For months prior to beginning the PNT various dreams about bears haunted my sleep. They almost all involved a bear entering the tent. Each unfortunate, desperate dream-encounter ended in bruising, if not bloodshed. The bears always won. I'd awaken in the stuffy Iowa apartment bedroom bathed in orange light from streetlamps and a sheen of sweat. Each dream brought me to a sort of frozen terror – a sense of complete incompetence and lack of control. I did not want to fall asleep again should the dream bears return. Even Dale's presence next to me brought little comfort.
I don't know why bears chose to haunt my nights. I have never before been afraid of the big lumbering brutes. It's probably Timothy Treadwell's fault. And those rare, but overly publicized stories of “problem” bears acting out of the norm – almost always due to human incompetence and misunderstanding.
Fast forward now to the gray, early dawn of a July morning deep in the valley of Blue Sky Creek, Montana. I was groggily writing in a journal when I heard the metal fuel bottles outside clink together. Then something “hurrumphed” outside the tent.
The day before we'd had a long, hot hike on the Whitefish Range Divide Trail, and dropped into the valley in late afternoon in search of water. Throughout the day we passed more bear scat than I had ever seen in my life. Thick ropy cords of dark, mounded scat. Old scat, new scat, berry-full scat, hairy scat, lots of bear scat. Bears, I've decided, not only shit in the woods - they love to shit right on the trails. It was somewhat reassuring, I'd thought, to find less bear scat and more moose scat the further we descended into the valley. Even so... bears have long-ranging territories.
We bedded down on an abandoned Jeep trail along the creek. Darkness fell early in the shadow of the steep slopes of the valley and it was nearly dark by the time we hung our food and crawled into the tent. The coolness of valley air settled down over us, a reassuring blanket after the blistering heat of midday on the ridgeline. I fell into a restless, dreamless sleep.
Then, in the morning, something grunted outside the tent. My heart rose into my throat and beads of moisture popped out under my arms. I froze, waiting for another indication I was not imagining things. Something moved heavily in the direction of our water bottles, nestled near the fuel bottles.
Now – a quick aside. Some of you will be seething at this point because you have always been told to hang all your food-preparation things in bear country. That includes water and fuel bottles. Dale and I differ in that common opinion. We are careful with our food, no question. But we only use water bottles for water, and fuel bottles for fuel, and we do not cook greasy, splashy meals. We believe that pretty much every animal in a five mile radius knows when we've arrived at a campsite anyway, and for the most part they will chose to make a wide berth around us. Besides, we smell more strongly than either the fuel or the water bottles and if something wants to cause problems it won't be on account of a few plastic and metal bottles. So we leave them away from the tent, but not hung out of range of a swinging bear paw.
Okay, back to the action. Something moving and grunting outside the tent. Heart in throat. I set down the journal carefully and placed a heavy hand on my sleeping husband's shoulder. I shook him from a dead sleep, hoarsely whispering, “There's something outside the tent.”
Okay, that's my version. Dale will tell you I said, “There's a bear outside the tent.”
Either way, I must give him credit. If he'd been the one to give me that news I'd have curled up tighter in my sleeping bag and wrapped my hands around my head. (Okay, so this makes me seem like I'm scared to death of wildlife. I'm not. I just don't like not knowing what it is that I can't see – especially when I've been haunted by bear dreams and something is “hurrumphing” outside my tent in the gray light of dawn.) Dale on the other hand grabbed the camera (we've been keeping it close at night for just such an opportunity) and carefully unzipped the tent door and vestibule. The peeling back of metal zippers sounded overly loud in the quiet morning air and over my shallow breathing. He eased his long body out into the vestibule and stretched up to look over and past the tent.
Click, click, click went the shutter of the camera.
This is the first shaky version of what he saw:
Fast forward now to the gray, early dawn of a July morning deep in the valley of Blue Sky Creek, Montana. I was groggily writing in a journal when I heard the metal fuel bottles outside clink together. Then something “hurrumphed” outside the tent.
The day before we'd had a long, hot hike on the Whitefish Range Divide Trail, and dropped into the valley in late afternoon in search of water. Throughout the day we passed more bear scat than I had ever seen in my life. Thick ropy cords of dark, mounded scat. Old scat, new scat, berry-full scat, hairy scat, lots of bear scat. Bears, I've decided, not only shit in the woods - they love to shit right on the trails. It was somewhat reassuring, I'd thought, to find less bear scat and more moose scat the further we descended into the valley. Even so... bears have long-ranging territories.
