Do Not Feed the Bears
Procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday.
—Archy the Cockroach, from Don Marquis, Archy and Mehitabel, 1927
Weeks later, as fall draws near, the morning sun means that John and I will be bushwhacking up the mountain in back of the Big House. The reason is to look for moose and deer sign, because this is what hunters do. It’s also just to get to the top of the mountain, because it’s there, and it’s a beautiful day. Dressed in hiking gear and ready to go, I start filling water bottles to stuff into our daypacks as John sits at the chair by the door and starts lacing on hiking boots.
“Just so you know,” Don says laconically to John from his lounger in the living room, “the McKennas were back there, setting up bear bait.”
(. . . bear bait?)
“They quit hunting bears,” Don continues. “Now they run a little guide business for tourists who want to see bears. But don’t be surprised if you smell something.”
(. . . smell something?)
“Err,” I say, raising my hand to object.
“Not likely you’ll find yourself in the same spot,” Don drawls, pointedly ignoring the surprised look on my face, “but no need to worry. Bears get timid as soon as the bait comes out because they know the season’s starting. They’ll just run away from you.”
I stand and blink, processing his words. Heck, even the squirrels don’t run when they see me coming. To animals, I’m about as threatening as a helium balloon.
“Some of the guys in Patrick’s rabbit club go back there and set up bear traps,” Don adds, looking pointedly at John, who nods to acknowledge that he heard, finishes lacing up his boots and straightens up, ready to go on a backyard adventure. “Don’t worry,” Don says, aggrieved by my foolish yuppie anxiety. “It’s too early. There’s none up there” he pauses, eyeballing me speculatively, “—yet.”
Seeing the look of consternation on my face, John grins wickedly. “They won’t trigger when you step on them,” he teases me. “They’re calibrated for at least three hundred pounds.” He guffaws as he wraps me in a hug. “You’re not there yet!”
“Good to know,” I say, trying unsuccessfully to squirm out of his grasp.
“C’mon, plumpkin,” John says happily, as he tucks me under his arm and heads out the door. “We won’t see any bears.”
But now I have bears on the brain. He sets me down and we start up the side of the mountain, beginning with the familiar logging trails that are wide and worn. As we trudge up, the angle getting steeper with every step, I am thinking there are bears for sure up there—at least three males, Don had said, and probably more. And bear traps. “What do they use for bait?” I blurt.
John snorts. “The kind of garbage you’d find in the dumpster behind a Dunkin’ Donuts. Stale donuts and sweet stuff.”
“Not rotting fish heads?”
“Nope. They go for the sweets.”
An ad in Uncle Henry’s states it very clearly. Barrels of bear bait, full of Hostess Pasteries [sic]. Naturally, this offer appeared in the “Sporting Items” section of the magazine.
We keep trudging uphill. The trail is getting steeper and no longer resembles a logging trail. It’s a single track path used by moose and deer. It is very narrow, and barely a trail at all. There are old tracks but no fresh sign.
“Do you think the McKennas have been up here setting traps?” I ask John anxiously.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“First of all, they’re bear baiters, not trappers. Second, they’re not going to hike. They’re carrying fifty-pound barrels of bait. You saw the kind of shit they lug around at the Trapper’s.”
He’s referring to the annual Trapper’s Weekend held in a big field in Bethel. It’s an exciting two-day event full of politically incorrect activities, attended by the sorts of unshaven white folks who think that the federal government is a mind-control plot. I always have a great time, because most of the regulars can’t figure out if I’m a New Yorker shopping for a fur coat, or an Appalachian Trail hiker who got really lost. Here, you can buy apothecary jars full of powerful animal scents, antique ammo (“highly collectible,” John tells me), Daniel Boone raccoon hats with all of their teeth, and handsome woven baskets that come with leather straps so you can carry them like a backpack. The biggest baskets are the size and texture of trash cans. Fill them up with Twinkies and Ho-Hos, and you’ve got a redneck buffet strapped to your back.
Out in the woods, the contents of the basket get dumped out in a spot where bears are likely to find it. As soon as their noses lead them to the mound of sticky sweets, bears will stand there and eat themselves into a sugar coma. The idea is to keep on replenishing the feast, turning the bears into the forest equivalent of college freshman at the cafeteria. Determined humans know that a food source is the best place to lie in wait for elusive prey. Eventually, the hungriest ones will show up. Then, when they least expect it—BOOM! They get shot by cameras carried by excitable parents. Everybody goes home happy, including the bears.
John concludes, tartly: “It’s not the sort of thing that lends itself to bushwhacking.”
“But . . .”
“No,” John repeats firmly. “There are no bear traps up here. But,” he adds cheerfully, “there are bears.”
