At least one other encounter gave George pause during his final hunting trip to the Kusawa/Takhini area of northwestern British Columbia, when he walked alone without his rifle down the valley from his camp to look for two companions, Laurie Marquis and Fred Wuertch, who were scheduled to fly in later. That evening George wrote in his journal:
August 19, 1977 (Kusawa/Takhini): Went down valley about 1730 [hours] to see if Laurie and Fred were coming. Watched for them about one and a half miles below camp. Didn’t see them so headed back at 1830. Seen a cow moose and a grizzly one and a half miles from camp — no rifle!!!!! Saw a goat across valley from camp. Fred and Laurie arrived about 2000 hours, tired and hungry. Fed them goat stew and meat. Stayed up quite late around fire. Didn’t sleep good thinking about the grizzly.
George’s matter-of-fact writing style belies the intensity of this bear encounter. He had once related this story to me, describing with feeling how he was a good distance away from his hunting camp without his rifle, sitting beside a creek, when suddenly a grizzly bear appeared on a large rock only a few metres away. His written account understates the anxiety that he must have felt at the time, and that clearly lingered well into the night.
We put the tape aside as we neared our destination. Passing through the McGregor Mountains, we parked the truck on a side road below the Dezaiko Range of the Northern Rockies, and started our approach hike. Because of the early morning frost on the vegetation, we didn’t get too wet. After the first hour, we entered the mainly primordial forest on an old horse trail that had been built some thirty years earlier by guide outfitter Clarence Simmons.5 Once we were under the cover of the old trees, where the vegetation changes more slowly over time than in the open, our route became much more distinct. We arrived at a familiar stream crossing at the bottom of the gully that led up the mountain, and we each found a different way to cross according to our individual temperaments. George took the most direct route, moving with a sure foot over a slippery log. I can almost hear the words of his childhood mentor, his cousin Bob, admonishing him: “George, do not hesitate.” I gave the problem more thought, and hesitantly worked my way upstream over moss-covered rocks and woody debris to make a precarious crossing on slippery rocks. George’s temperament, born of experience and confidence in the outdoors, was to just go for it.
George’s patience in situations like this stood in stark contrast to the restless energy that he exhibited in almost everything else that he did. The first ski trips that I had done with him nearly eighteen years earlier were taken at a time when I was ill-equipped and inexperienced in steep terrain. He would sometimes wait for me for what must have seemed like hours to him as I struggled up or down the mountain. I often wondered where his patience came from. “Perhaps,” someone who knew him well once confided to me, “he’s worn out so many prospective hiking companions that he’s learned to be patient with those who remain.”
The trail climbed steeply up the ridgeline to the east of the gully, and we paused partway as a golden eagle sailed past us up the draw. The previous evening, I had dreamt of a golden eagle perched next to me as I sat with a companion on the edge of a steep gully or valley. The bird in the dream was brightly coloured, although these eagles are not; yet for some reason, in the hazy world of sleep, I knew it as a golden eagle. To the best of my recall, I had never dreamed of an eagle before, and I couldn’t remember a dream object being so vivid.
We continued climbing. For nearly twenty years, I had been writing for various publications, and for some time I had harboured the idea of writing a book. Several topics had eddied around, but nothing definite had settled out. As we climbed the mountain in the quiet, crisp morning air, a thought hit me with sudden clarity. My book would be a biography of this man I was travelling with. I was taken aback — where had that idea come from? This was not the first time I had a flash of insight on this route — another had occurred while climbing alone on a Friday evening, an hour away from a nine o’ clock rendezvous on the top of the mountain with George, who had hiked in earlier in the day. On that occasion I emerged from forest into alpine meadows, lost in a deep reverie as I climbed in the evening light, and suddenly I had a rare glimpse of life’s meaning. Now, as I watched George push through the wet rhododendron, both of us content with the rhythm of the climb, I began to sift through book ideas, wondering how I would broach the subject to this modest and private man. I decided to sleep on it and discuss it with George if the moment seemed right in the days ahead. Later, as with the chance recording of the bear debate and my dream about the eagle, I was to wonder at the manner and coincidence of the book’s genesis at this fateful time.
Stopping just below the treeline, George lit a fire to help us dry off while we ate lunch. As we continued the climb into the alpine meadows, there was now just enough snow to ski on, and my pack felt light and secure again. We travelled in a magical realm with clouds above and below us. The valleys glimpsed through breaks in the clouds now belonged to another world. Our route narrowed to a thin ridge overhanging a steep-sided valley, and we paused to savour the clear, cool air and to catch our breath.
Suddenly, another golden eagle soared from the valley and passed only a few metres away from us, closer to me than ever before. The white markings on its wings and tail feathers identified it as immature, but it was followed a moment later by a mature companion that was a little farther out. I was so struck by the vivid manifestations of my dream of the night before, and the enigmatic implications of the eagles, that immediately after returning to town I went to the public library and took out every book I could find on dream interpretation. They didn’t provide an answer, but I had a sense that a meaning would become clear. In belief systems such as shamanism and the Australian Aboriginal dreamtime, there are clues to our existence and our relationship with the world around us beyond those that are apparent in our waking lives. According to these ideas, which appear in many forms in various spiritual traditions, it is only at certain times or in certain places, or in special frames of mind that we are receptive.
We resumed our climb, at last reaching the high point of the approach hike. All my doubts about coming on the trip had long since fallen away, and we gazed down the snowy bowl to the lodge. Its metal roof and red-stained walls stood out in the midst of a small clump of trees far below us. Unfortunately our plans to ski down to the lodge in style evaporated as we saw that the slope had countless rocks sticking out, meaning that it would be a slow and treacherous descent. I opted to keep climbing skins on my skis, and take wide, slow traverses. Climbing skins attach to the base of backcountry skis to allow skiers to climb in steep terrain without slipping backward. Skis were almost natural appendages to George, and he took his skins off and went straight down the middle; in doing so, he had to take many necessary falls to avoid hitting the boulders that were everywhere. For the first time in my life, I stood at the bottom of a ski slope and waited for him to catch up.
The weather was pleasant during our two-day stay at the lodge, and we enjoyed the time that we spent touring and looking for wildlife. Apart from a few caribou tracks and the body of a rodent that had been mysteriously dropped onto an otherwise empty expanse of snow by a bird of prey, perhaps one of the numinous eagles, there wasn’t much to see. The absence of grizzly bear tracks suggested that the season had sufficiently advanced for them to be in their winter dens, an observation that made the events of two weeks later even harder to comprehend. The small amount of snow covering the rocks made it dangerous to ski downhill without the braking action of climbing skins. So again, I kept mine on and had a couple of slow runs. To George, it was unthinkable to ski down a mountain with skins on, just as he had steadfastly refused to snowshoe in the mountains with me over the years — it was ski or nothing. So on our excursion from the lodge on Sunday, he chose the latter and walked back down the slope carrying his skis, and for the second time in our twenty-year association, I waited for him at the bottom of a snow slope.
On Sunday evening in the lodge, I was reading one of George’s favourite books, Memoirs