.jpg)
I was shivering. Not just from the Canadian cold, but from the sounds that came from within the brush surrounding me. At first it was the ghostly sound of rustling branches. Was a bear coming? If it was a bear, did I have the courage to actually shoot it? After all, that’s why I was in this god-forsaken wilderness. But then the noise changed from my right to my left. Whatever it was, was circling me. Whatever made me think that I could keep up with the boys? Why would I even want to? I was such an idiot! And now, I was sitting on a bucket in the brush like a piece of cheese on a rattrap.
It all started a few months earlier when Walzie and his two brothers decided to go to Canada to hunt bear. That would have been fine with me, but since Walzie and I are like conjoined twins, he gave me those puppy-dog eyes and I ended up agreeing to be the only sow on this all-boar hunting trip. They found an ad in a hunting magazine for the best bear-hunting outfitter in Canada (hey, that’s what the ad said) and mailed in the deposit for four hunters.
After driving for twelve hours, we found ourselves in the wilds of Quebec. The overgrown roadway into the Bear-4-Sure camp seemed to be a path less traveled and I felt uneasy. What if these people were serial killers that used unsuspecting Americans as bear bait? Walzie said that I watched too many movies.
My guts tightened as we pulled up to our “modern lake-side luxury log lodge”. Yeah, right. It was a two-bedroom, plywood shanty beside a swamp-like pond thick with cat-o-nine tails and scum. Our guides, Hank and Tank, ignored the hordes of buzzing black flies as they came out to greet us. Tank grinned through missing front teeth and Hank said “eh” way too much. The flies nearly drove us crazy.
Between gulps of beer, Hank gave us the low-down on Canadian bear hunting. We had to leave camp at two o’clock in the afternoon and ride twenty miles through thick forestland. Each of us would be dropped off at bait piles five miles apart, which meant that each of us would be alone in the wilderness with only a gun and a bucket of fish guts provided by Hank and Tank. Oh yeah, I was thrilled to death.
So the guys dropped me off first. Walzie walked me down to a clearing where he dumped my bucket of bait and banged the bucket with a rock just like Tank had instructed. That was supposed to be the bear’s dinner bell. Then he seated me on the bucket behind a bush with his loaded 30.06 on my lap. As Walzie left, I felt as if “nervous redhead” was on the menu.
The sound of the pickup faded and silence dropped around me like a heavy blanket. It was so quiet that I could hear the blood rushing through my ears. There was no wind, no rustling of leaves, no crickets, no nothing - only my heavy breathing. Suddenly, an airplane-like shadow crossed the bait pile. I looked up. Buzzards circled overhead. Were they there for the bait or waiting for me? I didn’t think I should sit still for too long.
Several hours passed. I was drowsy, bored, and now the sound of my tummy growling pierced the silence. The loud crackle of the Hershey bar wrapper would surely keep any threatening critters at a distance. That done; now what? I wasn’t scheduled for pick up until 9 PM. A nap would be good.
I awoke with a start. Did I snore or was that a growl? My heart raced. I heard a twig snap. My eyes darted from side to side; suddenly, a dark form quickly passed to my right, then to my left. I heard it again. Yes, it was definitely growls. I pulled up the rifle. Whatever crossed that scope was getting it. Momentarily, the scope went dark. I jerked the trigger. The 30.06 knocked me off the bucket and onto my can. As the shot’s echo settled into silence again, the growls were gone.
I wasn’t waiting for the 9 PM signal horn from the pickup. I gathered my gun, left the dadgum bucket, and high-tailed it for the logging road. Whatever was in that brush would have to fight the buzzards for the stupid fish guts; I was outta there.
Shortly, a pickup appeared through the dusky twilight. I was still running like a moose in the headlights.
“Hey, little missy, shot a bear, eh?” slurred Tank as he hoisted me into the back of the pickup.
“Did you shoot?” asked Walzie.
“I don’t know what I did,” I labored breathlessly. “Just get me the heck out of here.”
As we were driving away, I looked back up the trail. A pack of wolves sprinted across the roadway.
“Did you see that,” I screamed.
“What?”
“Wolves!”
