Bears . . . and what the heck was up with the pots and pans?

If you're wondering what was up with my pots and pans comment to Andy in yesterday's post when he was fending off the black bear and I was groggily dispensing advice, let me explain.

We live less than a mile from the border of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. In addition to our general proximity to the Boundary Waters, I also spent three seasons as a federal employee issuing permits to Boundary Waters visitors. Throw in another summer working at a canoe outfitters and basically, I spent four summers of my life listening to the user education video that each Boundary Water party must watch before embarking on an overnight camping trip.

And that sage advice about how to deal with bears, well, you'll have to get to about 7:55 mark into the flick to see where that came from.



In other notes, holy schnikes it's September 1st today! Hard to believe the majority of summer's behind us already, but there's plenty to do before we're ready to hole up for winter around here. There's pie social and sidewalk sale at work on Sunday, a Saturday night cookout and plenty of garden chores to keep me on my toes through Labor Day weekend. Safe travels to anyone taking an extended weekend!

Read more ...

Honey, Come Help With the Bear

Earlier this summer, I told a concerned visitor at work that I don't worry too much about bears.

The visitor's eyes grew wide. "Why not?" she gasped.

"Well," I said. "I've run into bears when I walk to work before. And really, all you do is make a little noise and they move on."

Really, the only time I feel mildly concerned about my safety during my mile and a half wilderness wander to work is in October, when the moose are in rut.

But my blasé attitude towards Bruno got me in trouble with my beloved earlier this week.

We've had a bear around all summer. It's probably a two-year-old: a small bear, kind of lost without Mom, looking to make his mark on the world. Mostly Mr. Bear likes to leave his mark in the form of big seedy blobs all over the road. He's also fond of getting into our neighbor's bird feeders and he's been known to crash into our compost pile, although he doesn't often find much to his liking in there. Early this spring, when we were putting together the raised bed, he bit into one of our bags of peat moss, rolled it around, and moved on.

But in the last couple days, he's grown nervier. On Sunday, another neighbor's dog came back to the house with a bear bite in the rump. And on Sunday night, the bear decided to pay us a noctornal visit.

It was my fault, really.

We always get fruit flies this time of year. But I just can't bear putting the fresh tomatoes and peaches in the fridge to save us from a fruit-fly-pocolypse because frankly, putting tomatoes and peaches in the fridge makes them taste of cardboard. So in an attempt to rid the small house of fruit flies, I put the compost bucket out on the porch when I got home on Sunday. Then I sat down during the couch and during the 3 hours that is American Gangster, I forgot about the compost bucket.

I forgot about the compost until I woke up in the middle of the night to find Andy peering out the window with the porch light on.

"What are you doing?" I asked, when I padded out to the kitchen.

"There's a bear out there," Andy hissed.

"The compost bucket," I mumbled.

We both looked at the porch railing where I'd left the compost bucket. The rail was empty. The bear however was standing right at the base of the terrace garden, about 12 feet away from our front door.

"Get me something to throw at the bear," Andy whispered.

"Bang some pots and pans," I yawned. Then I went back to bed. Having imparted that stellar advice, I felt my work was done.

Meanwhile Andy stayed up for the next hour. The bear returned after Andy scared him off once. Now there's shotgun sitting by kitchen counter. I guess sometimes you have to do more than just "make a little noise" for the bears to move on.

On Monday morning, both Andy and I searched for the compost bucket. Nothing. No bent branches where the bear took off in the woods, no spilled compost, no nothing. The only thing Andy found was the little filter that sits in the bucket's lid. I suspect the bear had a lovely compost picnic, probably complete with napkins and a tablecloth, somewhere out back.

If you find a green compost bucket out there missing its filter top, please return it. I use that bucket all the time. And after my lackluster assistance with Bruno, getting the bucket back is the least I could do. Seriously, anyone seen that bucket?!

Read more ...

Sailing Down the River

Well, not really "sailing" or a "river" for that matter, but on Saturday Andy and I decided we'd had it with the whole ice thing and headed for open water. The creek that runs into the lake we live on has been open for a few weeks now and has slowly been draining into the lake. It's pretty funny to watch the water level on the lake rise while it's still ice covered: as rocks that were exposed all winter become submerged, little rings of ice pop up over the top of the rock.

Anyway, back to Saturday's adventure . . . we grabbed the old beater canoe, strapped it to the top of the truck and headed down the road a piece to put in on the creek.

As we started our paddle down the meandering stream, we found a beaverhouse along the shoreline. I suspect the beavers who live in that house are pretty industrious: during the course of the short paddle, we had to pull the canoe over two beaver dams!

There was just a skim of ice left in some of the creek's shady bends, which made Mr. and Mrs. Duck very happy.

The ducks weren't so happy about having to share the creek with a couple of canoeists though. You could almost hear them thinking every time we got too close and they had to fly off: "What do you have to do to get some peace and quiet around here?!"

The creek runs straight through the 2007 wildfire area and it was truly to heartwarming to see a blanket of baby jack pine trees poking up along the shoreline. 

Just before we got to the mother of all beaver dams, we found an upside down forest reflected back at us.

Andy scoped the beaver dam out, but in the end we decided to turn back. It had started to rain and this way we have an excuse/reason to paddle the rest of the creek some other day.

A dose of summertime fun was just what was needed to break my spring fever!

Read more ...

Wilderness Experiences

Ever since the U.S. Congress passed the Wilderness Act of 1964, the term “wilderness” has been one of those buzzwords which can inspire some of the most inane arguments. As the government defines “wilderness,” the wilderness is a place without motors or modern amenities, and a place which is allowed to independently evolve in its natural state. To many people, the term “wilderness” simply means “the woods" and being in the wilderness has more to do with a sense of place in their heart than it has to do with obtaining the appropriate camping permit.

Legally, I live about a mile off from the federally designated wilderness. However, I also live 55 miles away from the nearest town and if I wanted, in less than a day I could be in a world without motors. Technically the cabin’s not in the wilderness, but we’re definitely in the woods. And what a busy little bit of woods it is.

When the decision was made to spend the summer at the cabin, I knew that at age 25, I had succeeded in living the dream that so many people save for retirement. Who doesn’t long for quiet mornings spent sipping coffee on the deck or watching the sun set over a still lake? What I’d forgotten is that everyone has their own idea of what a good time at the lake constitutes. For whatever reason, I didn’t realize a summer spent on a “wilderness” lake would be a busy, daily mash of vacationers.

Just as the term “wilderness” is debated, what people deem wilderness experiences varies drastically. Simply comparing the rhetoric of Conservationists with Common Sense to that of the Friends of the Boundary Waters reveals that common ground in a common ground isn’t that easy to achieve. While Andy and I think nothing of motoring down the lake a bit to fish for an hour or two in the evening, we stand on our deck with our jaws hanging open whenever -- insert one of the options: a water skier, speed boat, pontoon boat, snorkeler, jet ski -- passes by on the lake. When you’re raised in the old school wilderness with motor boats and canoes, even kayaks are viewed with mild skepticism.

Most people aren't set on ruining your personal wilderness experience. And when your livelihood is tied with people having and repeating wilderness experiences, it seems best to reserve some judgment. Sure we can raise our eyebrows, sigh, and wonder what the heck “they’re doing now.” But if they’re not harming the environment (too much) and are attempting to obey laws, we have to realize that their wilderness experience just isn’t ours. That, and the fact that Labor Day is only a couple weeks off . . .  

Read more ...