Right here is where you get the paddler’s version of the secret handshake. Commit this to memory: The bugs were unbelievable. It was crawling with bears. The wilderness was a big, scary wasteland. Practice saying it until you sound charged with conviction and passion. A little shakiness in the voice helps. Try it out on family and friends until it seems good and righteous.
Fact is, bugs are only rarely intense, bear confrontations happen about as often as you get mugged in your neighborhood, and your house—crammed with electrical outlets, slippery tubs, and steep stairs—is objectively more dangerous than the wilderness. But that’s our secret.
Public perception is everything. As long as people are duped into believing that commuting at high speed, living in the midst of toxic pollution, and merging with millions of strangers in crowded cities is the sane way to live, the wilderness experience will survive. Hollywood is in on this. Why else would they be churning out movies featuring meteorological catastrophes, slavering bears the size of allosauruses, and puny, hysterical, hairless humans stranded in the howling wilderness? Just keep it up.
Meantime, for those few moments in the wilderness when things do turn a tad sour, some rational advice.
We tend to remember the truly horrible episodes—the portage so dense with black flies that your face looked as if you’d gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson; the lunch stop in a fog of mosquitoes so thick it provoked a frantic stampede to the canoes; the swampy camp so intolerable that the only recourse was a retreat to the tents.
Memorable indeed, but exceptional. On the water the bugs are rarely bothersome. They seem to get nervous away from land and won’t follow you far. A breeze will keep all but the most stalwart fliers grounded. Most insects have a distinct window of activity—right at dusk, on sunny, still afternoons, after dark—when they’re most active. The rest of the time they’re pretty dormant. Cool, blustery weather slows up insects remarkably.
I’ve gone for weeks in country renowned for its bug intensity and never once unscrewed the top on the bottle of insect dope. Admittedly there have been a couple of bad moments when some glitch in the life cycle of an insect denizen, or some conspiracy of temperature, humidity, and season, has provoked a horror-movie bug frenzy that I happened to be there for. Comfort yourself with the knowledge that it’s just those occasional outbreaks that keep the myth of the three Bs alive and well in the consciousness of the masses.
Bug jackets are invaluable when things get nasty.
Dress to cope. Pants cuffs and jacket sleeves should have bugproof closures (elastic, drawstrings, etc.). Socks should be thick enough to thwart stingers and tall enough to pull up over pants cuffs. Wind jackets and pants (light, breathable material) are ideal for bug protection. Dark clothing (navy blue, black) seems to attract insects more than light-colored clothes, so keep that in mind when choosing the trip ensemble.
Take a headnet if bugs are a real threat. My experience is that you almost never use it, but when you need it, you really need it.
In true insect territory, consider a bug jacket. They’re sold under several brand names, but all of them are loosely woven mesh with long sleeves and hoods. You treat them with bug dope and then put them on. They often avoid the need to apply insect repellent directly on your skin, and you can wear light, cool clothing underneath. One treatment generally lasts several weeks. Ankle gaiters are also available, but they seem like overkill. Bug jackets are sold in outdoor catalogs and in many stores throughout the North.
Take some repellent. DEET (n-diethyl-metatoluamide) is the active ingredient in the most effective repellents. Bug dope with a high concentration of DEET (90 to 100 percent) really works. Often it’s enough to put a dot on the tip of your nose and your cheekbones. It’s prudent to use it sparingly, because DEET is strong stuff with a penchant for corroding plastics like camera bodies and paddle shafts. Tests on the side effects of DEET have been mostly reassuring, but still … Problem is, DEET repellents are far and away the most effective. In real bug country, I wouldn’t trust anything else.
Listen politely to folk remedies touted by your friends. You’ll hear about garlic, skin moisturizers, vitamin B, and various environmentally friendly concoctions. You’ll see little battery-operated gizmos that supposedly emit the sound a dragonfly makes hunting mosquitoes. That sound, of course, is outside the range of human hearing, which makes you wonder if the only real sound is your money going down the drain. Try them if you like, but stash at least one little bottle of the real stuff in the pack, just in case.
