A Day at the Spirit Animal Zoo

A Day at the Spirit Animal Zoo

  The inside of the tent was bright that morning as it is every morning on a summer camping trip to the west coast. The air was yellow and blue reflecting the coloured pattern of the thin layer of nylon that separated me curled up snug in my sleeping bag, and the 250lb black bear seen as a menacing blurred shadow sniffing at my tent. I could not move a single fear locked muscle and the restraining feel of the hooded mummy bag didn’t help the sensation of being trapped against my will. The bear had me dead to rights and could if it pleased used me as a kayak camping enchilada. Thoughts raced across my mind, rational thoughts on how and why a normally timid coastal black bear would venture into my encampment on the shores of a very busy and noisy bay of motor boaters? Hell, I was kept from sleep most of the night by the sounds of a family group up the beach and the drunken warbling of its matriarch as she sung along to old time rock and roll tunes. My Sherona by the Knack had never been covered with such passion, and so many times in a row.

   With the sounds of generators, dvd players, outside voices echoing in the bowl shaped bay and the Knack on repeat how, I thought would a bear come anywhere near? It must be very hungry! I’m toast, paralysed in a bag. The tent walls rustled and that was the end. I woke from the dream and regained the use of my limbs and in seconds my wits returned under the heavy breathing. But there was still something outside my tent, something brushing against it and then the sound of rain. Wrestling in a subdued near bear encounter panic I escaped my sleeping bag and unzipped the triangular flap to my enchilada cave. My head popped out into the sunlight and silhouetted before it was a man in a bucket hat and shorts holding a coiled up dog leash as his golden retriever pissed all over my tent fly.

“Sorry.” He muttered and called his dog back to the dinghy he used to take the dog for a pee on my tent from his 40ft sailing boat anchored in the nearby still waters of Roscoe Bay.

   I sat on the mossy ground, ignoring the picnic table provided and listened to the hiss of my coffee maker doing its duty. It had no idea what I had just gone through, but that was not what it was about. My coffee maker’s hiss was the sound of civilization. A return to the over-populated boater bay I settled for the day before when the hour was getting late and the setting sun had fallen behind Vancouver Island. The gurgle after the hiss meant relief. Nothing bad can happen when you are sipping your first cup of coffee in the morning while camping, it is a rule. I had little concern of a black bear waddling down the path leading directly to my tent spot. I could relax and ponder the horrors of the morning with some self-doubt about my fortitude in nature. I thought I was made of tougher stuff, but my subconscious sent me into a waking sleep paralysis instead of grabbing my flare gun and lighting up that bear’s insides.

   Years later on the Yukon River after a twelve hour stint in the kayak seat without rest I arrived at Lower Lebarge checkpoint at the northern end of Lake Lebarge. The sun had only gone down slightly below the tree line and would soon be on the slow rise. It was shortly after midnight when I stumbled rubber legged up the beach covered in round river stones to firmer flat ground. There was a smell of BBQ but I don’t recall there being food served. I had my bag of clothing designated for the chilly overnight paddling hours of the three day long marathon named the Yukon River Quest from Whitehorse to Dawson City the epicentre of the great gold rush era. I nearly toppled over attempting to change my clothing and even found a place that would serve well as a tent spot, if not for the sense of urgency we all felt to get a move on. The next section of the river was a reward for the long mind-fucking shore topography of the lake which is one long shallow bend around one rocky outcropping obstructing the view the next rocky outcropping. It would take many hours of paddling in at times unpredictable waters before the red beacon light signalled the entrance to the river. The reward was faster water, zigging and zagging through cliffy canyon-like terrain that is said to be visually stunning in daylight hours. In the sheer dusk of the hour the headlamp light could make out some features but the rest were lost to my eyes.

   It doesn’t take long to read the water and understand where to point your bow to make full use of the flow and give paddling arms a rest. Steering left and right, and then another fast right, go straight and into the next set of mini rapids. By 1am and a snack of gummy bears chased with a five hour power shot drink followed by an ill-advised Red Bull I was drifting a little. Letting the waters take me downhill to the Bering Sea thousands of kilometres away. I scanned the shore looking for anything that would indicate the light was getting brighter. I seemed to remain dusk for a long time. I saw the weak sun peek in amongst the sparseness of the hinterland forest but it was not yet friendly to weary kayakers on a daft mission to beat the clock. What I did see was a deer. I was in luck but there was no one around in canoe or kayak to share my good fortune of witnessing a rare thing indeed. I couldn’t believe I was drifting at the same pace as a white deer tip-toeing and struggling somewhat on the loose sandy incline to the water’s edge. It pranced and jumped as if as startled at seeing me as much ai I seeing it. In an instant it was gone. The deer jumped up the sand bar and while in mid-flight burst into a cloud of sparkles. I assumed it teleported and would reappear sometime, someplace later.

   We were lost in the archipelago. Left became right somewhere during the afternoon of leisurely exploring the islands with no names, some only identified with a number, some with nothing at all according to the sea chart sealed in clear plastic on the deck of my kayak. Being lost was what we did best. Myself and three others had paddled many days and many locations together and would inevitably on each occasion get thoroughly lost. With little care in the sheltered safely from the wild open ocean that the islands provided we decided to stop and get clearer bearings. Choosing a muddy beach of one of the nameless islets where the dark wet soil met a small green grassy clearing that must have been at some distant point in the past, a homesteading site. The patch was too flat and too clear to be anything other than that. The beach faced the inland side of the island group and was as calm as a pothole puddle. The west coast makes mud. West coast mud is the type of mud that reminds you why as a kid one of your basic phobias and terror was to inadvertently encounter quick sand. The mud looks almost dry on the surface. Deceptively assuring the traveller that stepping upon it will mean solid ground not the ‘you will only sink faster if you struggle’ sand that will swallow you up whole unless there is a long sturdy vine within reach that you can use to pull yourself out.

   I stepped out of my kayak and lost my sandal instantly in the deep quagmire. I looked up while reaching elbow deep to retrieve it and that is when I saw a normal coloured deer dancing in the grass. Hopping back and forth and we all saw it. I had witnesses! This deer was working it, prancing on ballerina hooves. Spinning and jumping about. Was this a greeting, or a warning not to come ashore lest ye be damned, or it could simply be that the deer at the late summer berries and had a buzz on. In a blink it was gone, and so was my other sandal.