“Wolves, eh?” grinned Hank dubiously. “Those bad boys could make a meal of you little missy, eh?”
That was the end of my Canadian bear hunting. The rest of the trip, I stayed safe in our luxurious log cabin with the mice, roaches, and black flies. At least I’m farther up the food chain than they are. Eh?
It all started a few months earlier when Walzie and his two brothers decided to go to Canada to hunt bear. That would have been fine with me, but since Walzie and I are like conjoined twins, he gave me those puppy-dog eyes and I ended up agreeing to be the only sow on this all-boar hunting trip. They found an ad in a hunting magazine for the best bear-hunting outfitter in Canada (hey, that’s what the ad said) and mailed in the deposit for four hunters.
After driving for twelve hours, we found ourselves in the wilds of Quebec. The overgrown roadway into the Bear-4-Sure camp seemed to be a path less traveled and I felt uneasy. What if these people were serial killers that used unsuspecting Americans as bear bait? Walzie said that I watched too many movies.
My guts tightened as we pulled up to our “modern lake-side luxury log lodge”. Yeah, right. It was a two-bedroom, plywood shanty beside a swamp-like pond thick with cat-o-nine tails and scum. Our guides, Hank and Tank, ignored the hordes of buzzing black flies as they came out to greet us. Tank grinned through missing front teeth and Hank said “eh” way too much. The flies nearly drove us crazy.
Between gulps of beer, Hank gave us the low-down on Canadian bear hunting. We had to leave camp at two o’clock in the afternoon and ride twenty miles through thick forestland. Each of us would be dropped off at bait piles five miles apart, which meant that each of us would be alone in the wilderness with only a gun and a bucket of fish guts provided by Hank and Tank. Oh yeah, I was thrilled to death.
So the guys dropped me off first. Walzie walked me down to a clearing where he dumped my bucket of bait and banged the bucket with a rock just like Tank had instructed. That was supposed to be the bear’s dinner bell. Then he seated me on the bucket behind a bush with his loaded 30.06 on my lap. As Walzie left, I felt as if “nervous redhead” was on the menu.
The sound of the pickup faded and silence dropped around me like a heavy blanket. It was so quiet that I could hear the blood rushing through my ears. There was no wind, no rustling of leaves, no crickets, no nothing - only my heavy breathing. Suddenly, an airplane-like shadow crossed the bait pile. I looked up. Buzzards circled overhead. Were they there for the bait or waiting for me? I didn’t think I should sit still for too long.
Several hours passed. I was drowsy, bored, and now the sound of my tummy growling pierced the silence. The loud crackle of the Hershey bar wrapper would surely keep any threatening critters at a distance. That done; now what? I wasn’t scheduled for pick up until 9 PM. A nap would be good.
I awoke with a start. Did I snore or was that a growl? My heart raced. I heard a twig snap. My eyes darted from side to side; suddenly, a dark form quickly passed to my right, then to my left. I heard it again. Yes, it was definitely growls. I pulled up the rifle. Whatever crossed that scope was getting it. Momentarily, the scope went dark. I jerked the trigger. The 30.06 knocked me off the bucket and onto my can. As the shot’s echo settled into silence again, the growls were gone.
I wasn’t waiting for the 9 PM signal horn from the pickup. I gathered my gun, left the dadgum bucket, and high-tailed it for the logging road. Whatever was in that brush would have to fight the buzzards for the stupid fish guts; I was outta there.
Shortly, a pickup appeared through the dusky twilight. I was still running like a moose in the headlights.
“Hey, little missy, shot a bear, eh?” slurred Tank as he hoisted me into the back of the pickup.
“Did you shoot?” asked Walzie.
“I don’t know what I did,” I labored breathlessly. “Just get me the heck out of here.”
As we were driving away, I looked back up the trail. A pack of wolves sprinted across the roadway.
“Did you see that,” I screamed.
“What?”
“Wolves!”
“Wolves, eh?” grinned Hank dubiously. “Those bad boys could make a meal of you little missy, eh?”
That was the end of my Canadian bear hunting. The rest of the trip, I stayed safe in our luxurious log cabin with the mice, roaches, and black flies. At least I’m farther up the food chain than they are. Eh?
No comments:
Post a Comment