Maine has bears. Many tourists enjoy treating them like pets. When this happens, the bears eat them. However, this mostly happens in Alaska, and the bears are grizzlies. Maine bears are black bears, which are like monochromatic pandas, except they’re not from China, and they don’t like bamboo leaves. Black bears adore baked goods. As a result, bear talk is everywhere at the Trapper’s Weekend, because bears in a sugar coma take skills to move. Every year, you’ll overhear snippets of conversations about this guy, I’m not naming names but you know who it is, takin’ bears illegally and what are we gonna do about it? In one area, a man will be demonstrating chainsaw sculpting, shaping life-size black bears out of standing logs. A few guys will be watching him, but the chief draw is always the master trapper talking in the main tent. He explains: Mouse traps will catch mice. Ant traps will catch ants. Fly traps will catch flies. They are not interchangeable. Traps that do not trap are unacceptable. Marshmallows will attract raccoons but not housecats. Donuts will attract bears, but also cousin Al. If cousin Al is over three hundred pounds, he’s in trouble. Here is a good safety measure to make sure that cousin Al stays away: put up a sign, because bears can’t read. A good sign says something like this: Do Not Feed the Bears.
John snorts at my citified qualms, and keeps bushwhacking up the side. “And no,” he adds for good measure, speaking directly to the thought bubble popping over my head, “tapping sticks will not keep away the bears.”
Clearly, this technique also fails to impress flies. Grumpily, I toss my sticks, take off my hat, swat at the flies, and pick up my pace. “Stupid flies,” I complain. “Go away!” This has no effect, except maybe it gets the flies to tell their friends to be fruitful and multiply.
“Argh!” I exclaim, and start sprinting uphill in an attempt to outrun my fans. My Flight from the Flies means that I am now ahead of John, who is plodding upwards at a steady pace, without a single fly anywhere near him.
A few yards up, I spot a pile of droppings.
“What do you think that is?” I ask breathlessly when he comes into range. “Bear turds?”
“Nope,” he shakes his head, and keeps walking without slowing down. “Old moose poop.”
“Those aren’t the right shape,” I object, swatting at the flies around my head. “Those aren’t nuggets. They’re turds.”
“Not turds,” he shakes his head. “Definitely old moose poop.”
“But you didn’t stop and look.”
“Didn’t need to.”
I am not convinced. “Do you think it’s a good or a bad thing that we’re arguing about this?”
“We’re not arguing,” he says dryly. “We’re having a discussion.”
“Humph,” I declare (swat, slap, swat), but I decide to let the subject drop because it’s difficult to be annoyed and bushwhack at the same time.
We go higher up the side of the mountain. We’re about an hour in when a new pyramid of slick blackish turds pops up. “There,” I say decisively, standing by the evidence. “That’s definitely bear.” I put my hands on my hips and glare at him, willing him to challenge me.
“Agreed,” he says simply, and leans over and inspects it. “Yup,” he stands up and nods his head. “He’s been eating blackberries.”
I lean over and sniff the pile. I can see bits of blackberry stems and the color is right, but I can’t smell anything except grass and fruity sweetness. “Blackberries,” I echo pensively, because maybe there are some berries left on the bushes, and if there’s enough of them, I can make cobbler. “But how do you know it’s a ‘he’?”
“I don’t,” he shrugs, and polishes off a water bottle. “But you better hope it’s not a mama bear leaving fresh poop around here. If it is a mama bear with cubs, and we run into her, we’re in trouble. So keep talking!” he teases. “That’ll scare them away!”
“Har, har. Anyway,” I add peevishly, “I think a male bear made those turds.”
He snorts, because there’s really no way to tell. We keep walking, searching for signs of moose activity, but it’s deer that seem to prefer this patch of the woods. It’s not all that surprising, because moose like swamps, which is the exact opposite of a mountaintop. “Our moose hunting district splits exactly down the Notch,” John says, as he thinks aloud for my benefit. This is helpful when I’m not reading his mind but scanning for bears of little brain that prefer “hunny” over humans.
“South side is okay, north side isn’t,” John adds. “You know that dirt road we drove down the other week?”
“Yes.”
“It marks the end of our district.”
“So if the moose crosses the road, you can’t shoot it?”
“Pretty much. That’s a pretty big disadvantage for moose hunting. Imagine how you’d feel if you spent all day tracking that moose, and when you finally sighted it, it had crossed the road.”
“Why did the moose cross the road?” I quip. “To get to the other side, so he can go nyah nyah at the hunter!”
“Moose don’t go nyah nyah,” John corrects me archly.
“It kinda looks like that, with those big antlers, like fat fingers waggling on the side of the head.”
John glares at me. He does not have a sense of humor about moose hunting.
