A Brief Time in Heaven. Darryl Blazino

minuscule number, yet psychologically it is one that is difficult to ignore.

      The cornerstone of bear safety is to keep a tidy campsite where food scraps are burned and dishes washed. Covering the food packs with tarps or hanging them at night will also lessen the risk of bear encounters. These habits are completely second nature to us, and thus I have to admit that the thought of being attacked by a bear rarely crosses my mind. I wish I could say this was true for the night we spent on Elizabeth Lake.

      The evening would have been memorable for all the right reasons: a perfectly calm, gorgeous evening, like so many others, with Roddy and I leisurely touring the shoreline. As the sun brushed the tops of the tallest pines, the silence was broken by a thunderous sound.

      Crraaack-thuuddd! A sizeable tree fell to the ground only a few hundred yards from our campsite. Startled, we pondered how, with barely a breeze in the night’s air, this could have transpired.

      “You know, a bear will push a tree over sometimes searching for grubs,” Rod offered as an explanation.

      Again silence. We paddled on a little longer before returning to our home for the night. After relating our experience to Joe and George around the campfire our conversation drifted to more worldly topics before retiring to our humble abodes.

      It was quiet for quite a while when a rustling of sorts, possibly followed by the crack of a twig, was heard. It was just loud enough to get our attention. Neither of us spoke, but I could tell Rod was straining his ears as he angled his head up and then froze.

      Soon there was more rustling and then a distinct but subtle snap. There was no doubt: something was definitely out there, and whatever it was it was getting closer!

      We called to our companions in a loud whisper: “Guys, I think there’s a bear out there! Don’t you hear it?”

      With overwrought ears we sat up in our tents until all doubt was removed. Something was in the woods near our tent. All of us agreed to get up and investigate.

      What a sight we must have been. The four of us — wearing nothing but boxer shorts and armed with an axe, a stick, a filleting knife, and a whistle — ready to do battle with a ferocious man-eating bear. Hearts racing and poised for the attack we glanced back and forth, pondering our next move. After a minute or so of inaction we finally considered the possibility that it might just be a squirrel, a bird, or any number of living creatures that are no threat to our well-being. But we wouldn’t take any chances.

      “Should I blow the whistle?” Rod inquired meekly.

      “Sure, why not?” we agreed unanimously.

      Well, at least I thought it was unanimous. Apparently George had not heard the question because when the ear-piercing blast came it nearly gave him a heart attack. He jumped about a foot off the ground and, still bewildered, turned to chastise Rod: “What the heck did you do that for?”

      Joe and I were already in stitches before Rod deadpanned his response as if he were a referee: “George, you were offside.”

      We doubled over in laughter and were in tears most of the night. Unbelievably, it wasn’t until recounting these bizarre events the next morning that we even considered the obvious fact that most certainly it was a beaver that had felled the tree.

      I still get a chuckle whenever I think back to how ridiculous we were that evening.

      Loons Gone Wild