Practice some behavior modification. Plan trips for the times of year least likely to be buggy. Fall and early spring are usually safe. Make local inquiries about the worst bug seasons. In the field, situate camps on breezy elevations or in open clearings. Always face into the wind. Learn to love wood smoke. On bad days, eat lunch in the canoes. Work on achieving Zen indifference.
If everything else fails, retreat to your tent and hope the mosquito netting on that cheap dome you bought is fine enough to keep out the hordes.
Bears are the great white sharks of the land, one of the few animals before which humans turn into quaking, meek puddles of flesh. Lord knows it’s good for us to experience a dose of abject powerlessness once in a while. But once again, the perceived threat is a lot more potent than the real one. It’s much more likely that you’ll be laid low by a microscopic parasite, or that you’ll choke on a bite of bratwurst at your take-out picnic than that you’ll ever have to deal with a bear attack.
In hundreds of nights camping in bear country, I can think of only three times when a bear made me uncomfortable, and only once where I felt I had to protect myself. In true wilderness bears tend to be very shy. Most sightings you’ll make will be of the hind end of a bruin moving off at a remarkable rate. Well-used areas are more questionable, but confrontations are still rare. Prevention is the name of the bear-proofing game.
Avoid surprising bears: make noise on portages and walks. Warning bears of your presence is simple and prudent. On the other hand, making noise to scare a bear that has already invaded your camp is, in my experience, not very effective. I’ve stood and banged pots and shouted like a madman at bears that just looked back at me with bland curiosity.
Check campsites in bear country for signs—footprints, scat, clawmarks in tree bark—and try to skip sites with fresh evidence of bear activity.
When possible, avoid the well-established campsites in favor of more remote, less-traveled ones, even if they aren’t as attractive.
Follow instructions in established sites with known bear presence.
Pack food in double thicknesses of plastic to minimize odor. Fold-down dry bags are also effective scent-masking food containers. Screw-top plastic barrels are available through river outfitting catalogs and are a very good way to cut food odors.
If possible, don’t camp in the same site in bear country for days on end. Over an extended period, resident bears eventually tend to come around and investigate.
Pitch your tent well away from your cooking area, although I like to be able to see where my packs are at night. I try to pile my gear away from both the kitchen and sleeping zones and cover the pile with a tarp for protection.
Some people mask food smells by putting containers of mothballs or vials of ammonia around the pack stash. I don’t know. Seems marginal to me.
Hanging food is still widely advocated, but in my opinion it’s only somewhat useful. Some designated campsites have hanging poles in place or provide “bear boxes” for food storage. All well and good, but the rest of the time it’s pretty hard to find a tree adequate for the job, and you can waste the better part of an evening struggling with the hanging system. Even then, black bears are incredibly adroit, athletic, and powerful climbers, especially when they’re motivated and frustrated. Hanging your food doesn’t do anything to stop the smells from wafting around and attracting wildlife, which will then keep you awake and cowering in the dark while the family of black bears plays food bag piñata.
The most important practice is to maintain a clean, odor-free camp and kitchen area and keep food away from your tent.
Critters other than bears are far more likely to inflict mayhem on your camp. Raccoons, skunks, ring-tailed cats, pack rats, mice, and other nighttime invaders are all far more real threats. For the most part, the same measures you take against bears will work for other animals. In some established sites, particularly ones with sleeping shelters in place, mice can be a real problem. I’ll sleep in a tent over a shelter any time. In mouse country, try hanging the food bag from a rafter or branch, with a can lid placed halfway down the cord (see this page).
Beyond preventive measures, we move into the murky realm of self-defense. Deep in the wilderness, protecting your food stash is almost as important as protecting yourself. After all, starvation is only a slower incursion against your health and well-being than an actual attack!
Attach a weight (carabiner, rock) to the end of about 40 feet of 1/4-inch line. Throw it over a branch 15-20 feet off the ground. Attach the food bag and haul it up about 10 feet, then tie off the free end of the rope.
If you decide to hang food, at least do it effectively.
Mouse-proof the food bag with a can lid on the cord.
Firearms are certainly the most dramatic and, some would say, reliable form of self-defense, but they’re also extremely dangerous, prone to lethal accidents, and often prohibited in wilderness areas. Although I went through a phase of wilderness travel when I carted along a shotgun and slugs, and though I once felt compelled to use that gun in self-defense against a bear, I’m reluctant to advocate the use of guns.