Suddenly, up to one side, there’s a rustling in the bushes.
“Did you hear that?” I whisper loudly under my breath.
“Hear what?” John drawls in a normal tone of voice.
The crashing noises get louder. They are very close. Something is up there, and it must be a . . . a . . . bear! my brain shrieks. We’ve stumbled into her den and now she’s going to eat us! Goodbye cruel world! In my head I start singing the death aria from Tosca, because it’s a really good death aria.
“Stop that,” John chides. “It’s not a bear.” He points to an empty spot a few feet in front of us. A split second later, a great ball of feathers tumbles out of the bushes and flops in front of me, landing right in the spot where he’s pointing. The bird’s making a funny call and it looks like something’s wrong with one wing. Abruptly, she starts dancing around in circles, dragging one wing and generally making a perfect spectacle of herself. We stand there, watching the antics with amazement.
“Is she injured?” I whisper to John, relieved that the bird isn’t a bear but wondering if she should be rescued. Strangely, it doesn’t occur to me to ask him to catch it for dinner.
“Naw,” John drawls. “That’s a mama grouse. There are babies around. You almost stepped on them. She’s trying to draw your attention so you won’t go after them.”
“Babies? Where?” I whip my head around, scanning the path for chicks, but I don’t see any.
“There,” he points, indicating a scatter of lumpy dirt near the patch of trees I just passed.
“I don’t see anything,” I say, and start off in the direction that he’s pointing.
THUMP. Behind me, the mama grouse starts frantically dancing and dragging in the opposite direction.
“Maybe move away from there before you give her a heart attack,” John suggests dryly. I turn towards the dirt where the babies are supposed to be, and then I turn back to John in order to ask him to show them to me. Just like that, the mama grouse has vanished.
“Hey!” I exclaim in surprise. “Where’d she go?”
“Up there,” John points, indicating a spot a few feet up the side of the forest, and takes a lazy swig from his water bottle. “While you were paying attention to her, the babies all ran and hid in a new spot. When you were trying to find them, she flew off.”
“So you know where the chicks are?” I ask skeptically.
“Yep.” He waves at a shady spot under a nearby tree. “There’s a whole bunch of them, tucked under leaves.”
“I don’t believe you,” I inform him tartly, and start heading to the tree to take a closer look.
“Er,” John starts, lifting a cautionary hand . . .
. . . and out of the forest the mama grouse tumbles again, a flurry of feathers dramatically playing out her fake deathbed scene. “Who’s the diva now?” I think crossly to myself. She circles and drags, circles and drags. She’s not really a large bird but her feathers are puffed up. Also, wildlife looks bigger when it’s dancing in front of your face. It tends to shrink up when it’s on your plate.
“C’mon,” John tugs me, because he knows I can play this game all day. “Stop bothering the wildlife.”
“Why doesn’t she react to you?” I ask curiously.
“Because I’m not the one smushing her chicks,” he sniffs with an air of superiority.
“I’m not doing it on purpose,” I sulk.
“Don’t matter. C’mon,” he tugs me forward. “You’re practically stepping on the babies again.”
As we move away, I hear the tiniest of tiny sounds—“peep, peep!”—followed by the whoosh of ruffled feathers. This time, I don’t turn around.
A few hours later, we get to the top of the mountain, which is maybe not the top, because all I can see are trees. It could be a false peak. Sighing, John gets out the GPS, which decides not to work. So he gets out the compass. It too seems to be broken. I didn’t bring any gear because this was supposed to be a quick scamper up the mountain in the backyard. It’s turning into The Survivalist Tale out of Chaucer.
I’m not worried. Mostly, I’m peeved. We didn’t bring supplies for a daylong hike, it’s hot, and I’m hungry. And why, pray tell, did the dancing bird become a grouse as soon as it became a mama? Suddenly, there was no more of this “partridge” business. As far as John was concerned, it was “mama grouse” this, and “mama grouse” that. Given that my bear turned out to be a grouse, it seems only right that I should turn into one too.
“Waa,” I complain, as we turn around and start heading back down the mountain. The exit strategy is this: we go downhill. That’s it? That’s it. Turns out, the hike up didn’t follow a path. We were mostly following our imaginations, for what looks like a deer trail from one direction turns out to be a Rorschach test from the other. Humans see patterns because our brains are wired to see them. This is why the face of Jesus turns up on potato chips, because of course the first Sign of the Second Coming would be pulled out of a bag of Original Lays.
We may be lost, but we’re still looking for deer sign. He points to a three-toed track on the ground. “Can you tell me what that is?”
“Turkey!” I know this because turkey tracks make me smile. They look like stars missing a point.
“Correct!” he affirms.
