the finish. The total race distance was 460 miles. Due to the rainy, cold weather at the start and then facing a very rough paddle on Lake Lebarge, nearly 1/3 (around 22 teams) of the teams that started the race scratched. The winning team, the Texans, a voyageur canoe with six paddlers won the race again this year. This mens team has won the race three of the last four years. They finished the grueling race in 42 hours and 48 minutes. Eleven seconds behind them was a solo kayaker from Sausalito, California.

I spoke with Rod Price, the Floridian, when he finished at about 7:30 AM. He said that at about 6 AM, that morning, he had drank two cans of Red Bull to try and stay awake. Not long after drinking them, he actually lost his balance during a stroke due to his drowsiness and he tipped over into the cold river. Alone and no one in sight, he had “to do a Michael Phelps” and swim after his drifting canoe, grab it and get he and the boat to shore where he could empty it and change into dry clothes. “It did wake me up though.”

Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Overcast and rainy all AM,
Morning Temps (F): 40-mid 40s

I was out of bed before six o’clock. Rain was falling and it looked gloomy. I was supposed to be in Whitehorse at 7 AM. I had shuffled to the kitchen, got a pot of coffee going and turned on the computer to log in for the regional weather check. Hmmmm. . . .what was this? A “Rainfall Warning? ” Predicting up to 15mm of rain!?!? That means a deluge of just over a half an inch to those of you metric phobes out there. Is that an ark I see the worried neighbors building? Why back at Basecamp in Minnesota, a half-inch of rain is generally praised in platitudes rather than deemed a “warning.”

Perhaps in this part of the Yukon, that is officially deemed arid or semi-arid, such warnings are necessary. Visitors are surprised by the dryness found here. No cacti or hump-bearing moose mind you, but plenty of sand and stunted and sparse vegetation.

Watersheds are fed by numerous creeks and freshets and they will rise when a rainfall occurs. The mighty Yukon River is fed by a whole landscape of gurgling and rushing circulation. And on this day, this mighty river provided a speedway for the start of the “Yukon River Quest, the Longest, annual canoe and kayak marathon.” The 460 mile race starts in Whitehorse, the territorial capital and goes to Dawson City. . . .a city built during the famed Klondike gold rush back in 1898.

Though I fantasize about paddling this race, I am reluctant to subject myself to hours and hours of sitting, going without sleep, enduring rain, winds or scorching sun and then continuing for more hours and hours. It’s not that I mind a bit of suffering in a competition, as I have endured running marathons, short sprint canoe races, cross country skiing for over 50 km and more recently cycling a leg of the Chilkat International Bike Relay over the Coastal Mountains from the Yukon to Alaska. I have likely paddled thousands of miles on various remote canoe trips and not-so-remote canoe excursions, but for some reason I have a block on paddling the Yukon River Quest. If I ever do it, it will be simply to do it and not compete in it.

So one way to participate in the event is to volunteer. I did so and so I was there helping with equipment checks on the paddler’s boats. With clipboard in hand, I went down a list of gear that each boat must have. The needed equipment included things like a spare paddle, spray skirt, a throw bag or heaving line for rescue purposes, a navigation light for nighttime paddling, river maps, adequate food as there will be no stores to buy food while enroute, sleeping bags that are rated for 20 degrees F or colder, a proper first aid kit with a minimum of listed items and so on. We had done our first equipment check the day before so that any missing items could be secured for the final pre-race equipment check on race morning.

Before leaving the Outpost I downed a cup and a half of hot coffee, chewed down a bowl of cold cereal and made a sandwich out of leftover salmon cakes before I suited up in stout rain gear and headed out the door.

In a little over a half an hour I pulled into the Yukon Visitor Center parking lot, grabbed my umbrella and made my way through steady rain to the starting area. A green tarp was strung up for the volunteers to gather under and get final instructions. We donned our orange mesh volunteer vests and began greeting arriving racers.

It was a dismal morning and as we did equipment checks it was clear that there were two distinct schools of thought on the weather. One was “It’s quite perfect and lovely.” And the other was “Yuck. . .it’s cold and miserable.”