I’ve settled on taking pepper spray in canisters specifically developed to thwart bear attacks. Pepper spray has several compelling advantages over guns. First, it isn’t lethal to humans or animals. Second, it’s compact and lightweight, and it comes with a holster so you can carry it on your belt and keep it as available as you like. One of the drawbacks of guns is that they’re often packed away or inaccessible when you need them most.
People argue over the stopping power of pepper spray. There are always what-if scenarios to haggle over. What if the wind is blowing? What if you miss with a shot of spray and don’t get a second chance? My conclusion, having used both, is that the canisters are more convenient and less problematic than guns. I suspect they’re most effective as a “me or the bear” last-minute defense, when the bear is pretty well in your face.
The bottom line: we take our chances when we travel in bear country, just as we take our chances on a subway late at night. The odds are overwhelmingly in our favor and worth the risk. If things go badly wrong, I’ll just have to trust my wits, call for courage, and hope for the best.
The middle of nowhere is almost always a cathartic, renewing, awe-inspiring, life-affirming place. Finding those large empty spaces between people is one of the compelling motivations for going off in canoes. More than anything else, it’s the reason we go and the powerful draw that keeps pulling us back.
Remember I said “almost always.” Wilderness regions are bereft of humanity for a reason. They tend to be areas that are expensive to get to, difficult to penetrate, prone to environmental rigors, and infrequently patrolled. Once in a very long while, the same wilderness qualities we embrace turn inhospitable, forbidding, and frighteningly impartial. Those fleeting moments of danger and vulnerability are the ones to prepare for. Hopefully that preparation will be for naught, but that doesn’t make it any less critical.
Consider an emergency locator transmitter (ELT), also sometimes known as EPIRB, for the most remote expeditions. They cost roughly $200 and are available through marine equipment suppliers. ELTs weigh about a pound and are the size of a transistor radio (see this page). When you turn one on, it emits a constant distress signal on a frequency monitored by satellites and aircraft. Local authorities will presumably be notified and a search begun. Turning on an ELT should be a response to life-and-death problems like acute appendicitis or the loss of your boat. Searches are expensive and risky, and if it turns out that you didn’t really and truly need rescuing, you may very well end up paying the bill. I’ve also known people to take shortwave radios or satellite phones, but I’ve never been convinced that the security even comes close to justifying their bulk and weight. Cell phone range is iffy, and I have a visceral aversion to packing a telephone.
Wilderness first aid training is critical for people who wander off into blank spots on maps. Carry a complete, well-stocked first-aid kit (see this page-this page) and get appropriate first-aid instruction. Inquire at outdoor stores or paddling clubs about local first-aid and safety courses. There are a number of instructional programs that specialize in wilderness applications and go well beyond the standard urban first-aid shtick. Along with your first-aid supplies, include a manual oriented to wilderness settings. There are several good ones available (see appendix 2).
Put together a basic survival kit in an easy-to-carry container like a small hip sack or Tupperware box (see list on this page). If you lose your boat or other gear, these supplies will help you get by until you get out on your own or are rescued.
Be physically and mentally prepared. The assumption of wilderness travel is that you are both self-contained and self-sufficient. Make sure your paddling, navigation, and backcountry skills are up to the challenges of your route and that your supplies are adequate. Once on the water, factor the level of remoteness into your decision making. There are rapids I’ll run without hesitation when a road is handy but that I’d portage or sneak when I’m deep in the wilderness with a boat full of gear.
Emergency transmitters are reassuring but should only be used in life-and-death situations.
The survival kit is just that, some minimal gear that will allow you to subsist until you can get to help or help comes to you. It should be compact enough that you can wear it as you travel. A light hip sack works well, or a plastic box that you can slip into a shirt or coat pocket. You may have some things to add (personal medications, for example), but the basics should include
needle and thread
waterproof match safe
small compass
mirror (signal)
lightweight space blanket (shelter, warmth, signal)
stub of pencil and little pad of paper
fishing line and lure
lip balm
bug dope (optional)
small pocketknife
small roll of adhesive tape