Animal tracks have a rhythm. You can envision the whole animal by the nervousness of its toes. John’s tracks reveal a steady, firm pace and a body always pointing the same direction. My tracks are smaller than John’s and they wander all over the place, exactly like a deer poking around for food.
We keep walking, picking our way down between saplings and stepping over downed trees. I have slipped in mud, my butt is cold, and I am festooned with bug smutch. Several flies have gone spelunking in my mouth. I am now digesting that information.
To my right: a suddenly whiffling, almost like a muffled boom. Another partridge has taken flight. Not a mama. A regular grouse.
“Do grouses roost?” I ask aloud. I am thinking of a wild turkey that was up a tree and glaring at me like a buzzard.
He shrugs and keeps walking, pushing branches out of the way.
“Do you think they like pear trees?” I prod.
“Do you think lords go a leaping?” he responds.
“Yes,” I reply promptly. “Besides which, everyone forgets it’s twelve lords a leaping, eleven ladies dancing, ten pipers piping . . . they don’t get much farther unless they’re in the Sunday school Christmas pageant. But the ‘partridge in a pear tree,’ that’s the punch line. Everybody knows that line.”
He is not paying attention to me because he is moving fallen trees out of the way. “Maybe it has to do with where pear trees grow,” he eventually replies.
“Pear trees grow in California,” I gabble. “They’re not indigenous to France. There’s no such thing as a French hen. And a French rabbit is really just a European rabbit.”
“Huh?”
“I was reading How to Raise Rabbits for Fun and Profit,” I explain helpfully.
He gives me a sweaty look.
I give him a look back. “I’m not planning on raising rabbits. I just like reading about them.”
He knows me well enough to be skeptical but waves me forward anyway, keeping things moving until I’m keeping pace and trotting next to him. “Pull my finger,” he orders.
I pull. He farts.
Apparently, farting frees enough space in his brain to give him clever ideas. He looks at me speculatively. “We should spray you with the scent of ‘doe in heat.’”
“Why?” I protest.
He grins happily. “Just to see if it works. You sound like a doe when you’re mad.”
“Waa,” I grouse, making him laugh again.
(“Hssss!”)
“Did you hear that?” I whisper, tugging at his sleeve.
“No,” he replies blandly.
(“Hssss!”)
“It’s just the wind,” John says, still walking at a steady pace.
(“Hssss!”)
“It’s just a tree.”
(“Hssss!”)
I grab the back of his pants to stop his forward motion. “Listen,” I command. Grumpily, he stops and stands in place, listening just to please me. Together, we stand quietly and hold hands as the forest expands into a soundscape of small noises. Maple leaves clap in the wind. Deadwood barks and creaks. Crows caw, alerting the locals to our presence . . . and in the far, far distance, a rooster crows back with the gossip from his neck of the woods.
Cocking his ear, John listens intently to the barnyard bird reminding us just how close to civilization we really are. “That’s not the neighbor’s rooster,” he informs me. “It’s a different one. It’s coming from . . .”
(“Hssss!”)
This time, I know he heard it, because he looks surprised.
“That’s not the wind,” I declare firmly. “It’s a cat.” I look around for a likely spot for a den. We’re on a ridge with lots of trees and shrubs that provide good cover. “There,” I point at a shaded crevice about the right size. “I bet that’s a bobcat den.”
“Maybe,” John nods skeptically as he waves me forward through the brush so we don’t get eaten by an unhappy kitty protecting her territory. As an afterthought, he adds: “I know where we are.”
I make a face at him. “We didn’t come up this way,” I say, stating the obvious.
“Nope,” he says, looking pleased with himself.
For the great pleasure of bushwhacking is that you can know exactly where you are and still be totally lost. This is true of traveling as well, especially when you go off the beaten path and then try to reverse course halfway through. Even when you try to retrace the exact steps, the way back is never the same.
He starts walking faster, with a confidence born of place. Before long, we’re at the head of a natural spring. This part of Maine is the land of Poland Springs: pure, drinkable spring water is everywhere. He promptly whips off every stitch, jumps into the brook, and starts rolling around to cool off.
“Why don’t you join me?” he coos, exuberantly naked in the shade.
“No thank you,” I say nicely, because outdoor nooky is not really as much fun as the readers of romance novels like to think. Also, John knows perfectly well that fooling around will not happen unless he feeds me first. Laughing, he clambers out and shakes himself dry, looking exactly like a polar bear with a salmon caught between its teeth. Within seconds he’s dressed again and perfectly dry. The forest is familiar again.
I follow his lead, knowing that the beaten path is just on the other side of those trees. He pushes through a thicket and scrapes down the steep side of a dry ravine.
“Don’t hang on to a dead tree,” he cautions me as I slide down into his waiting arms.
A motto for life.