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I hustle the family to the car after Sunday services. Gray clouds hang low over the Tuscarora, and the breathless, moisture-laden atmosphere carries the promise of the first snowfall of the year. In the car amid the discussions of “what I learned in my class today”, I struggle to keep my mind from wandering ahead to the waiting mountains. Today we go to camp!
Shortly after lunch, the truck is loaded, and I collect the ration of hugs and kisses that is to tide me over until Tuesday night. After a quick stop to pick up Joe and his gear, we head north, catching up on the past year’s highlights, down times, and everything in between. An hour later, the first flakes brush the windshield as we pass through Williamsport. By the time we reach the forestry road, we’re entering a winter wonderland. The snow is not deep yet, but heavy fresh flakes continue to fall. We wind casually up the mountain grade, alert for slippery conditions, but comfortable thus far. When we reach the camp lane some 15 miles later, we pause to shift to four wheel drive for the last few hundred yards. The overhanging hemlock branches are heavily laden today, and each dumps its burden as the truck brushes by. The spartan camp is chilly, but after a smoky start, the big stove soon pushes back the cold. Joe sweeps the porch steps, we stock the wood box, assure there is toilet paper in the little house on Porcupine Hill, and fire up the gas refrigerator before the others arrive. Two at a time, the crew assembles, stamping snowy boots and talking about the early storm. Some we haven’t seen since last year, a few even longer. But we are at camp, where time has seemingly stood still, and neglected friendships renew easily. We bustle about, claiming bunks, stowing food and clothes, and checking tomorrow’s gear.
Finally only two are still missing, and we begin to wonder where they are. Just about the time we begin to be concerned, they come through the door, father and son, snowy from head to toe. They’ve been walking for a couple of miles, as the young driver has just learned a hard lesson about the effectiveness of his new “knobbies” in the freshly fallen snow. After a brief debate as to the wisdom of a recovery effort in the current conditions, the hardy among us pile into two pickups and navigate the now-treacherous road to the scene of the mishap. The truck has slid over the edge of a bank, and is lodged against a tree. After much discussion and maneuvering in the darkness, my pickup is chained to the front of the damaged vehicle, and Wendel’s Ford is tethered to the back. We pull a bit, then adjust chains, pull again, and readjust, but the road surface is extremely slippery, and progress is measured in inches, not feet. Before we’re finished, my truck has itself been in the ditch on the upper side of the road, with the road bank tight against my driver’s side door. Fortunately, the snow and the embankment beneath are soft and free of rocks, and my truck comes out without a scratch. We finally prevail, and find that although the young man’s truck is beaten, cracked, and crinkled, it is able to be driven.
It’s after 10 pm when we are finally all safely accounted for in camp. We eat, play a game, and re-tell the best of our oft-heard tales. The newcomers and youngsters listen eagerly, hanging on the details of past adventures and of the wild and rugged places where they unfolded. Finally our anticipation yields to our need for rest, and, one by one, we crawl into our bunks. The heavy snoring of a few sleeping men temporarily distracts the rest of us from sleep, but eventually we all slip off to restless sleep.
It seems we’ve just drifted off when Joe and Jerry begin rattling about in the kitchen, both too excited to oversleep. We climb sleepily from our places, rubbing bleary eyes, scratching what itches, and, in some cases, passing gas, to the chagrin of those in close proximity. Eggs are fried, oatmeal warmed, and toast buttered. Gear is rechecked, sandwiches tucked into day packs, and the layers of clothing go on. The talk is mostly business this morning, with discussion of who’s riding with whom, and where they will be dropped off to begin their hunt. Today will be ‘every man for himself’, as is our first day tradition. Those with the longest ride are first out the door, amid last minute friendly jabs and well wishes from the rest of us. Finally, silence returns to the cabin as the last of us slip out under the fading stars.
Wendel eases the truck to a stop along the snow covered road, and I step out into 5” of creaky softness. Even in the grayness of dawn, the woods are breathtakingly beautiful with the new fallen snow clinging to every twig. Wendell wishes me luck, then the diesel growls away along the road. I ease 30 yards down hill away from the road, then pause to lean against a thick oak as I wait for shooting light. The silence is upon me at last; that deep awe-inspiring silence that I’ve been missing for some time, without even realizing it. Light is gathering, and I can see across the steep hollow now. It is almost with regret that I realize shooting light has arrived, and it is time to go deeper. I load the gun carefully, the inevitable metal clicks crisp against the quiet morning air. I hesitate another minute, planning my route across the bench below me. Then I begin the still hunt.
