Walking the Line

We began the second day with another frigid river crossing before hiking a short distance to see our first major Canol remains, the camp at Mile 208. The doors of the bunkhouse were missing but the walls were sturdy, and a corral had been built to pen the horses of hunters who occasionally stopped by. At a nearby truck dump, row upon row of faded khaki 1940s pickups rusted beneath the lonely northern sky. Their engines and tires had vanished long ago, leaving only hollow frames. Animals nested in some. Other trucks had been swallowed by foliage, grown over and forgotten as dreams often are.

Beyond another river crossing the road passed into the Intga River valley, in my opinion the most beautiful stretch of the route. Narrow peaks opened into a verdant dale lush with trees and ripe berries, with fertile green side-valleys opening off into the far distance.

The wildlife biologists had warned us about a grizzly in the vicinity and we soon began to see signs. Shallow digging holes lined the sides of the trail where roots had been unearthed. Enormous footprints in soft, muddy sections of the road dwarfed my size 11 boots. And then we began to see large piles of scat at regular intervals, full of undigested red berries. At least we could take comfort that the bear seemed to be eating well.

Still, the last thing we wanted was to surprise a grizzly on the narrow confines of the trail, hemmed in by brush. When their comfort zone is invaded they tend to charge by instinct. We were hiking into the wind and the rush of the river obscured the sound of our footsteps. We began to shout at intervals to alert any creature that might be up ahead.

From time to time willow ptarmigan erupted noisily from the silent underbrush, momentarily stopping our hearts. About an hour later we came across the freshest, largest bear prints yet, followed by an enormous—and very recent—pile of scat. My shouts, until then pathetic and warbling, took on a new ferocity.

Colin grabbed my arm and pointed, at the same instant there was a crashing in the bushes to our left. We froze as an enormous grizzly bounded toward the river. It cast a contemptuous backwards glance over its shoulder as it vanished into the trees.

We continued to walk and to shout as we beat a hasty retreat from the area. The fresh tracks continued in the same direction; the front claws were dug in as though running, until they turned abruptly off into the bush. The bear had clearly been walking ahead of us when we frightened it off the trail and it doubled back downwind to get our scent.

In the weeks before the trip I had anticipated such a meeting, going so far as to read Stephen Herrero’s comprehensive Bear Attacks (which only served to keep me awake at night in a cold sweat, contemplating a miserable end). I was glad we’d gotten the first encounter over with early, and was reassured to see that our precautions and methods seemed to work. We didn’t stumble upon any more bears, but judging by the signs on the trail plenty of grizzlies saw us.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, March 7th, 2007 at 12:34 pm and is filed under Features. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a comment, or trackback from your own site. Add to del.icio.us.