Teams like the tandem Seattle young men and voyageur team of British fellows actually wanted more wind and chop so as to replicate their respective home training waters. Another paddler, Rod Price, a veteran of several paddling competitions, including the Great River Amazon Rafting Race in Peru. He is the author of a recently published book, Racing to the Yukon. Rod was mixing up a gallon jug of a Hammer energy drink under the Volunteer Tarp. Home for him was Florida, yet he thought the conditions for the race were good and he wouldn’t mind more wind as it would quickly separate the competition. He clearly came here to compete. In fact he was on the winning tandem canoeing team for last year’s inaugural Yukon 1000 Mile Canoe Race down the Yukon River.

Then there are the teams who will measure victory by simply finishing the race downriver in Dawson City. There was the father/daughter team from Cleveland, Ohio. They were easy to check in as they were so organized. With an indelible Sharpie, the twenty eight year old daughter had neatly printed the number of calories contained in each sandwich or snack bag.

Another pair of paddlers, two young men, dressed as a pirate and an accompanying parrot were trying to use humor to relax themselves and other paddlers. Secretly I hoped they would kick ass and win but you know they won’t.

Then there are the teams of voyageur canoes. These boats hold 6-8 paddlers and one of them will most certainly complete the 460 miles in the fastest time. . . .likely around 40 hours. There is the team from Texas, plus one Californian, who barely lost to a team of Canadians two years ago. They created a stir with complaints about the high tech, all carbon canoe that the Canadians used. The Texans came back to win it last year, in a carbon boat, and are here to defend their title.

Looked to me that there were three lightweight carbon voyageur boats in this year’s race. The prize of “most beautiful” arguably went to a team of middle-aged British men. The boat, not unlike several of the entries that have sailed in the highly prestigious America’s Cup sailing race, was kept under wraps most of the morning. In recent years, several of the Cup entries have been cloaked so the competition cannot see design innovations in the boat’s hull. The group of British paddlers, were so properly polite and looked fit. Indeed, it turns out that several had experience in rowing the Atlantic. Their all-black wardrobe of rain gear and head gear matched the canoe color and marked them as the team to be reckoned with. Hardly villains, but why not start the race psychologically before you even get in the canoe? I heard a competing paddler mumble in reverence something about “Men in Black.” Clearly he had already thrown in the towel.

Temperatures not much above freezing had the a pair of paddlers from South Africa concerned. It appears they assumed that a race across the land of the midnight sun, means eternal summer. I suspect the team from Finland and maybe Austria and France were better equipped.

This year marked the tenth anniversary of a Yukon voyageur team of women breast cancer survivors. A dear Yukon neighbor, Claire, who lives about two and a half miles upriver from us, was paddling sixth race for the Paddlers Abreast team. About four years ago a wonderfully moving film was produced by the National Film Board of Canada < > called the River of Life. It is a documentary that tells the story of this amazing group of women.

Two years ago a group of Australian women, all breast cancer survivors, watched the film and were so moved that they have made the long trip to North America and with their husbands or family as support teammates, they are entered in this race. Several of the women have dragonboating experience and all of them have completed a 24 hour paddle challenge. Out of respect and solidarity the Aussies have chosen the team name: “Yukon Buddies.” At 10:30 AM the two cancer surviving teams gathered at the river’s edge and tossed pink carnations into the river’s current. Clearly they are all winners and they hadn’t even shoved their boats into the current.

Finally, chilled to the core, we completed the equipment checks on all the canoes and kayaks. We helped the teams carry their loaded boats to the river’s edge. It was quite a scene looking up and down the river and seeing all the colorful craft with their bows floating in the river and the stern still tucked on shore.

All the racers gathered about one city block away for introductions and comments from race dignitaries. And at noon, the loud horn signaled “Go!” This dash would be the last exercise their legs would have for many hours and even days. Most of them will have to be helped from their craft at the first mandatory seven hour layover in Carmacks, some 200 miles downriver.

I stood watching the last of the paddlers disappear around the distant curve of the river. This wasn’t a day suited for even a leisurely paddle, not to mention a nearly 500 mile outing. I quickly shed my volunteer vest and with water dripping off my wide-brimmed hat, I shivered and hurried for my truck for the ride back to the Outpost. I couldn’t wait for a hot shower and a piping hot cup of hot chocolate. And maybe a mid-afternoon nap under a heap of blankets might be in order.