I’ve been moving slowly for more than an hour when I encounter the track, minutes old, perhaps half an hour at most. The bear is an adult, and he is alone. He is not in a hurry, but is generally headed for the steep cliffs above the hollow. Even though the snow is soft, it squeaks faintly with every step, and the dead calm of the morning is not my ally. Nevertheless, I love to follow a fresh track. I am aware that my odds of taking this bear by tracking him are very slim, but today I will follow him. He does not know it, but today he will be my instructor, and I intend to absorb all I can. He is not a deer, but for now, I will treat him as one, following slowly and as quietly as possible, until I find him, or until he knows he is followed.
The tracks angle across the bench, and as I crest a small rise, there is movement ahead. I raise the binoculars, and immediately spot a black shape and movement beyond a screen of young beech.
“Bear!” The thought is intensely compelling, urgently demanding, but something is not quite right, and I hold the glasses another second to confirm what I’ve seen. Suddenly, there are three dark shapes, hurrying away, but the longbeards are safe from me. I step aside and lean against another oak while the effects of the brief adrenaline surge subside. I draw an icy sip from my water bottle, and return it to my pack. Once again, it is time to go. I cross the bench, pausing only briefly to examine the freshly scratched snow and long-toed tracks.
Below the next break in grade, the tracks begin to line out for the cliffs. He is still in no hurry, but he’s moving with a purpose now. Soon we cross fresh boot tracks, and I recognize Wendel’s print. He has already moved out above the cliffs, and will continue to follow the rim of the hollow, if he goes on as planned. The bear has noticed the tracks, too, as he follows them briefly, then doubles back and meanders about before continuing towards the steep side. Given Wendel’s starting point and the time it would have taken him to reach this area, I realize that he has unknowingly had a close brush with his quarry.
The bear seems unconcerned, though, as he approaches the edge of the steep ravine, and circles twice before finally going over the edge. He is gone to his haven, safe from pursuit for now. Or is he?
Shortly after lunch, the truck is loaded, and I collect the ration of hugs and kisses that is to tide me over until Tuesday night. After a quick stop to pick up Joe and his gear, we head north, catching up on the past year’s highlights, down times, and everything in between. An hour later, the first flakes brush the windshield as we pass through Williamsport. By the time we reach the forestry road, we’re entering a winter wonderland. The snow is not deep yet, but heavy fresh flakes continue to fall. We wind casually up the mountain grade, alert for slippery conditions, but comfortable thus far. When we reach the camp lane some 15 miles later, we pause to shift to four wheel drive for the last few hundred yards. The overhanging hemlock branches are heavily laden today, and each dumps its burden as the truck brushes by. The spartan camp is chilly, but after a smoky start, the big stove soon pushes back the cold. Joe sweeps the porch steps, we stock the wood box, assure there is toilet paper in the little house on Porcupine Hill, and fire up the gas refrigerator before the others arrive. Two at a time, the crew assembles, stamping snowy boots and talking about the early storm. Some we haven’t seen since last year, a few even longer. But we are at camp, where time has seemingly stood still, and neglected friendships renew easily. We bustle about, claiming bunks, stowing food and clothes, and checking tomorrow’s gear.
Finally only two are still missing, and we begin to wonder where they are. Just about the time we begin to be concerned, they come through the door, father and son, snowy from head to toe. They’ve been walking for a couple of miles, as the young driver has just learned a hard lesson about the effectiveness of his new “knobbies” in the freshly fallen snow. After a brief debate as to the wisdom of a recovery effort in the current conditions, the hardy among us pile into two pickups and navigate the now-treacherous road to the scene of the mishap. The truck has slid over the edge of a bank, and is lodged against a tree. After much discussion and maneuvering in the darkness, my pickup is chained to the front of the damaged vehicle, and Wendel’s Ford is tethered to the back. We pull a bit, then adjust chains, pull again, and readjust, but the road surface is extremely slippery, and progress is measured in inches, not feet. Before we’re finished, my truck has itself been in the ditch on the upper side of the road, with the road bank tight against my driver’s side door. Fortunately, the snow and the embankment beneath are soft and free of rocks, and my truck comes out without a scratch. We finally prevail, and find that although the young man’s truck is beaten, cracked, and crinkled, it is able to be driven.