We bedded down on an abandoned Jeep trail along the creek. Darkness fell early in the shadow of the steep slopes of the valley and it was nearly dark by the time we hung our food and crawled into the tent. The coolness of valley air settled down over us, a reassuring blanket after the blistering heat of midday on the ridgeline. I fell into a restless, dreamless sleep.
Then, in the morning, something grunted outside the tent. My heart rose into my throat and beads of moisture popped out under my arms. I froze, waiting for another indication I was not imagining things. Something moved heavily in the direction of our water bottles, nestled near the fuel bottles.
Now – a quick aside. Some of you will be seething at this point because you have always been told to hang all your food-preparation things in bear country. That includes water and fuel bottles. Dale and I differ in that common opinion. We are careful with our food, no question. But we only use water bottles for water, and fuel bottles for fuel, and we do not cook greasy, splashy meals. We believe that pretty much every animal in a five mile radius knows when we've arrived at a campsite anyway, and for the most part they will chose to make a wide berth around us. Besides, we smell more strongly than either the fuel or the water bottles and if something wants to cause problems it won't be on account of a few plastic and metal bottles. So we leave them away from the tent, but not hung out of range of a swinging bear paw.
Okay, back to the action. Something moving and grunting outside the tent. Heart in throat. I set down the journal carefully and placed a heavy hand on my sleeping husband's shoulder. I shook him from a dead sleep, hoarsely whispering, “There's something outside the tent.”
Okay, that's my version. Dale will tell you I said, “There's a bear outside the tent.”
Either way, I must give him credit. If he'd been the one to give me that news I'd have curled up tighter in my sleeping bag and wrapped my hands around my head. (Okay, so this makes me seem like I'm scared to death of wildlife. I'm not. I just don't like not knowing what it is that I can't see – especially when I've been haunted by bear dreams and something is “hurrumphing” outside my tent in the gray light of dawn.) Dale on the other hand grabbed the camera (we've been keeping it close at night for just such an opportunity) and carefully unzipped the tent door and vestibule. The peeling back of metal zippers sounded overly loud in the quiet morning air and over my shallow breathing. He eased his long body out into the vestibule and stretched up to look over and past the tent.
Click, click, click went the shutter of the camera.
This is the first shaky version of what he saw:
“It's just a moose, Callae.” He informed me quietly. “No bears here.” The gentle bemusement in his voice told me this is something he'll not let me live down for some time. Waking my husband out of a dead sleep because of a “bear” outside the tent that I was too afraid to see for myself is not exactly in character with my otherwise eager-to-see-wildlife-self.
Just a moose. Well, humph. They can be dangerous too, you know.
In truth, it's not a bad way to wake up. And this was our first official moose sighting of the trip, too! Here's a clearer image of our morning visitor from the doorway of the tent. He looked as perplexed and put out as an alley-cat who is interrupted while caterwauling. Needless to say, he did not stick around long.
We've seen a lot of moose tracks throughout Montana and Northern Idaho, though this is our only live-sighting of one of these ungainly, gawky, beautiful beasts. I do hope we see more. And next time something grunts outside the tent perhaps I'll more easily face my fear of the unseen and unknown.
(Biology note: When uncertain about something most deer, elk, moose and other ungulates will breathe loudly and heavily in order to get a stronger scent and identify whoever or whatever it is that they cannot see.)
Just a moose. Well, humph. They can be dangerous too, you know.
In truth, it's not a bad way to wake up. And this was our first official moose sighting of the trip, too! Here's a clearer image of our morning visitor from the doorway of the tent. He looked as perplexed and put out as an alley-cat who is interrupted while caterwauling. Needless to say, he did not stick around long.
We've seen a lot of moose tracks throughout Montana and Northern Idaho, though this is our only live-sighting of one of these ungainly, gawky, beautiful beasts. I do hope we see more. And next time something grunts outside the tent perhaps I'll more easily face my fear of the unseen and unknown.
(Biology note: When uncertain about something most deer, elk, moose and other ungulates will breathe loudly and heavily in order to get a stronger scent and identify whoever or whatever it is that they cannot see.)
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