Running Bear in the Woods

Besides the obvious reasons like blackberry thorns, stinging nettles, and devil’s club, running bear in the woods was an experience that causes me to consider the consequences of returning to the hills of Whatcom County.

Canyon Creek, which flows into the north fork of the Nooksack River was, in my youth, an amazing fishing spot for trout, dolly varden, and steelhead. The cold water, cascading over rocks into the deep pools gave the fish areas to rest on their journey to spawn. To catch a fish, I merely had to drop an egg hook or lure into one of the pools and within seconds a fish would be on the line.

That was then. Dolly Varden are now a protected species and Canyon Creek is a spawning area for endangered salmon. The last time I hiked into the creek, the Native Fisheries Department had signage posted along the shore stating the waters were closed to all fishing.

The Canyon Creek of my youth was a 45-minute drive from my house. I would pack a lunch, grab my pole with the spinning reel, hop into the trustworthy Datsun F10 (the mountain machine) and head for the hills.

Canyon Creek flows through, you guessed it, a canyon. Unlike canyons elsewhere in the world, this one drops through rugged old growth timber with large boulders covered in thick moss. Blackberries and Huckleberries grow wild in the thick underbrush. An old rotting prospector’s cabin lay almost unrecognizable just above the shore, hidden except to those who knew it was there. I loved hiking and fishing there all by myself, listening to the roar of the water while being cast into a hypnotic spell by the movement of the ripples. Sometimes I would carry a 44-magnum revolver when I felt spooked. Other times I would bring my dog Carrie.

Carrie was a Shepherd-Husky mix that my adopted grandfather, Swede, rescued from the pound. When Swede passed, Carrie had no one. The last thing I needed was a dog, but someone had to take her, so I opened the tailgate to my truck and said, “Let’s go home, girl.” I called her Care Bear because of her dark fur and her friendly nature.

One Saturday morning in June, which was the month that Dollies were in the Canyon, I made a lunch, grabbed my pole, tackle box, and Carrie, and headed to the mountains. Arriving where the creek flowed into the north fork of the Nooksack, I parked the F10 and the two of us jumped out and began our hike up the canyon.

As we came to my favorite pools, we would hide downstream so the fish couldn’t see us, and I’d toss the lure upstream into the headwaters. Drawing the lure back down stream was too much for a Dolly to resist and they would snap at it every time. If there were no strikes after a couple of casts, we would continue upstream to the next pool.

We reached a particularly narrow stretch of water where I was able to stand on the rocky shore to cast. The brush was dense along the shore which made casting tricky. One bad toss of the lure and it would hook a tree on the other shore which was only 20 feet away. Concentration was of utmost importance. Carrie was happily sniffing the brush for chipmunks and snapping at butterflies.

The shore on the other side of the creek was especially nasty. The hillside coming down to the water’s edge was extremely steep and covered with small saplings, blackberries, and Devils Club, which has an enormous broad leaf and a stalk covered in needle-like spines. The beach on the opposite bank was minimal and ended at a steep rock wall which extended out into the creek. It would take a man many hours to reach that small section of beach by climbing across that hillside. By the time he got there, he would be covered in thorns. The water was flowing through this area of the creek so wildly it created a breeze drawn by the moving water through the canyon walls.

Concentrating on the toss of my lure, I saw out of my peripheral vision, Carrie walking on the beach of the other shore. “I wonder how that crazy dog got over there,” I thought as I reeled in, still only concentrating on the fishing.

Then something brushed against my leg. Looking down, I noticed to my surprise that it was Carrie and yet, Carrie was on the other shore too. I looked up. An adult male black bear stood on the beach opposite us 20 feet away. He had crossed through that hellish hillside of thorns and stood there unaware that we were on the shore opposite him.

Wide-eyed, I looked down at the dog, put my finger to my lips and went, “Shhhh!”

Carrie looked up at me wide-eyed, put her paw to her lips and also went, “Shhhh!”

I was surprised that the dog didn’t bark or go into attack mode. I was also surprised that she could climb all the way up onto my shoulders.

Black bears have poor eyesight, but their sense of smell is excellent. From 20 feet away he hadn’t noticed the fisherman with the puckered look of fear on his face and the large black shepherd on his shoulders. The breeze blowing downstream was preventing him from smelling me and the dog, which was amazing since one of us had messed themselves.

Then it occurred to me, as he wandered on the other shore, that as soon as he got to the rock wall his next course of action was to cross the water to my side. All I had in my possession to negotiate a surrender were two small trout, but I don’t speak bear. It was then obviously imperative that we keep the bear on his side of the creek.

I reached down and picked up two baseball sized rocks from the water and tossed them over to the beach at his feet. At the same time, I started yelling and waved my arms. In the commotion, Carrie had run her nose under the brim of my fishing hat and flipped it off my head. The hat now rested nicely on the top of her head.

The bear, startled by the commotion, stood up on his hind legs to a height of five feet, and with his poor eyesight scanned my shore until he spotted the man waving his arms with a dog wearing a hat that was straddling his shoulders.

They say that bears don’t want confrontation and are probably more afraid of man than we are of them. So, not to meet bears on the trail, some hikers carry bear bells to alert and warn bears of humans in the area. When I hike in the woods with friends, I carry enough percussion instruments to be considered the rhythm section for a small mariachi band. It occurred to me that with his bad eyesight, I may look like a giant blueberry and this hungry guy might try to forage for me.

It proved true that he didn’t want confrontation. When he realized that I was a man/dog, he dropped to all fours and ran back into the brush covered hillside. Even with the sound of water splashing over the river rocks I could hear him crashing through the Devils Club and blackberries. The saplings were shaking and snapping like someone was driving a jeep across the hillside. As I mentioned before, that hillside was so hellish, it would take a man hours to cross it. The bear crossed it in less than a minute.

Which brings me to this conclusion. If a bear is running at you in the woods, there is absolutely no way you can outrun him. Even if you had a weapon, an angry sow protecting her cubs would be on top of you before you could get your gun from the holster. That is why I took my trusty bear dog, Carrie, with me up Canyon Creek fishing . . . for protection. With all the commotion of the running bear in the woods, Carrie leapt from my shoulders and disappeared into the brush, most likely showing that bear who was boss.

For the next two hours I called and searched the creek banks for the dog, but she didn’t return. All I found was my hat. It wasn’t until I had returned to the F10 with its front windows rolled down that I found that my brave companion had jumped through a window, climbed into the hatchback, and was hiding under her blanket.

“Thanks for the help, wingman,” I muttered.

Now, I hope you weren’t misled by the title of this story and were expecting something else. If so, well shame on you! Now, I could tell the tale of skinny dipping in the high pools of Canyon Creek and the misadventures which happened that day.

Maybe — someday.

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