It’s after 10 pm when we are finally all safely accounted for in camp. We eat, play a game, and re-tell the best of our oft-heard tales. The newcomers and youngsters listen eagerly, hanging on the details of past adventures and of the wild and rugged places where they unfolded. Finally our anticipation yields to our need for rest, and, one by one, we crawl into our bunks. The heavy snoring of a few sleeping men temporarily distracts the rest of us from sleep, but eventually we all slip off to restless sleep.
It seems we’ve just drifted off when Joe and Jerry begin rattling about in the kitchen, both too excited to oversleep. We climb sleepily from our places, rubbing bleary eyes, scratching what itches, and, in some cases, passing gas, to the chagrin of those in close proximity. Eggs are fried, oatmeal warmed, and toast buttered. Gear is rechecked, sandwiches tucked into day packs, and the layers of clothing go on. The talk is mostly business this morning, with discussion of who’s riding with whom, and where they will be dropped off to begin their hunt. Today will be ‘every man for himself’, as is our first day tradition. Those with the longest ride are first out the door, amid last minute friendly jabs and well wishes from the rest of us. Finally, silence returns to the cabin as the last of us slip out under the fading stars.
Wendel eases the truck to a stop along the snow covered road, and I step out into 5” of creaky softness. Even in the grayness of dawn, the woods are breathtakingly beautiful with the new fallen snow clinging to every twig. Wendell wishes me luck, then the diesel growls away along the road. I ease 30 yards down hill away from the road, then pause to lean against a thick oak as I wait for shooting light. The silence is upon me at last; that deep awe-inspiring silence that I’ve been missing for some time, without even realizing it. Light is gathering, and I can see across the steep hollow now. It is almost with regret that I realize shooting light has arrived, and it is time to go deeper. I load the gun carefully, the inevitable metal clicks crisp against the quiet morning air. I hesitate another minute, planning my route across the bench below me. Then I begin the still hunt.
I’ve been moving slowly for more than an hour when I encounter the track, minutes old, perhaps half an hour at most. The bear is an adult, and he is alone. He is not in a hurry, but is generally headed for the steep cliffs above the hollow. Even though the snow is soft, it squeaks faintly with every step, and the dead calm of the morning is not my ally. Nevertheless, I love to follow a fresh track. I am aware that my odds of taking this bear by tracking him are very slim, but today I will follow him. He does not know it, but today he will be my instructor, and I intend to absorb all I can. He is not a deer, but for now, I will treat him as one, following slowly and as quietly as possible, until I find him, or until he knows he is followed.
The tracks angle across the bench, and as I crest a small rise, there is movement ahead. I raise the binoculars, and immediately spot a black shape and movement beyond a screen of young beech.
“Bear!” The thought is intensely compelling, urgently demanding, but something is not quite right, and I hold the glasses another second to confirm what I’ve seen. Suddenly, there are three dark shapes, hurrying away, but the longbeards are safe from me. I step aside and lean against another oak while the effects of the brief adrenaline surge subside. I draw an icy sip from my water bottle, and return it to my pack. Once again, it is time to go. I cross the bench, pausing only briefly to examine the freshly scratched snow and long-toed tracks.
Below the next break in grade, the tracks begin to line out for the cliffs. He is still in no hurry, but he’s moving with a purpose now. Soon we cross fresh boot tracks, and I recognize Wendel’s print. He has already moved out above the cliffs, and will continue to follow the rim of the hollow, if he goes on as planned. The bear has noticed the tracks, too, as he follows them briefly, then doubles back and meanders about before continuing towards the steep side. Given Wendel’s starting point and the time it would have taken him to reach this area, I realize that he has unknowingly had a close brush with his quarry.
The bear seems unconcerned, though, as he approaches the edge of the steep ravine, and circles twice before finally going over the edge. He is gone to his haven, safe from pursuit for now. Or is he?
