NORTH OF SUPERIOR

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The hunter has existed since man first walked the earth.  Animals have always had a fear of man. When this fear wears off it becomes dangerous to live north of Superior.

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The moose season was into its�?first week.  Several moose that I knew of were hanging in the shade, the season was very warm.  Very few animals were moving.  Hunters were venturing deeper into the swamps and heavy brush where the animals were holding.  Wolf and bear tracks were in abundance.  Several of the big bruins had been run off from hunting camps.

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I had come in the Wednesday afternoon previous.  Work was forgotten the moment I left at noon.  On the way home from work to pick up my trailer it was obvious I was not the only one with hunting on the mind.  Each of the hiway gas stations had a couple of hunter’s rigs.  Five rigs sat at one station.  As varied as they were, they were just as recognizable.  Big trailers loaded with quad runners seemed to be more the rule than the exception.  From the odd 90 or 125 cc two wheelers of thirty years ago; every camp, except mine, seemed to have at least one quad.  One dual axle trailer had six big quads tied onto it.

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At 2 o’clock I was turning north off the hiway.  Within a mile I was waved over.  A three-vehicle caravan was pulled over on the roadside, a bunch of guys huddled around the front deck of the middle truck.  A few rocks on the deck told me a map was being read in the afternoon breeze.  Immediately I recognized Don (fake name), who had come many years, then stopped 3 or 4 years ago.  Quick introductions were followed by a story of plant closure and family illness explained the recent absence.  The reason for the map came next.  A pencil indicated the road juncture they wished to get to.  The crew wanted to go the short route according to the map; Don seemed to remember that the longer road was better.  The news I had was not very good.  Spring flooding had taken a bridge out and it had not been replaced.  Quads could go through but these rigs, no.  A problem had developed other than lack of maintenance on the other route.  A family of beavers had decided to build home on the wrong side of the road.  Two hundred or so feet were under water, the road was solid under the water, but how deep was it.  They decided to take the underwater route.  I wished them luck!

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Five o’clock was time to relax, camp was set and the bar-b-que was baking a couple of potatoes for a steak super.  My 35mm camera was on the table, an exposed roll in a canister beside it.  On the way up I had seen four bears.  A sow and her cub had cooperated for 24 exposures.  With full leaf I was surprised to have seen that many.  Big dried paw prints indicted that I had at least one resident bruin.

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Time seems to fly when you’re having fun and doing it with people you like.  Even though moose sign had been fresh I hadn’t seen or heard my bull by Thurday of the first week.  It was eight thirty on a dark clear evening when I pulled up in front of Tom’s (fiction again) tarp made tent.  I noted the dissapperence of one truck and trailer.  Inside only Tom and Dan greeted me; their other two partners had left that morning I was told.  The story was hair raising.

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The night before after a late partridge super everyone had gone to bed, in the anticipation of an early morning hunt.  Their calling had finally been answered just at dark.  The morning looked promising as the four went to bed the night before.  The other three however were woke up by a blood-curdling scream at about two in the morning.  They found Mike (hahaha not his name) on the ground struggling desperately to escape his zipped up sleeping bag.  He was white and kept yelling one word that finally galvanized the whole crew into action.

“BEAR --- BEAR ---- BEAR --- BEAR�?/P>

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The main light was quickly lite, and the frantic Mike was separated from his bag.  Hand shaking He pointed at his bunk wall.  A ‘L�?shaped ripe in the tarp was right over the pillow that lay on his bed.  Just then the tent wall bulged inward, a soft grunting noise was heard.  All four voices now yelled and hollered as guns were quickly uncased and loaded.  It wasn’t until Todd  (a new one) unzipped the door a fired a round into the air that the bulge disappeared from their tent wall.

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Now fully dressed the area was searched by flashlight.  The bear was still there; no clear shot was available however.  Mike told his story.  Something had woke him up, a rustling beside his bed got him to start turning toward the wall of the tent.  The tent dimly lite by reddish light from the vent of the draft reduced wood stove damper showed an animal head inches above his face, he thought he could feel hot breath on his face.  He twisted violently away from the wall with the head in it and screamed.

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Unable to chase the bear off it was decided to spend the rest of the night in their trucks.  In the morning a newspaper coloured Mike and an almost equally shoke up Todd had left for the south and wooden walls on their second floor bedrooms.

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Wishing Tom the best for the coming year, I eased off the clutch in first gear but stopped at his yell.  My cap door was open. I shut down and grabbed a flashlight from the seat beside me.  All that was left from a large bag of southern crispy apples was the ripped bag and one apple.  A quick check of where I had been parked showed good-sized paw marks.  Their last night’s visitor was still close at hand.

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“Looks like one more night in the truck,�?were Tom’s parting words for another year.  Because of work they were leaving the next day.

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Contact with wild animals is totally unpredictable, very dangerous at best.  Each year fatalities occur and are usually written off as man’s intrusion into the animal’s domain.  Continued and increasing contact is only going to see more incidents, and deaths as people drive into the land north of Superior.